Page 14 of Match Point

‘There’s not.’

He takes a deep breath through his nose. ‘Okay,’ he says in a strained voice, once he’s done with his pointed breathing. ‘Then I’m sure you can find somewhere else that’s suitable for an aspiring artist, even if it’s not the Lake District.’

‘It needs to be the Lake District,’ I insist, even though I’ve spent the last hour researching other areas. But he’s being so rude and unreasonable, I’m instinctively being as difficult as possible. ‘That’s the only place I’ll be able to work on my book.’

‘Come on, you’re making an excuse,’ he says, swivelling in his seat to face me properly. ‘If you want to start drawing your graphic novel, you should start. You don’t need to be in the Lake District. That’s ridiculous.’

I clench my fist, my blood boiling. ‘No it’s not.’

‘What is it about the Lake District that you just have to have to start your book?’ he asks angrily, throwing up a hand, growing more animated as our argument escalates.

‘I don’t know, Kieran, how about silence, tranquillity, beautiful lakes and breathtaking mountains for a start?’

‘That’s what a true artist needs to create a graphic novel, is it? Lakes and mountains.’

My face flushes with heat. ‘Yes! They are inspiring! I want to be inspired!’

He snorts. ‘That’s officially the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’

Fuck you, Kieran O’Sullivan.

Before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I stand up, pick up the rest of my glass of wine and throw its contents right at his face. With droplets of rosé dripping off his cap and down the lenses of his sunglasses, he splutters in surprise.

Everyone in the beer garden turns in our direction.

I calmly put the glass back down, pick up my bag and leave.

4

I may have ever so slightly overreacted.

But you know what, I wasn’t going to sit there and let some overpaid dickhead tennis player laugh at my dream just because he doesn’t get it. It may sound stupid to him, but it’s not stupid to me and he had no right to make me feel like an idiot.

Plus, I really don’t like him.

When I get home, I’m still raging. I slam the front door shut behind me and stomp into my bedroom to chuck my laptop bag on my bed before letting out a loud ‘ARGH’ of frustration. I pick up one of my scatter cushions and mean to chuck it across the room, but it sort of plops down in front of me. Breathing heavily, I stand there for a moment with my hands on my hips. Then, with a heavy sigh, I pick up the cushion again to put it back in its place. Fuck’s sake. I’m so pathetic, I can’t even throw things in anger.

I slump back on my bed, burying my head in my hands.

I feel so lost. How many times can you keep getting knocked down before you give up trying to get back up? Maybe I need to accept the fact that I’m not an artist. Jonah always said it would make it easier if I did. The most infuriating part of today is that I’m not completely convinced Kieran O’Sullivan wasn’t making sense back there. I mean, that’s why I got so defensive and chucked my wine at him, right? There are artists all over the world who are able to create work without being in any one specific place. Most of them do it around day jobs and chaotic family life. Here I am with no responsibilities, no dependents, but not one ounce of inspiration. I have time, but no ideas.

And what am I still doing in London? There’s nothing for me here anymore. Maybe I don’t belong here, as hard a fact as that is to swallow. I can still vividly remember the first day I moved to Wimbledon, and instantly fell in love with it. I love the vibe of the place; I love the pubs, restaurants and shops; I love the Common – I love that it feels like its own community. I remember that buzz I got the first time I walked through the Village, thinking that this was the place for me. Jonah and I were going to be happy here. I was going to stick out a media job and land a book deal, and we’d sit on the Common with our cans of Pimm’s in the summer and laugh and talk and be happy, just like everyone else you see lounging in their couples or groups across the grass.

But look at me. I’m not happy. I’m on my own and I’m failing. Constantly. I can’t even book a fucking holiday without the whole thing going up in flames. Maybe it’s time to accept that London hasn’t worked out. Maybe I need to—

The doorbell rings.

I snap my head up. It can’t be Kieran. He wouldn’t come back here.

Would he?

I cautiously get up and scurry along the hallway to look through the peephole. Wearing his now-damp cap, Kieran O’Sullivan is lurking on my doorstep, his moodiness exuding through the door and into the flat. I watch him reach up to press the buzzer again impatiently, glancing around him. God, what is wrong with him? He is paranoid. There’s literally no one else on the road.

‘What do you want?’ I ask through the door.

He steps closer to speak, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you. Please go somewhere else,’ I tell him curtly.

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