Page 18 of Match Point

‘Oh, so this is my fault?’ I huff, glaring at him.

‘You did throw the wine and then refuse to open the door. I warned you at the pub that this would happen.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ I snap, as I start moving back and forth across the room. ‘And I do not mean that as a compliment.’

‘I didn’t think you did.’ He watches me march away from the window and back again, chewing my thumbnail. ‘Can you please stop pacing? It’s irritating.’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘No, I will not stop pacing, Kieran, thank you very much. Because of your fan base out there, I’m cooped up in here and I can’t just sit around while people talk about me online.’

‘The paparazzi are not my fan base,’ he informs me in a low, cutting voice, glancing instinctively at the window. ‘If anything, they’re the exact opposite. Waiting to tear me down at the first opportunity.’

‘Have you seen what they’re saying about me?’

‘I told you not to look at your phone,’ he says a little softer than usual, a hint of something apologetic in his voice. ‘It’s better to ignore it.’

‘They’re calling me an “unknown blonde”! And your “new lover”.’ I grimace, cringing at having to say it out loud. ‘Why would they say that?! We only just met!’

‘You threw a drink at me. Not many people would do that to someone they don’t know.’

‘You made me cross!’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t normally throw drinks at people! In fact, that was my first time!’

He sighs, rubbing his forehead and shutting his eyes for a moment. There’s an increase of noise and commotion outside and Kieran snaps his head up.

‘That will finally be Neil arriving,’ he announces, pushing himself up off the sofa and heading out the room to get the door.

When it opens, I can hear the reporters shouting over one another with their persistent questions: ‘Neil, can you tell us what happened at the pub?’; ‘Who’s Kieran’s new girlfriend, Neil?’; ‘Are you worried that this will affect his performance at Wimbledon?’; ‘Is it serious? What’s her name, Neil?’

The door shuts and their voices are silenced. I press a hand over my mouth. This is mortifying. Absolutely mortifying. I’ve got a couple of missed calls from Iris, and I know that she must have seen it by now and recognised me from the video. It won’t be long until a lot of people I know will do the same. God, why did I have to throw that wine at him and make a spectacle of myself? Why did I lose my temper? Why did I let him get to me?

I blame Kieran. If he hadn’t been so rude, none of this would have happened.

At that moment he comes back in the room followed by Neil, who Kieran has explained is his coach. If I’d seen Neil walking down a street, I might have thought he looked familiar but I doubt I would have been able to place him. When Kieran said that Neil Damon would be coming over to help with some damage control, he seemed confused at my blank expression and repeated his name as though that might help. Neil Damon. I told him it was ringing a bell, but I’d need some help. Looking a little perturbed, he reminded me that Neil Damon was a famous American tennis player, now retired. He won Wimbledon twice.

Neil is much shorter than I expected. I assumed all tennis players were muscled giants, but Neil is about five foot eight. He’s good-looking, with dark greying hair, soft brown eyes and a stern expression. For some reason I thought he’d be wearing a tracksuit, because in my head that’s just what tennis coaches wear, but he’s in an expensive-looking tailored suit and tie, with a leather bag slung over his shoulder. As he enters the room, I smile timidly at him. He does not smile back.

‘You must be Flora,’ he says gruffly.

‘Hi, it’s nice to meet you.’

He studies me for a moment. I fiddle with the hem of my crop top.

‘Nice to meet you too,’ he says icily. He holds out the bag to Kieran. ‘The change of clothes you requested. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Have you spoken to anyone?’

Kieran shakes his head. ‘Just you.’

Neil turns to me. ‘And… Miss Hendrix?’

He looks at me expectantly. I glance at Kieran, confused.

‘She hasn’t spoken to anyone,’ Kieran answers. ‘I don’t think.’

‘That’s something. Makes things a little easier if we take control of the narrative. Not exactly the start I had in mind for your tenure here, Kieran,’ Neil scolds, his tone clipped.

Kieran tenses. ‘It wasn’t mine either, Neil. The news stories aren’t accurate. Flora and I met today and… there was a miscommunication at the pub.’

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