Page 2 of Match Point

Hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes as his words sink in. Yeah, this may not be my dream career, but it’s still my job. I’ve done everything the role required. I can’t believe they’re getting rid of me. Harvey literally had a four-hour lunch the other day, which I know he expensed. I’ve never expensed anything. How am I the cut that’s going to save them money?!

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Nasty business, all this, but necessary. HR will want to go through all the particulars with you. I want to personally thank you for your… adequate work the last few months. I’m sure you’ll succeed in whatever you do next and if ever you want to go for a drink so I can give you some pearls of wisdom…’ he pauses, his eyes roaming down to my chest and back up again ‘…my door is always open.’

Oh my God.

Is he hitting on me WHILE he’s sacking me?

‘Anyway—’ He coughs, turning to look through the glass at the clock – it’s now eleven thirty-four. ‘I’d better get going for my lunch meeting. Any questions, send me an email and we can get it all straightened out. In the meantime, off you pop to HR and they’ll be able to help with the next steps. Sorry, must dash.’

He hesitates as he reaches the door and turns to look at me, taking a deep breath. ‘Flora,’ he begins in a softer tone, and for a moment I think he might be about to say something nice. ‘You did remember to book The Ivy for me and Basil today?’

Still in shock, I find myself nodding, my mouth too dry to form any words.

‘Excellent,’ he says, perking up. ‘I can’t get enough of their Malaysian prawn curry. It’s awfully good. You must try it, should you ever get the chance.’

And with that inspirational parting advice, he leaves the room.

*

‘Trust me, Flora, they are going to rue the day they let you go,’ Iris is telling me as I glumly unlock the door to my flat. ‘I know it seems shit right now, but try to focus on the fact that you never liked this job anyway. You are going on to bigger and better things – I know it. It may not feel like it now, but this is a good move for you.’

It was nice of Iris to insist on accompanying me home after I cried all over her shoulder in the office toilet and then continued to moan at her about my pitiful career on the train from Waterloo to Wimbledon, where I live with Jonah in our rented one-bedroom flat. When I agreed to move to London with him, I didn’t have a clue where to live because I didn’t know the city well, but it turned out he’d already chosen Wimbledon. All his friends live South West, so I guess it made the most sense. I was the one who found this flat, though – as soon as we set foot on Lingfield Road for the viewing, I knew it was where I wanted to live.

Leading Iris into the living room, we find the TV is on. Jonah must have forgotten to switch it off before he left this morning. He’s left it on Eurosport, streaming the Australian Open. One of the players is yelling something angrily at the umpire.

‘Kieran O’Sullivan,’ Iris says dreamily behind me, looking over my shoulder.

‘Who?’

She nods at the tall, dark-haired guy gesticulating wildly at the umpire. ‘The Irish tennis player. Hot-headed and ever so hot.’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him.’

We watch as he whips his cap off his head and throws it on the ground in frustration, eliciting a chorus of boos from the crowd.

Iris folds her arms. ‘He’s an interesting player to watch when he gets it right. Intense, moody, sexy.’ She lets out a wistful sigh, adding under her breath, ‘I could watch him all day long.’

‘Is he this bad-tempered in person?’

‘I wouldn’t know – he doesn’t do interviews. He used to, back when he started out. He got to the final of the Australian Open pretty young and suddenly everyone thought he was going to wipe the floor at the other Grand Slams, but it never happened. He’s made it to a lot of semi-finals and finals, but never quite got his hands on those big trophies.’ She shrugs. ‘He seems to avoid journalists now.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing,’ I remark, as he’s given a warning from the umpire.

Peeling my hat, scarf and coat off, I start looking for the TV remote, growing more and more frustrated at not being able to find it. I always leave it in the exact same spot on our glass coffee table, but Jonah tends to toss it down wherever, even though I’ve asked him countless times to put it in its correct place.

‘I love this room,’ Iris remarks, as I slide my fingers down the side of the sofa cushions. ‘Your painting is so beautiful.’

I glance up at the pink cherry blossom art covering the entire back wall around the fireplace and mantelpiece. Inspired by a similar design I saw in a movie, I painted it the week we moved in to make the flat feel more homely and personal. Jonah kept grumbling about the fact I was putting all my spare time into decorating, which could wait, rather than unpacking essential boxes, but I disagreed. Moving here was daunting. When I walked into the flat, I needed to feel at home.

‘Don’t get too attached,’ I mutter. ‘We’re painting over it.’

She frowns, bewildered. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Jonah— sorry, we think making the room a cream-white would make it a bit more sophisticated.’ I finally find the remote beneath one of the throw cushions. ‘Aha!’

I turn off the TV.

That’s when we hear it: the loud groan from the bedroom. A man’s voice. Jonah’s voice. I freeze. The sound is followed by a woman’s moan. Iris stiffens.

---