Page 22 of Match Point

‘I… uh… well, you see… I…’

‘The roof of Flora’s holiday cottage in the Lake District collapsed and she has nowhere to go,’ Kieran cuts in. ‘I was just telling her that we could help her out. Find her a nice hotel room or something, right?’

Neil eyes Kieran suspiciously. ‘I suppose.’

‘Perfect. That’s decided then,’ Kieran concludes.

‘No, I don’t want a hotel room,’ I tell Neil, trying to remain as polite as possible in front of a legendary Wimbledon champion, but already bristling at Kieran’s attempt to take control of the situation. ‘I have to stay here. Kieran, you’ll have to leave.’

‘Why do you have to stay here, Flora?’ he asks, acting confused, knowing full well I don’t want to admit the hiccup about my lease in front of Neil.

‘Because this is my home,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Why can’t you go stay in a luxury hotel room yourself? Surely that would be much more suitable accommodation for a Wimbledon competitor.’

‘I’m afraid that I’ve already outlined to you why that’s not possible,’ he states simply. ‘I won’t be leaving here. That’s final.’

‘Then we have a very big problem, because I won’t be leaving here either,’ I retort.

‘You can’t kick me out. I’ve already paid the full let and you needed to give me much more notice, legally.’

‘Well, you can’t kick me out because I live here,’ I clap back, my blood boiling.

‘Then, it looks like we’re both staying.’

‘Fine!’

‘Fine. We’re both staying,’ he states.

I blink at him. ‘Wait, what?’

‘You know what,’ Neil interjects, his eyes darting between the two of us, ‘let me have our lawyers glance through the terms and conditions of the lease and—’

‘No need for that,’ Kieran says, while my breath catches in panic. ‘She can have the sofa.’

Neil looks at him, forcing a nervous laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Kieran? I don’t think I heard you correctly.’

‘No lawyers,’ Kieran states firmly to Neil. ‘For now, if neither of us can leave, Flora can stay on the sofa until we work out a better solution.’ He turns to address me. ‘However much I’d like to be chivalrous, I think while I’m training for Wimbledon I should sleep on a mattress. If at all possible, I’d like to compete at the biggest tennis tournament in the world without a cricked neck.’

I gape at him. Neil is doing the same.

‘Good, that’s settled,’ Kieran says calmly, gesturing to the door. ‘Now, if you both don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower. The smell of rosé is making me feel a bit nauseous.’

At a loss as to what else to do, Neil and I file out of the bathroom in silence. Kieran shuts the door firmly behind us and moments later, we hear the sound of running water. We stand in the hallway, both deep in thought. Neil eventually saunters off towards the front door. He turns to shoot me one last venomous look and then leaves, temporarily filling the flat with the frenzied sound of the paparazzi waiting in great anticipation to find out what is going on here.

Although that really is anyone’s guess.

6

Have you ever been woken up by a blender? I have, and I can confirm that it is not a pleasant way to be roused from a deep slumber. On the first morning of mine and Kieran’s bizarre living arrangement, the loud and abrupt whirring makes me sit bolt upright on the sofa and clutch my heart, wondering what the hell is going on and whether someone is drilling roadworks in the middle of my home. As my brain comes into focus and I realise what’s going on, I reach for my phone on the coffee table and check the time.

You have got to be KIDDING.

Throwing off the duvet, I push myself up from the sofa and march to the kitchen where the door is wide open. Hovering next to the blender, Kieran is already dressed in his sports gear, his eyes bright, his hair dishevelled. He notices me and arches his brow. I’m too tired and cross to care that I’m standing in front of him in my baggy Snoopy T-shirt and a tiny pair of blue pyjama shorts that I shrunk in the wash, so they’re more like pyjama hot pants.

‘It’s six thirty in the morning,’ I croak, my voice yet to warm up.

He frowns and then shakes his head, gesturing at first to his ears and then to the blender. ‘Can’t hear you,’ he mouths.

‘I said, it’s SIX THIRTY IN THE MORNING.’

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