Page 26 of Match Point

Taking a deep breath, I run a hand through my hair. ‘You’re really fucking annoying.’

His jaw twitches, his eyes flickering down my blue lace cami top and back up again. ‘Where’s Snoopy?’ he asks, his brow creasing.

‘What?’

‘You were wearing a Snoopy T-shirt yesterday.’

I glance down at my pyjamas. ‘I changed.’

He nods, his expression thoughtful.

‘I liked the Snoopy,’ he says, and then he steps back and shuts the door.

I stand still as he turns the shower on. I’m too confused to move. Did he just give me a compliment? No, he must have been making fun of me. Although, he didn’t sound like he was taking the piss. If anyone else had said it, I would have thought that they were being nice. But as it’s him, it must have been an insult. Maybe it was a backhanded compliment. Maybe he was saying he doesn’t like what I’m wearing now. Anyway, why does he care? What was the point in him telling me he liked the Snoopy? He can’t have liked the Snoopy.

Can he?

What sort of mind games is this dickhead playing?

*

That night, Kieran stands in front of the TV with his arms folded.

‘Where is it?’ he seethes.

‘Where’s what, Kieran?’ I ask innocently, turning the page of my book.

‘The PlayStation,’ he growls, the lines on his forehead deepening.

Not saying anything, I press my lips together, reading the same sentence over and over, not a word of it going in. I’m too invested in feigning ignorance to concentrate.

‘Flora,’ he hisses, rubbing his forehead, ‘it’s been a really long day and I’d like to relax. Where have you put it?’

I shrug. ‘I’ve also had a long day and I would like to relax with my book.’

My day has actually involved walking to the shop to get a coffee and a croissant, applying for two administrative jobs in the City that I don’t want, and watching a few episodes of Friends. But he doesn’t need to know any of that.

Kieran, on the other hand, I happen to know has probably had a fairly bad day. He’s been in the headlines again thanks to the actress Henrietta Keane, who, I now assume to be THE Henrietta who’s been phoning him. She went to a party last night and spoke to a showbiz reporter who was also in attendance. The main article led with:

‘He’s sad, untrusting and his heart is closed – that’s why I dumped him’: Henrietta Keane dishes the dirt on Wimbledon hopeful Kieran O’Sullivan.

Other publications have picked it up too, so it’s being splashed about everywhere, along with plenty of commentary from ‘friends close to the family’ who, apparently, think it’s appropriate to give their opinion. I don’t disagree that he’s cantankerous and downright annoying to live with, but I do feel a bit sorry for him. It can’t be fun for exes to splash things like that about, whether they’re true or not.

But I don’t feel sorry enough for him to give him his PlayStation back without getting what I want first. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me intently.

‘Please,’ he sighs eventually, ‘can you tell me where you’ve hidden it.’

I tear my eyes away from the page to look at him. ‘If you promise to keep your voice down when you play your battle games, then I’ll tell you where I’ve tidied it.’

Our eyes seem to be locked in a battle of their own, refusing to budge or back down.

‘Fine,’ he says, breaking away and lifting them to the ceiling.

‘You promise?’

He holds up his hands. ‘I promise.’

I nod to the wooden chest that is up against the wall next to the bookshelves. He opens it and takes a moment to look down into its contents, before pulling up his precious PlayStation and headset.

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