Page 32 of Match Point

‘I just wanted to tell you that I like the cherry blossom art you did on the wall.’

I smile to myself, leaning against the doorframe. ‘Good. I’m glad.’

‘It makes me feel serene,’ he continues with his eyes closed, his voice lowering, his breathing getting heavier. ‘Like everything will be okay.’

I can’t think of how to respond, so I don’t. Instead I wait a beat until his breathing becomes soft snores, and then I quietly close the door, leaving him to sleep it off. Plodding back to my sofa, I get back beneath the duvet but despite the time, I don’t feel so tired anymore. You always want your art to make someone feel something. Anything. I didn’t know if I really had the ability to do that, but from what Kieran’s just said, maybe my art does have that power after all.

No more excuses. Tomorrow, I’m going to draw.

8

I can’t imagine looking forward to training on a hangover is much fun, but having your coach rant at you all morning on top of that must make it even worse. Put it this way: I do not envy Kieran today. When I glanced into the kitchen earlier, he was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, sipping from a new bottle of water every now and then, listening to Neil who is still pacing up and down the kitchen tiles so loudly, I can hear the slap of each footstep from here in the living room.

‘You do realise that you’ve given him exactly what he wants, don’t you?’ Neil snaps. ‘He knew this is what you would do if he talked about you – send you into a tailspin. Well, congratulations, you’ve strolled right into his trap.’

‘It wasn’t just what Chris said, Neil,’ Kieran responds, his voice low and hoarse. ‘I fancied a bit of a night out. Is that a crime?’

‘It might as well be. You are training for Wimbledon, which, in case you haven’t noticed, is in a week and a half. It’s not just your time and effort you’re wasting when you pull a stunt like this, Kieran, it’s your team’s, too. Or do you not care about us?’

‘Of course I care.’

‘Yeah, you have a funny way of showing it.’

‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Kieran, you say that every time. “I’m sorry, I’ve disappointed everyone”. It’s the same old fucking record. One of these days, you need to wake up and realise that you don’t have many chances left. Do you even want this? Wimbledon?’

Kieran groans. ‘Of course I want it! It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

‘Then fight for it! Stop telling yourself you don’t deserve it and throwing in the towel before you’ve even given yourself the chance. You act exactly how they want you to act. Why? You’re better than this. I wish you’d see that.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to keep believing,’ Kieran grumbles.

I hear Neil let out a heavy sigh as the pacing stops, then comes the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. He must have taken a seat at the table. I clasp my coffee mug, straining to hear.

‘Kieran, if you don’t really believe that you might be able to win Wimbledon, then why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?’ Neil asks in a softer voice.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I just like routine.’

Neil laughs gruffly. ‘If you liked routine, you wouldn’t be a fucking tennis player. You’d have stopped travelling all the damn time and settled down.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘Yeah? Then go ahead and give up. You have the money. You have that place in Dublin that’s empty most of the year. You have the flat in Florida. You always said you wanted to retire here at Wimbledon. So go on, sell those flats and buy your dream house here in the Village to sit around in and read the paper all day if that’s what you want.’

It’s silent for a moment and then Kieran quietly replies, ‘I want the Wimbledon trophy first.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Neil says, satisfied. ‘And when you win it – when, Kieran – you can go after all the others. If you would only stop feeling sorry for yourself and start believing that you have as much right to be on Centre Court as anyone else. You’ve got the talent, Kieran – haven’t I always said that? It’s your mind that needs the work.’

Kieran sighs. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Neil.’

‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be when I’m running you round that court in half an hour. Come on, get your bag and let’s go. You can sweat it out. We’ll get you one of those fucking green juices and you’ll feel back on top of the world.’

‘Nicole can’t be happy about the video doing the rounds online. He followed me into the toilet, Neil. He was telling me I was a loser like Chris said. He got me riled up.’

‘Forget it. We move on, okay? No distractions. Only tennis from now on.’

‘Got it.’

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