Page 33 of Match Point

I hear the chairs being pushed back as they stand up and I quickly pretend to be on my phone. Neil passes the living room doorway first, without looking in, stopping at the front door to warn Kieran there’s a couple of reporters outside looking for a comment on his big night out yesterday.

‘Guess I asked for that,’ Kieran grumbles. ‘Hang on a second, Neil.’ He steps into the room and I look up from my screen as though I’m surprised he’s still in the flat and I haven’t been listening to every word they’ve spoken. ‘Hey, Flora, you okay?’

‘Yeah, fine. You?’

‘I’ve been better.’ He hesitates, fiddling with the cap in his hand. ‘Sorry about waking you up last night. And for any drunken ramblings.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You were fine.’ I offer him a reassuring smile. ‘You were quite funny, actually.’

‘Yeah? In a good way? Or in a I-should-bow-my-head-in-shame way?’

I pretend to think about it. ‘Hmm. A good way.’

The corner of his lip twitches. ‘Phew. That’s a relief.’

‘Kieran,’ Neil states sternly, ‘we’re already late.’

With a small apologetic smile to me, Kieran puts his cap on and lowers the visor before following Neil out of the flat. As the car pulls away and the barrage of the questions from the paparazzi come to a stop, I take a moment to look at the cherry blossom artwork on the wall. You know, it really is quite good.

Putting my mug down, I get up to go shower. I’ve got a big day ahead of me. It’s time to start my story.

*

My story SUCKS.

I’ve spent a whole day trying to work out what I’m doing and it’s all a complete shitshow. WHY do I still think I can do this? I can’t even start the fucking thing! I’ve tried storyboarding, but my feeble attempts with Post-it notes made me feel more depressed than before I started, so I screwed all those up and threw them in the bin.

After googling ‘ways to get over writer’s block’ online, I made several cups of tea and then went for a long walk this afternoon, but that turned out to be shit advice. All the tea did was make me need to pee loads and when I was walking around Wimbledon, I saw bright, happy people who looked like they had places to be and were walking with purpose, unlike me, aimlessly wandering about with no destination, an eerie parallel to my life in general. It only served to remind me how London is filled with successful people who know what they’re doing, while I continue to fail at everything.

I allow myself a bit of wallowing when I get home and then I realise that the best way to get drawing might be to actually try drawing. I’ve tried plotting, but maybe I’m one of those authors who the story just comes to while I go. After searching high and low through the living room, I realise that all my art supplies are in the bedroom, tucked away out of sight on top of the wardrobe.

Taking a deep breath, I cautiously open my bedroom door, nervous to see what state Kieran has left my room in this morning. It’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be, although there are clothes strewn across the floor, and his attempt at making the bed is embarrassing. He may have half-heartedly thrown the duvet back into place, but he hasn’t smoothed out the wrinkles, fluffed the pillows or placed the scatter cushions back on top. And I see the throw has been kicked off and left in a crumpled pile on the floor. I was expecting it to smell bad in here, like stale booze, but I’m pleasantly surprised – the window is open, so it’s fresh and airy, with a subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air.

It’s a nice scent, sandalwood and citrus I think.

Resisting the urge to snoop through his stuff while he’s not here, I pick my way across the floor. I feel guilty being in here without his permission. I have to respect that while he’s paying to stay here, this is his room – my quarters are the living room – and I don’t really have the right to come barging in here whenever I like. But I really do need my art stuff to start my book, so I’m sure he’d understand why I felt the need to trespass.

Standing in front of the wardrobe, I hitch up onto my tiptoes and try to reach the top but it’s no use. The bed is too far from the wardrobe to use for a step up, so I have to go get a chair, and I place it carefully down on the carpet.

Climbing up onto the seat, I steady myself by gripping onto the sides of the wardrobe, the chair creaking and wobbling beneath my weight, its legs shaky on the soft, uneven carpet. I’m suddenly regretting insisting Jonah and I buy this rickety set of chairs from a second-hand furniture shop. It doesn’t feel sturdy, but my art pad and box of pencils are now in view. I let go of the wardrobe to reach up and the chair jerks beneath me. I yelp, pressing my hands against the cupboard door to find my balance again. I exhale loudly.

‘Easy does it,’ I say out loud to myself, moving much slower this time and only removing one hand from the wardrobe to reach up over my head. My fingers grasp round the pencil box and I pull it forwards, before grabbing it properly and carefully tossing it behind me onto the bed.

‘One more,’ I tell myself.

Stretching up again, I can’t grab onto the sketch pad as easily as the pencil box and I have to go up on my tiptoes, reaching even further so that my cropped T-shirt rides right up, exposing my stomach. Eventually, I brush the corner of my sketch pad with my fingertips. Using my forefinger and thumb to pincer it, I drag it over and above my head, but I’m too enthusiastic and drop my heels back onto the seat of the chair with too much gusto. The art pad comes flying over my head and the chair wobbles forward dangerously beneath me. In trying to balance, I instinctively lean backwards.

I gasp as I slip and tumble into empty air.

But instead of landing on the floor, I fall into the strong arms of Kieran, who has appeared out of nowhere and rushed forwards just in time to catch me.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his voice raspy and urgent.

He has me locked in his grip, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his hands linked across my stomach beneath the hem of my T-shirt. My back is pressed against his broad solid chest, which is rising up and down with each heavy breath.

‘I’m fine,’ I breathe, my heart hammering from both the fright of the fall and the thrill of the catch. ‘Thank you.’

He takes a few moments before he loosens his grip. I turn in his arms as he releases me, so that I can look up at him. I’m so close that I’m able to fully appreciate the long dark eyelashes that frame his eyes, and how defined the slants of his cheekbones are. My breathing shaky and shallow, I grip onto his strong forearms and lean back against the wardrobe. As his eyes travel down my face to my mouth, his throat bobs as he swallows.

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