Page 34 of Match Point

Heat flushes up my neck.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, buzzing loudly pressed against the wardrobe door behind me and jolting me from the daze.

He drops his arms.

‘What were you doing?’ he asks crossly, his forehead creased as he takes a step back and rights the chair. ‘You could have hurt yourself.’

‘I forgot that my art stuff was in here,’ I explain, dropping down to pick up the loose pages of my sketch pad that scattered across the floor when it fell. ‘I couldn’t reach it.’

‘Next time, wait until I’m back rather than risk breaking your neck.’

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be in your room.’

As I gather the paper as quickly as possible, he leans over to pick one of the pages up. It’s a sketch of two people in an embrace – a fair-haired man in a tux tipping back a red-haired woman in a ball gown. She is gazing up at him, her hand cupping his face.

Blushing, I swipe it out from his grasp and slip it into the middle of the pile I’m carrying, hidden from sight.

‘Did you do that?’ he asks, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

I shrug. ‘A while ago.’

‘It was signed “Flossie” in the corner.’

‘Oh. I was “Flossie” growing up and that’s what my grandmother said should be my artist name. I like it but, you know—’ I shrug. ‘No use having an artist name and no art.’

‘Flossie. I like it. It’s a nice name.’

‘Hm.’

‘The sketch is good,’ he says, looking genuinely impressed. He peers over my shoulder at the drawings in view on top of the pile. ‘What are these for?’

‘Nothing, I was messing around,’ I say quickly, clutching the pages against my chest so he can’t study them any further. ‘How was training today? I take it you survived?’

‘They’re drawings of people,’ he continues, ignoring my questions and frowning in confusion. ‘I thought you were into landscapes, like the Lake District.’

‘That’s where I want to draw, not what I want to draw.’

‘I see.’ He gestures to the sketches I’m holding. ‘So, even if you were just “messing around”, what was that story about?’

‘Oh, nothing. As in, these aren’t part of a story. They were random sketches. They’re nothing.’

‘They don’t look like nothing.’

I sigh. ‘I like sketching characters – people – and I’ve always wanted to write a romance. But my ex-boyfriend pointed out that most people want superheroes and action from a comic book, not a romantic narrative. So—’ I shrug, bowing my head ‘—these were just doodles. No one else was supposed to see them.’

He watches me curiously as I blush under his scrutinising gaze.

‘You should draw what you want to draw,’ he says simply.

‘Not if I want to become a successful graphic novelist. I need to create something that will sell.’

‘Who says a romance won’t sell? This ex-boyfriend of yours?’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘What was he, some kind of professional artist himself?’

‘He was an actor and musician. I mean, you won’t have heard of him,’ I add, flustered. ‘He hasn’t made it yet as such, but he hasn’t been out of work. He’s done a bit of theatre. We met in Norwich, when he was touring a play there. That’s where I’m from.’

‘And this actor slash musician knows a lot about the graphic novel market.’

‘He had a point. When you think of comics, romance doesn’t spring to mind.’

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