Page 36 of Match Point

Since his break-up with Rachel, Kieran has been linked to several female public figures but hasn’t had any serious relationships, and there’s a note about his work with a mental health charity for young people. It also details that his father coached him up until he was twenty-six, when according to various sources, Kieran sacked him. They didn’t speak for a long time after, although there have been reports of a reconciliation more recently.

Delving a little deeper into my Kieran snooping, I find an article from an Irish newspaper about the O’Sullivan brothers, published just after Aidan’s death. It begins by saying that Aidan’s death is not just an unbearably painful tragedy for the family, but a terrible blow to the world of tennis. ‘Something of a tennis prodigy, Aidan was widely considered to be one of the brightest and most promising young talents in the sport,’ it reads. ‘There is no doubt that with his electrifying raw talent, exceptional abilities and unwavering determination, Aidan O’Sullivan had an extraordinarily successful career ahead of him.’

I gaze sadly at the accompanying photograph of Aidan beneath the paragraph. Tall, dark, strikingly handsome, he looks like Kieran, although with a slighter frame, gentle brown eyes and longer hair than his brother. Below that photo is another – one of Aidan and Kieran together when they were teenagers. They’re standing on a tennis court with an older man, who the caption tells me is their father. Brian is talking at them and while Aidan is looking intently at his dad with a serious expression, Kieran is glancing away, laughing goofily at something in the distance. I read on to the next part of the article:

His younger brother, Kieran, is another remarkable tennis player, but is more emotional and volatile on the court. While he has displayed more flair in his style, Kieran has faced criticism for lacking the control that was so early mastered by his brother and often displayed amongst the top players today.

Although competitive on the court, the brothers were close off of it and Kieran will be suffering the loss of his beloved brother keenly. We can only hope that he won’t retire from the sport himself in the wake of this tragedy, for then tennis will have lost two of its brightest stars.

As I come to the end of the article, I realise that a tear is sliding down my cheek. I brush it away with my finger, leaning back in my chair and exhaling audibly. Returning to the other search results, I can only find one big feature interview with Kieran and it’s from years ago. In fact, when I check the dates, I realise that he gave it just a few months before his brother died. It’s from a glossy weekend magazine of one of the national broadsheets and runs with the headline: “I will win Wimbledon before my brother does” – Kieran O’Sullivan on why he’s the one to watch.

A lump rises in my throat as I scan through the piece, my eyes drifting over the quotes from Kieran that talk about why he’s determined to prove to the world that he’s not going to linger in Aidan’s shadow, but will be the brother to be remembered. Aside from tournament press conferences, this looks like the last interview Kieran ever gave.

I’m reflecting on the sadness of it all when the doorbell goes.

Maybe Kieran has actually lost his keys for real this time. My heart pounding, I slam my laptop shut and jump to my feet, embarrassed that he’s returned when I’m in the middle of researching him. I hurry to get the door, catching sight of myself in the hallway mirror, my cheeks flushed pink, my eyes bright with excitement.

‘Pull yourself together,’ I whisper strictly at my reflection.

Just because he caught me when I fell from a chair and said nice things about my art does not mean I should completely lose my head. One good thing does not cancel out all the horrible things that have come before. Okay, so he’s maybe not as bad as I thought he was, but still, this guy has been rude and conceited since the moment we met. Plus, let’s not forget the kind of women he’s used to dating. He’s hardly going to look twice at someone like me when he has influencers and models throwing themselves at his feet whenever he pops down to the local.

Saying that, there’s no harm in checking that I look nice when he’s around. I quickly run my fingers through my hair, smiling guiltily at my reflection – I purposefully took my time perfecting my make-up earlier in anticipation of his return.

With a deep breath and what I hope to be a casual, nonchalant smile, I swing open the door. My heart drops.

‘Jonah!’ I gasp, recoiling.

A smirk stretches across my ex-boyfriend’s face as he lingers on my doorstep. Thanks to his reflective aviators, I can see my wide-eyed shock at his appearance. He lifts his arm to push his hair back from his face, his leather jacket squeaking as the fabric moves. It’s a hot day, but he loves that jacket. Paired with the blue faded jeans he’s wearing today, he looks like he’s stepped off the stage of Grease the Musical, which he may well have done – I haven’t been keeping track of his career recently and have blocked him on all social media.

‘Hey, you,’ he says softly.

My stomach knots at such an affectionate term.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask bluntly.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks, peering to look beyond me into the hallway. When I hesitate, he cocks his head. ‘You’re not going to be awkward about this, are you? I’m just here to pick up some things, Flora. No need to make this into a big deal.’

As he whips off his glasses and swaggers past me into the flat, I’m hit by an overpowering wave of cologne that makes my throat tickle. I’ve always felt that smell is the most powerful way to evoke a memory, but this is a new scent to the one he wore when we were together. It doesn’t make me miss him, it almost makes me gag.

When I join him in the living room, I find him scanning the place curiously. His eyes trace across the workout equipment, the colour-coordinated book spines on the shelves, the unused three-wick candle in the middle of the coffee table, the throw folded on the arm of the sofa, eventually landing on the PlayStation sitting beneath the TV.

‘A few changes in here,’ he says, quirking a brow. ‘He’s making his mark, I see.’

‘So, what stuff did you want to pick up?’ I ask, trying to sound cool and collected while my skin crawls with discomfort. ‘I can’t think of anything you’ve left here.’

He slowly turns to face me, inhaling deeply. His eyes drift down to my cleavage and back up again. I regret wearing a tight-fitted V-neck top today with my high-waisted black denim shorts. I fold my arms across my chest self-consciously.

‘You look good, Flora,’ he says gently. ‘How have you been?’

‘Great, thanks. You?’

He nods slowly. ‘I’ve been good. Busy. Lots of theatre gigs.’ He hesitates, before adding quietly, ‘I’ve missed you.’

I clench my jaw, saying nothing.

‘You didn’t reply to my messages,’ he comments.

‘I didn’t have anything to say.’

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