Page 4 of Match Point

Unfortunately, I live next to the human reminder that, as I’d always feared, I was never good enough for someone like Jonah. Zoe, on the other hand, is impossibly perfect. She’s tall and willowy with glossy brown curly hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, plump lips and big brown eyes. Her nails are always manicured, her make-up is flawless, and she works in fashion PR, so she dresses impeccably every day. I’ve never seen her look bad. Not once. Even when taking out the bins, she still looks like an off-duty model.

And on top of all that, she’s nice. Well, I thought she was. She was very friendly and funny when we used to bump into each other. I thought we’d struck seriously lucky with our neighbour – you hear some rogue stories about London. But since the incident, we haven’t spoken. She tried to apologise on the day, but Iris told her to get the hell out of there and to never speak to or go near me again. She seems to have taken that advice very seriously, which is probably a good thing. But it doesn’t matter, I know Zoe’s there and every time I catch a glimpse of her gliding off to work, I’m reminded of what I’m not.

Still, things are getting easier. The debilitating ache that made itself at home on my heart for the first few months after Jonah moved out has almost completely dissolved. I miss him less every day and it’s helped that I’ve kept myself busy with temp PA work. It’s paid much better than my brief fling with journalism and has helped me to keep up with the rent on this place now that Jonah isn’t contributing anymore. Of course this is London, so I still had to get in touch with my dad to ask for financial help with the rent, which was mortifying.

‘He’s happy to pay the whole year of your rent,’ his personal assistant, Andy, had told me chirpily down the phone. ‘We can make that transfer to you today.’

‘No, no, no,’ I’d said sternly. ‘That’s kind of him, but I just need a loan for the next couple of months while I find my feet. I’ll move somewhere cheaper once our lease runs out, but for now, if he—’

‘Okay, and… there. That transfer is done,’ he’d interrupted. ‘If you wouldn’t mind emailing to confirm receipt, we’d appreciate it. Now, is there anything else I can help you with today?’

‘I… uh… okay, wow, thank you, but I’ll just transfer most of that straight back, because as I said, that’s really nice but I didn’t want him to cover—’

‘You are so welcome, Miss Hendrix. Is there anything else you need?’

‘Uh… I’d like to thank him, if that’s possible?’

‘I’m afraid he’s in back-to-back meetings today, but I’ll be sure to pass on the message.’

‘Oh, okay. Thanks. Maybe he could call me when he gets the chance.’

‘Absolutely. Have a great day and thank you for your call.’

My dad didn’t call, but he did message a day or so later to check I’d received the money, which is something.

Despite what I said, it has been a relief to have the money in my bank account for now. I’m still determined to pay all of it back, because I really don’t want to have to rely on my dad for anything. And now an opportunity has arisen that is too good to turn down: the Wimbledon tennis tournament is approaching and flats in the area are in hot demand. I’ve made a KILLING by letting out the flat through an agency: these next four weeks are paying for three months’ rent at least. The prices are madness, but, hey, I’m not complaining.

It’s perfect – my flat is in a great location and I was able to note in its description that the flat upstairs is currently empty, since its occupant, Mrs Perry, has taken a once-in-a-lifetime trip to travel around Asia for three months, so whoever stayed here wouldn’t need to worry about noise. It got snapped up immediately. I guess there must be seriously devoted tennis fans out there willing to pay whatever it takes to live in Wimbledon and soak up the atmosphere.

To be fair, it is pretty cool around here at this time of year. Wimbledon Village really comes alive – there’s a great buzz as people from all over the world descend upon this corner of London. All the outside areas of the restaurants and bars are flooded with people chatting and laughing in the sunshine, and the village itself looks idyllic with hanging baskets everywhere overflowing with bright, colourful flowers and all the shop windows compete to have the most extravagant tennis-themed display.

But the best thing about it is that it’s given me the nudge I needed to leave London for a bit and rent a cottage in the Lake District where I’m finally going to start work on my graphic novel. It’s perfect. My grandmother on my mum’s side lived in Keswick and some of my most treasured memories are from when I’d go stay with her for a few weeks in the summer. Every now and then, we’d go off exploring and find a quiet spot away from the tourists – I’d sketch and she’d paint using watercolours.

During my teen years, it was an escape for me from the turmoil of living with Mum. Grandma knew what was going on with her and what I had to deal with. Everyone knew. Mum was what they call a functioning alcoholic when I was little, able to go about her daily routine without drawing much attention to her drinking problem, but she couldn’t sustain that way of life for long and by the time I was fifteen, her addiction had complete power over her.

It’s not like I could go to my dad for help. By then he was living in New York with his new heiress wife, Camila, helping her with her expanding property empire. But I had Grandma. She would come down and stay with us a bit when she could; she helped out in the holidays by whisking me away to the Lake District, and she also passed her artistic genes down to me. She was the only person who believed I could make it – neither Mum nor Dad, for different reasons, noticed I was even interested in art.

When Mum died after I’d left school, Grandma came to stay in the Norwich flat to help me sort all the admin with the funeral and then she helped me find my own place, away from the sad memories. Dad did check in and he did his best to be there for me in the only way he knew how – by offering financial help – but it was Grandma who I depended upon for everything else. It was only when she passed away a few years later in my early twenties that I realised I was on my own. That’s why Iris is wrong. I won’t feel lonely in the Lake District, even if I don’t meet a single soul for the next four weeks. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt unconditionally loved.

‘You don’t need to worry, Iris,’ I assure her earnestly now. ‘I am going to have the best time. It will be peaceful and quiet and inspiring. This is exactly what I need.’

‘What you need is a sexy man between your thighs.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Iris!’

We’re interrupted by my doorbell. I frown in confusion, checking the time on my phone. It must be a delivery, although I don’t remember ordering anything.

‘I have to go – someone’s here,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

‘Okay, message me when you’re on your way!’

We hang up and I slide my phone into my pocket, before hurrying into the hallway and swinging open the front door. Except it’s not the postman.

Standing on my doorstep is a tall, broad-shouldered guy in black jeans and a white T-shirt that shows off his tanned, muscled arms. He’s wearing a cap low over his face, so I can only glimpse his full lips and hint of dark stubble along his chiselled jawline. When he lifts his head, he fixes me with piercing sapphire-blue eyes framed by bold, dark eyebrows.

I inhale sharply as I instantly recognise him.

It’s Kieran O’Sullivan. As in, Kieran O’Sullivan the famous tennis player and world-renowned arsehole. I knew he was tall, but wow is he tall, maybe six foot four, and breathtakingly handsome. If he hadn’t made it in tennis, he surely would have been a good fit for a Calvin Klein advert with his perfect bone structure and smouldering eyes. What the HELL is Kieran O’Sullivan doing on my doorstep? He doesn’t look lost. He looks impatient, as though I’m the one who is in the wrong place.

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