Page 41 of Match Point

‘Got it,’ Kieran announces, waving it in one hand and holding something else up in the other. ‘And look what else I found.’

I peer at him. ‘Is that a garlic press?’

‘This not what your one said he was here for earlier?’ he checks, bending over to carefully light the candle. As he leans forwards to click the lighter, my eyes linger on the tanned skin of his arms and how his bicep strains against the fabric of his T-shirt. I’m reminded of how it felt to be locked in those very arms, pressed against his warm, solid body, and a flurry of tingles races through my body, covering my skin in goosebumps.

‘Uh yeah,’ I say, swallowing. ‘That’s true. God.’ I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into my palm. ‘He couldn’t have come up with something better than a garlic press?’

‘It’s a sophisticated apparatus,’ Kieran remarks, pretending to examine it carefully as he takes his seat. I realise we’re sitting much closer since I moved up his end of the sofa to sort his glass out on the coaster and didn’t shuffle back. If I were to twist to face him properly, our knees would be touching. ‘I can understand why a pretentious shite like him would make the journey here for it.’

‘He really is a pretentious shite,’ I concede, my repetition of his phrase highlighting my clipped accent in comparison to his Dublin lilt. ‘I once went to a party thrown by his castmates, and while I was there I was going on about him being a great songwriter. When we got home, he said that he was embarrassed I kept calling him a “songwriter”, because it sounded too basic. He asked if, in the future, I could refer to him as a lyricist or musical poet.’

Kieran splutters on his sip of wine, leaning forwards and thumping his chest. Giggling, I bite my lip as he finishes coughing and looks up at me.

‘You’re kidding,’ he wheezes.

‘I wish I was.’

He bursts out laughing. I haven’t seen this before. God, he’s beautiful when he laughs like that, his eyes creasing, his dimples on full show. His whole face transforms with pure joy. Suddenly it’s all I want to do for the rest of the evening. Make this man laugh.

‘Musical poet. Wow. That guy.’ Kieran shakes his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand how you ever listened to the misguided opinion of some… pompous arse like him.’

‘It’s easy to believe someone’s opinion about you when you already think it about yourself,’ I reason, twirling the stem of the glass around in my fingers. ‘If no one supports you, you can easily convince yourself you don’t have what it takes.’

He sits back, watching me. ‘What about your family?’

I hesitate. ‘Uh, my grandmother was supportive. My dad, not so much.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re not close with him?’

‘He left when I was young and he’s more invested in his new family. He lives in the US and we catch up every now and then, but our relationship is a bit stilted. We don’t really know how to be around each other. He’s all right, but it’s always very formal.’

Kieran frowns, shifting in his seat. ‘And your mum?’

I drop my eyes to my lap. ‘She died when I was nineteen.’

‘Oh shit, Flora, I’m sorry.’

‘No, it’s fine. Well, I mean, you know, it’s not fine. Anyway, thank you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘She had issues with alcohol. It was hard. She wasn’t a bad person, but she did some bad things. We weren’t that close in the end.’

He nods. We fall into silence. He’s wearing a concerned expression and I feel guilty that my reluctance to talk about Mum has brought our flowing conversation to a standstill. It’s been nice to see Kieran relax a little.

‘Why do you play so much PlayStation?’ I ask suddenly, noticing it.

‘It stops me from thinking about tennis,’ he answers simply.

‘You think about tennis that much, huh?’

‘Quite a bit.’

‘Are you thinking about it now?’

The corners of his mouth twitch. ‘You just brought it up, so yeah. Do you play?’

‘Tennis? No. Not really. I like ping-pong though.’

‘Yeah?’ He looks impressed. ‘I’m quite good at ping-pong.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Obviously.’

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