Page 43 of Match Point

‘Who says you’re going to lose at Wimbledon?’

My direct comment catches him by surprise. He raises his eyebrows, stunned into silence. I stare right back at him with all seriousness.

‘Flossie, let’s be honest. I’ve never even got to the finals here before.’

I shrug. ‘So?’

‘So, I have to be realistic. No one thinks I have it in me to win.’

‘You did,’ I correct him.

‘What?’

‘There was an interview you did years ago. You said you would win Wimbledon.’

His expression darkens, his eyes glazing over with pain. ‘I was a young brat,’ he says, his voice low and strained. ‘I had no idea about anything. I shouldn’t have done that interview. The stuff they printed about what I said about Aidan… it was taken out of context. I didn’t mean—’

‘Kieran, I’m not talking about what you said about Aidan,’ I say, leaning forwards, my knee grazing against his as I shift and sending a jolt through my body. ‘I’m interested in what you said about you.’

He stares at me, his jaw clenched.

‘Just because you haven’t done it before, doesn’t mean you won’t win now,’ I assert, not sure when I became an expert on professional competing but probably somewhere between my last gulp of wine and now. ‘The way you spoke in that interview, I believed you.’

‘You think… I still have it in me to win?’ he asks quietly.

‘Do you?’

Taking a deep breath in, he sips his wine.

‘This is Wimbledon, right? Anything can happen,’ I remind him.

He lowers his glass, his striking eyes sparkling at me. And then he breaks into a smile, a small one but it’s so genuine and hopeful and inviting, that it makes my heart somersault and my breath catch in my throat. Those dimples.

It’s not until much later in the evening when we’ve gone to bed that I realise what is niggling at the back of my brain. He called me Flossie.

I liked it.

11

I don’t know how to act around Kieran. Something feels different now, and when we’re together, I feel constantly on edge and aware of every single movement either of us make. In the week leading up to Wimbledon, he’s not around so much due to his training, treatments and team discussions I guess, and I keep looking for excuses to be busy and get out the house in an attempt to stop my mind aimlessly drifting to Kieran and how he looks when he’s only wearing a towel. I’m not going to lie, it’s very nice to think about, but it’s stopping me from focusing on anything else at all.

I’ve tried to lose myself in my art, but all I’ve managed to do this week are meaningless doodles – nothing with substance. I spent a whole afternoon sketching this picture of two figures lying next to each other by a lake, her head resting in the nook of his neck, her eyes closed as he gazes down at her. It’s a nice, peaceful scene, but what’s the point in it? There’s no story to it; I have no idea who these people are or what they want. It’s a picture of nothing.

I’ve been for dinner twice with Iris this week, and I even went to the cinema on my own one night despite it being one of the hottest days we’ve had this month. I thought I’d go watch a romance in the hope of getting some inspiration for my book, but I sat there in a near-empty theatre watching a movie about two people who are all wrong for each other falling in love, sweating my butt off because the aircon was broken and thinking about Kieran and his strong sexy arms the whole bloody time.

I’d really love for the weather to make up its fucking mind. The organisers of Wimbledon must be on the edge of their seats, wondering how on earth it’s going to play out for them this year.

On the Friday before the start of the tournament, Kieran walks in to find me pinging one of his resistance bands against the wall in exasperation. In the middle of swigging from his water bottle, he stops abruptly in the doorway of the living room, taking in the pushed-aside coffee table and one of his mats rolled out on the carpet. His eyes travel down my dark green sports bra and leggings and back up again. My skin heats under his gaze, my pulse quickening as his mouth parts ever so slightly.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks quietly, studying me.

‘I’m attempting a workout,’ I admit, flicking my loose ponytail back from my shoulder. ‘But it’s not going well.’

He nods to his resistance band now lying on the floor across the room.

‘You know you don’t use that like a catapult, right?’ he asks, a bemused smile playing across his lips.

‘I know.’ I lower my eyes to the floor, folding my arms across my chest. ‘I was frustrated.’

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