Page 48 of Match Point

Kieran joins me on the sofa and I pour him a glass of the red, handing it to him, before sorting one for myself. Neither of us say anything for a moment. The room feels charged and electrifying. I can sense him watching me as I lean forwards to place the bottle down, before swivelling on the edge of the seat to face him, tilting my glass towards him.

‘Here’s to feeling empowered on the tennis court. Sláinte,’ I add, way too proud of myself for a quick google of how the Irish say ‘cheers’ before he got home. I practised the pronunciation and everything.

‘Sláinte,’ he repeats with a knowing smile, clinking his glass against mine and taking a sip. He emits a sound of approval and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’d had to ask the shop assistant for help in picking a bottle suitable for a sophisticated palate.

‘How was your day?’ I ask, hoping to sound breezy, but my voice is a lot higher-pitched than usual.

‘Tough. But I played well today.’ He takes a large gulp of wine, before glancing at me. ‘I told Neil I had an extra training session with you yesterday, which must have helped.’

‘You’re welcome. If you need any tips, you know where to come.’

He almost smiles, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘I also informed him I’d be introducing a ritual to my pre-match routine, I just didn’t know what it was yet.’

I sip my wine. ‘I’m glad he’s on board.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. He told me to stop talking shit and focus on the game.’

‘Sounds like sage advice. Did he ask about how our living arrangement was going?’

‘He asks every day.’

‘And what do you tell him?’

His eyes lock with mine. ‘That, so far, it’s fine.’

I nod, taking a drink. He follows suit. I press my lips together. He taps his knee with his finger. I have another large gulp. God. I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous. I feel so alert, fizzing with energy and apprehension. I’m so painfully aware of every move either of us makes, I can’t relax. My mind is racing. I wish I knew what he’s thinking.

‘I have to tell you something,’ I blurt out.

He tilts his head. ‘Okay.’

I bite my lip, unable to fight an excited smile. ‘I started my book today.’

His eyes brighten and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped around his glass. ‘You’re kidding.’ When I shake my head, he breaks into a wide grin, his dimples sending my heart into a sequence of somersaults. ‘Hey, congratulations. You had an idea?’

‘It suddenly came to me.’

‘It was the tennis. I knew it would help.’

‘I started storyboarding and working out the characters, and I had a couple of scenes in my head that I had to sketch even though I haven’t finished plotting.’

‘Can I see them?’ he asks eagerly. ‘The sketches you did today.’

‘No. Not all of them.’

His smile drops. ‘What? Why not?’

‘They’re early sketches, first drafts! They don’t mean anything yet. You’ll have to wait until the book is finished.’

‘It takes a long time to create a graphic novel – that could be a year from now,’ he says slowly, frowning at me.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ I tease, before shooting him a sly grin. ‘I did, however, think you deserved a sneak preview since you’ve been so integrated into the artistic process, so, I set aside one panel for you to look at. You want to see?’

He downs the rest of his wine and gets to his feet. ‘Yes. Where is it?’

‘It’s in the kitchen.’

Putting down my glass next to his and, standing up, I reach for his hand, interlacing our fingers, and leading him out of the room. It feels so instinctive to take his hand in mine that I don’t really think about how forward it is to do so until I notice his warm hand grasp mine tightly in return. I should feel apologetic for taking his hand so brazenly, embarrassed even, but I don’t. He stays close behind me as I walk the few steps into the kitchen. I release his hand to turn and gesture to the sketch waiting for him on display on the table. He stops still, taking it in, before he moves to press both hands down either side of the page, leaning forwards to properly examine it.

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