Page 5 of Match Point

He scowls, a signature look for him.

‘Are you from the agency?’ he asks impatiently with a soft Dublin lilt.

‘Y-you’re—’ I begin, stammering.

‘Yes, I’m Kieran, nice to meet you,’ he says dismissively as though it’s not nice to meet me at all, it’s a damn inconvenience.

And then he marches into my flat.

Kieran O’Sullivan casually walks past me and into my home as though he owns the place. I’m so bewildered that I just stand aside and let him pass, as though it’s completely normal for a stranger to wander in off the street and enter your home without any form of explanation. As he brushes by I’m hit with a musky sandalwood scent combined with a strong whiff of stale alcohol. He disappears into the living room and the mirror on the wall opposite shows that my mouth is hanging open. I quickly shut it.

Before I close the front door, I poke my head out and look both ways down the road to check if he was running away from paparazzi or something and ducked into the nearest house, but the road is empty. He’s come on his own.

I take the opportunity to check my reflection – I wasn’t expecting to bump into a tennis star today. I comb my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the waves, and run a finger beneath my eyes to make sure the mascara I clumsily applied this morning hasn’t smudged. I didn’t put on any foundation this morning and my freckles are on full show, made more prominent by the sun we’ve been getting in London recently. I notice the pair of gold hoop earrings on the hallway table next to the vase of fresh flowers I arranged this morning – I put the hoops there yesterday on purpose so I wouldn’t forget to bring them on my trip. Quickly putting them on, I check my reflection one last time and then scurry towards the living room.

By the time I make it in there, I find to my surprise that Kieran has already kicked off his shoes, leaving them strewn on the rug, and is lying across my sofa, clumsily rearranging the cushions to make himself more comfortable.

He glances up as I walk in and frowns. ‘I’m sure I can get myself acquainted with the place. You don’t need to hang around. Thank you.’

I gape at him. ‘I… I’m sorry, um, can I ask what… what you’re doing here?’

‘I appreciate I’m early,’ he grumbles, removing his cap and tossing it on the floor. ‘But I didn’t think it would matter. Do you know if there’s any paracetamol here? I meant to buy some on the way.’

‘P-paracetamol?’ I stammer. ‘Uh, sure, there’s some in the medicine cabinet.’

‘Great, if you could get me those with a glass of water, I’d appreciate it.’ He grimaces, plumping up the cushion behind his head before resting back against it and closing his eyes. ‘I have a bad headache.’

I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m confused.’

He runs a hand down his face and peers through his fingers at me. ‘I can get it myself, but I’m not feeling my best and I just thought, as you’re already up…’

His sentence trails off. He looks at me pointedly, as though waiting for something.

‘Um. Okay. I’ll get you some,’ I say, bewildered.

‘Thanks,’ he says gruffly before shutting his eyes again.

Turning away from him, I shuffle into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. As I shut the tap off, I take a moment. It’s obvious what’s happened: he’s got the wrong house. It’s not that surprising that a tennis player would be in Wimbledon a couple of weeks before the tournament – he’ll be gearing up for it here with his team – but I can’t quite understand why he’s acting as though I’d be expecting him.

Grabbing the paracetamol, I return to the living room to find he’s now sat back up and has buried his head in his hands, groaning loudly. His phone buzzes in his pocket and it looks like it’s a real effort for him to get it out. He sees the caller ID, mutters something under his breath, and ignores the call, setting his phone aside.

I approach, holding out the paracetamol, and placing the glass down in front of him.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts without looking up at me, breaking two painkillers out the foil.

‘No worries. Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but can I just ask again why you’re—’

‘Ugh.’ He gags after taking a swig of water to wash down the tablets, before peering at the glass, looking offended. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Is there something wrong with the water?’

‘It’s not exactly Evian is it,’ he mutters.

My cheeks flush in mortification. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a professional athlete like him is used to the finer things in life, but it’s rude of him to be so open with his displeasure. I cross my arms defensively.

‘No, sorry, it’s tap,’ I tell him.

With a pointed shudder, he places the glass down on the table next to the coaster. Not on the coaster. NEXT to it. Who is this guy?!

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