Page 61 of Match Point

‘Are we passing secret notes in class, Flossie?’ he whispers conspiratorially, as Neil stands waiting by the car, pointedly checking his watch.

Last night his team came back with him again and we didn’t get any time alone. By the time they left, it was late and I made my intentions clear, getting under my duvet on the sofa before anything could happen. I can’t trust myself around him. His kisses have become burned on my brain, replaying over and over, torturing me slowly. But these are not just any tennis matches he’s playing, it’s fucking Wimbledon. He has to focus on his game; he can’t let me become any kind of distraction.

So last night when I couldn’t sleep, while my mind drifted to him being on the other side of the bedroom door and my body burned at the thought of the way he’s kissed me, I tried my best to convince myself that I was doing the right thing and did a sketch to give to him today. Now that I’ve started sketching again, I feel like I can’t stop. Last night, creating this drawing helped me to understand how I was feeling and what I wanted to say – by giving it to him, I’m hoping it might help him in some way, too.

‘Sort of,’ I admit. ‘Don’t open it now, but maybe have a look before the match.’

‘Okay, I’ll try to find the time around blowing the bubbles.’

‘Don’t mock it. Maybe you won the first round thanks to bubbles.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, I’m being serious,’ he assures me, holding up his hands. ‘It is fully integrated into my pre-match routine. Can’t mess with whatever worked last time.’

‘Good.’ I smile smugly as he gazes down at the piece of paper, his eyes full of intrigue. ‘It’s nothing special; a little something to help get you in the zone. I drew it last night after you’d gone to bed. It’s not for the book or anything, it’s just… for you.’

‘A Flossie Hendrix original.’ He brings his eyes up to meet mine. ‘I’m honoured.’

‘Kieran, let’s go,’ Neil calls out.

Kieran ignores him, looking up at me hopefully. ‘See you later?’

‘See you later.’

‘I just have to go play tennis. I’ll play each point and then come back to eat cake,’ he says robotically as though he’s memorised it from a textbook. ‘That’s my plan today.’

I give him a thumbs up. ‘You’re playing for you. No one else.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to be my coach—’

‘Kieran!’ Neil cries impatiently.

‘—because there may be an opening soon,’ he finishes drily.

I chuckle. ‘I’ll think about it. You should go.’

‘Okay.’ He holds up the piece of paper. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘I hope it helps.’

Nodding, his eyes flicker down to my lips. He swallows. My breath catches as his body sways ever so slightly towards me.

‘Kieran!’

He winces at the sharpness in his coach’s tone and draws back, making his way down the steps to the car. He turns to give me a wave before sliding into the back seat. I shut the front door and lean against the wall in the hallway for a moment to gather myself. That brief intense moment, whatever it was, has made me giddy and I have no idea how I’m going to concentrate on anything else today but him. My hands have become clammy and I shake them out. I really hope he likes the drawing.

It’s another sketch of the back of someone, but this time it’s of a man in tennis gear, walking out from the tunnel towards Centre Court of Wimbledon, surrounded by all the tiny blank faces of the stadium spectators. With his tennis bag slung over his shoulder and his other hand in his pocket, his head is bowed.

The caption below reads: Believe when no one else does.

16

The way Kieran’s looking at me is making my heart race and my breath catch. He’s standing over by the fireplace, one elbow resting on the mantelpiece, and he’s meant to be listening to one of the several people in his team who all seem to be talking over each other, discussing what he did right today, what he did wrong, what he needs to work on, how he’s going to win the third round. But he’s not listening to them. He’s staring at me as I linger awkwardly at the back of the room, his eyes fiercely intense, his jaw locked, his chest rising slow and steady. He almost looks angry, but there’s more to it than that. Hunger.

When he got home this evening, I was unashamedly ready to greet him in the hallway. After a shaky start, it was a brilliant match and he deserved to win. He was down three games in the first set, and I could see him getting frustrated, but he sat down between the end change with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths and muttering something to himself. When the umpire announced, ‘Time,’ Kieran’s eyes flashed open and there was something different about the way he stepped back onto the court. It was like a switch had flipped and he’d decided he wasn’t going to lose after all. He won in three straight sets.

As I heard the car pull up, I stood in the hallway in a cute red summer dress, impatient to see him, but when the door opened, a crowd of people spilled into the flat and Kieran was somewhere in the middle of them. Now that he’s through to the third round, I guess things are getting serious and his team aren’t going to waste a spare moment of preparation. His entourage, in a frenzy of excitement after his win, accompanied him home to start prepping him for his next opponent. I had managed to say a timid congratulations that he’d heard and tried to respond to, but Neil was talking over everyone, telling them where they should be and what they should be doing. I’ve been hoping they don’t stay late again tonight. I just want some time alone with Kieran.

I’d nominated myself as drink-bearer, offering beverages to his team as they took over the living room. Having brought some chilled soft drinks through, I’ve found myself stuck in the corner at the back, waiting while Kieran’s fitness specialists organised the gym equipment so I can dart back out again.

---