Page 65 of Match Point

‘Will you come watch the match on Friday?’ he asks cautiously. ‘You can sit with my team in the player box of the stands. I’d like you to be there.’

‘Sure, Kieran,’ I say calmly, although my heartbeat quickens in my chest to an alarming rate. ‘I’ll be there.’

17

Kieran is looking to me. There are hundreds of people in this crowd on Court Eighteen watching him play and out of everyone here, all the faces looking down at him, he’s choosing to look to me after winning that incredible point. I’ve been on edge for the entire rally, my fingers gripping the bottom of my fold-down seat, my nails digging into the plastic. It’s not that hot today, but I’m sweating with nerves, the backs of my thighs sticking to the seat as the shorts of my blue playsuit ride up when I’m sat down. He fought for that point and he won it with a stunning forehand that soars to the baseline, too fast for his German opponent, Jürgen Keller, to return. The crowd erupts with applause, several up on their feet in appreciation of such beautiful play, and he turns to the box where his team are sat. He scans across and he looks to me. My heart somersaults.

My eyes locked on his, I nod sharply to him with just a hint of a determined smile.

That’s it. More like that, please. You’ve got this.

He turns away, taking the towel offered to him by a ball girl and wiping his forehead before tossing it back to her. He collects three balls from a ball boy, selecting two of them and sending the third back. He steps up to the line to serve. The stands fall silent, eerily silent, just like he said they do. I practically hold my breath, I’m too scared to exhale and make a noise that might distract him.

He looks relaxed and controlled as he tosses the ball up in the air and brings his racket down over the top of it in a smooth, fluid motion. It’s a deceptively powerful and accurate serve. Keller doesn’t stand a chance. It zips past his outstretched racket.

Ace.

I breathe out as Kieran moves to the other side of the court to another ardent round of applause, the Irish spectators in the stands cheering loudly and waving their flags.

‘Forty – fifteen. Set point,’ the umpire mumbles into the microphone.

Kieran points to the ball boy who provided the balls for the last serve and he obligingly bounces two towards him. Kieran checks them and approves, before stepping up to serve again. Keller wipes the back of his hand against his forehead, squinting across at Kieran and crouching low to the ground as he awaits the shot. Kieran’s chest rises with a deep breath as he decides where to place this next one, before he bounces the ball twice on the grass and then tosses it smoothly up into the air and sends it flying powerfully across the court. Keller only just manages to return it, stumbling off balance.

As the ball lands softly in the service box, Kieran is there, ready with his deadly forehand. The ball zips back in a blur, spinning so fast it hardly bounces.

‘Set, O’Sullivan.’

The roar from the crowd is deafening. Everyone is up on their feet, clapping and whooping as Kieran chucks the spare tennis ball from his pocket across to a ball boy without reacting, and calmly goes to sit on his chair. That’s two sets to one. He can do this, I know he can. But I’m not going to celebrate yet. I’m learning that at Wimbledon, it can all change with just a few points.

Talking to the assistant coach sat next to him, Neil glances down the row at me, but I pretend not to notice, adjusting my sunglasses and keeping my eyes fixed on Kieran. Despite being here with Kieran’s team, I’m not really with the team. I’m very much an outsider and Neil has made sure that I know I’m not going to be let into the fold anytime soon. Which is fine by me. I appreciate I’m not important. I’m here for Kieran.

I think I’m beginning to understand that Kieran has spent a long time, on and off court, feeling like no one is really on his side, even those he pays to help him win. But I care about him, win or lose. No matter what happens, I want him to feel like he has someone in his corner. Someone who chooses to be in his corner.

‘Time.’

At the umpire’s announcement, he picks up his racket and gets to his feet. His eyes flash up at me.

Here we go.

*

I’ve not actually been to the Wimbledon tournament before. We didn’t go last year and I’ve never thought to apply for the ballot to get tickets, but now that I’m here I feel like I’ve missed out. It’s warm, the atmosphere is buzzing, and this is easily one of the most beautiful sports grounds I’ve ever seen. Everything at the All England Lawn Tennis Club is clean, bright and preened, with hundreds of hanging baskets, troughs and flower beds around the courts brimming with dark purple and white petunias, perfectly complementing the green foliage and courts. If you asked someone to imagine how a quintessential English country garden might translate to a sports ground, this would be it.

And the crowds are all on their best behaviour. There may be Champagne and Pimm’s flowing freely, but there’s no rowdiness or raucous activity. It’s as though all the spectators know that they have to treat somewhere so well preserved with respect.

I’m enjoying milling around. I felt that, since I’m here, this is a good opportunity to experience Wimbledon properly, so I might as well wander around for a bit and take it all in.

After Kieran won the match, Neil told me explicitly that I was welcome to enjoy the grounds but that only Kieran’s team could join him in the player’s area. I had expected as much anyway. It’s not like I was planning on hanging around the men’s locker room while Kieran showered and changed, although that would be extremely pleasant. So I messaged Kieran to congratulate him and then said I was going to hang around for a bit and he could let me know if he wanted to meet, or else I’d see him back at the flat.

I join the queue for the strawberries and cream stand. There’s no chance that I’m coming to Wimbledon and not having strawberries and cream. That would be insulting the tournament and, quite frankly, the country itself. Having purchased my tub of strawberries, I proudly take a selfie of me holding it up and grinning, and send it to Kieran, having swapped numbers this morning before he left. We both found it amusing when we realised we hadn’t actually got round to doing that yet.

Celebrating your win with strawberries on Murray Mound! I caption the photo.

Finding a spot on the hill in front of the giant screen that’s on the side of Court One, I sit down cross-legged and start spooning the cream over the strawberries. I’m trying to scoop my first one onto the spoon when someone’s shadow blocks the sun.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ Kieran says, sitting down next to me in his Wayfarers and cap. He’s not in his tennis whites, but navy shorts and a white shirt.

‘Hey!’ I exclaim, swivelling to face him as he rests his arms on his knees. I hesitate, a smile spreading across my face as I lower my voice and lean into him. ‘Aren’t you that famous tennis player who just got through to the fourth round of Wimbledon?’

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