Page 68 of Match Point

‘Fine,’ he seethes, his jaw tense. ‘As long as you’re there tomorrow.’

‘Promise, coach,’ Kieran says, reaching out and patting him on the arm.

Agitated, Neil’s eyes scan to me and his nostrils flare.

‘It’s just one drinks evening, Neil, it’s not a big deal,’ Kieran reminds him, his lips twitching upwards into a small smile. ‘It was a good win today. You should take my advice and have some strawberries. We’ve worked hard for them.’

Kieran reaches down to take my hand in his, interlocking our fingers and leading me away from Neil, who watches us go with a grim expression. My cheeks flushing with heat, I keep my head down as we walk down the path towards the exit, increasingly aware of the number of people noticing us and openly staring.

By taking my hand in front of Neil, it feels like Kieran is making some kind of statement, confirming Neil’s dreaded suspicions. By continuing to hold my hand as we walk through the crowds of Wimbledon, it feels like he’s telling everyone else.

And when he lifts my hand to his lips to lightly kiss my fingers when no one’s watching as we leave the grounds, I’m hoping he’s making a statement to me.

18

‘This isn’t a fair fight,’ I groan, yanking my darts out of the wood surrounding the board. ‘I’m an artist. You’re a professional athlete!’

Kieran raises his eyebrows. ‘We’re playing darts, Flossie. Athleticism doesn’t really come into it and it’s hardly my area of expertise.’

I gesture to the scoreboard. ‘I beg to differ.’

He shoots me a lazy grin. ‘Not my fault if I happen to be good at darts.’

‘Like you happen to be good at ping-pong? Seriously, is there anything you’re not good at?’

‘Many, many things. Small talk, art, public speaking, baking—’

‘I mean, any sport,’ I sigh, plodding back to him and heaving myself up onto the bar stool to the side while he stands up for his turn.

‘You think because I’m good at tennis, ping-pong and darts, I’m good at all sports? You have no idea what I’m like at rugby or cricket or swimming.’

‘Okay, what are you like at rugby, cricket and swimming?’

He grins. ‘Pretty good. I like golf too.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘I’m also not bad on a horse.’

‘Of course.’

He clicks his fingers. ‘You know what, I’m terrible at ice skating.’

I snort. ‘Okay. When did you try ice skating?’

‘When I was about thirteen. We were skiing and I thought I’d have a go.’

‘Let me guess, you’re a really good skier,’ I grumble.

‘I’m all right,’ he admits, with a slow, sly grin. ‘Anyway, I was terrible at ice skating. Couldn’t master the gracefulness.’

‘You’re pretty graceful on the tennis court,’ I comment.

‘You mean manly and rugged, right?’

‘No, I mean graceful and elegant,’ I confirm haughtily, as he holds up a dart to take aim. ‘Powerful and aggressive, too of course. Good luck to your next opponent. I bet he’s quaking in his little boots.’

He hits a triple twelve. ‘I doubt it. He’s a little scary himself. His backhand is specially terrifying.’

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