Page 82 of Match Point

‘I really would like to get back to Kieran,’ I mutter, not bothering to hide my disgust. ‘Please move out of my way.’

‘It’s cool, we’re just talking here,’ he says breezily, giving me a strange look as though I’ve overreacted. ‘I’m trying to do you a favour.’

‘Everything okay here?’ Kieran asks abruptly, coming out of nowhere and looming over me, his eyes filled with concern.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him hurriedly, aware that others are starting to look our way. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It didn’t look like nothing,’ he growls, rounding on Chris, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘What were you saying to her?’

Chris barks with laughter, attracting more attention. ‘Paranoid much, are you, Kieran? We were having a conversation. Is that allowed or are you that threatened by me? I’m married, mate, remember.’ He sneers at him, before adding quietly so no one else can hear, ‘I think you may know my wife. At least, you thought you did. Uh-oh, have I hit a nerve?’

‘Kieran, leave it,’ I instruct sternly, noticing his jaw tense. ‘Ignore him. Please.’

‘Do you want to know what Flora and I were talking about?’ Chris says, relishing Kieran’s reaction and pushing it for his own amusement. ‘I was telling her what everyone else here knows. That you can’t win. You never have and you never will. You may have had a bit of luck so far, but we all know it won’t last. You can’t quite go the distance, can you? Always fall at the last hurdle.’

‘I’m warning you, Chris,’ Kieran says in a voice so venomous it makes my stomach twist, his eyes burning with rage.

‘What?’ Chris raises his eyebrows, bemused. ‘What are you going to do, Kieran? Lose your temper? That wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, would it. We’ve all seen it countless times before. Every time I beat you, over and over and over, out comes the rage.’ He tuts, before turning to me. ‘You really want to be with someone who has a tantrum when things don’t go their way?’

‘Don’t talk to her,’ Kieran snaps, taking a step forwards so he’s right in Chris’s face.

The room has descended into quiet now as everyone tunes in to the confrontation, except for the string quartet that heroically plays on, giving the drama a jarring classical theme tune. Panic rises in my throat as I notice Neil looking over in horror. This has turned into a scene and it’s all my fault. I reach out for Kieran’s arm, but he shakes me off.

Chris is smirking, his eyes lit up with the thrill of riling him. ‘Ooh, you really do lose control, don’t you, Kieran. You just can’t bear the fact that I beat you. You’ve lost every Grand Slam match you’ve played against me and you lost Rachel. That must still hurt. Is that what you think about every time we play? You think about how you weren’t quite enough so she chose me instead? How you couldn’t give her what she wanted, but I could?’

Kieran’s chest rises dramatically with a deep breath and then as he exhales, he lowers his eyes and shakes his head. As he turns away from Chris, I feel a wave of relief.

He’s found the strength to walk away.

‘My question is, why do you still bother playing when you know you can’t win?’ Chris sighs, raising his voice slightly so Kieran won’t miss it. ‘You know you can’t take the pressure. It’s in the O’Sullivan blood.’

Kieran freezes. His eyes widen and he hunches forward as though he’s just been punched in the stomach and had all the air knocked right out of him. I know what’s going to happen, I can see it in his eyes as they glaze over with rage. Before I can do anything to stop him, Kieran has swivelled back around to face him and, without a word, in the middle of the party, he punches Chris Courtney square in the face.

22

When I open my eyes the next morning, Kieran is placing a mug of coffee down on the bedside table next to me. He’s dressed and ready in his sports kit, and he smells fresh and clean, so he must have already showered.

‘What time is it?’ I ask, yawning as I sit myself up.

‘Early,’ he replies, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and resting his hand on top of the duvet over my knee.

I reach out to take my hand in his. ‘How are you?’

He looks down at his feet.

After he stormed out of Warren House last night, he refused to talk about what happened. He said nothing on the short journey back to the flat and when I asked him if he was okay, he said he just wanted to go to bed and not talk about it. I respected his wishes and prepared to sleep on the sofa, happy to give him his space, but as I began sorting out the pillows in the living room in my pyjamas, he came in in his boxers and, giving me a strange look, quietly asked what I was doing. His tone was much softer and calmer, the rage he’d been battling with on the drive having subsided.

‘It’s fourth round tomorrow – you need a good night’s rest,’ I’d said with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m fine to sleep here. This sofa is really comfy.’

He’d come plodding over and wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. ‘Will you come sleep with me tonight?’ he’d asked, his voice muffled in my hair.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I want you there.’

So I’d abandoned my sofa and climbed in with him into bed. He’d pulled me close to him and after we’d turned off the lights, he whispered sleepily, ‘You’re wearing the Snoopy.’

Which I was. I’d smiled to myself as his arm tightened round my waist and his hand clasped over mine. It’s so funny how much he loves that stupid T-shirt.

---