Page 9 of Match Point

‘The which one?’

‘The cottage in Keswick that I rented,’ I explain through sniffles. ‘The roof collapsed and they can’t put me up anywhere else. I tried finding somewhere new to book, but there’s nowhere available.’

‘Oh no! Oh, Flora, I’m so sorry. You were so excited. That’s awful! What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know, but I have to leave my flat. Now I have nowhere to go.’

‘Don’t panic, we’ll sort something. Surely you can speak to the agency and they can let whoever has rented your flat know that there’s been a problem and they can’t stay there anymore,’ she suggests.

I hesitate. I wish I could tell her that it might be difficult to tell a famous tennis player that he hasn’t got anywhere to stay while competing in Wimbledon anymore, but I promised Kieran I wouldn’t tell anyone, and as much as I trust Iris, I stick to my word. There’s no point in telling her about him anyway – it’s not like she’ll get the chance to meet him. I’ll tell her after the tournament.

‘I don’t know whether that’s an option,’ I say, keeping it vague. Propping my elbow up on the table, I rest my chin in my hand. ‘This is such a bad start.’

‘It’s not brilliant luck admittedly,’ she concurs, ‘BUT this does not mean your break is cancelled. Flora, there are so many places in England you can escape to for a few weeks to work on your book.’

‘But you know that I wanted it to be the Lake District.’

‘I know, but there are other places just as beautiful,’ she says gently. ‘You can go to the Lake District another time – like when you write the sequel to your bestseller debut!’

‘I wish,’ I mutter wistfully.

‘Flora, you cannot let a collapsed roof ruin your plans. This is a tiny hiccup. I was worried about you going all that way on your own anyway, so maybe this is Fate’s way of telling you I’m right and you should listen to what I say.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I smile into the phone. ‘Go on then, what should I do?’

‘You will get your cute butt out the door, go get yourself a delicious crisp glass of rosé in the sunshine somewhere, and enjoy scrolling through the last-minute deals for countryside retreats, preferably ones that aren’t hours away from London. That way I can nip and see you if you’ll let me.’

I sigh. ‘A glass of rosé in the sun does sound tempting.’

‘Off you go and call me when you’ve booked somewhere new. And remember, you don’t need to stay in just one place the entire time so don’t feel down if somewhere you like is only available for a small chunk of time – book it and find somewhere else for the next chunk. If need be, you can come crash on my parents’ sofa in between.’

I find myself nodding along to her instructions. ‘Okay. You’re right. A new plan.’

‘An exciting new plan,’ she emphasises. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

‘I am going to go book somewhere else,’ I declare, rising to my feet.

‘Yes, you are. Call me when it’s done!’

‘Will do. Iris, you’re the best.’

‘Well aware of it.’

We hang up and with a fresh wave of determination, I grab a bag for my laptop, pick up my sunglasses and keys, and march down the hallway and out of the house. Stepping out into the sunshine, I take a deep breath of fresh air and slide my sunglasses on.

‘Time for a new plan,’ I announce to no one.

Setting off in the direction of Wimbledon Village, I keep a lookout for an empty table outside one of the restaurants and bars – Iris’s explicit instructions were to drink a glass of rosé in the sunshine – but everywhere is heaving with people. When the weather is this nice, all of London is outside. Teetering dangerously close to being in a bad mood again at yet ANOTHER stumbling block in my plans, I do my best to keep my cool and head to The Dog and Fox pub in the hope of finding a seat somewhere in its outside space – I am only one tiny person, maybe I can tag on to someone else’s table.

Grabbing a glass of wine at the bar, I head out to the beer garden. As expected, most of the tables are full, but there is one towards the back that looks empty, until I get closer and see that there is someone seated at the end of the bench. They’re on their own, scrolling through their phone with a pint of lager in front of them. I assume they’re waiting for someone else, but hopefully they won’t mind me perching on the end.

‘Excuse me,’ I begin with my sweetest smile, ‘could I sit—’

‘No,’ he grunts before I’ve even finished my sentence.

I’ve realised who it is. His cap is down over his face; that’s why I didn’t recognise him straight away. Kieran fucking O’Sullivan.

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