Page 104 of Match Point

‘Hmm. Well, perhaps we can come to Wimbledon next year. It might be fun for us to do together. Me and you, I mean.’

I nod slowly. ‘Yeah. It might be.’

‘Very good. I will discuss with Camila and we can propose some dates to you for our trip this summer,’ he concludes. ‘Speak soon, Flora.’

‘Okay. Speak soon, Dad.’

He hangs up. Feeling completely bewildered from the call, I reach for the remote just in time to hear the roar from the crowd as Kieran wins the third set.

28

‘—and with this kind of attitude, Kieran, you’re not going to win tomorrow. Chris Courtney will embarrass you on Centre Court in front of the world. Is that what you want?’

Brian’s voice echoes around the flat the moment he steps through the door on Saturday afternoon, his aggressive remarks making my stomach lurch. I start gathering my sketches sprawled across the table into a neater pile, setting down my pencil and going to the sink to wash the dark smudges off my hands.

‘You have to go on the attack, Kieran,’ Brian instructs, his voice coming closer as they walk towards the kitchen. ‘You’re not playing like you really want it. Do you want it?’

‘Of course I want it,’ Kieran snaps, appearing in the doorway.

I turn off the tap, glancing up at him as he comes in. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ he replies, before his brow furrows even deeper and he heads straight for the fridge to grab an energy drink.

Ignoring my presence completely, Brian lingers in the doorway. ‘You’re floundering because you’re letting your emotions get the better of you. You have to stay focused. Don’t let your mind and your emotions take hold of your performance. Be more…’

He searches for the word.

‘Be more like Aidan?’ Kieran suggests, his tone mechanical but cutting.

My breath catches.

Brian breathes out slowly, his expression darkening. ‘Be more controlled is what I was going to say. Jesus Christ, Kieran.’ His eyes flicker to me before he clears his throat. ‘Get some rest for the next couple of hours. I’ll be back this evening to analyse your play from today. We’ll go through our strategy. Chris has plenty of weaknesses that we can home in on. You’ve got it in you, Kieran, you need to find the strength to fight for what you want.’

Kieran doesn’t say anything, his expression inscrutable as he takes a swig of his drink.

Brian shakes his head and turns, stomping down the hallway and out of the flat. I feel like I can only breathe once he’s left, but his presence still lingers here somehow, as though he’s managed to make the air in here chillier. Kieran doesn’t move, his body tense, his mouth straight, his eyes glazed over.

He’s different. His expression, the way he’s holding himself, it’s all different. Ever since the semi-finals, he’s felt distant from me. That’s what I wanted, it was for the best. But I’ve been grappling with an aching heart as I’ve had to stand by and watch him withdraw into himself the last couple of days. I don’t know how it must feel to reach the final of Wimbledon, to have what you’ve always dreamed of just within your grasp, but I can imagine that it’s hard to keep focus beneath the staggering pressure, and it seems as though the way Kieran is handling it is to turn numb to everything and everyone around him.

The whole world is talking about it. It’s a sensational story: Kieran O’Sullivan and Chris Courtney facing each other in the final of Wimbledon. Two fierce rivals, neither of them youngsters on the circuit anymore, both of them desperate for this one title. Chris is a Grand Slam winner but he’s never got Wimbledon. According to the media, the atmosphere in Ireland this weekend is electric. Kieran’s face is plastered everywhere around Dublin. The pubs are crammed with revellers eager to celebrate their local boy’s surprise ascent to the top once again. On Sunday, the entire country will be watching without fail, cheering him on.

But in the flat, the atmosphere is bleak.

Brian and Neil came home with him after the semi-finals and I only just managed to congratulate him before they started outlining the strict routine they had for him. When they left, he lingered in the living room with me and neither of us seemed to know what to say.

‘You’re through to the final,’ I’d managed to blurt out stupidly.

He’d nodded. ‘Not sure I can believe it.’

‘I can.’

He’d lifted his eyes to mine and his eyebrows had pulled together, his jaw tensing.

‘Flora,’ he’d croaked, ‘the article about your parents…’

‘It’s nothing. I was hoping you wouldn’t see it.’

‘It was shown to me after the match. You must have thought I didn’t care.’

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