Page 110 of Match Point

When he makes a smoothie for himself, he makes one for me, too. When he discovered my love of drawing, he patiently encouraged it, but didn’t push it. He cooked for me, he bought me wine I liked, he shielded me from the paparazzi. He used a coaster when he knew it annoyed me, and he left his shoes in the hallway every day just so he could tease me affectionately about it when I had to go put them away. He’s a secret comic book nerd, he loves Snoopy, and he is adorably baffled by playsuits.

But it’s the way he made me feel that made it impossible not to love him. Everything he did – the conversations, the tennis lesson, the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me and touched me – made me feel happy and confident and sexy and powerful.

He made me feel loved.

And now it’s all over. The most magical four weeks of my life. Iris is right. We went through it all. From the moment we met it’s been bewildering, chaotic, ridiculous, intense, fun, awful and wonderful. Now it’s run its course and I have to let him go. I should have known that was coming. It’s happened to every other woman he’s ever been linked with. He doesn’t let them get close. Ever. I don’t know why I was stupid enough to think I was any different. It’s embarrassing.

My heart feels like it’s splintering. It’s an all-consuming invisible agony that makes my stomach cramp and my chest tighten. I feel like I haven’t earnt the right to feel this way, because I haven’t known him long enough for him to make this kind of impact. But suddenly I can’t imagine how I’ll ever be able to go home if he’s not there, waiting for me.

‘Flora,’ Iris prompts softly, studying me as she reaches over to take my hand.

‘It doesn’t matter how I feel,’ I say hoarsely, as tears begin to trail down my cheeks. ‘Whatever it was, whatever we had, it’s done.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, squeezing my fingers.

‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ I clear my throat and wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, before taking a glug of coffee. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something else. What is new with you? How have you been? What are you up to today?’

She grimaces. ‘I’m… covering the Wimbledon final.’

‘Right.’ I close my eyes, chuckling at my own stupidity.

‘I can call in sick,’ she offers. ‘Someone else can cover it and we can hang out, do whatever you want.’

‘You write the blog, Iris, you have to go! Besides, you already spent the first bit of the year looking after me as I emerged from a break-up, I’m not going to let you hold my hand through this as well. You’ve done your bit.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘That’s not how it works, Flora.’

‘You have to go do your job. It’s important! And I hear it’s a highly anticipated match.’

‘I’m going to assume you don’t want to come?’

‘No, thanks. The absolute last place I want to be today is at Wimbledon.’

‘I can try to get you a press pass. We can hurl strawberries at him while he plays.’

‘We’d get kicked out and you’d get fired.’

‘It would be a cool story for the blog, though.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m good,’ I assure her.

She sighs, tilting her head back. ‘Argh, I feel bad leaving you here all day on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own. I’ll hang out with your parents; they seem cool.’

‘Ah. They’re coming to Wimbledon. Sorry. They got ballot tickets.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s fine. I can go for a walk and stuff, check out the area,’ I say as brightly as possible, having another sip of my drink. ‘Putney is very nice. There’s loads to do here. Don’t worry, I’ll keep myself entertained.’

‘You’re very welcome to hang out here if you just want to slob around.’

‘Maybe I’ll check out your dad’s gym.’

‘Yeah, he set it up a year ago and the equipment has never been used,’ she says, easing into a grin. ‘Seriously though, make yourself at home. They’ve said you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

‘That’s really kind of them, and if they don’t mind, I’ll stay one more night. But then the rental is up and the flat is mine again. Win or lose today, he’ll be gone tomorrow.’

I keep my smile fixed as though my heart isn’t sinking.

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