Page 111 of Match Point

She nods. ‘I’m going to go shower and get dressed. You okay to get ready after me?’

‘Great, thanks. No rush. Although since I left in a bit of a hurry last night, I may need to borrow some things.’

‘Sure, what do you need?’

‘Just a couple of toiletries, like if you have a spare toothbrush that would be amazing. And I’ll need to borrow some toothpaste obviously. And some cleanser, if that’s okay, and then maybe your make-up bag, too. A phone charger would also be really handy as mine is on low battery. And also a clean top if you don’t mind, since I had to sleep in mine from yesterday. Oh, and underwear please.’

She blinks at me. ‘So… everything.’

‘Not everything. I brought my sunglasses.’

She chuckles, getting up and then bending down to give me a hug before she leaves. As she pulls back, she cradles my face in her hands.

‘You want my professional opinion?’ she asks.

‘Sure.’

‘If he wins Wimbledon without you,’ she sighs, ‘it will be a fucking miracle.’

*

Iris leaves for Wimbledon bright and early, and I shower and get dressed – she has lent me a clean T-shirt that I’ve tucked into my high-waisted shorts. I put on a brave face while her parents are still here, answering all their questions about what I’m hoping to do for work and smiling as they express how great it is I’m passionate about drawing. Neither of them mention Kieran, and I’m grateful to Iris who, no doubt, warned them. As soon as they wave goodbye and the front door has shut behind them, I collapse onto a sofa in a heap.

I will allow myself today to wallow. It’s actually a blessing that they’ve all gone to Wimbledon because I have my own space to sit with my miserable thoughts and be sad without worrying about bringing anyone else down with me.

Nothing can push him from my mind. I try to distract myself by scrolling through social media, but Kieran, or something that reminds me of him, keeps cropping up amongst the cute dog videos and funny memes. Everyone is talking about Wimbledon today. They’re posting smiling pictures of themselves in the grounds, or they’re at the pub, or they’re watching it on one of the big screens around the city, a glass of Pimm’s in hand. With each post I glimpse, the pang gets sharper and the ache grows stronger.

When my phone is down to ten per cent, I put it on power-save mode and set it down on the table, pleased that Iris doesn’t have the right charger for it and I have a reason not to torture myself anymore. I get up, make myself a coffee and go stand in the garden, admiring all the colourful flowers cared for by Iris’s dad. It’s a grey, cloudy day, but it’s not cold. I inhale deeply, my heart that little bit lighter from the fresh air, before it sinks again as my mind drifts to strolls in the park with Kieran.

I return to wallow on the sofa and turn on the TV, by which point of course, the first thing that pops up is coverage of Wimbledon. I turn it off and toss the remote aside with a dramatic cry of exasperation. After taking a moment, I turn it back on, knowing full well that I have the ability to change the channel and watch something else.

Having watched a couple of episodes of a reality TV show that just makes me feel worse about the world because everyone is screaming at each other, I switch to the Wimbledon coverage just to check in.

He’s lost the first set and he’s losing 1–2 in the second, with Chris about to serve for the next game. The camera zooms in on Kieran as he makes his way onto the court, his head bowed as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

I turn it off.

After sneaking into Iris’s room and scanning her bookshelf, I select one and settle myself back downstairs, trying my best to lose myself in the story and not let my mind wander to him, even though that’s what it keeps trying to do.

My phone rings. I’d ignore it but it’s Iris, the one person I’m happy to talk to.

‘Hey,’ I say on answering, ‘I haven’t burnt down the house.’

‘What?’ She sounds shocked. ‘Why would you burn down the house?’

‘I thought that’s why you might be calling, to check I haven’t burnt down the house.’

‘No, Flora, I’m calling because you need to turn on the TV.’

‘Why?’

‘Turn on Wimbledon.’

I groan. ‘Iris, I really don’t want to watch it. I’m reading and—’

‘You’ve got to see this, Flora. Turn it on.’

‘Do I have to?’

---