Page 42 of Match Point

‘It’s actually a very different skill to tennis,’ he says defensively.

‘Uh-huh. Sure.’

‘It is!’ he insists.

‘Kieran, stop trying to make out as though you’re talented at two sports. You’re talented at one sport, it just so happens you can play on a big court and on a mini one.’

‘This just sounds like you’re too chicken to face me.’

‘Excuse me?’

He shrugs, a hint of amusement across his expression. ‘It’s okay. You can admit that you’re scared. It would be like saying you’re too scared to take on a professional polo player in a game of croquet – I can understand you’d feel intimidated by me.’

‘I’m not intimidated by you.’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Are you challenging me to a ping-pong match?’

‘If you were brave enough to play, then why not?’

‘Oh, I’m brave enough. Fine, if we happen to come across a ping-pong table in the future, I will happily play you.’

‘Good. I look forward to it.’

‘Me too.’

We take a beat, and as I swallow, I notice his eyes flicker down to my mouth. I part my lips, before his gaze returns to meet mine and suddenly the air feels different, charged and exciting. When he looks away, he frowns uneasily, taking a sip of wine.

‘This is really nice wine,’ I remark, flustered, desperate to cut through the silence. ‘Much nicer than the stuff I usually have in my fridge.’

‘I’m glad you like it. It’s a Sancerre.’

‘Expensive. Are you into wine?’

‘A little.’

I hesitate. ‘Can I ask you a question? It may sound insulting at first, but I’m genuinely curious.’

He quirks a brow, relaxing a little. ‘Intriguing. All right, what is it?’

‘Are athletes supposed to drink when they’re playing a big tournament? I just thought you’d be on this huge health drive, no booze allowed kind of thing,’ I say hurriedly. ‘But then here we are tonight, and then you were out the other night…’

‘Yeah, it’s probably not the smartest tactic. But hey, I’ve done all that health-drive stuff before. When I was younger and I was taken seriously, I was very strict. It didn’t work out for me, so I got to the stage where I didn’t see the point in denying myself a drink every now and then.’

I frown at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If it’s the lead-up to the tournament and I feel like a glass of wine or a pint at the pub, then I’m not going to say no to—’

‘No, I meant, what do you mean when you were young you were taken seriously?’ I clarify. ‘That sounds like you’re insinuating you’re not taken seriously now.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m getting on now. I haven’t done badly recently but I’m not such a big name in the sport anymore. I’m probably going to retire this year.’ He cocks his head, unsure as to why I’m looking at him so strangely. ‘I’m not expected to win.’

‘But… don’t you want to win?’

He blinks at me. ‘Yeah, everyone wants to win. I’ve had enough chances, though, and whenever I got close…’ he pauses, his brow creasing as he tries to find the right words ‘…I kept losing.’ He drops his eyes and adds so quietly it’s almost inaudible, ‘Aidan would have kept winning.’

And suddenly, for just a fleeting moment, I once again catch a glimpse of a different Kieran to the one the world is presented with on court. With his shoulders slumped forward, his eyes gleaming with sadness, he seems defenceless and fragile. He’s lost and alone in his thoughts, a boy who has had to carry a crippling weight of expectation and grief on his shoulders for years.

When he clears his throat and lifts his head, the boy is gone.

‘So, in answer to your question, I allow myself the small pleasure of a nice glass of wine or a pint down the local, because why not?’ He plasters on a smile and takes a sip of his drink, forcing his voice to be carefree and upbeat. ‘When I lose at Wimbledon, I can blame it on the Sancerre.’

---