Page 44 of Match Point

‘I see.’ He leans against the doorframe. ‘Sketching didn’t go well today, then?’

‘I still haven’t started the book,’ I mutter, disappointment shrouding my heart. ‘It’s been almost two weeks and I still don’t have a story. I can’t… I can’t seem to focus.’ I decide not to elaborate on why that may be, burying my face in my hands. ‘Argh, what am I doing? I’ve basically wasted two weeks when I could have been working and earning. What is wrong with me?’

A few moments later, I feel the warm grip of his fingers wrap around my wrists, encouraging me to lower my hands and as I do so, I look up into his eyes as he stands right in front of me, my breath catching in my throat.

‘You haven’t wasted this time, Flossie, it’s all part of the process,’ he insists gently, his hands still holding mine, oblivious to the effect his touch is having on me as my heart races and my mouth runs dry. ‘I know that you’re organised, but you can’t schedule when you’re going to have a good idea.’

I swallow, forcing myself to look up into his eyes.

‘So, what do I do?’ I ask helplessly.

He lets go of my hands and takes a step back, tilting his head and looking at me thoughtfully. ‘You need to find an outlet for that frustration and let your mind clear.’

‘Okay. Any ideas? What do you do when you need to calm and clear your mind, like before a match?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t do anything.’

‘What? Surely you do something. What’s your pre-match ritual?’

‘I don’t have one,’ he insists, chuckling at my obvious bewilderment. ‘I just go out and play.’

‘That’s it? Nothing for luck? No superstitions? I thought that was standard for people in sport.’

‘Not for me.’ He arches a brow. ‘I feel like I’ve disappointed you.’

‘You have a little,’ I admit, making him laugh. ‘It’s a bit boring not to have anything cool that you do before you walk on to play a game at Wimbledon. I think that needs to change, Kieran. I’ll think of something.’

He points his finger at me sternly. ‘I’m not doing any kind of jig.’

‘Yes, thank you, Kieran, I’m aware you’re not actually a leprechaun.’ I roll my eyes, thrilled to see his shoulders shake with laughter. ‘It will be something a bit more chill and subtle than that. Something that calms you, but also gears you up.’

‘Sounds necessary. In the meantime, let’s focus on your current predicament. How can we help get your creative juices flowing?’

‘We?’

He nods. ‘I happen to have a bit of time off this evening, and I have an idea that could help both of us.’

‘Really. What might that be?’ I breathe, my mind jumping to somewhere it should DEFINITELY not be going.

He slides past me to go to the chest in the corner of the room, giving me a moment to break out from whatever spell he seems to be able to hold over me now and collect myself. When I turn round to see what he’s up to, he’s opened the lid of the chest and is peering inside. He looks over his shoulder and grins at me.

‘You lied to me,’ he accuses.

I frown. ‘About what?’

‘You said you were into ping-pong, not tennis.’

‘Yeah?’

He gives me a look and reaches into the chest to dig around a bit before he pulls out a tennis racket, spinning the handle round in his grip. ‘Then what’s this?’

‘That’s old. I’d forgotten it was even in there! I played a little back at school, but I don’t play anymore.’

He looks unconvinced. ‘You told me you moved here last year.’

‘So?’

‘So,’ he begins, walking across the room to stand in front of me with the smug smile of a detective in a murder mystery, right before they give their big reveal, ‘if you don’t play anymore and don’t intend to, then why would you bother to bring your tennis racket all the way from Norwich to London barely a year ago?’

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