Page 47 of Match Point

He’s doing that thing again, offering me a glance at the weary, vulnerable guy hidden behind a carefully constructed brash and conceited reputation. It makes me want to leap over this net and hold him, and tell him that it’s okay.

‘And when you smash a ball,’ I say calmly, ‘it reminds you that you’re not so powerless after all.’

He tilts his head at me. ‘You want another go?’

‘Yes. I do.’ I nod vigorously, pumping myself up. ‘Lob the ball. I think I’ve got this.’

‘Okay,’ he says, pointing his racket at me. ‘I know you do.’

We move back to our starting points and this time I feel determined and focused, bending my knees and holding my racket steady. Kieran feeds the ball. Guiding the ball with one arm as it soars up into the air, I wait for it to come down in front of me, slightly to the right of centre, and I reach up with all my might, bringing my racket down on top of it with all the force I can muster.

The ball smashes down on his side of the court, bouncing just inside the singles line and flying out of play. It’s a beautiful, powerful shot. And it feels great.

His mouth hanging open, Kieran lifts his hands in the air and whoops loudly, causing others to look in our direction. I burst out laughing, running a hand through my hair.

‘That was INCREDIBLE!’ Kieran cries, tucking his racket under his arm so he can give me an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘Flossie, that smash was perfect. You’d have a hard time returning that one, let me tell you.’

‘I can’t believe I made that shot,’ I breathe proudly.

‘I can,’ he says, his eyes twinkling at me, the creases around them deepening as his warm, sincere smile widens. ‘I knew you had that in you.’

12

I’m waiting for him to come home. Literally waiting. Checking the time on my phone excitedly, sitting up straight whenever a car drives past. Finally, one slows and comes to a stop, before I hear a car door open and shut, and his bounding footsteps up to the door. As his key turns in the lock, I jump to attention, ready for when he appears in the room.

‘Hey,’ he says warmly, before he notices the pricey bottle of wine and the two glasses set out on the table next to the flickering candle. He glances up at me curiously. ‘You lit the three-wick. What’s the occasion?’

‘I wanted to thank you for helping me with the tennis lesson yesterday,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. ‘Is this okay, or should you not be drinking two days out from Wimbledon?’

He doesn’t say anything, his eyes flickering down to the neckline of my dress.

I’ve actually been in a T-shirt and pyjamas all day, but I put this on half an hour ago in preparation for his arrival. It’s a blue and white mini summer dress with a sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps. A lot of skin is on show and I’ve always felt sexy and confident in it. I want to feel that way with him because of what happened last night before we went to bed – it was such a small gesture, it may not have meant anything, but if there’s a chance that it did… I guess, I want him to know that it meant something to me.

Last night, after we’d both got ready for bed, I was getting a glass of water in the kitchen, and he came into the room. Usually, he might say goodnight, but yesterday was different. Yesterday, he came over to where I was standing by the sink and leant towards me to kiss me softly on the cheek, just a centimetre from the corner of my lips. He pulled back, but kept his head dipped to look straight into my eyes.

‘Goodnight,’ he’d said huskily.

‘Night,’ I’d managed to whisper, my heart in my throat.

He’d lingered there for a moment and then frowned, before turning and leaving the room. It was only once he’d left the kitchen that I’d exhaled, steadying myself on the edge of the sink, my legs shaking. I had tossed and turned on the sofa most of the night, unable to stop thinking about him, a warm tingling sensation spilling through my body.

Up until a week ago I was under the impression that he was a short-tempered, uncompromising, ill-mannered stubborn prick who couldn’t use a coaster. But his walls are crumbling, and hidden behind them is a carefully guarded softness. He’s proven to be kind and thoughtful. Within these walls, he’s not so distant; he’s observant and encouraging. The more I get to know him, the more I think the world has got him wrong.

I also think last night, he wanted to kiss me. And I wanted to kiss him back.

So that’s why I’ve put on this dress.

‘You look…’ He swallows, removing his cap and running a hand through his damp hair. ‘That’s a nice dress.’

Just the reaction I was hoping for.

‘Thanks.’ I smile shyly, wilting under his gaze.

‘I’m going to shower,’ he says slowly. ‘Then, we’ll open that bottle. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

He takes a beat, standing still in the doorway with his brow furrowed, his eyes pensive. He eventually leaves and, as I hear the shower turn on, I take a few deep breaths, trying to steady my heart rate. He must only take a few minutes to shower and change, but it feels like forever. By the time he reappears in a shirt and jeans, I’ve rearranged the coasters on the coffee table too many times to count.

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