Page 50 of Match Point

We freeze, locked together, our breathing rasping and heavy in unison.

‘Ignore it,’ he whispers, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and when it rings again and he rests his forehead in defeat against my shoulder, I realise that he must have been expecting someone.

Kieran steps back away from me and I slide off the table, letting my dress fall back down my thighs and nudging the strap into place over my shoulder. Reality sets back in and I immediately feel self-conscious. What just happened?

‘That will be someone from my team,’ Kieran says in a low, regretful voice. ‘I… forgot. They said they’d come over later to… talk. Strategy and stuff.’

I nod, my cheeks flushing. ‘Right. Of course. Sure. That makes sense.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ I assure him, folding my arms across my body.

The bell rings again. Ignoring it, he sways towards me and his hand curves softly around my hip. Kieran looks at me searchingly before leaning in and kissing me, deeply and slowly, sending another delicious wave of heat rippling through my body. This kind of kiss could swear me off all other kisses from anyone else ever again.

As he pulls away, his hand lingers on my waist. His throat bobs, his hungry gaze searing into me and making my skin prickle, before he turns to leave the room. He didn’t need to say anything, I understood everything from that silent exchange.

This isn’t over.

13

Iris is already waiting for me at the café when I cross the road. Sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the sunshine wearing a red playsuit with tan strapped wedges, her dark hair swept over one shoulder accessorised with huge sunglasses and bright red lipstick. She looks like she should be on the set of a 1950s Hollywood movie. She’s sitting back, sipping her coffee and people-watching with no idea that the whole street is watching her – men are double-taking as they stroll past, so distracted that they stumble into the chalkboard propped up on the pavement advertising the Wimbledon-themed speciality coffees.

She sees me and sits up straight, waving me over excitedly.

‘How are you?’ she asks, getting up to pull me into a hug as I approach. She smells like an expensive delicate floral perfume. ‘I got you a flat white.’

‘Perfect, thanks,’ I gush, taking the seat opposite her.

She slides her sunglasses down her nose to peer at me over the top of them. ‘Don’t you look pretty. Your butt in those shorts – I’d kill for your figure.’

‘Says the woman with those pins,’ I remark, glancing down at her long slender legs, her ankles neatly crossed under her chair. ‘You’re sending the Village into meltdown.’

‘Oh stop it, you,’ she says with a dramatic sigh, before breaking into a grin. ‘Isn’t this weather glorious? If it stays like this tomorrow, it will be the perfect start to the tournament. God, I love it here in Wimbledon at this time of year. The atmosphere is unbeatable, don’t you think?’

‘I do,’ I agree, taking a sip of coffee. ‘There’s nothing like it.’

‘It’s so exciting and fun. You can feel it in the air.’

She’s right, the Village is buzzing with anticipation for tomorrow as it readies itself for the influx of people about to descend on this small south-west corner of London, the rest of the world watching eagerly to see who will be crowned the Champions of Wimbledon. Even someone actively against sport would be hard pushed not to get caught up in the joy and charm of it all.

And with the sun shining, everything seems that bit better. The flowers are blooming perfectly, the bar and restaurant fronts are bathed in a sparkling golden glow, and everyone seems to be in a good mood. I’m hit by a wave of gratitude to be sitting in Wimbledon right now with my best friend watching the world go by. We spend a moment quietly taking it in. We watch a group of friends taking it in turns to get photographs next to the shop that’s covered its entire wall in purple and green flowers; we laugh at the dog walker trotting by with dogs all sporting some Wimbledon tennis neckerchiefs; and we can’t help smiling at the kids on their way home from a party blowing bubbles, trying to pop them as they float up into the air, blown out of their reach with the gentle breeze.

‘How fucking mesmerising are bubbles?!’ Iris blurts out.

‘They really are!’ I agree enthusiastically. ‘I was seriously entranced there.’

‘We need to go get some bubbles after this. I’ve never felt more relaxed.’

‘Me neither. Bubbles. What a revelation.’

She chuckles. ‘Ah, I’m so grateful to be out of the office the next couple of weeks to cover the tournament.’

‘The office is that bad?’

‘Ugh.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s worse than ever. I don’t think I’ll have a job much longer, if I’m honest. I’m trying not to freak out about it.’

‘They wouldn’t get rid of you,’ I say sternly, lowering my cup. ‘You’re the best writer on the sports desk. I saw you launched your Wimbledon blog on the paper’s app. Last year it was a huge hit, and this year will be the same.’

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