Page 60 of Match Point

‘There were moments yesterday when I think you got in your own head. You got ahead of yourself, thought about winning the match, and then maybe the doubts set in. Maybe you listened to that voice telling you that you couldn’t do it. But then that first point of the third game in the fifth set – it was magical. You really fought for it.’

‘Okay. But that was just one point.’

‘That point changed everything,’ I inform him as though I know what I’m talking about, letting go of his hands to sit back in my chair and fold my arms. ‘You weren’t trying to win, you were just playing tennis. That’s what you should do.’

The corners of his lips twitch as he suppresses a laugh. ‘That’s your advice, coach? I should… play tennis?’

‘My advice to you as an expert tennis player who really knows her shit—’ I press my hand against my chest as he sniggers ‘—is that you should play for each shot. Forget what everyone else thinks, drown out the voices in your head, mostly yours, and focus on winning the next shot. Done.’ I shrug. ‘Then come home and eat cake.’

He arches a brow. ‘There’s cake here?’

‘I went with Victoria sponge. Was that a good choice?’

‘Perfect. I’m not mad about all the fancy flavour cakes out there nowadays; I like the old favourites.’

‘Okay, Grandpa, I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘And thanks, by the way, for the banner.’

‘You may not have noticed, but it was originally a Happy Birthday banner.’

‘No, really?’ he says in mock surprise. ‘But the way you’d altered it with a black marker pen was so subtle!’

‘I am seriously considering producing banners for any occasion as a side hustle to my non-existent art career.’

He smiles, mirroring my position and sitting back. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘That I would consider myself a serious banner creator?’

‘That you’ve… I don’t know.’ He sighs, his eyes searching mine. ‘I feel lighter.’

The doorbell rings and he stiffens.

‘That will be Neil,’ he mutters without moving from his chair.

‘I’ll get it,’ I offer, standing up. Halfway out the room, I pause. ‘Kieran, I don’t want to overstep the mark and it really is none of my business, I don’t know much about your relationship, but – Neil is your coach. He wants you to win. I think he really was trying to protect you from this.’

‘He should have told me the truth. He knows what’s gone down between me and Dad. They used to be friends.’

‘That’s kind of my point,’ I say carefully. ‘He knows you, Kieran. Maybe he didn’t want you struggling with this when you already had the looming pressure of Wimbledon. Judging from how upset he was yesterday, at a guess I’d say he really cares about you.’

Kieran presses his lips together, refusing to say anything further. I go to get the door, standing aside to let Neil and the assistant coach in.

‘He’s in the kitchen,’ I inform them, following them down the hallway and then diverting into the living room to locate my art supplies. Flicking through to a fresh page of my sketch pad, I overhear their conversation.

‘Are you ready?’ Neil asks him tentatively.

I hear movement and assume that Kieran has got up and is gathering his things.

‘Kieran,’ Neil continues, ‘about yesterday—’

‘It’s fine, we’re good,’ Kieran cuts in. ‘Let’s just focus on how to win Wimbledon.’

‘Right. Fine by me!’ There’s a note of pleasant surprise in Neil’s voice. ‘How to win Wimbledon. Let’s do this.’

*

Before Kieran leaves for his match the next day, I catch him heading out the door and hand him a folded piece of paper.

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