Page 59 of Match Point

‘You know those headlines are ridiculous. Loads of people on social media are calling the tabloids out on that and saying it’s clickbait. People are on your side,’ I tell him, leaning forwards. ‘People are also saying that they’d like your memoir, not your dad’s. It’s your story they’re interested in.’

He snorts. ‘They’ll never be getting that. And while that’s all very well, it doesn’t mean his book won’t sell. It will.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Kieran, do you think… maybe you should talk to him?’

‘Who? My dad?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No way,’ he states, shaking his head. ‘He didn’t even have the respect to tell me he was writing the fucking thing, let alone that it was going to be published. I have nothing to say to that man.’

‘Maybe if he knew how upset it was making you—’

‘He knows,’ he snaps, dismissing my suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘He doesn’t care. You know he messaged me yesterday before the match? He texted me to say that I was going to win and that he’d be watching. Getting that message—’ he inhales deeply, his voice cracking with emotion ‘—it made me want to win for him. Even after all this fucking time, after everything we’ve been through, I’m still trying to make my dad proud. It’s pathetic.’

‘It’s not pathetic,’ I say, hot tears pricking at my eyes, threatening to spill over. ‘We all want our parents to be proud of us, it’s natural.’

‘I don’t want anything to do with him,’ he says forcefully, as though trying to convince himself. ‘I didn’t need this, not now.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, unable to keep my distance any longer.

He glances up on hearing the legs of my chair scrape back across the floor as I get to my feet. I walk over to the chair next to him and sit down, taking his hands in mine and looking him in the eye.

‘You don’t need this now. Because you’re here to win Wimbledon. You have to find a way to shut out the noise. All of it. The only thing that matters to you right now is the next point, got it?’

Tiny creases form around his eyes as he offers me a small smile, a pool of warmth filling my belly as I gaze at him, wondering how anyone could ever hurt someone with eyes this searing and so blatantly vulnerable.

Damn it, Brian O’Sullivan, you really are a fuckhead.

‘You trying to coach me, Flossie?’ Kieran asks softly.

‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘If it helps you to stop listening to all the other crap. I watched your match yesterday. You were brilliant.’

‘I very almost lost.’

‘You won.’ I squeeze his hands. ‘And you’ll win again. And again and again and again until you’re holding up that trophy and thanking me in your speech.’

He lets out a small laugh. ‘I wouldn’t get too ahead of yourself.’

‘You know, if you could have heard me through the TV screen yesterday, that’s precisely what you would have heard me saying to you.’

‘Not to get ahead of myself?’ He furrows his brow. ‘In what way?’

‘You know my friend Iris?’

He offers a weak smile. ‘The sports journo who thinks I still have some fight left.’

‘The very one. She said something to me yesterday that seemed confusing at the time but the more I think about it, I get what she means. She was talking about how when you – and I mean, people generally, not you specifically here – when you get closer to winning, you start thinking about winning. What it will mean to win, to you, to your family, to your fans, to your country. Fucking hell, Kieran, it must make your heart race a million miles per hour when you let yourself think about that!’

‘A bit.’

‘That pressure. It’s hell!’

He’s watching me carefully.

‘Easier to not have those expectations, right?’ I continue. ‘If no one expects you to win, including yourself, the pressure ebbs away.’

He hesitates, tilting his head. ‘What are you getting at?’

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