Match Point

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Today is going to be a better day.

That’s what I keep telling myself as I open yet another brown envelope, pull out the book inside and place it on top of the pile that’s getting steadily higher on my desk. We get sent dozens of books from publishers for review here at The Daily Journal every week, and as the culture features assistant, it’s my job to get them all out, pile them up and line them on a trolley so that the books editor can scan the spines and select the ones she wants to read and feature.

Worryingly, this is one of the most interesting aspects of my job.

Not that I’m complaining. I know I’m lucky to be working at a newspaper at all, and when I moved to London last year, I genuinely didn’t think I’d be able to land any kind of role in the media, so I should be grateful to be here, piling up books and fetching tea and coffee. It’s just, I did hope that maybe I’d get to be a bit more involved in the creative side of things and, as I’m turning twenty-nine this year, I do sometimes wonder whether I should be in something higher than what is essentially an entry-level job.

Take yesterday for example. My only pressing job was to book a table for my editor, Harvey, at The Ivy for a lunch meeting today, and then I spent the rest of my valuable time organising the books we received that morning by colour of spine and then taking online quizzes about which dog breed suits my lifestyle the best, which Disney character I’m most like, and which ’00s celeb is my perfect match.

I learnt that I should own a Norfolk terrier, I have a lot in common with Meeko – the racoon from Pocahontas – and, should I ever find myself single again, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for me to bump into Chad Michael Murray. Which is all very useful information, but I didn’t exactly wake up this morning full of motivation, knowing that I’m contributing to society in a helpful way.

So, that’s why I’m filling myself with positive thoughts today, and as soon as I’m done opening these books, I’m going to write a list of things that I can do that will be useful for my career, like how I need to email the arts desk again, just to double-check there’s still no designer jobs going there, or how I should start applying for roles at galleries and publishers that have a strong graphic novel output. I can’t let myself get comfortable here. If I want to work in art then I have to actually do something about it.

Yes, good. Strong motivational thoughts. Already things seem better.

‘Flora, Harvey wants to see you.’

I glance up from my growing book pile to see Basil, our intern, hovering next to me whilst scrolling through his phone. He sounds irritated that he’s had to make the journey of a few metres from his desk to mine to deliver the message. The floppy-haired twenty-year-old son of one of Harvey’s golf buddies, Basil has been at the newspaper for just over a week, here for ‘work experience’, though so far he has yet to do any real work. He spends most of his time on TikTok and accompanying Harvey for long lunches.

‘Thanks, Basil,’ I say brightly, determined to be full of optimism.

He shrugs and slinks back to his desk, slumping down in his chair without breaking eye contact with his phone the entire time. My heavy eye-roll is caught by the sports journalist Iris, who is talking through a layout with someone nearby. At first, I feel embarrassed that someone saw me do that behind his back, but when Iris smiles at me conspiratorially, glancing at Basil and echoing my eye-roll, I’m relieved, grinning back at her.

Iris is one of the only people I can stand here at the newsroom – mostly because she’s the only journalist who bothers to give me the time of day. Despite the fact we work in different sections – her in sport, and me in the culture corner – we still hang out in the kitchen sometimes, making coffee and giggling about our stuffy, pretentious colleagues or diva sport celebrities she’s interviewed. We’ve been for lunch a few times too, which, although it might not be a big deal for her, really means a lot to me. Since I haven’t been in the city that long, I don’t really have any proper friends in London. It’s nice to feel like I have someone I can talk to.

We’re very different. I was intimidated by Iris at first: she’s confident, smart, quick-witted, and mesmerisingly beautiful with dark hair, delicate features and striking green eyes. She’s also very stylish and sophisticated, always dressed as though she’s going for an important lunch meeting at Sexy Fish in Mayfair, the sort of woman who walks in a room and all heads turn towards her. I, on the other hand, tend to be reserved and cautious, wrestle daily with my unruly wavy blonde hair, have a wardrobe of mostly faded T-shirts and ripped jeans, and I sort of slink into a room hoping I won’t be noticed.

Still, we click. I guess opposites attract.

When I get to Harvey’s desk, I clear my throat and say, ‘Basil said you wanted to see me?’

Without looking up from his screen, Harvey holds up a finger, signalling at me to wait until he’s done with the email he’s writing. I try to suppress a smirk. This is classic Harvey: to demand someone come talk to him and then make them wait. He loves to feel important and remind his employees who’s in charge here.

Harvey is a sixty-something pompous arsehole who shouldn’t be the culture editor of a national newspaper because he doesn’t appear to know anything about film, art, music or theatre. Unfortunately, he did know all the right people to land the job. The fact that he sent an intern a few metres across the room to say he wanted to see me instead of just getting up and walking over here himself sums up the man.

‘Right, that’s done,’ Harvey says finally, pressing send and then swivelling in his chair to face me. ‘Flora, let’s go into a meeting room.’ He pushes himself up from his chair. ‘Basil, give me five minutes and then we’ll go for our lunch.’

‘Great.’ Basil nods, scrolling through his Instagram. ‘I’ve been swamped all day.’

I glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s eleven thirty.

Walking over to one of the free meeting rooms, Harvey opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

‘Take a seat,’ he says, letting the door shut behind him and looking out across the newsroom. The meeting rooms are essentially a row of glass boxes to one side of the room, so everyone can see into them. Harvey strokes his chin thoughtfully before shoving both his hands in his pockets and turning to face me. He exhales.

‘Flora, I’m afraid we have to let you go.’

I blink at him. ‘I… sorry?’

‘I’m sure you’re aware of the sorry state journalism is in these days,’ Harvey continues brazenly, taking his hands out of his pockets and resting them on the back of the chair opposite to lean forwards. ‘Cuts have to be made. You only joined us last year and, well, you know how it goes. Last in, first out.’

I stare at him in disbelief.

‘Are you… firing me?’ I manage to croak.

‘No, of course not!’ He recoils, shocked. ‘We’re making you redundant.’

Hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes as his words sink in. Yeah, this may not be my dream career, but it’s still my job. I’ve done everything the role required. I can’t believe they’re getting rid of me. Harvey literally had a four-hour lunch the other day, which I know he expensed. I’ve never expensed anything. How am I the cut that’s going to save them money?!

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Nasty business, all this, but necessary. HR will want to go through all the particulars with you. I want to personally thank you for your… adequate work the last few months. I’m sure you’ll succeed in whatever you do next and if ever you want to go for a drink so I can give you some pearls of wisdom…’ he pauses, his eyes roaming down to my chest and back up again ‘…my door is always open.’

Oh my God.

Is he hitting on me WHILE he’s sacking me?

‘Anyway—’ He coughs, turning to look through the glass at the clock – it’s now eleven thirty-four. ‘I’d better get going for my lunch meeting. Any questions, send me an email and we can get it all straightened out. In the meantime, off you pop to HR and they’ll be able to help with the next steps. Sorry, must dash.’

He hesitates as he reaches the door and turns to look at me, taking a deep breath. ‘Flora,’ he begins in a softer tone, and for a moment I think he might be about to say something nice. ‘You did remember to book The Ivy for me and Basil today?’

Still in shock, I find myself nodding, my mouth too dry to form any words.

‘Excellent,’ he says, perking up. ‘I can’t get enough of their Malaysian prawn curry. It’s awfully good. You must try it, should you ever get the chance.’

And with that inspirational parting advice, he leaves the room.

*

‘Trust me, Flora, they are going to rue the day they let you go,’ Iris is telling me as I glumly unlock the door to my flat. ‘I know it seems shit right now, but try to focus on the fact that you never liked this job anyway. You are going on to bigger and better things – I know it. It may not feel like it now, but this is a good move for you.’

It was nice of Iris to insist on accompanying me home after I cried all over her shoulder in the office toilet and then continued to moan at her about my pitiful career on the train from Waterloo to Wimbledon, where I live with Jonah in our rented one-bedroom flat. When I agreed to move to London with him, I didn’t have a clue where to live because I didn’t know the city well, but it turned out he’d already chosen Wimbledon. All his friends live South West, so I guess it made the most sense. I was the one who found this flat, though – as soon as we set foot on Lingfield Road for the viewing, I knew it was where I wanted to live.

Leading Iris into the living room, we find the TV is on. Jonah must have forgotten to switch it off before he left this morning. He’s left it on Eurosport, streaming the Australian Open. One of the players is yelling something angrily at the umpire.

‘Kieran O’Sullivan,’ Iris says dreamily behind me, looking over my shoulder.

‘Who?’

She nods at the tall, dark-haired guy gesticulating wildly at the umpire. ‘The Irish tennis player. Hot-headed and ever so hot.’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him.’

We watch as he whips his cap off his head and throws it on the ground in frustration, eliciting a chorus of boos from the crowd.

Iris folds her arms. ‘He’s an interesting player to watch when he gets it right. Intense, moody, sexy.’ She lets out a wistful sigh, adding under her breath, ‘I could watch him all day long.’

‘Is he this bad-tempered in person?’

‘I wouldn’t know – he doesn’t do interviews. He used to, back when he started out. He got to the final of the Australian Open pretty young and suddenly everyone thought he was going to wipe the floor at the other Grand Slams, but it never happened. He’s made it to a lot of semi-finals and finals, but never quite got his hands on those big trophies.’ She shrugs. ‘He seems to avoid journalists now.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing,’ I remark, as he’s given a warning from the umpire.

Peeling my hat, scarf and coat off, I start looking for the TV remote, growing more and more frustrated at not being able to find it. I always leave it in the exact same spot on our glass coffee table, but Jonah tends to toss it down wherever, even though I’ve asked him countless times to put it in its correct place.

‘I love this room,’ Iris remarks, as I slide my fingers down the side of the sofa cushions. ‘Your painting is so beautiful.’

I glance up at the pink cherry blossom art covering the entire back wall around the fireplace and mantelpiece. Inspired by a similar design I saw in a movie, I painted it the week we moved in to make the flat feel more homely and personal. Jonah kept grumbling about the fact I was putting all my spare time into decorating, which could wait, rather than unpacking essential boxes, but I disagreed. Moving here was daunting. When I walked into the flat, I needed to feel at home.

‘Don’t get too attached,’ I mutter. ‘We’re painting over it.’

She frowns, bewildered. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Jonah— sorry, we think making the room a cream-white would make it a bit more sophisticated.’ I finally find the remote beneath one of the throw cushions. ‘Aha!’

I turn off the TV.

That’s when we hear it: the loud groan from the bedroom. A man’s voice. Jonah’s voice. I freeze. The sound is followed by a woman’s moan. Iris stiffens.

‘That… that can’t be…’ I whisper, trailing off as a lump forms in my throat.

My heart thudding against my chest, I tiptoe over to the bedroom. Iris follows me and comes to stand at my side, gripping my arm in solidarity. The woman’s voice floats through the door again.

‘Oh yes! Yes, Jonah!’

The colour draining from her face, Iris clasps her hand over her mouth.

‘Flora,’ she whispers through her fingers, her eyes glistening with pity.

I grab the handle and turn it, pushing the door and letting it swing open.

There on my bed is my next-door neighbour Zoe, stark naked, straddling Jonah as he lies on his back, his hands gripping her grinding hips.

At first, I just feel numb, like my brain doesn’t quite understand that what I’m seeing is real and so there’s no need to process it. But as the reality of the situation sinks in, the searing pain in my heart sends my body into shock.

I let out a low, feeble whimper.

Jonah lifts his head and sees us. With a panicked expression, he lifts Zoe up and flings her away from him, sending her toppling off the side of the bed and onto the floor with a yelp. If it wasn’t such a sickening scenario, it would have been funny. A sitcom audience would have laughed their fucking heads off at that bit. But this isn’t a fictional scene. No one is yelling ‘cut’, because this is real life. This is actually happening.

‘Flora!’ Jonah squeaks, cupping his dick with his hands. ‘What are you doing here?’

His eyes dart about the room as Zoe’s flushed, startled face pops up at the side of the bed and she reaches to wrap herself in our duvet that must have been cast aside earlier.

Cut. Cut.

My head spinning and vision blurring, I reach to steady myself on Iris before collapsing into her arms as my legs buckle out from beneath me.

CUT.