Match Point

Chapter 1

1

SIX MONTHS LATER

‘Are you sure about this?’ Iris asks on the phone, while I place a pair of high-waisted denim shorts neatly at the top of my bag. ‘Four weeks is a long time on your own.’

‘Iris, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life,’ I insist, putting her on speaker and balancing my phone on top of the pile of books on my bedside table while I carefully fold some pretty floral dresses. ‘Four weeks on my own is just what I need.’

‘The Lake District is so far away.’ She sighs. ‘Can’t you work on your graphic novel here in London? That way we can still hang out. All my other friends are married or have babies, and, as much as I love them, I need you. Who else is going to drink into the night with me and dance wildly on tables?’

I snort. ‘When have we ever danced on tables?’

‘We might do if you stayed in the city. London in the summer is wild.’

I chuckle, pressing my dresses neatly down into my case. ‘It’s only a few weeks and then I’ll be back to dance on all the tables you want. The whole point of this is for me to get out of the city and take some time for myself.’

She sighs, her tone becoming soft and serious. ‘Flora, don’t be annoyed by me saying this, but I’m worried about you. I get that a change of scene can help spark creativity – and I’m all for you getting a break – but I don’t want you to go all that way and find yourself feeling… lonely.’

Hanging my head, I press my lips together. In the last six months, Iris has become my closest friend and I can understand why she’s saying this. It’s not like I’ve been in the best place since Jonah moved out. Safe to say, I was a total mess for a while. I’m not exactly proud of how I handled the break-up: begging Jonah to stay when he was the one who cheated was a dismally low period of my life that I’d rather forget.

Despite all the red flags, all his cutting comments and neglect, I’d naively convinced myself that he was it for me. The One. We’d been together three years and I’d left my friends and my PA job in Norwich for him. I’d moved to London, where I knew no one, and made every effort possible to fit into his life. I’d somehow stopped caring about what I wanted; everything was for him, whatever made him happy. I willingly made it that way. And suddenly, when it all fell apart on that fateful day in January, I found myself with no job, no friends and no Jonah.

My whole world had crumbled into nothing.

Except for Iris. She’s been at my side through it all. I’m lucky to have her – she may be a new friend, but she’s turning out to be the best one I could have hoped for. A lot of my older friendships waned when I started dating Jonah. He didn’t get on with my small group of school friends. Whenever I organised to see them, he’d moan about having to come along, and if he did then he made it clear he was doing so reluctantly. Knowing it might cause tension between me and Jonah made me less inclined to organise to see that group and my efforts dipped dramatically. By the time I left for London, it felt as though we’d drifted apart and I’d become closer to Jonah’s theatrical mates.

But since the break-up, none of his friends have spoken to me. When it came to choosing sides, I never even got a look-in.

Having lost the majority of my connections to Jonah in one fell and very painful swoop, there’s been one that has been cruelly impossible to shake: my next-door neighbour. When we broke up, Jonah wanted to immediately move out of this flat and into a house-share in Clapham, but in spite of the memories he was leaving behind, there was something about this place that I couldn’t say goodbye to. I’d fallen for Wimbledon, and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in London, so I chose to stay. But moving on became a lot more difficult with Zoe coming and going all the time.

Unfortunately, I live next to the human reminder that, as I’d always feared, I was never good enough for someone like Jonah. Zoe, on the other hand, is impossibly perfect. She’s tall and willowy with glossy brown curly hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, plump lips and big brown eyes. Her nails are always manicured, her make-up is flawless, and she works in fashion PR, so she dresses impeccably every day. I’ve never seen her look bad. Not once. Even when taking out the bins, she still looks like an off-duty model.

And on top of all that, she’s nice. Well, I thought she was. She was very friendly and funny when we used to bump into each other. I thought we’d struck seriously lucky with our neighbour – you hear some rogue stories about London. But since the incident, we haven’t spoken. She tried to apologise on the day, but Iris told her to get the hell out of there and to never speak to or go near me again. She seems to have taken that advice very seriously, which is probably a good thing. But it doesn’t matter, I know Zoe’s there and every time I catch a glimpse of her gliding off to work, I’m reminded of what I’m not.

Still, things are getting easier. The debilitating ache that made itself at home on my heart for the first few months after Jonah moved out has almost completely dissolved. I miss him less every day and it’s helped that I’ve kept myself busy with temp PA work. It’s paid much better than my brief fling with journalism and has helped me to keep up with the rent on this place now that Jonah isn’t contributing anymore. Of course this is London, so I still had to get in touch with my dad to ask for financial help with the rent, which was mortifying.

‘He’s happy to pay the whole year of your rent,’ his personal assistant, Andy, had told me chirpily down the phone. ‘We can make that transfer to you today.’

‘No, no, no,’ I’d said sternly. ‘That’s kind of him, but I just need a loan for the next couple of months while I find my feet. I’ll move somewhere cheaper once our lease runs out, but for now, if he—’

‘Okay, and… there. That transfer is done,’ he’d interrupted. ‘If you wouldn’t mind emailing to confirm receipt, we’d appreciate it. Now, is there anything else I can help you with today?’

‘I… uh… okay, wow, thank you, but I’ll just transfer most of that straight back, because as I said, that’s really nice but I didn’t want him to cover—’

‘You are so welcome, Miss Hendrix. Is there anything else you need?’

‘Uh… I’d like to thank him, if that’s possible?’

‘I’m afraid he’s in back-to-back meetings today, but I’ll be sure to pass on the message.’

‘Oh, okay. Thanks. Maybe he could call me when he gets the chance.’

‘Absolutely. Have a great day and thank you for your call.’

My dad didn’t call, but he did message a day or so later to check I’d received the money, which is something.

Despite what I said, it has been a relief to have the money in my bank account for now. I’m still determined to pay all of it back, because I really don’t want to have to rely on my dad for anything. And now an opportunity has arisen that is too good to turn down: the Wimbledon tennis tournament is approaching and flats in the area are in hot demand. I’ve made a KILLING by letting out the flat through an agency: these next four weeks are paying for three months’ rent at least. The prices are madness, but, hey, I’m not complaining.

It’s perfect – my flat is in a great location and I was able to note in its description that the flat upstairs is currently empty, since its occupant, Mrs Perry, has taken a once-in-a-lifetime trip to travel around Asia for three months, so whoever stayed here wouldn’t need to worry about noise. It got snapped up immediately. I guess there must be seriously devoted tennis fans out there willing to pay whatever it takes to live in Wimbledon and soak up the atmosphere.

To be fair, it is pretty cool around here at this time of year. Wimbledon Village really comes alive – there’s a great buzz as people from all over the world descend upon this corner of London. All the outside areas of the restaurants and bars are flooded with people chatting and laughing in the sunshine, and the village itself looks idyllic with hanging baskets everywhere overflowing with bright, colourful flowers and all the shop windows compete to have the most extravagant tennis-themed display.

But the best thing about it is that it’s given me the nudge I needed to leave London for a bit and rent a cottage in the Lake District where I’m finally going to start work on my graphic novel. It’s perfect. My grandmother on my mum’s side lived in Keswick and some of my most treasured memories are from when I’d go stay with her for a few weeks in the summer. Every now and then, we’d go off exploring and find a quiet spot away from the tourists – I’d sketch and she’d paint using watercolours.

During my teen years, it was an escape for me from the turmoil of living with Mum. Grandma knew what was going on with her and what I had to deal with. Everyone knew. Mum was what they call a functioning alcoholic when I was little, able to go about her daily routine without drawing much attention to her drinking problem, but she couldn’t sustain that way of life for long and by the time I was fifteen, her addiction had complete power over her.

It’s not like I could go to my dad for help. By then he was living in New York with his new heiress wife, Camila, helping her with her expanding property empire. But I had Grandma. She would come down and stay with us a bit when she could; she helped out in the holidays by whisking me away to the Lake District, and she also passed her artistic genes down to me. She was the only person who believed I could make it – neither Mum nor Dad, for different reasons, noticed I was even interested in art.

When Mum died after I’d left school, Grandma came to stay in the Norwich flat to help me sort all the admin with the funeral and then she helped me find my own place, away from the sad memories. Dad did check in and he did his best to be there for me in the only way he knew how – by offering financial help – but it was Grandma who I depended upon for everything else. It was only when she passed away a few years later in my early twenties that I realised I was on my own. That’s why Iris is wrong. I won’t feel lonely in the Lake District, even if I don’t meet a single soul for the next four weeks. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt unconditionally loved.

‘You don’t need to worry, Iris,’ I assure her earnestly now. ‘I am going to have the best time. It will be peaceful and quiet and inspiring. This is exactly what I need.’

‘What you need is a sexy man between your thighs.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Iris!’

We’re interrupted by my doorbell. I frown in confusion, checking the time on my phone. It must be a delivery, although I don’t remember ordering anything.

‘I have to go – someone’s here,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

‘Okay, message me when you’re on your way!’

We hang up and I slide my phone into my pocket, before hurrying into the hallway and swinging open the front door. Except it’s not the postman.

Standing on my doorstep is a tall, broad-shouldered guy in black jeans and a white T-shirt that shows off his tanned, muscled arms. He’s wearing a cap low over his face, so I can only glimpse his full lips and hint of dark stubble along his chiselled jawline. When he lifts his head, he fixes me with piercing sapphire-blue eyes framed by bold, dark eyebrows.

I inhale sharply as I instantly recognise him.

It’s Kieran O’Sullivan. As in, Kieran O’Sullivan the famous tennis player and world-renowned arsehole. I knew he was tall, but wow is he tall, maybe six foot four, and breathtakingly handsome. If he hadn’t made it in tennis, he surely would have been a good fit for a Calvin Klein advert with his perfect bone structure and smouldering eyes. What the HELL is Kieran O’Sullivan doing on my doorstep? He doesn’t look lost. He looks impatient, as though I’m the one who is in the wrong place.

He scowls, a signature look for him.

‘Are you from the agency?’ he asks impatiently with a soft Dublin lilt.

‘Y-you’re—’ I begin, stammering.

‘Yes, I’m Kieran, nice to meet you,’ he says dismissively as though it’s not nice to meet me at all, it’s a damn inconvenience.

And then he marches into my flat.

Kieran O’Sullivan casually walks past me and into my home as though he owns the place. I’m so bewildered that I just stand aside and let him pass, as though it’s completely normal for a stranger to wander in off the street and enter your home without any form of explanation. As he brushes by I’m hit with a musky sandalwood scent combined with a strong whiff of stale alcohol. He disappears into the living room and the mirror on the wall opposite shows that my mouth is hanging open. I quickly shut it.

Before I close the front door, I poke my head out and look both ways down the road to check if he was running away from paparazzi or something and ducked into the nearest house, but the road is empty. He’s come on his own.

I take the opportunity to check my reflection – I wasn’t expecting to bump into a tennis star today. I comb my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the waves, and run a finger beneath my eyes to make sure the mascara I clumsily applied this morning hasn’t smudged. I didn’t put on any foundation this morning and my freckles are on full show, made more prominent by the sun we’ve been getting in London recently. I notice the pair of gold hoop earrings on the hallway table next to the vase of fresh flowers I arranged this morning – I put the hoops there yesterday on purpose so I wouldn’t forget to bring them on my trip. Quickly putting them on, I check my reflection one last time and then scurry towards the living room.

By the time I make it in there, I find to my surprise that Kieran has already kicked off his shoes, leaving them strewn on the rug, and is lying across my sofa, clumsily rearranging the cushions to make himself more comfortable.

He glances up as I walk in and frowns. ‘I’m sure I can get myself acquainted with the place. You don’t need to hang around. Thank you.’

I gape at him. ‘I… I’m sorry, um, can I ask what… what you’re doing here?’

‘I appreciate I’m early,’ he grumbles, removing his cap and tossing it on the floor. ‘But I didn’t think it would matter. Do you know if there’s any paracetamol here? I meant to buy some on the way.’

‘P-paracetamol?’ I stammer. ‘Uh, sure, there’s some in the medicine cabinet.’

‘Great, if you could get me those with a glass of water, I’d appreciate it.’ He grimaces, plumping up the cushion behind his head before resting back against it and closing his eyes. ‘I have a bad headache.’

I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m confused.’

He runs a hand down his face and peers through his fingers at me. ‘I can get it myself, but I’m not feeling my best and I just thought, as you’re already up…’

His sentence trails off. He looks at me pointedly, as though waiting for something.

‘Um. Okay. I’ll get you some,’ I say, bewildered.

‘Thanks,’ he says gruffly before shutting his eyes again.

Turning away from him, I shuffle into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. As I shut the tap off, I take a moment. It’s obvious what’s happened: he’s got the wrong house. It’s not that surprising that a tennis player would be in Wimbledon a couple of weeks before the tournament – he’ll be gearing up for it here with his team – but I can’t quite understand why he’s acting as though I’d be expecting him.

Grabbing the paracetamol, I return to the living room to find he’s now sat back up and has buried his head in his hands, groaning loudly. His phone buzzes in his pocket and it looks like it’s a real effort for him to get it out. He sees the caller ID, mutters something under his breath, and ignores the call, setting his phone aside.

I approach, holding out the paracetamol, and placing the glass down in front of him.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts without looking up at me, breaking two painkillers out the foil.

‘No worries. Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but can I just ask again why you’re—’

‘Ugh.’ He gags after taking a swig of water to wash down the tablets, before peering at the glass, looking offended. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Is there something wrong with the water?’

‘It’s not exactly Evian is it,’ he mutters.

My cheeks flush in mortification. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a professional athlete like him is used to the finer things in life, but it’s rude of him to be so open with his displeasure. I cross my arms defensively.

‘No, sorry, it’s tap,’ I tell him.

With a pointed shudder, he places the glass down on the table next to the coaster. Not on the coaster. NEXT to it. Who is this guy?!

That’s it. I’ve been polite enough. It’s time to get some answers.

‘Excuse me, but why are you here?’ I ask bluntly.

He frowns at me. ‘I didn’t think it would be a problem that I’m early.’

‘But I’m not expecting you.’

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting you,’ he mutters, looking me up and down. ‘As I said, I appreciate you greeting me but I can see everything’s in order, so you can go.’

‘Why would I go?’ I ask, putting my hands on my hips. ‘I live here.’

‘No,’ he says, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘I live here.’

I stare at him. Oh God. This is bad. Kieran O’Sullivan is clearly having some kind of episode and has convinced himself that he lives in my flat!

As he rises to his feet, eyeing me suspiciously, I take a step back from him.

‘You’re not from the agency, are you,’ he surmises.

‘What agency? No, I’m not from any agency.’

‘Who are you? How did you know I was staying here? Did someone on my team tell you? Who? How did you get in?’ he asks rapidly, his voice strained and sharp. ‘Who told you I was staying here?’

‘I didn’t… no one told me anything!’ I stammer, unnerved by the flurry of questions. ‘This is my flat! You don’t live here, I live here!’

He hesitates. ‘This is your flat.’

‘Yes!’

‘As in, you didn’t mean you’re staying here, you meant you live-live here.’

‘Yes,’ I say, staring at him wide-eyed.

‘Ah.’ His expression softens with relief. ‘I think I understand the confusion. You’ve rented out your flat for the next few weeks, right? Yeah, I’m the one who’s renting it.’

I’m too stunned to speak for a moment.

‘Huh?’ I blurt out eventually.

‘I’ve rented your flat,’ he repeats, reaching up to rub at the nape of his neck. ‘I thought you were from the letting agency.’

‘You… you’ve rented my flat,’ I say in disbelief. ‘Really?’

He nods, slumping back down on the sofa.

‘Are… are you sure?’ I check.

‘Yep,’ he says wearily, nodding at the cherry blossom on the wall. ‘This is the place.’

I pause, attempting to wrap my head around the fact that it’s not a tennis fan who will be living in my house, but Kieran O’Sullivan, a celebrity.

‘Sorry I’m early,’ he says, making himself comfortable again while I stand frozen to the spot. ‘I know I’m not meant to be here until five, but… I was at a loose end.’

His phone rings again. I can see from the Caller ID that it’s someone named Henrietta. He glances at it, but doesn’t move a muscle, letting it ring out.

‘You’re staying here,’ I say out loud as though that might help my brain to accept the fact. ‘That’s… wow.’

He presses his lips together, looking uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone that. I don’t want the press swarming the place.’

I realise he’s looking at me expectantly.

‘Oh. Sure. Of course. I won’t say anything to anyone.’

His frown deepens. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

‘Promise,’ I add quickly, though I appreciate that doesn’t mean much to him. He doesn’t know me. ‘Anyway, I hope you’ll like it here. I wasn’t expecting a player to rent it. It’s quite small, but it’s a great location. Near to Wimbledon Village, so a good atmosphere. Although I guess you’ll be too busy to really appreciate that. Busy playing in the actual tournament…’

My nervous prattling trails off. He’s sitting with his hands clasped together on his knees, staring straight ahead at the wall, his brow furrowed. Everything about his body language is screaming that he’s uncomfortable with my presence. He’s making me feel unwelcome in my own home.

‘Uh… if you have any questions, though,’ I continue, ‘or need anything—’

‘I’ll talk to the agency,’ he cuts in brusquely.

I’m taken aback by his interruption. ‘Right. Okay.’

‘I’ve got everything I need, so you’re free to go.’

Funny how words can say one thing, but everything else about the way you say them can make them mean something else. His words may make out that I’m ‘free to go’, but there’s nothing about his tone or demeanour that’s giving me a choice in the matter. He’s not even bothering to look at me. His body is angled carefully so he’s almost got his back to me. His voice is sharp and stern, like a pissed-off teacher dismissing an enthusiastic, pestering student.

This guy is telling me to fuck off.

And you know what? He may be a tennis star, but this is my house. According to our terms, he isn’t due to arrive here until this evening, yet he’s strolled in here without any kind of meaningful apology, kicked off his shoes without putting them on the shoe stand, ignored the coasters, and is now making out as though I’m the one at fault. That’s not fair and I’m not going to let him make me feel this small. I’ve been nothing but polite to him.

‘The flat isn’t available until five o’clock,’ I state, putting my hands on my hips and lifting my chest. Yeah, that’s right, Kieran. I’m power-posing at you. ‘So, while I finish packing and sorting the flat out, you are free to go.’

His eyes flash with irritation as he finally makes the effort to look up at me. His jaw tightens and the lines on his forehead deepen as he stares me down. I refuse to be intimidated, holding his eye contact. Neither of us say anything. The silence is deafening.

My phone starts vibrating with a call in my pocket, and I reluctantly tear my eyes from his to check who it is. It’s the number of the holiday let company through which I’ve booked my Lake District cottage.

‘I have to take this,’ I tell him curtly, spinning around and marching out the room towards the kitchen to take the call.

‘Hello, Flora speaking,’ I say, the irritation that’s built from Kieran’s rude behaviour fizzling away at the thought of the quaint cottage awaiting me in the Lakes.

‘Miss Hendrix, hi, it’s Hailey from Simply Cottages. You’ve booked through us for your stay this month in Keswick?’

‘Yes, hi! Are you calling about where I’ll be able to find the keys when I arrive tonight? I think it said in the email that someone would—’

‘I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid we have a problem with the cottage you’ve rented,’ Hailey interrupts, her voice strained. ‘You will no longer be able to stay there.’

My heart drops. ‘But… I’m meant to be arriving tonight for four weeks!’

‘I know, I’m so sorry. It’s completely out of our control.’

‘What exactly is the problem? Because I don’t need anything fancy and I’m sure whatever it is could be fixed. Or if there’s just a leak or something then maybe I could still—’

‘The roof has completely caved in.’

I pause. ‘What?’

‘It’s a nightmare,’ she whines, exasperated. ‘It’s booked out for the entire summer. I’m so sorry about this. You’ll receive a full refund of course and I’ll send over all the details regarding that in an email—’

‘Whoa, whoa, hang on.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Hailey, I have to come to the Lake District. Is there somewhere else I can stay? Surely you have another cottage. You can’t just cancel my booking at the last minute and not offer a replacement.’

‘It’s the height of summer, our busiest time of year. We don’t have anywhere available. I can only apologise.’

‘You don’t understand, I have to leave my place!’

‘Let me ask my manager to speak to you and I’m sure we can not only offer you a full refund now, but a discount on your next booking to make up in some small part for the inconvenience. I’m just going to put you on hold.’

‘Hailey, I—’

I’m interrupted by a crackling noise followed by classical hold music. Closing my eyes in despair, I slump against the counter and run a hand through my hair. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This CANNOT BE HAPPENING.

I jump at the sound of the front door slamming. Creeping out the kitchen, I peer into the living room to find it empty. I breathe a sigh of relief. Kieran must have seen sense and decided to come back later. At least I’ve got that jerk out my hair.

‘Miss Hendrix?’ Hailey says, coming back on the line after a couple of minutes.

I grip the phone tightly. ‘Yes, hi, I’m here.’

‘My manager isn’t available to talk right now, but he’s going to give you a call to offer a full explanation and answer all your questions. Once again, we apologise for this inconvenience and hope this won’t affect your booking with us again in the future. Thank you for your understanding.’

She hangs up.

Now what am I going to do?