Chapter 3
3
Lifting his head cautiously, Kieran peers up from under his cap and starts.
‘You,’ he frowns, adjusting his sunglasses and sitting up straight. ‘Did you follow me?’
‘No!’ I bristle, my face heating at the suggestion. ‘I had no idea you were here! I thought you’d left!’
‘I did leave. I came here.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I snap. ‘I realise that now.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Not following you. I… something came up and I need to do some research. I thought I’d get a glass of wine in the sun while I did so. What about you? What are you doing here?’
‘The place I rented isn’t ready yet.’
I note his pint of beer and raise my eyebrows pointedly. ‘I thought you had a bad headache,’ I mutter. ‘So bad you couldn’t get your own paracetamol.’
His jaw tightens. ‘Hair of the dog.’
Pressing my lips together, I make a decision. I resolutely plonk myself down on the other end of his table and reach for one of the flimsy cardboard coasters, setting my drink on top of it before pulling my laptop out of my bag and opening it up in front of me. I pick a bit of fluff off my keyboard.
He watches me in silence.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks in a low, sullen voice.
‘I’m having a drink and doing some research,’ I inform him haughtily, logging onto the Wi-Fi and taking a sip of my drink.
‘I meant, what are you doing at this table?’ he clarifies through gritted teeth, and it gives me great satisfaction that I’m bothering him.
‘You’re on your own and so am I. There’s plenty of room for both of us to sit here.’ I perch my sunglasses on top of my head so I can see my screen properly. ‘I’d already ordered my drink so I need somewhere to sit while I drink it.’
‘You can’t just sit down when you haven’t been invited.’
‘That’s funny, because I distinctly remember you waltzing into my flat when you hadn’t been invited. You even had a little lie-down on my sofa.’
He shifts in his seat. ‘That was a misunderstanding. You’re being purposefully rude.’
‘As opposed to how charming you were to me, once you realised your mistake,’ I say sarcastically.
‘I may have been a bit thrown by the confusion,’ he says defensively, scowling at me. ‘But I wasn’t rude.’
‘Really? Tell me, Kieran, what’s my name?’
He hesitates. ‘Why is that—’
‘Surely anyone with an ounce of manners might have thought to ask the person whose house they intruded upon, the same person who kindly got them some water and paracetamol, what their name was,’ I say innocently, tilting my head at him. ‘Or did I miss you asking me that during all your grovelling apologies?’
He inhales deeply through his nose, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He can’t answer.
HA.
‘Yeah, I didn’t think so.’ I return my attention to my laptop, typing into Google search, pressing return and then reaching for my glass of wine.
After a good minute of silence, he clears his throat.
‘Fine,’ he grumbles. ‘Maybe I should have asked you your name. And apologised.’
‘M-hm,’ I say, keeping my eyes on my screen as I scroll down the search results.
‘I’m sorry for intruding—’ He waves his hand, gesturing for me to finish his sentence.
‘Flora.’
‘I’m sorry for intruding, Flora.’
I nod in acknowledgement of his apology.
‘I’m Kieran,’ he adds.
‘You said.’
I hear a small sound emit from his throat, a sigh of exasperation maybe, before we fall into silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a sip of beer, glance at me one more time, and then get back to his phone until one of the members of staff comes out with a pizza for him that he must have ordered before I arrived.
I block him out mentally and zone in on my task: come five o’clock, I have to be out of my place and on my way to somewhere new. But as my glass empties, my level of hope sinks along with it. Finding somewhere remotely nice in the UK that’s reasonably affordable and available at this late notice is an impossible task.
A movement at the other end of the table distracts me momentarily. Kieran’s finished his food and is getting up to leave. As he passes by, I glance up, expecting him to say goodbye or something, but he doesn’t. He leaves without a word.
Fine. Whatever. Good riddance.
Chewing my thumbnail, I start scrolling through my phone contacts. Someone in there has to be able to help. I start feeling desperate as I near the bottom of my list. I don’t know that many people here in London – the only person in this city I’m close to now is Iris and she’s currently living with her parents after her landlord kicked her out with just a month’s notice. I know she offered it as a backup but I can hardly rock up at their house in Fulham, asking to take the sofa for four weeks. Secondly, the whole point of this was I was supposed to get out of London.
A glass of wine is set down in front of me.
‘I didn’t order—’ I begin, but stop talking when I look up to see it’s Kieran towering over me.
‘I felt I owed you a drink as an apology,’ he says, with no attempt at hiding the resentment in his tone. With another pint for himself, he returns to his end of the table.
‘Oh. Thank you. That’s… nice.’
He doesn’t say anything, sliding his Wayfarers back on and turning away from me to watch the passers-by. I roll my eyes at his back. I’d rather he didn’t buy me a glass of wine at all than get it for me so reluctantly. I appreciate the gesture, but it hardly feels sincere.
Obviously that won’t stop me drinking it though – as far as I’m concerned, it’s a free glass of wine. I take a sip and am pleasantly surprised to discover that he ordered a much nicer rosé than I selected. I think this is the expensive one.
Right, back to my research. I try to keep in mind what Iris said and work out whether I can stay in one place for a bit and then move on to another, but even with more flexibility I still face the same problems. The nicest, most suitable places are either completely unavailable or at absurd prices at such late notice.
As I continue to hit one disappointment after another, I huff and sigh, before giving up completely and, with a loud whining, I bury my face in my hands.
‘Could you… could you stop doing that?’ I hear Kieran ask. I break my fingers apart to peer at his irked expression through the gaps. ‘People are looking over and I’d rather they didn’t.’
I let my hands drop down to the table to glare at him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry that my misery is so inconvenient for you.’
He looks unimpressed. ‘Excuse me for wanting a bit of privacy.’
‘Yeah, you’re really Mr Incognito in your cap and sunglasses,’ I mutter, rolling my eyes. ‘A cap is literally part of a tennis player’s uniform.’
‘Uniform?’ he repeats with a hint of a smirk.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him edge near a smile. Of course it’s a conceited one.
‘Sorry, sports kit,’ I scoff. ‘You know, if most people saw someone in a crisis, they would ask what’s wrong, not tell them off for whining too loudly.’
‘I didn’t tell you off, I politely asked you to stop. The minute someone recognises me, I don’t get to relax. I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ he says bitterly.
‘So someone might ask you for a selfie. What’s the big deal?’
‘They might ask for a selfie if they’re brave enough to come over, but they don’t ask for permission to take pictures and videos of you from their tables. It’s impossible to relax when you know you’re being watched and recorded.’
I sigh, irritated. As much as I dislike him, he may be making a tiny bit of sense.
‘Fine,’ I relent, resting my fingertips back on my keyboard. ‘I get it. I won’t do anything more to draw attention. I’ll leave after this drink anyway, okay?’
He nods sharply. My fingers still, I stare blankly at my screen. I have no idea what to type into the search engine next. I’m not sure I can bring myself to look through any more holiday sites. As I accept my failure, I close my eyes in despair.
Kieran coughs and then mutters something so quiet, I don’t hear it at first.
‘Sorry?’ I ask, turning to him reluctantly, ready for the next criticism. Maybe I’m shutting my eyes too loudly or perhaps I’m drinking my wine too slowly.
‘What is the crisis?’ he says softly, his brow furrowed.
I blink at him, pressing a hand on my chest. ‘My crisis?’
‘You said you were having a crisis,’ he reminds me impatiently.
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Are you asking me if I’m okay?’
I can’t see his eyes behind his dark lenses, but his tense expression is giving me just get on with it vibes.
‘Okay, well, to be honest, I have nowhere to go for the next few weeks,’ I inform him. ‘The roof of the cottage I’d booked in the Lake District has collapsed, so I can’t go there anymore, and I can’t find anywhere else at this late notice.’
He watches me pick up my glass of wine and swill it before taking a large gulp.
‘You’re worried about finding somewhere to go on holiday,’ he says slowly, as though he’s unsure of the problem. ‘There are plenty of places in the UK. You can find somewhere.’
‘Yes, but I have very specific requirements,’ I say defensively, already questioning why I bothered to share my problems with someone so obnoxious. ‘I can’t book just anywhere.’
He takes a drink of his beer and then shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘All right, what are your requirements?’
‘It has to be somewhere in beautiful, tranquil countryside with at least one lake or a body of water, and it needs to preferably be available for four weeks, as I don’t really want to flit about the place, I’d like to feel still and serene on the inside, too. And it can’t be too expensive, and I don’t want to go to a hotel, so it has to be some kind of cottage, flat or house, but one that’s not too big as I’m going on my own.’
He stares at me. I stare back at him.
‘Those are specific requirements,’ he finally admits.
‘Exactly. Which is why, I’m sorry, but unless there’s some kind of miracle and a cottage in Keswick comes available in the next few hours, you’re going to have to stay somewhere else for the tournament.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The flat may no longer be available,’ I clarify, taking another sip of wine. ‘I appreciate that it’s an inconvenience, but surely someone like you can—’
‘I’m not moving,’ he interjects sternly.
I falter. ‘But, you may have to. We may not have a choice.’
‘You don’t have a choice but to rent the flat to me like you agreed to, since I’ve paid for it and we entered into a contract,’ he responds calmly. ‘I’m sorry that your holiday has fallen through, but that’s not my problem.’
I stare at him in disbelief. ‘Are you… are you serious?’
‘I’ve rented that flat fair and square. You’ll need to find alternative accommodation.’
‘But… you’re Kieran O’Sullivan! You could stay anywhere!’
He winces. ‘Please shout my name louder,’ he hisses sarcastically, glowering at me. ‘I’m not sure the people in Australia heard you.’
‘There must be a hundred fancy hotels or mansions you can stay at,’ I argue, ignoring him because his comfort is the least of my priorities right now.
‘I don’t want to stay in a fancy hotel or a mansion,’ he shoots back.
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I have very specific requirements.’
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Really.’
‘Really.’
I fold my arms. ‘Go on then. What are your specific requirements?’
He takes a slow sip of his drink before setting down his glass and launching into his answer: ‘It can’t be a hotel room, because that’s too impersonal, and it has to be a flat, not a house because that’s too big when it’s just me, but there needs to be a garden or at least some kind of outdoor space. It also needs to be a maisonette, so I don’t have to share a front door with anyone, and it needs to be close to the All England Lawn Tennis Club and the Village so I can get a drink when I need one. Most importantly, if there’s somewhere available on Lingfield Road, I’ll be staying there and nowhere else. Non-negotiable.’
By the time he comes to the end of his list, my mouth is hanging open. Firstly, I’m bowled over by the detail of his answer, having only been treated to short, snippy remarks from him so far, and secondly, there is NO CHANCE that that was all real. It can’t be. It’s too ridiculous. Tennis players take part in tournaments all over the world, he surely can’t find places that match those exact requirements every time he plays. He’s just trying to be difficult.
‘You made that last bit up,’ I blurt out accusingly.
He shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘So, you’re telling me that despite the fact that you could stay anywhere in London that you like, you refuse to move out of my one-bedroom flat because it’s on Lingfield Road?’
‘Yes,’ he confirms. ‘Oh, and the wall art.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The cherry blossom wall art in the living room. I like that.’
I stare at him, baffled. ‘Okay, I’m flattered you like my work, but Kieran, if Lingfield Road is that important to you for whatever reason, then maybe you can see if anyone else who lives there would like to rent their place out to you. The flat upstairs is empty. We can get in touch with Mrs Perry and see if—’
‘What do you mean your work?’ he asks, his eyebrows pulled together.
‘Huh?’
‘You said you were flattered I liked your work.’
‘Yeah, because you said you liked the wall art,’ I explain impatiently. ‘Did you hear what I said? I really think if you asked around—’
‘You painted the cherry blossom?’ he interrupts.
‘Yes!’
‘Are you an artist?’
‘No. Well, I want to be. I mean, that was kind of the whole point of me going to the Lake District. I wanted to start working on my graphic novel there. That’s why it’s so bad that the cottage has fallen through – literally,’ I murmur, running a hand through my hair.
‘Artists can work from anywhere.’
‘Yeah, well, this artist can’t,’ I snap. ‘I need to be in the Lake District. How did we get onto this? I think we should focus on the problem of where you’re going to stay.’
‘Where you’re going to stay,’ he corrects firmly. ‘I’ve already been very clear that I’m not moving.’
‘It’s my flat!’
‘You rented it out to me.’
‘You can stay anywhere!’
‘I don’t want to stay anywhere else,’ he says through gritted teeth, glancing nervously at the table behind me as the volume of my voice rises in conjunction with my growing anger at this unreasonable, stubborn prick.
‘Why is Lingfield Road so important?’
‘Look, there’s got to be someone you can stay with—’
‘There’s not.’
He takes a deep breath through his nose. ‘Okay,’ he says in a strained voice, once he’s done with his pointed breathing. ‘Then I’m sure you can find somewhere else that’s suitable for an aspiring artist, even if it’s not the Lake District.’
‘It needs to be the Lake District,’ I insist, even though I’ve spent the last hour researching other areas. But he’s being so rude and unreasonable, I’m instinctively being as difficult as possible. ‘That’s the only place I’ll be able to work on my book.’
‘Come on, you’re making an excuse,’ he says, swivelling in his seat to face me properly. ‘If you want to start drawing your graphic novel, you should start. You don’t need to be in the Lake District. That’s ridiculous.’
I clench my fist, my blood boiling. ‘No it’s not.’
‘What is it about the Lake District that you just have to have to start your book?’ he asks angrily, throwing up a hand, growing more animated as our argument escalates.
‘I don’t know, Kieran, how about silence, tranquillity, beautiful lakes and breathtaking mountains for a start?’
‘That’s what a true artist needs to create a graphic novel, is it? Lakes and mountains.’
My face flushes with heat. ‘Yes! They are inspiring! I want to be inspired!’
He snorts. ‘That’s officially the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’
Fuck you, Kieran O’Sullivan.
Before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I stand up, pick up the rest of my glass of wine and throw its contents right at his face. With droplets of rosé dripping off his cap and down the lenses of his sunglasses, he splutters in surprise.
Everyone in the beer garden turns in our direction.
I calmly put the glass back down, pick up my bag and leave.