Chapter 4
4
I may have ever so slightly overreacted.
But you know what, I wasn’t going to sit there and let some overpaid dickhead tennis player laugh at my dream just because he doesn’t get it. It may sound stupid to him, but it’s not stupid to me and he had no right to make me feel like an idiot.
Plus, I really don’t like him.
When I get home, I’m still raging. I slam the front door shut behind me and stomp into my bedroom to chuck my laptop bag on my bed before letting out a loud ‘ARGH’ of frustration. I pick up one of my scatter cushions and mean to chuck it across the room, but it sort of plops down in front of me. Breathing heavily, I stand there for a moment with my hands on my hips. Then, with a heavy sigh, I pick up the cushion again to put it back in its place. Fuck’s sake. I’m so pathetic, I can’t even throw things in anger.
I slump back on my bed, burying my head in my hands.
I feel so lost.How many times can you keep getting knocked down before you give up trying to get back up? Maybe I need to accept the fact that I’m not an artist. Jonah always said it would make it easier if I did. The most infuriating part of today is that I’m not completely convinced Kieran O’Sullivan wasn’t making sense back there. I mean, that’s why I got so defensive and chucked my wine at him, right? There are artists all over the world who are able to create work without being in any one specific place. Most of them do it around day jobs and chaotic family life. Here I am with no responsibilities, no dependents, but not one ounce of inspiration. I have time, but no ideas.
And what am I still doing in London? There’s nothing for me here anymore. Maybe I don’t belong here, as hard a fact as that is to swallow. I can still vividly remember the first day I moved to Wimbledon, and instantly fell in love with it. I love the vibe of the place; I love the pubs, restaurants and shops; I love the Common – I love that it feels like its own community. I remember that buzz I got the first time I walked through the Village, thinking that this was the place for me. Jonah and I were going to be happy here. I was going to stick out a media job and land a book deal, and we’d sit on the Common with our cans of Pimm’s in the summer and laugh and talk and be happy, just like everyone else you see lounging in their couples or groups across the grass.
But look at me. I’m not happy. I’m on my own and I’m failing. Constantly. I can’t even book a fucking holiday without the whole thing going up in flames. Maybe it’s time to accept that London hasn’t worked out. Maybe I need to—
The doorbell rings.
I snap my head up. It can’t be Kieran. He wouldn’t come back here.
Would he?
I cautiously get up and scurry along the hallway to look through the peephole. Wearing his now-damp cap, Kieran O’Sullivan is lurking on my doorstep, his moodiness exuding through the door and into the flat. I watch him reach up to press the buzzer again impatiently, glancing around him. God, what is wrong with him? He is paranoid. There’s literally no one else on the road.
‘What do you want?’ I ask through the door.
He steps closer to speak, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. Please go somewhere else,’ I tell him curtly.
‘Flora,’ he says through gritted teeth as he rests one arm on the door and leans into it. ‘I would really like to speak to you. Please can you open the door.’
‘You can speak to me where you are.’
‘Not properly. Anyone could overhear,’ he says, checking over his shoulder.
I don’t say anything, stepping back and folding my arms.
‘Please,’ he says in a strained voice.
Steeling myself, I open the door, taking him by surprise. He stumbles forwards, regaining his balance and then striding in. He stops in the hallway, taking off his cap and turning to face me while I shut the door behind him.
‘What did you want to say?’ I ask breezily, passing him to move into the living room.
‘I wanted to ask you why I’m standing here covered in rosé,’ he begins, as he follows me and lingers in the doorway. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
I frown at him. ‘So you’re not here to apologise.’
He gives me a puzzled look. ‘I don’t apologise unless I know what I’m apologising for. Otherwise it would be insincere.’
‘How noble.’
‘I specifically asked you not to draw attention to me,’ he says, his blue eyes blazing as he tosses his cap on the sofa, running a hand through his hair. ‘You threw your drink all over me in front of everyone. Do you know what happened after you left?’
I shrug.
‘I was mobbed,’ he growls.
With a pointedly bored sigh, I pick up his cap and squeeze past him back into the hallway to hang it on one of the coat hooks.
‘Do you know how annoying it is to have people ask you for a selfie when you’ve just been covered in wine?’ he continues, watching me curiously as I stalk back into the room. ‘I had to be rude and fob them off to get out of there.’
I mock gasp, placing a hand on my chest. ‘You had to be rude? Inconceivable.’
He cocks his head at me, narrowing his eyes. ‘I would rather have stayed under the radar.’
‘I would rather you hadn’t insulted me,’ I reply haughtily, busying myself by plumping up the sofa cushions that he flattened earlier.
It’s not completely natural to me to be this confrontational and although I think I’m doing a pretty good job at holding my own, I’m still finding the conversation a bit unnerving so I need to do something with my hands. Also, he has the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen in my life and he won’t take them off me. Not in a good way.
More like, if looks could kill, I’d be breathing my last.
‘How exactly did I insult you?’ he wants to know.
‘You made fun of me.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You called me stupid.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Kieran,’ I say, straightening and putting my hands on my hips, ‘are you seriously standing there and telling me that you don’t remember the exact words you spoke to me in the pub just now? You’re going to deny it?’
‘If you think I called you stupid, then you misunderstood my meaning,’ he argues. ‘And I apologise if I said it clumsily, but I didn’t mean to call you stupid. I was saying that what you said was stupid.’
‘That’s the same thing.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No, it’s not!’ he repeats crossly, his nostrils flaring and his voice rising. ‘You are not stupid if you say a stupid thing. People say stupid things all the time. For example, saying that you have to be in the Lake District to create art is a stupid thing to say.’
‘You’re insulting me all over again!’ I point out, throwing my hands up. ‘I shouldn’t have let you back in. Why don’t you go somewhere else?’
He takes a step forward. ‘I can prove to you that what you’re saying is stupid.’
I glare at him. ‘How?’
He jabs his finger in the direction of the cherry blossom artwork across the wall behind the TV. I pause, turning to look at it. I don’t know what I was expecting him to give as an explanation, but I wasn’t expecting this.
‘There,’ he says, studying me. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t drag this wall all the way up to the Lake District to paint that.’
‘That’s… different,’ I stammer.
Exhaling, he lowers his hand to his side again. ‘All I was saying is that people make excuses all the time because they’re scared of putting themselves out there. If you want to draw a graphic novel, Flora, you can do it anywhere.’
I continue to stare at the wall, perplexed. He sighs and turns away, getting out his phone and sitting down on the sofa to read through it. I suddenly feel weirdly vulnerable, as though he’s seen through me. Folding my arms across my chest self-consciously, I swivel to face him, jutting out my chin defiantly.
‘Still, you shouldn’t have been so mean,’ I state, although it sounds petty and childish out loud.
‘You shouldn’t have thrown your drink at me,’ he retorts without a moment’s hesitation, as though he was ready for me to say that and had already prepared his answer.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. ‘Fine. Unlike some people, I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong.’ He lifts his eyes to me in mild surprise. ‘The throwing of the drink was a little… unnecessary. I should have, instead, explained to you why I was upset.’
He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath, his chest rising slowly, his gaze fixed on me the whole time. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.
‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’ I prompt impatiently.
‘I already did,’ he claims.
‘Excuse me? No you didn’t!’
He frowns at me in confusion. ‘I said just a moment ago that I apologise if I said it clumsily and I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.’
I open my mouth to protest and then realise that… he’s right. He did say that, right before he made his point about my wall art, but I was too pent up with irritation and anger to hear and appreciate it.
Damn it.
‘Oh yeah,’ I mutter. ‘Okay. Fine. Thank you. I accept your apology.’
Going back to his phone, he quirks a brow in satisfaction.
‘There’s no need to look so smug.’
He ignores me completely and I roll my eyes, moving to slump down on the other sofa. I feel exhausted and I still have to work out what I’m going to do about the next few weeks. Kieran’s phone rings and I glance over to see him frown at the caller ID and ignore it.
‘You can answer her; don’t mind me,’ I say absent-mindedly, chewing my thumbnail. It’s a habit that I gave up years ago, but it returns when I’m stressed, like a nervous tick.
‘It’s fine, I’d rather…’ He pauses, tilting his head at me. ‘How did you know it was a “her”?’
‘I assumed. Why, am I right?’
He doesn’t say anything but the muscle in his jaw twitches.
‘I’m right, aren’t I,’ I say brazenly. ‘Henrietta. You should answer her calls. She obviously needs to speak to you if she keeps calling.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ he begins in a deep and even voice, ‘but I’d rather not speak to her right now.’
‘Why? Are you worried she’s going to be cross at you for leaving her place this morning without saying goodbye?’
His eyes widen in shock. I feel a rush of pleasure at being the dominant one in this conversation. Up until now, he’s seemed so superior and conceited, it seems like an achievement to put him on the back foot for once.
‘How did you know that?’ he asks, the creases on his forehead deepening in concern. ‘Did you read it online somewhere?’
‘No, I took a guess and you just confirmed it for me,’ I tell him primly. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work it out. You rock up here way too early in clothes that you were clearly out in last night, hungover and stinking of booze, and you keep ignoring calls from a woman.’
He scowls. ‘All right, Sherlock. Very clever.’
His phone starts ringing again and I roll my eyes. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but at least message her if you’re not going to pick up,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe she thinks she did something wrong. If she didn’t, it’s not fair to leave her worrying, and then she’ll stop pestering you with phone calls. A win-win situation.’
‘I’m not… she didn’t do anything wrong.’ He sighs, stroking his stubble thoughtfully. ‘What we have is casual. She knows that.’
‘So why did you feel the need to creep out this morning?’
‘I didn’t want the paps to see me leave. They’re often around her building first thing. I wanted to get out of there before they arrived.’
I nod, intrigued. ‘So she’s famous, huh. What does she do? Would I know her?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Whatever,’ I say, sighing impatiently. ‘Don’t be a dick, just message her and explain the thing about the reporters. If she’s famous, she’ll get it, won’t she.’
He picks up his phone begrudgingly and starts typing before glancing up at me, looking uncertain. ‘Did you say I stink of booze?’
‘Oh. Uh… yeah. But I think the rosé has made it worse, to be fair.’
He can’t help but smile at that, and I catch a fleeting glimpse of his dimples. I would say that I hadn’t noticed them before, but I actually think he just hasn’t smiled properly in front of me until now. They completely change his face, making it softer and more appealing. But they appear so briefly before his blank expression returns, I’d question whether they genuinely exist.
When his phone rings again, I groan, throwing my head back and looking up at the ceiling. ‘Just pick up. She’s obviously upset.’
‘It’s not her,’ he tells me, before actually bothering to answer his phone. ‘Hi, Neil.’
I bring my head forwards again, noticing his expression darken as he listens to whoever Neil is on the other end. His eyes flicker at me.
‘Yes. It was a misunderstanding. I can explain when I see you,’ he says with an edge to his voice. ‘How bad?’ As he listens to the answer, he presses his lips together so tightly into a thin line, they almost disappear. ‘Okay. Fine. Don’t bring Nicole in yet, just you for now.’ He pauses to listen again and shakes his head. ‘No, just you, Neil. I mean it. I don’t want the whole team here. Oh, I’ll need some fresh clothes. Yeah, Tori has my stuff. It’s due to arrive here at five, but I’ll need something before then.’ He looks at me pointedly. ‘Apparently I don’t smell too fresh and I’d like to shower.’
He hangs up and sighs heavily, bowing his head for a moment.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
He inhales and types something into his phone. At first I think he’s rudely ignoring my question and is back to messaging Henrietta, but then he rises to his feet and comes over to me, holding out his phone so I can see his screen. I take it from him to look at it properly.
It’s a string of reports on social media, the majority of them displaying the same clip: a video of me and Kieran talking to each other in the beer garden of Dog and Fox, before I stand up furiously and chuck my drink all over him.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, scrolling in horror. The re-posts and comments are endless.
‘You should be flattered,’ Kieran remarks drily. ‘A drink throw so good, it’s gone viral.’