Match Point

Chapter 6

6

Have you ever been woken up by a blender? I have, and I can confirm that it is not a pleasant way to be roused from a deep slumber. On the first morning of mine and Kieran’s bizarre living arrangement, the loud and abrupt whirring makes me sit bolt upright on the sofa and clutch my heart, wondering what the hell is going on and whether someone is drilling roadworks in the middle of my home. As my brain comes into focus and I realise what’s going on, I reach for my phone on the coffee table and check the time.

You have got to be KIDDING.

Throwing off the duvet, I push myself up from the sofa and march to the kitchen where the door is wide open. Hovering next to the blender, Kieran is already dressed in his sports gear, his eyes bright, his hair dishevelled. He notices me and arches his brow. I’m too tired and cross to care that I’m standing in front of him in my baggy Snoopy T-shirt and a tiny pair of blue pyjama shorts that I shrunk in the wash, so they’re more like pyjama hot pants.

‘It’s six thirty in the morning,’ I croak, my voice yet to warm up.

He frowns and then shakes his head, gesturing at first to his ears and then to the blender. ‘Can’t hear you,’ he mouths.

‘I said, it’s SIX THIRTY IN THE MORNING.’

He turns the blender off. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

I narrow my eyes at him, clenching my teeth. The day has barely started and this guy is already giving me jaw-ache.

‘I said, it’s six thirty,’ I repeat as calmly as possible. ‘What are you doing?’

He busies himself with finding a glass and pouring his drink into it. ‘I’m making a fruit smoothie. Do you want one?’

‘What? No,’ I huff, pushing my hair back from my face. ‘I want to go back to sleep like a normal person!’

‘All right,’ he says, turning round and leaning back on the counter as he takes a gulp of his drink. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘I won’t be able to now! You’ve woken me up with your blending!’

He tilts his head at me. ‘Not a morning person, then.’

‘No one is a morning person when they’ve been woken up by an angry machine!’ I hiss, gesturing to the blender while he glugs his drink. ‘Next time, shut the door. It’s called being considerate! It’s called manners.’

‘If you were in a hotel, you could sleep in as long as you like without being disturbed,’ he says casually, lowering his glass as his tongue runs along his top lip. ‘You could have a nice long lie-in, order breakfast in bed—’

‘I’m not leaving,’ I cut in, folding my arms. ‘I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. I told you, I have to stay here otherwise I risk losing the flat altogether. You’re the one who’s caused this mess. If you’re not happy, then you should leave.’

‘I’m not trying to do anything,’ he claims with a shrug, finishing the rest of his drink and placing the glass down in the sink. ‘I’m perfectly happy. You’re the one complaining.’

He goes to leave, his arm brushing against mine as I stand back to let him through the doorway.

‘Ew! Why is your arm moist?’ I grimace, wiping mine pointedly.

‘I’m sweaty from my run.’

‘You’ve been on a run already?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘What time were you up?’

‘Early,’ he calls back over his shoulder, heading towards the bathroom.

‘Wait, whoa, what are you doing? I need the—’

He slams the bathroom door behind him and I hear the click of the lock turning before the shower is turned on. Then he starts humming. Not singing, humming.

What a prick.

My bladder aching, I flip a finger at the bathroom door and then hurry back to the sofa, plonking myself down and pulling the duvet back over me so I can at least stay in the warmth until he’s done. How has this happened?! My head still feels in a complete spin about this entire situation.

Last night, I decided to google Kieran just to get a better idea of the person I will be living with for the next few weeks and it did not give me much comfort. I was too tired to do a deep dive into his life, but from his recent stint in Germany where he played in the Halle Open, an ATP grass-court tournament held in mid-June at the same time as Queen’s here in London, there’s a load of photographs of him emerging from a big bash just two days before the tournament began with a hot German model on his arm, bleary-eyed and yelling at the press as he ducked into a car.

He wouldn’t be my first choice of housemate, I have to say.

He’s taking his time in the bathroom and I know he’s doing it on purpose. The ache in my bladder is becoming unbearable. When His Royal Highness finally emerges from the bathroom, I sprint down the hallway and practically throw myself at the toilet, barging him out the way as he struts out topless, with his towel around his waist. He feigns surprise as I shut the door quickly behind me.

I can practically hear him smirking on the other side of it.

Just before I shower, I notice my reflection in the mirror. Oh dear. My hair is completely dishevelled – not in a sexy way – and I didn’t do the best job at removing my mascara last night, so there’s hints of a dark smudge under both eyes. And as much as I love my Snoopy T-shirt, I’m not sure it’s my best look. Groaning, I reach for my make-up remover and cotton pads to wipe away the remaining traces from yesterday’s coverage, and then strip down to get in the shower. It’s not until I’m out that I realise I didn’t bring any clothes with me into the bathroom, so I’m going to have to go out there in my towel to retrieve some. Whatever. He feels confident to wander around in his towel, I shouldn’t have any qualms in doing the same.

Clutching it tightly around my body, I open the door and slink out into the hallway, padding into the living room and bending over to grab some clothes from my case. I haven’t yet unpacked my Lake District bag and I’m still working out where to put all my stuff while Kieran’s here. I’m rummaging around my things when the doorbell goes.

I straighten, clutching a pair of neon pink knickers.

Before I can dart back to the safety of the bathroom, Kieran is at the front door and has swung it open. ‘Come in, guys,’ I hear him say.

Guys? GUYS?! What guys?!

Still grasping the knickers, I stand frozen in a panic, praying that they walk straight past the living room and down to the bedroom. Please don’t come in here. Please, please, please, please—

‘Oh!’

Three men, including Neil, have strolled into the living room and are now staring at me with their mouths open. Coming in behind them, Kieran follows their line of sight and starts. His eyes widen as he suppresses a smile. The heat rises up my neck and through my cheeks. I stare back at them like a deer caught in headlights.

I remember the knickers in my hand and drop them. By some cruel twist of fate or maybe because God hates me, they land on top of the coffee table rather than behind it.

The four men glance down at the splayed-out knickers and then back up at me.

‘Hi,’ I squeak, giving them an awkward wave. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise… I didn’t know people would be arriving this early.’

Neil presses his lips together, turning to Kieran, who looks infuriatingly smug.

‘Are you ready?’ Neil asks in a strained voice.

‘Yeah, let me grab my bag,’ he says, disappearing into the hallway, followed by Neil.

‘Where should I leave the equipment, Kieran?’ one of the other men calls after him.

‘There in the living room is fine,’ comes the reply.

He nods and the two men set to work retrieving a load of fitness equipment from the hallway that they start piling up in the middle of the living room floor: resistance bands, mats, foam rollers, a giant gym ball, long agility belts, a huge stand of dumbbells and finally, a large purple bean bag. Since they’re blocking the door, I stand there in my towel, helplessly watching this all unfold.

‘Bean bags sure are good for fitness. Trying to get out of one is a calorie-burning challenge, am I right?’ I joke with a forced laugh, attempting to break the ice.

The two men share a confused look. They don’t answer. My face is fully on fire now.

‘All done?’ Neil asks, coming back with Kieran in tow.

‘All done,’ one of them reports.

‘Let’s go then,’ he says, before turning back to address Kieran who is lingering in the doorway, inspecting all the gym equipment. ‘By the way, there are a few reporters back and lurking outside, but the car is waiting for you on the road.’

His expression souring, Kieran nods sharply and pulls on his cap.

‘Oh,’ one of the other men says, turning to look at me, ‘I don’t know if you’ll be in today, but someone will be dropping by this morning to set up the PlayStation.’

I blink at him.

He gives me a thumbs up and then follows the others out the room. The front door swings open and there’s a flurry of noise from the reporters when they notice Kieran, before the door shuts and I’m left standing alone in my towel in peace. Trying to convince myself that that wasn’t as embarrassing as it felt, I glance at my phone to check the time.

It’s only seven thirty, but it feels like I’ve been up for hours.

I exhale, closing my eyes. This is going to be a long four weeks.

*

‘There’s a sniper on the ridge, get behind cover!’ Kieran yells into his headset. He’s nestled in his bean bag on the floor in front of the PlayStation now connected to my TV, gripping his console and pressing the buttons at an alarming rate. ‘Okay, let’s push the team in this building. I’ll go through the front door and you cover the back. Get a grenade through the window! GO! GO! GO! Ah I’m down! He’s one shot, he’s one shot! Ah, fuck’s sake.’

As he groans in disappointment, I tap Kieran on the shoulder. He tilts his head up to look at me and reluctantly lowers his headset to sit round his neck.

‘Would you mind keeping it down?’ I say, my voice strained. ‘You’re not an actual general in an actual battle, okay? Call of Duty is a game. You don’t need to bellow at your fellow troops. No one is going to really die, so let’s tone it down a notch, yeah?’

He looks back to the TV, pulling his headphones back up over his ears. ‘The sound effects are loud. I need to communicate with my team.’

Attempting a few deep, calming breaths, I tap him on the shoulder again, a little harder this time. He turns his head slowly towards me, his eyes narrowing. He pushes one of his headphones very slightly back behind his ear.

‘Maybe you could turn the sound effects down, so you don’t have to shout over them,’ I suggest, like a teacher trying her best to be patient with an ungrateful little shit of a child. ‘I’m trying to read my book.’

He gives me a forced smile, as though he gets it. I nod gratefully and go to sit back down, while he adjusts his headset.

Kieran’s been out most of the day training and returned this evening smelling like chlorine, heading straight to shower before taking over the kitchen to make a paella that he ate in about five seconds flat. It’s been nice having the flat to myself all day, but even though he wasn’t here, he’s made his presence known. His workout equipment takes up so much of the space in the living room that it makes it look cluttered and messy, which has been stressing me out, and I’ve tripped over those fucking resistance bands about five hundred times.

I’ve noticed he’s also left loads of his products in the bathroom, and while I approve of all the fancy stuff he uses that smells very nice, I moved it all neatly into a little box for him on the edge of the bath, only to find that after his shower this evening, he left the bottles scattered carelessly all over the place in there.

Now he’s back, the mood in the flat has dipped and I’m trying to accept that he’s going to spend time in the living room, even though, technically, he’s barged into my bedroom to play his stupid little game. I’m not going to go and sit in the bedroom to read, so the least he can do is keep it down. Settling back into the sofa cushions, I set down my chamomile tea and open my book.

Moments later, I’m disturbed again.

‘The ring is closing, get in, get in!’ he cries, as I lower my book in disbelief. ‘Ah, okay, let’s push this team. Go left, go left! No, what are you doing? Don’t do that! I said go left!’

My jaw clenched, I glare at him before picking up a cushion and throwing it at his head. He turns round in surprise, looks down at the cushion and then back up at me, grabbing it and tucking it behind his back.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts, settling back onto it. ‘That’s much better. Right, lads, stop playing trash and listen to my instructions so we might have a chance at winning.’

I hate him.

*

Awoken by that BLOODY blender again, I storm into the kitchen and stand in the doorway until he notices me. Glowering at him, I wait for him to turn it off.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ he says coolly, focusing on pouring his drink.

‘I asked you to shut the door,’ I remind him, my blood boiling.

‘My mistake. I’ll remember tomorrow. That hotel room is still an option, you know.’

I stare at him, baffled. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that I’m here? Why would you want to live in a small flat with a stranger rather than an amazing hotel?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I don’t get you,’ I say, massaging my temples. ‘Why won’t you leave? What is so special about staying on Lingfield Road?’

Without saying anything, he finishes his drink and stalks past me out the kitchen.

‘And do you really need all that gym stuff here taking over the whole place?’ I ask, bristling as I follow him towards the bathroom. ‘Don’t you literally spend the whole day working out in a gym?’

He turns, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. ‘I play tennis, too.’

‘No shit.’

‘I also swim in the afternoon.’

‘Thanks for the details. If you’re doing all that, why do you need a gym here?’ I emphasise, rolling my eyes.

He shrugs. ‘I might need to do stretches or drills here sometimes.’

‘Okay, then could all the equipment live somewhere else until those times come?’

‘No.’

I glare at him. ‘Do you ever compromise on anything?’

He looks pensive. ‘Yes.’

‘But you won’t compromise on this.’

‘No.’

Taking a deep breath, I run a hand through my hair. ‘You’re really fucking annoying.’

His jaw twitches, his eyes flickering down my blue lace cami top and back up again. ‘Where’s Snoopy?’ he asks, his brow creasing.

‘What?’

‘You were wearing a Snoopy T-shirt yesterday.’

I glance down at my pyjamas. ‘I changed.’

He nods, his expression thoughtful.

‘I liked the Snoopy,’ he says, and then he steps back and shuts the door.

I stand still as he turns the shower on. I’m too confused to move. Did he just give me a compliment? No, he must have been making fun of me. Although, he didn’t sound like he was taking the piss. If anyone else had said it, I would have thought that they were being nice. But as it’s him, it must have been an insult. Maybe it was a backhanded compliment. Maybe he was saying he doesn’t like what I’m wearing now. Anyway, why does he care? What was the point in him telling me he liked the Snoopy? He can’t have liked the Snoopy.

Can he?

What sort of mind games is this dickhead playing?

*

That night, Kieran stands in front of the TV with his arms folded.

‘Where is it?’ he seethes.

‘Where’s what, Kieran?’ I ask innocently, turning the page of my book.

‘The PlayStation,’ he growls, the lines on his forehead deepening.

Not saying anything, I press my lips together, reading the same sentence over and over, not a word of it going in. I’m too invested in feigning ignorance to concentrate.

‘Flora,’ he hisses, rubbing his forehead, ‘it’s been a really long day and I’d like to relax. Where have you put it?’

I shrug. ‘I’ve also had a long day and I would like to relax with my book.’

My day has actually involved walking to the shop to get a coffee and a croissant, applying for two administrative jobs in the City that I don’t want, and watching a few episodes of Friends. But he doesn’t need to know any of that.

Kieran, on the other hand, I happen to know has probably had a fairly bad day. He’s been in the headlines again thanks to the actress Henrietta Keane, who, I now assume to be THE Henrietta who’s been phoning him. She went to a party last night and spoke to a showbiz reporter who was also in attendance. The main article led with:

‘He’s sad, untrusting and his heart is closed – that’s why I dumped him’: Henrietta Keane dishes the dirt on Wimbledon hopeful Kieran O’Sullivan.

Other publications have picked it up too, so it’s being splashed about everywhere, along with plenty of commentary from ‘friends close to the family’ who, apparently, think it’s appropriate to give their opinion. I don’t disagree that he’s cantankerous and downright annoying to live with, but I do feel a bit sorry for him. It can’t be fun for exes to splash things like that about, whether they’re true or not.

But I don’t feel sorry enough for him to give him his PlayStation back without getting what I want first. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me intently.

‘Please,’ he sighs eventually, ‘can you tell me where you’ve hidden it.’

I tear my eyes away from the page to look at him. ‘If you promise to keep your voice down when you play your battle games, then I’ll tell you where I’ve tidied it.’

Our eyes seem to be locked in a battle of their own, refusing to budge or back down.

‘Fine,’ he says, breaking away and lifting them to the ceiling.

‘You promise?’

He holds up his hands. ‘I promise.’

I nod to the wooden chest that is up against the wall next to the bookshelves. He opens it and takes a moment to look down into its contents, before pulling up his precious PlayStation and headset.

‘Pretty stupid not to look in there, Kieran,’ he mutters to himself, as he kneels on the ground to get it set up again. I chuckle lightly at his comment and he hears, glancing over. I notice his expression soften a little, before he returns to sorting out the wires.

*

The next morning, I’m surprised to find that I’m not woken up by the blender, but by the loud chattering of the paparazzi who have arrived to gather around the gate. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I peer through the blinds and see them all congregated together. Even though they can’t see me, I give them a dirty look.

I get up to head to the bathroom and see that the kitchen door is closed. I hear the sound of dull muffled whizzing behind it, and I smile to myself. Looks like being tough with the PlayStation last night helped matters. Deciding to repay his kindness by exiting the bathroom quickly so he can shower before me, I plod back into the living room to find him standing next to the sofa, holding his smoothie.

‘Oh, hey. There are reporters out there so I would—’

‘Your phone went off,’ he interrupts, his voice sharp. With a thunderous expression, he pointedly glances to my phone sitting on top of the coffee table. ‘I came in here and I saw it ringing on the table. I saw the name flashing up. It was Iris Gray.’

I frown at him, folding my arms. ‘Okay. Kieran, why—’

‘You’re talking to a journalist,’ he states angrily.

‘What? No, I—’

‘I know her name, Flora. Iris Gray is a sports journalist. Why would you be talking to her? Why would her name be saved in your phone? Are you feeding her information about me? Is that what’s going on? Is that why you won’t leave?’

I stare at him, bewildered. ‘No!’

‘I should have known,’ he mutters, shaking his head, pained. ‘I should have guessed that you’d sell your story.’

‘I would never—’

‘Was it you who told the press where I was staying? What has Iris offered to pay you? Has she—’

‘Bloody hell, Kieran, no one is paying me anything!’ I cry, throwing my hands up in exasperation. ‘I would never sell a story, okay? Not everyone is out to get you!’

He stares at me, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His eyes are frantically scanning my expression, trying to work out if I’m telling the truth, but I can tell he remains unconvinced.

‘Iris is my best friend,’ I tell him firmly. ‘We used to work together. We’re friends. She doesn’t print gossip-type stuff anyway. Check her columns, you’ll see she hasn’t written anything about you the last few days. She’s only interested in the tennis! You can speak to her yourself if you don’t believe me.’

Frowning, he keeps his mouth shut, his lips still and straight.

‘Kieran,’ I continue, taking a step forwards, ‘I don’t blame you for seeing her name and jumping to that conclusion, but I swear it’s not what it looks like. She’s my friend, who happens to be a journalist. Sometimes she calls me to check in on her way into work, which is probably what she was doing then. You can trust her. And… you can trust me.’

His eyes drop to the floor. I don’t move, watching him closely.

‘I should go shower,’ he says eventually, storming out the room.

Grabbing my phone, I curl up on the sofa underneath the duvet and quietly wait for him to get ready. I’m irritated that anyone would think I’d do something so low as to sell my story, but I also feel sad that that would be Kieran’s first thought. I guess Henrietta Keane hasn’t exactly helped his paranoia.

When the bell goes to signal Neil’s arrival, Kieran leaves without saying goodbye, opening the front door to an eruption of noise from the paparazzi. Once I’ve heard his car pull away and the road return to normal again as the reporters scatter, I get up and go into the kitchen to make myself a coffee.

That’s when I notice there are two smoothie glasses in the sink. One that’s empty and has clearly been drunk from, and the other on its side, its contents slowly oozing out across the basin. It takes me a moment to realise that’s why he was in the living room in the first place. He was bringing me a smoothie.