Chapter 7
7
When I spot Iris, she’s emerging from the flower shop in the Village with a pretty bouquet of colourful summer blooms. She notices me strolling towards her and she throws her head back and laughs, before holding them out to me.
‘Busted!’ she cries, throwing her free hand up in the air. ‘I was going to show up to our dinner with these for you as a surprise.’
‘You got me flowers?’ I gasp, as she hands them over and I admire them. ‘Why?’
‘Because your trip fell through and I wanted to cheer you up,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Don’t get all smushy on me, it’s not a big deal.’
‘But it is a big deal!’ I exclaim, before I pull her into a hug. ‘That’s so thoughtful and lovely. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, now let’s go eat,’ she says, looping her arm through mine and dragging me towards an Italian restaurant we’ve booked. ‘I want to hear all about you flashing your knickers at your hot new housemate and his coach.’
‘I didn’t purposefully flash my knickers at him,’ I remind her, lowering my voice as a man we pass gives me a strange look. ‘I told you, I sort of just dropped them and they happened to land on the coffee table. It was mortifying.’
‘I bet he loved it.’
‘He loved me embarrassing myself, I’m sure,’ I mutter.
We arrive at the restaurant and are shown our table, a nice one by the window so we can watch all the people strolling by. With a week and a half to go to the tournament, a buzzing atmosphere is growing in the Village with purple and green – the official colours of the tournament – decorations everywhere you look, and tennis-themed displays filling all the shop windows. Everyone seems to have got in the spirit of things and it’s hard not to feel excited about it all, even if you’re not that into tennis. It doesn’t matter that the sun has been hiding away today and it’s been grey and cloudy despite it being the end of June, it still feels like summer here in Wimbledon.
Once we’ve given our orders and our wine has been poured, Iris takes her glass and sits back, taking a sip of her drink. ‘So, how’s the art going? Have you made a start?’
‘Not exactly. I’m easing myself into it.’
She gives me a pointed look.
‘I know, I know,’ I sigh. ‘I just didn’t picture myself starting the book whilst still in Wimbledon, that’s all. I thought I’d be drawing in a haven of peace and instead—’ I gesture out the window where a group of tourists are taking selfies with the giant tennis racket and ball display right outside the restaurant ‘—I’m surrounded by chaos.’
‘So use your art to escape it,’ she suggests, tilting her head at me. ‘You’re so talented, Flora, you can do this. You just need to believe that. I really think that starting your novel is going to be good for you.’
‘I wish I knew how to start it. How do you get inspired to write?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t think that I’ll be much help. I watch sport.’
‘And that gets you fired up at your keyboard, huh.’ I chuckle.
‘That’s what does it for me.’ She watches me curiously. ‘You never know, maybe watching a spot of tennis will do it for you, too, especially now you’re besties with the tennis player ranked number forty-three in the world.’
‘Sure, we’re besties. We’re really bonding through having nothing in common and our constant bickering over the shoe stand.’
‘The shoe stand,’ she repeats, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I sigh, tapping my nails on the table. ‘He leaves his shoes strewn across the hallway for everyone to trip over on their way out or in. I swear he leaves them out on purpose because he knows it annoys me.’
‘You still think he’s trying to get you to leave?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s just this irritating in real life.’
‘Well, you might want to give him a bit of a break today,’ Iris points out, grimacing. ‘Did you see the cover piece on Sports Now magazine?’
I frown. ‘No, why? Is it about Kieran?’
‘Not exactly, although it might as well be. It’s an interview with Chris Courtney. You know him right? Fairly big name in tennis, currently number eighteen seed for Wimbledon. He won a couple of Grand Slams in his twenties – the Aussie Open and the US Open – but then lost his footing a bit. But he’s been playing well recently and got to the semi-finals of Queen’s. He’s gunning for Wimbledon, the one he really wants. According to him, this year is his year.’
‘Good for him. What’s that got to do with Kieran?’
Iris places down her glass and props her elbows on the table to lean towards me. ‘The interviewer asked him who he sees as the biggest threat to him this tournament and Courtney of course lists a few of the big names – Sovák, Jensen, Bissette – and then he can’t help but take a jab at Kieran O’Sullivan.’
‘Isn’t that a flattering thing, if he sees Kieran as a threat?’ I check, impressed.
‘That’s not exactly how he brings him up. No offence to Kieran, but he’s unseeded. He may have a few ATP titles under his belt from a while ago and he’s made it to a lot of the Grand Slam semi-finals and finals in his time – but it’s not like he’s a big name in the sport at the moment.’ She hesitates. ‘He’s become better known for his flaring temper and boozy nights out in the lead-up to Grand Slams than his actual performance in them, which is a shame. I’ve always liked his style. A real natural.’
‘Okay, so why did Courtney say he was a threat?’
‘That’s my point. He doesn’t. Courtney lists the threats and then he adds that players like Kieran should accept when their time is up, while players like him can continue to face the next generation with any success.’
My jaw drops. ‘Ouch! Bitchy.’
‘Right?’ Iris rolls her eyes. ‘The interviewer didn’t even ask anything to warrant that answer. But any opportunity for those two to take the other one down, they’ll take it, especially if it brings them into the public eye again – and Courtney has certainly achieved that today. His quote has been picked up by all the nationals.’ She hesitates. ‘Although, maybe that’s not a fair judgement about Kieran anymore. It’s been a while since he made any public remark about Courtney.’
‘Why do they hate each other so much?’
Her eyes widen in shock at my question. ‘Come on, Flora! You must know the history between those two. Courtney is O’Sullivan’s nemesis.’
‘I didn’t think people actually had those.’
‘In sport they sometimes do,’ she says with a shrug. ‘They can’t stand one another. Look, I don’t think what Chris Courtney has said is in any way classy, but this could be a good thing in the run-up to Wimbledon. Kieran didn’t do badly at Halle – he reached the quarter-finals – and he’s still got some fight in him. I think he could take some of the youngsters if he really wanted to. He just needs a kick up the butt. Maybe this comment from Courtney will help ignite something in him again before he considers retirement. Maybe he’ll want to prove Courtney wrong.’
‘You think he’ll be that affected by something Chris Courtney says?’
‘Uh, yeah!’ She straightens, looking at me strangely. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Courtney is his enemy. On and off the court. Kieran’s ex-fiancée ended up marrying him.’
I pause, my glass halfway to my lips. ‘You what?’
‘Yeah, you must remember it. Kieran was dating this actress and they were engaged and everything. Then they broke up, she started dating Courtney and they got married soon after. It was a pretty big scandal at the time,’ she informs me.
‘Fuck. No wonder Kieran hates him.’ I take a gulp of my drink. ‘Now, I feel a bit sorry for him.’ Placing my glass down, I exhale, shaking my head. ‘I hope you’re right and Kieran does decide to prove him wrong on the court. He has been training a lot.’
‘Yeah?’ A sly smile creeps across Iris’s lips. ‘He’s looking in good shape, is he?’
I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Stop it. Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’ she asks innocently, before shooting me a mischievous grin.
‘Like that.’ I laugh.
‘What? Like it hasn’t crossed your mind.’ She arches her brow. ‘You’re living in the same flat, he’s unbelievably sexy, you’re unbelievably gorgeous, you’re both single… I’m just saying, it could happen. It would make a good anecdote at least.’
‘Jesus, Iris, a good anecdote,’ I repeat in disbelief, running a hand through my hair as my cheeks flush with heat. ‘It won’t happen. Firstly we can’t stand one another, and secondly, I’m hardly his type. He dates models and actresses, people who are in the public eye for a reason. I’m… unnoticeable.’
‘Oh shut up.’
‘You shut up.’
She grins at me. ‘He’s seen your underwear already, who knows what might happen next?’
‘You’re very annoying,’ I huff, staring at my drink as I fiddle with the stem of my glass, twisting it between my fingers.
It may have flitted across my mind once. Or twice. The possibility of it. But in a complete fantasy world where he’s actually a nice person to be around. I would be lying if I said that he wasn’t attractive, because look at him. He’s obviously beautiful, and I’ve seen him topless in a towel and you’d have to be dead not to wonder how it feels to run your hands up over the smooth curves of his arms and along his broad muscled shoulders. Anyone would want to know what that feels like.
That’s not my fault, that’s just… science.
Yeah. That makes sense.
‘You’re blushing, Flora,’ Iris remarks.
‘I’m blushing because of you and what you’re saying, nothing to do with him. Trust me, it’s really not like that between us.’
‘For now,’ she says, taking a triumphant sip of wine while I roll my eyes, relieved to see our food arriving, which provides the perfect opportunity to steer the conversation away from Kieran O’Sullivan.
*
That night, I wake up to the sound of someone trying to get in through the front door. I sit bolt upright at the loud thump, followed by the wiggling of the door handle. My heart in my throat, I swing my legs out of bed and freeze as someone shoves themselves against the door with some force. Jumping to my feet, I’m about to rush to bang on Kieran’s bedroom door and demand he get his tennis racket at the ready to threaten the intruder with, but I’m stopped by the repeated rings on the bell, followed by vigorous knocking and then the loud, slurred voice of Kieran himself coming from the other side.
‘Flora?’ he says through the letter box. ‘Helloooo. Anyone at home?’
After checking that it is him through the peephole, I quickly turn on the light and open the front door. He practically falls through, having been leaning against it. Stumbling past me into the hallway, he regains his balance and then bursts out laughing, slumping against the wall and knocking the mirror so that it swings dangerously.
‘Kieran!’ I gasp, steadying the mirror and then closing the front door. ‘What are you doing? What time is it?’
‘Late,’ he confirms, before giving a who-cares shrug. ‘Or early. One of the two.’
He stinks of booze and he looks dishevelled and sweaty, his forehead moist, his hair sticking up messily, his eyes red and glazed.
‘Sorry, I seem to have lost my keys,’ he says, his words coming fast and slurred. ‘Oh hang on.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his set of keys, staring at them in amazement as he jangles them from his fingers. ‘Well, what do you know? Here they are! I swear they were not in there before. Lucky I found them.’
‘God, Kieran,’ I say, noticing the time on his watch. ‘It’s almost three in the morning. Don’t you have training with Neil first thing?’
‘Probably. But whatever – it’s cool,’ he insists, pushing himself off from the wall and zig-zagging his way down the hall and turning into the living room.
‘I’m not sure he’ll see it that way,’ I mutter, following him nervously. ‘I think you need to go to bed.’
‘Neil is always cross at me about something, so it’s no big deal. I can’t please him, I can’t please anyone.’ He chuckles, although I don’t know if anything he’s said is funny. Slumping down onto my makeshift bed, he kicks off his shoes and rests his head back against the cushion. ‘Didn’t you read the news today? I’m a washed-up loser who is setting myself up for disappointment yet again. It’s all good. You know what they say?’
I raise my eyebrows at him, unimpressed. ‘No, what do they say?’
‘It is what it is,’ he says, nodding gravely. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘Okay, you really need to go to bed,’ I decide, chewing on my thumbnail. ‘I’ll get you some water, yeah?’
‘None of that tap shite. Get me the good stuff.’
Leaving him laughing to himself, I go to get him a bottle of Evian and when I return he’s squinting at his phone screen as an unsaved number calls.
‘You need to get that?’ I ask haughtily, passing him his water and picking up his shoes to carry them into the hall and place them neatly on the stand.
‘Nah, it’s someone I met tonight at the pub. She’s very nice and all, but—’ He shrugs. ‘She’s not for me.’
‘She’s not a model or not famous enough?’ I mutter, placing my hands on my hips.
He snaps his head up to glare at me. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing, sorry.’
I wave my hand to dismiss it, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I honestly don’t know where it came from. Not only is it absolutely none of my business, but he’s too drunk and it’s way too early in the morning to go into this.
‘No, come on,’ he challenges, sitting himself up properly. ‘You think I only date certain women, is that it?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know, Kieran. I’m sorry, it was an offhand comment. I didn’t—’
‘You don’t think very highly of me. You’ve seen pictures of me in the press and you think you’ve got me all figured out, that it?’
‘No, Kieran. I can’t figure you out at all. You’ve been training really hard and now you’ve gone out and got pissed. Neil is going to kill you.’
‘Especially when the video of me yelling starts circulating.’ He sighs.
I wince. ‘You yelled at someone?’
‘A guy followed me into the toilet with his phone in my face asking me questions about Courtney,’ he says, his voice venomous. ‘So I told him to fuck off.’
‘That… actually seems fair.’
‘I needed to blow off some steam tonight,’ he mumbles, unscrewing the lid of his water and taking a couple of glugs. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll be fine.’ His phone rings again. He declines the call, inhaling deeply through his nose and turning to look at me. ‘By the way, it’s not because she’s not famous enough. In fact, she’s an influencer of some kind with, like, a million followers.’
‘Kieran, you really don’t need to—’
‘She thinks I’m someone I’m not,’ he states, his eyes moving from me to stare straight ahead at the cherry blossom art. ‘And while sometimes it’s fun to lean into it, play the part and enjoy that kind of—’ he flays his hand around as he searches for the word ‘—misplaced admiration, I didn’t feel like pretending tonight. She was fun, though, her and her friends. They were a good laugh. I needed that.’
Watching him as he swigs glumly from his bottle, his shoulders slumped forward, any lingering irritation at being woken up by this drunken idiot fizzles away into sympathy. He seems a bit… sad.
‘I’m sorry about what Chris Courtney said about you,’ I offer gently.
He shrugs. ‘Everyone’s thinking it. Why shouldn’t someone say it?’
‘That’s not what everyone thinks.’
He presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. ‘You don’t know.’
‘I know what my friend Iris Gray thinks,’ I counter, folding my arms. ‘She thinks you have what it takes and she’s usually right about most things.’
Turning to look at me again, his brow furrows like he’s trying to process what I’ve said but it’s taking him a bit longer than usual.
‘She thinks that a comment like that from this Courtney guy might help fire you up a bit for Wimbledon,’ I continue.
‘Huh.’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘And what do you think?’
‘Me?’
He nods. ‘You. Flora Hendrix. The stubborn neat-freak artist who always smells nice and wears a Snoopy T-shirt to bed. What do you think?’
I can’t suppress the bubble of laughter rising up my throat at his comment about my scent. My eyes falling to the floor, I shake my head as I giggle and then when I look back up at him, I find him smiling at me. A soft, earnest smile, as though he’s pleased with himself for making me laugh.
‘I don’t know much about it, Kieran, but I think you’re working hard and if Iris thinks you have what it takes then I do, too. And,’ I add, arching a brow, ‘I think Chris Courtney is a bit of a wanker for saying something like that to a journalist.’
He nods slowly. ‘He is a wanker.’
‘I also think you really should get to bed. You have to be up in, like, three hours.’
‘Yep. You’re right, you’re right.’
Pushing himself up off the sofa, he stumbles a little as he gets to his feet and I dart forwards to grab his arm to help him balance. Glancing up as he leans on me, I find my face inches from his, his searing blue eyes flickering down to my lips.
‘You know, Flora,’ he says slowly, peering down at me, ‘you’re a very interesting person.’
‘Yeah? Thanks,’ I say, guiding him towards the bedroom with his arm resting around my shoulders.
‘I’m sorry for yelling at you about the journalist. I know now she’s your mate.’
‘That’s okay, forget about it.’
‘I mean it, I’m sorry. I find it hard to trust people.’
‘Honestly, Kieran, it’s fine,’ I assure him as we reach his doorway.
He unhooks his arm from around my shoulders and turns to face me. ‘I don’t want you to hate me, Flora Hendrix.’
I blink at him. ‘I don’t… I don’t hate you.’
‘Good. I don’t hate you.’
‘Okay. Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up,’ I say, breaking into an amused smile as he spins round and stumbles towards the bed. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he says, sitting down on the edge of it and then falling backwards on top of the duvet, closing his eyes with his hands clasped over his chest. ‘Thank you.’
I stay a moment in the doorway, my eyes locked on his Adam’s apple as he swallows, unable to resist the temptation of shamelessly admiring his neck.
‘Flora,’ he says suddenly without opening his eyes, but making me jump out of my skin, heat flushing through my face. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Uh… yeah. I’m just about to go. Did you want something?’
‘I just wanted to tell you that I like the cherry blossom art you did on the wall.’
I smile to myself, leaning against the doorframe. ‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘It makes me feel serene,’ he continues with his eyes closed, his voice lowering, his breathing getting heavier. ‘Like everything will be okay.’
I can’t think of how to respond, so I don’t. Instead I wait a beat until his breathing becomes soft snores, and then I quietly close the door, leaving him to sleep it off. Plodding back to my sofa, I get back beneath the duvet but despite the time, I don’t feel so tired anymore. You always want your art to make someone feel something. Anything. I didn’t know if I really had the ability to do that, but from what Kieran’s just said, maybe my art does have that power after all.
No more excuses. Tomorrow, I’m going to draw.