Match Point

Chapter 9

9

I’m supposed to be drawing, but all I can think about is the strength of Kieran O’Sullivan’s arms locked around my waist and how it felt to be cocooned by his body yesterday. He’s so tall and broad and solid, I felt small and safe tucked into his chest, even if it was just for a few seconds. And I could have sworn there was something about the way he looked at me when I turned round in his arms to face him, an intensity that wasn’t there before.

Okay, maybe I saw what I wanted to see.

But whenever I let my mind drift back to that moment – which, I have to admit, is roughly every ten seconds – a warm tingling sensation swirls through my body, sending my heartbeat into overdrive.

He did say I smelt nice, too.

I twirl the pencil round in my fingers, biting my lip. The open page of my sketchbook in front of me on the kitchen table remains blank. I sigh, annoyed with myself for wasting another afternoon. I toss the pencil down and slide my laptop across to me, typing in Kieran’s name to Google search. I want to know more about him.

Ignoring the recent articles, I click on his Wikipedia page, focusing on the sections detailing his background and personal life, rather than the long paragraphs about his tennis career. The section about his background is fairly vague. He obviously doesn’t like to talk about it publicly. I scan through how he grew up in Dublin, his parents divorced young, and he and his older brother, Aidan, were coached by their father, Brian. Aidan was an extremely successful young tennis star, but passed away at the age of twenty. There aren’t many details about his death, but the largely accepted story is that it was drug-related.

‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, pressing a hand over my mouth.

From the section about his personal life, I learn that, just as Iris told me, Kieran was briefly engaged to British actress, Rachel Wallace, in his twenties but they broke up two months into their engagement and she subsequently dated and married Australian tennis player Chris Courtney. Apparently, it’s also well known that Kieran and Chris have a long history of professional rivalry on the court – soon after Aidan died, Kieran faced Chris in the final of the Australian Open, having already beaten the world number one in the semis, a match that catapulted Kieran into worldwide fame overnight. The final was a highly anticipated match, since Kieran was only eighteen years old. Chris won three sets to two. Kieran broke his racket during the match and was fined.

Three years later, Chris played Kieran in the semi-final of Wimbledon, but Kieran had to forfeit during the match due to injury. Rachel Wallace was watching that match, sitting with Kieran’s team. A year later when they faced each other at Wimbledon again, she was sitting amongst Chris’s entourage. Kieran lost in three straight sets.

‘Ugh,’ I say out loud, my heart sinking for him. Brutal.

Since his break-up with Rachel, Kieran has been linked to several female public figures but hasn’t had any serious relationships, and there’s a note about his work with a mental health charity for young people. It also details that his father coached him up until he was twenty-six, when according to various sources, Kieran sacked him. They didn’t speak for a long time after, although there have been reports of a reconciliation more recently.

Delving a little deeper into my Kieran snooping, I find an article from an Irish newspaper about the O’Sullivan brothers, published just after Aidan’s death. It begins by saying that Aidan’s death is not just an unbearably painful tragedy for the family, but a terrible blow to the world of tennis. ‘Something of a tennis prodigy, Aidan was widely considered to be one of the brightest and most promising young talents in the sport,’ it reads. ‘There is no doubt that with his electrifying raw talent, exceptional abilities and unwavering determination, Aidan O’Sullivan had an extraordinarily successful career ahead of him.’

I gaze sadly at the accompanying photograph of Aidan beneath the paragraph. Tall, dark, strikingly handsome, he looks like Kieran, although with a slighter frame, gentle brown eyes and longer hair than his brother. Below that photo is another – one of Aidan and Kieran together when they were teenagers. They’re standing on a tennis court with an older man, who the caption tells me is their father. Brian is talking at them and while Aidan is looking intently at his dad with a serious expression, Kieran is glancing away, laughing goofily at something in the distance. I read on to the next part of the article:

His younger brother, Kieran, is another remarkable tennis player, but is more emotional and volatile on the court. While he has displayed more flair in his style, Kieran has faced criticism for lacking the control that was so early mastered by his brother and often displayed amongst the top players today.

Although competitive on the court, the brothers were close off of it and Kieran will be suffering the loss of his beloved brother keenly. We can only hope that he won’t retire from the sport himself in the wake of this tragedy, for then tennis will have lost two of its brightest stars.

As I come to the end of the article, I realise that a tear is sliding down my cheek. I brush it away with my finger, leaning back in my chair and exhaling audibly. Returning to the other search results, I can only find one big feature interview with Kieran and it’s from years ago. In fact, when I check the dates, I realise that he gave it just a few months before his brother died. It’s from a glossy weekend magazine of one of the national broadsheets and runs with the headline: “I will win Wimbledon before my brother does”– Kieran O’Sullivan on why he’s the one to watch.

A lump rises in my throat as I scan through the piece, my eyes drifting over the quotes from Kieran that talk about why he’s determined to prove to the world that he’s not going to linger in Aidan’s shadow, but will be the brother to be remembered. Aside from tournament press conferences, this looks like the last interview Kieran ever gave.

I’m reflecting on the sadness of it all when the doorbell goes.

Maybe Kieran has actually lost his keys for real this time. My heart pounding, I slam my laptop shut and jump to my feet, embarrassed that he’s returned when I’m in the middle of researching him. I hurry to get the door, catching sight of myself in the hallway mirror, my cheeks flushed pink, my eyes bright with excitement.

‘Pull yourself together,’ I whisper strictly at my reflection.

Just because he caught me when I fell from a chair and said nice things about my art does not mean I should completely lose my head. One good thing does not cancel out all the horrible things that have come before. Okay, so he’s maybe not as bad as I thought he was, but still, this guy has been rude and conceited since the moment we met. Plus, let’s not forget the kind of women he’s used to dating. He’s hardly going to look twice at someone like me when he has influencers and models throwing themselves at his feet whenever he pops down to the local.

Saying that, there’s no harm in checking that I look nice when he’s around. I quickly run my fingers through my hair, smiling guiltily at my reflection – I purposefully took my time perfecting my make-up earlier in anticipation of his return.

With a deep breath and what I hope to be a casual, nonchalant smile, I swing open the door. My heart drops.

‘Jonah!’ I gasp, recoiling.

A smirk stretches across my ex-boyfriend’s face as he lingers on my doorstep. Thanks to his reflective aviators, I can see my wide-eyed shock at his appearance. He lifts his arm to push his hair back from his face, his leather jacket squeaking as the fabric moves. It’s a hot day, but he loves that jacket. Paired with the blue faded jeans he’s wearing today, he looks like he’s stepped off the stage of Grease the Musical, which he may well have done – I haven’t been keeping track of his career recently and have blocked him on all social media.

‘Hey, you,’ he says softly.

My stomach knots at such an affectionate term.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask bluntly.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks, peering to look beyond me into the hallway. When I hesitate, he cocks his head. ‘You’re not going to be awkward about this, are you? I’m just here to pick up some things, Flora. No need to make this into a big deal.’

As he whips off his glasses and swaggers past me into the flat, I’m hit by an overpowering wave of cologne that makes my throat tickle. I’ve always felt that smell is the most powerful way to evoke a memory, but this is a new scent to the one he wore when we were together. It doesn’t make me miss him, it almost makes me gag.

When I join him in the living room, I find him scanning the place curiously. His eyes trace across the workout equipment, the colour-coordinated book spines on the shelves, the unused three-wick candle in the middle of the coffee table, the throw folded on the arm of the sofa, eventually landing on the PlayStation sitting beneath the TV.

‘A few changes in here,’ he says, quirking a brow. ‘He’s making his mark, I see.’

‘So, what stuff did you want to pick up?’ I ask, trying to sound cool and collected while my skin crawls with discomfort. ‘I can’t think of anything you’ve left here.’

He slowly turns to face me, inhaling deeply. His eyes drift down to my cleavage and back up again. I regret wearing a tight-fitted V-neck top today with my high-waisted black denim shorts. I fold my arms across my chest self-consciously.

‘You look good, Flora,’ he says gently. ‘How have you been?’

‘Great, thanks. You?’

He nods slowly. ‘I’ve been good. Busy. Lots of theatre gigs.’ He hesitates, before adding quietly, ‘I’ve missed you.’

I clench my jaw, saying nothing.

‘You didn’t reply to my messages,’ he comments.

‘I didn’t have anything to say.’

‘I was hoping we’d stay friends,’ he says, a pleading glint in his eye.

I clear my throat. ‘What things did you think you’d left here? If you tell me what you’re looking for, I can let you know if I’ve seen them.’

He watches me curiously. ‘You don’t even want to talk to me a little bit, Flora? Come on, we were together three years. I know things ended badly, but…’

He trails off, before giving a weak smile. ‘You’re right. I don’t deserve you being nice to me. I just hoped… I don’t know.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I guess you haven’t been missing me. I was surprised how quickly you moved on. Did you meet Kieran O’Sullivan after I left or did you know him before?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It seems that he’s moved in with you very quickly and I know you, Flora,’ he says, fixing me with an intense stare. ‘I know you wouldn’t let yourself get caught up in a whirlwind romance. You’re too smart for that. So I figured you’ve known this guy for longer than six months. When Zoe told me that she’d seen Kieran O’Sullivan going into our flat, I didn’t believe her but then I saw the stuff online and I realised—’

‘You’re still in touch with Zoe?’ I ask quietly, my blood turning cold.

‘Yeah,’ he says, the corners of his lips twitching up. ‘We’ve always been friends. You know that.’

I desperately blink back tears, caught out by how much that stings. I am not attracted to this man anymore – I know that. But his betrayal and its consequent humiliation still has the power to make me feel like an absolute fool. I have managed to persuade myself that he and Zoe would never speak again after what they did to me. How na?ve. And now here I am standing in front of him months later, unwittingly duped all over again.

‘Zoe and I, it’s not serious,’ he assures me, his eyes brightening, feeding off the fact that I’ve shown I care. ‘Nothing like what we had together. And I don’t know what’s going on between you and Kieran O’Sullivan, but if ever—’

‘It’s really none of your business, Jonah,’ I croak, feeling like someone has gripped my gut and twisted it sharply. ‘Did you come here to get your stuff or quiz me on my life? Because you gave up all your rights to know anything about me when you shagged our next-door neighbour.’

He winces, his gaze dropping to the floor.

‘I know I have no right to check on you,’ he admits gently, looking genuinely pained. He’s a fucking good actor. ‘But I can’t help it. I still care about you.’

‘Jonah—’

He takes a step forwards and I instinctively stumble back.

‘I know that I’m the dickhead here,’ he states, his brow creased with determination. ‘I don’t deserve your forgiveness. What I did was wrong. But feelings don’t change overnight. When you love someone, they become a part of you. I haven’t shaken you, Flora. I’m not sure I ever will. And if someone is taking advantage of you, I want to know.’

I balk at his suggestion. ‘What are you talking about?’

He raises his eyebrows, as though we both know what he means. ‘Kieran O’Sullivan? Really, Flora. He’s a notorious dickhead and word on the street is he picks up and drops women willy-nilly. You can’t think he’s genuinely serious about you.’

Did he just say ‘willy-nilly’?

Bloody hell, the fact that I ever let this guy inside me makes me feel sick. In fact, I’m glad he said it. It bats away any doubts that might come crawling in with his clever manipulation and reminds me of what I’ve come to realise the last few months: Jonah is not the person I want to be with. I am no longer powerless in his grip.

I straighten, lifting my chin defiantly.

‘You don’t know anything about Kieran O’Sullivan,’ I assert.

‘Maybe,’ he shrugs, his expression softening, ‘but I know you. I know you’re kind and generous and you see the best in people. That blinds you to their agendas.’

‘The way I was blinded to yours?’ I note, quirking my brow.

He sighs impatiently. ‘I’ve apologised, Flora. I’m human. I made a mistake and I’ve held my hands up and admitted it.’

I snort, taking another step back from him. ‘I caught you with her in our bed. It didn’t take much to admit it.’ I run a hand through my hair. ‘Look, we’ve already been through this and I don’t want to do it again. It’s over and we’ve both moved on. Please get your stuff and go. If you tell me what you’re after then I will try to find it for you, but I’m pretty sure nothing of yours is left here.’

His eyes flash with irritation.

‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘If that’s how you want to play it, then so be it. Guess we’re going to be petty exes after all.’

I roll my eyes. A few months ago, his poor opinion of me would have had me reeling. I would have been desperate to win back his approval, for him to think I’m nothing less than wonderful. But fuck him. I’ve wasted years of my life trying to please him.

‘I’m here for my garlic press,’ he states.

I blink at him, a snigger pulling at my lips. ‘Sorry?’

‘My garlic press,’ he repeats, glowering at me. ‘I know you’re not a cook, so maybe you need me to explain what it looks like.’

‘I think I’ll manage. Anything else?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

I leave him to make my way into the kitchen. As I start rooting through the drawers, I hear his footsteps behind me and out the corner of my eye I see him wander in and stop abruptly at the table, staring down at my sketch pad and pencils.

‘You’re drawing,’ he states.

‘Yep.’

‘I thought you’d given up.’

I close one drawer shut and open another. ‘Nope.’

He laughs lightly. ‘Okay. That’s interesting.’

Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the—

‘Why is that interesting?’ I snap, straightening.

He holds up his hands, a smirk playing across his lips. ‘Whoa, Flora, no need to get defensive. I’m pleased you’re drawing again – you’re good at it. It’s what you did when we first dated. It’s… sweet.’

‘Sweet,’ I repeat, staring at him in disbelief.

‘Yeah, that you’re giving it a go again. Yes, it’s a tough industry and, okay, so you’re a lot older than most artists trying to crack through into this market and you don’t have the experience or qualifications, but it’s sweet that you’re… trying. I’m glad our break-up has given you the time to take up your hobbies again.’

I can’t think what to say. My throat seems to have closed up completely and no words are forming. He’s watching me with an earnest smile, his poisonous words seeping under my skin, reducing me to a small, hopeless idiot.

‘Who’s this?’

Kieran’s voice pulls me back. He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen in his shorts and hoodie, his hair wet and dishevelled from a swim. He looks from Jonah to me, his forehead furrowing in concern as he takes me in. I realise that I have unwillingly folded forwards in an unattractive hunch, winded by Jonah’s speech, my hand gripping the side of the counter as though it’s holding me up. My knuckles have turned white.

Jonah steps towards him, holding out his hand.

‘Hi, mate,’ he says breezily, ‘I’m Jonah.’

Towering over him, Kieran glances down at his outstretched hand and arches a brow dismissively, as though bemused Jonah would presume he’d shake his hand. Jonah snorts, dropping his arm to his side.

‘Okay, fine. It’s like that, is it. I guess she’s told you about me.’

‘I’ve never heard of you,’ Kieran states flatly. ‘I did overhear what you were saying as I came in, though, and I’m not one for shaking the hand of a guy who likes to bring other people down to make themselves feel bigger.’

Jonah looks confused. ‘Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you have obviously misunderstood whatever it was you overheard.’ He chuckles, turning to me. Kieran fixes him with a cold stare. ‘Flora knows me, don’t you, Flora? She knows I wouldn’t say anything to upset her.’

‘You should go, Jonah,’ I tell him, my voice wobbling, betraying my nerves.

‘Fucking hell, what is this?’ Jonah says, cackling with laughter. ‘I just came here for my garlic press. It’s not a big deal.’ He looks Kieran up and down with a sneer. ‘You don’t need to go all macho on me, mate.’

‘She said you should go, and I’m not your mate,’ Kieran growls.

Jonah sighs breezily, but I can tell he’s unnerved. Kieran is a lot bigger than he is. His fists are clenched, his eyes are flashing with rage and his large frame takes up most of the doorway, blocking Jonah’s exit.

‘Okay, I’ve got it, whatever,’ Jonah mutters, rolling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. ‘I didn’t realise my presence bothers you, Flora. I thought we were adults and had moved on, but guess I read the room wrong. You should have said earlier if you wanted me to go. You didn’t need your bodyguard to come do the honours.’

Kieran exhales with frustration, his jaw twitching. As he flexes his fingers, I can tell that he’s trying to control his simmering anger.

‘It’s time to leave, Jonah,’ Kieran reminds him with an intimidating stare.

‘All right, all right, keep your panties on. She’s all yours, mate,’ Jonah snaps, moving to slide past him, before muttering under his breath, ‘Go to town on my sloppy seconds.’

It’s a fateful mistake. In one swift movement, Kieran grasps the lapels of Jonah’s jacket in his fists, hauls him up and slams his back against the fridge so hard, it wobbles dangerously. Pinned to the fridge, Jonah gasps as Kieran looms over him.

‘What did you just say?’ Kieran seethes, leaning into him.

‘Kieran, don’t!’ I blurt out, rushing forwards and grabbing his arm. ‘He’s not worth it. Trust me.’

Exhaling through his nose, Kieran’s eyes remain locked on Jonah’s, which are wide and panicked. I squeeze Kieran’s arm. He takes a step back and lets go. Jonah gulps audibly as Kieran narrows his eyes at him.

‘Don’t ever disrespect her like that again,’ Kieran says in a voice so deadly cold it makes Jonah shudder. ‘Now, get out.’

His cheeks flushed pink, Jonah checks the lapels of his leather jacket and, shooting me a furious parting glance, marches out the kitchen. His footsteps thud down the hall and we hear the door slam so hard, it makes me jump. Kieran and I stand in silence, until he turns to me and puts his hands on his hips.

‘I could use a drink,’ he grunts. ‘What about you?’

My heart racing, I lean against the counter.

‘Yeah,’ I breathe, breaking into a grateful smile. ‘A drink would be great.’