Chapter 10
10
‘So tell me,’ Kieran begins, sitting back and looking at me curiously, ‘what exactly is it that you saw in that Danny Zuko wannabe?’
Sitting on the opposite end of the sofa to him, I take a sip of wine before answering. ‘He was very sweet and charming when we first met.’
‘Yeah, he seems a real catch. How long were you together, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Three years.’
‘That long?’ Kieran’s eyes widen in shock. ‘How is that possible?’
I sigh, swirling the liquid round my glass. ‘I don’t know. I put him on a pedestal, to be honest. He was so charismatic and funny, always the centre of attention and life of the party. I felt lucky to be with him. He chose me when he could have had anyone.’
‘He made you feel that way,’ Kieran comments with disgust. ‘He knew you were out of his league, so he made you feel small so you’d think you couldn’t do better.’ He shakes his head, before muttering, ‘I’m glad you finally saw the light.’
I grimace. ‘Actually, I didn’t.’ I take another gulp while he watches me. ‘He dumped me after I caught him cheating on me.’
Kieran tilts his ear in my direction as though he didn’t hear me correctly.
‘I know, I know,’ I sigh, shaking my head. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it.’
‘It’s not pathetic,’ he states, frowning at me. ‘It’s frustrating.’
‘Yeah. When I look back on our break-up, I almost don’t recognise the person I was then, you know? It’s weird. I was so desperate for him to stay with me and now I really don’t know why.’ I take a more measured sip of wine. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry about today. I didn’t think he’d… I have no idea why I even let him in.’
‘Maybe because you trusted him to act like a decent person,’ Kieran says in a low voice, looking troubled.
‘Stupid of me.’
‘Kind of you,’ Kieran corrects, his steely blue eyes locking with mine and making my heart flutter. ‘That’s never a bad thing. It was his mistake to think he could treat someone like that in their own home.’ He raises his own drink to his lips. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t make that mistake again, for his sake.’
‘I’m sure he won’t, thanks to you.’ I give him a wry smile, adding earnestly, ‘Thank you. I’m embarrassed that you had to step in.’
Kieran frowns at me. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. It was my pleasure to put that prick in his place. Neil wouldn’t be best pleased if he found out, mind you, so maybe we keep the incident between ourselves. After the other night, I’m meant to be lying low.’ He hesitates. ‘Let’s hope Danny Zuko doesn’t go running to the press to tell his sob story.’
‘And admit that he got his arse kicked by you? Unlikely,’ I assure him. ‘He may be desperate for publicity, but surely not that desperate.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
I bite my lip, tapping my fingernails on the outside of my glass. ‘I’m so annoyed with myself. I wish I hadn’t let him get to me today.’
‘He knows exactly what to say to hurt you,’ Kieran murmurs, his eyes dropping to his hands and glazing over. ‘It takes time to put up a shield to that, especially when it’s someone who knows you so well.’
With his head bowed, sadness radiates from him and I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable and bruised beneath his shield. It reminds me a little bit of how he looked when he came home drunk and he sat in that exact spot, staring at the cherry blossom art, lost in his thoughts.
‘You sound as if you know how that feels,’ I say cautiously, taking a gamble.
He stiffens, glancing up at me. I offer him a small smile, willing him to speak.
‘My father likes to put me in my place,’ he says eventually, holding my gaze. ‘Constant, cutting comments that chip away so lightly you don’t even notice the gaping hole they’re creating. It’s a clever form of bullying. Removing all your power to build up theirs. It can fly under the radar for quite a while.’
I swallow, my heart in my throat. ‘I’m sorry, Kieran. That’s awful.’
‘It’s all right,’ he tells me. ‘With the help of a very expensive therapist, I’ve learnt to deal with it and see it for what it is. He takes his anger out on me, I take my anger out on the court. Both of us are in pain.’
‘Is that… because of Aidan?’ I ask softly. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, then—’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he says earnestly, rubbing the nape of his neck with his free hand. ‘Yeah, to put it simply, a lot of our anger stems from losing Aidan.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ His brow creases before he glances up at me. ‘You know much about him?’
‘Aidan? Um… no, not really. I know he was a tennis player, too.’
‘Much better than me,’ he says wryly. ‘That was always the way since we were kids. He was the one destined for glory. Dad told me that before he died, and he continued to tell me afterwards. It felt wrong to carry on playing after we lost him, but it gave me purpose to get up every day.’ He knits his eyebrows together thoughtfully. ‘In the end, tennis saved me.’
I smile warmly at him and I think it catches him off-guard. He frowns uneasily, as though he’s suddenly realised what he’s talking about. He knocks back the final dregs in his glass.
‘Top-up?’ he asks, getting up.
‘Sure.’
He goes to the kitchen to get the bottle while I shuffle down the sofa to put his glass on one of the coasters. When he returns, he notices, filling my drink and making a point of finding a new coaster on which to place the bottle.
He nods to the three-wick candle set in the middle of the table. ‘Do you ever light that thing? Or is it here for show?’
‘Iris bought it for me when Jonah moved out and I’m yet to light it.’
He gives me a strange look. ‘What is it that you’re waiting for?’
‘It’s just so nice, I kept thinking I’d save it for a special occasion.’
‘I used to do that with wine. I’d refuse to drink the expensive stuff and then I realised that I was denying myself the good stuff that was left forgotten on the rack. It seemed… stupid.’
‘You’re right. It is stupid. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.’
He arches a brow. ‘You want to light the candle?’
‘Yes,’ I state firmly. ‘I want to light the bloody candle.’
He breaks into an unexpected grin, his dimples appearing and making my stomach flip. ‘Great. I like a good candle. Where can I find a lighter?’
‘There should be one in the kitchen drawers, in the cutlery one I think.’
He disappears again and I smile to myself, nestling back into the cushions. It strikes me that it’s strange to be spending the evening talking to Kieran O’Sullivan over a glass of wine and a three-wick candle, but it’s even stranger how it doesn’t feel strange at all.
‘Got it,’ Kieran announces, waving it in one hand and holding something else up in the other. ‘And look what else I found.’
I peer at him. ‘Is that a garlic press?’
‘This not what your one said he was here for earlier?’ he checks, bending over to carefully light the candle. As he leans forwards to click the lighter, my eyes linger on the tanned skin of his arms and how his bicep strains against the fabric of his T-shirt. I’m reminded of how it felt to be locked in those very arms, pressed against his warm, solid body, and a flurry of tingles races through my body, covering my skin in goosebumps.
‘Uh yeah,’ I say, swallowing. ‘That’s true. God.’ I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into my palm. ‘He couldn’t have come up with something better than a garlic press?’
‘It’s a sophisticated apparatus,’ Kieran remarks, pretending to examine it carefully as he takes his seat. I realise we’re sitting much closer since I moved up his end of the sofa to sort his glass out on the coaster and didn’t shuffle back. If I were to twist to face him properly, our knees would be touching. ‘I can understand why a pretentious shite like him would make the journey here for it.’
‘He really is a pretentious shite,’ I concede, my repetition of his phrase highlighting my clipped accent in comparison to his Dublin lilt. ‘I once went to a party thrown by his castmates, and while I was there I was going on about him being a great songwriter. When we got home, he said that he was embarrassed I kept calling him a “songwriter”, because it sounded too basic. He asked if, in the future, I could refer to him as a lyricist or musical poet.’
Kieran splutters on his sip of wine, leaning forwards and thumping his chest. Giggling, I bite my lip as he finishes coughing and looks up at me.
‘You’re kidding,’ he wheezes.
‘I wish I was.’
He bursts out laughing. I haven’t seen this before. God, he’s beautiful when he laughs like that, his eyes creasing, his dimples on full show. His whole face transforms with pure joy. Suddenly it’s all I want to do for the rest of the evening. Make this man laugh.
‘Musical poet. Wow. That guy.’ Kieran shakes his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand how you ever listened to the misguided opinion of some… pompous arse like him.’
‘It’s easy to believe someone’s opinion about you when you already think it about yourself,’ I reason, twirling the stem of the glass around in my fingers. ‘If no one supports you, you can easily convince yourself you don’t have what it takes.’
He sits back, watching me. ‘What about your family?’
I hesitate. ‘Uh, my grandmother was supportive. My dad, not so much.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re not close with him?’
‘He left when I was young and he’s more invested in his new family. He lives in the US and we catch up every now and then, but our relationship is a bit stilted. We don’t really know how to be around each other. He’s all right, but it’s always very formal.’
Kieran frowns, shifting in his seat. ‘And your mum?’
I drop my eyes to my lap. ‘She died when I was nineteen.’
‘Oh shit, Flora, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine. Well, I mean, you know, it’s not fine. Anyway, thank you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘She had issues with alcohol. It was hard. She wasn’t a bad person, but she did some bad things. We weren’t that close in the end.’
He nods. We fall into silence. He’s wearing a concerned expression and I feel guilty that my reluctance to talk about Mum has brought our flowing conversation to a standstill. It’s been nice to see Kieran relax a little.
‘Why do you play so much PlayStation?’ I ask suddenly, noticing it.
‘It stops me from thinking about tennis,’ he answers simply.
‘You think about tennis that much, huh?’
‘Quite a bit.’
‘Are you thinking about it now?’
The corners of his mouth twitch. ‘You just brought it up, so yeah. Do you play?’
‘Tennis? No. Not really. I like ping-pong though.’
‘Yeah?’ He looks impressed. ‘I’m quite good at ping-pong.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Obviously.’
‘It’s actually a very different skill to tennis,’ he says defensively.
‘Uh-huh. Sure.’
‘It is!’ he insists.
‘Kieran, stop trying to make out as though you’re talented at two sports. You’re talented at one sport, it just so happens you can play on a big court and on a mini one.’
‘This just sounds like you’re too chicken to face me.’
‘Excuse me?’
He shrugs, a hint of amusement across his expression. ‘It’s okay. You can admit that you’re scared. It would be like saying you’re too scared to take on a professional polo player in a game of croquet – I can understand you’d feel intimidated by me.’
‘I’m not intimidated by you.’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Are you challenging me to a ping-pong match?’
‘If you were brave enough to play, then why not?’
‘Oh, I’m brave enough. Fine, if we happen to come across a ping-pong table in the future, I will happily play you.’
‘Good. I look forward to it.’
‘Me too.’
We take a beat, and as I swallow, I notice his eyes flicker down to my mouth. I part my lips, before his gaze returns to meet mine and suddenly the air feels different, charged and exciting. When he looks away, he frowns uneasily, taking a sip of wine.
‘This is really nice wine,’ I remark, flustered, desperate to cut through the silence. ‘Much nicer than the stuff I usually have in my fridge.’
‘I’m glad you like it. It’s a Sancerre.’
‘Expensive. Are you into wine?’
‘A little.’
I hesitate. ‘Can I ask you a question? It may sound insulting at first, but I’m genuinely curious.’
He quirks a brow, relaxing a little. ‘Intriguing. All right, what is it?’
‘Are athletes supposed to drink when they’re playing a big tournament? I just thought you’d be on this huge health drive, no booze allowed kind of thing,’ I say hurriedly. ‘But then here we are tonight, and then you were out the other night…’
‘Yeah, it’s probably not the smartest tactic. But hey, I’ve done all that health-drive stuff before. When I was younger and I was taken seriously, I was very strict. It didn’t work out for me, so I got to the stage where I didn’t see the point in denying myself a drink every now and then.’
I frown at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If it’s the lead-up to the tournament and I feel like a glass of wine or a pint at the pub, then I’m not going to say no to—’
‘No, I meant, what do you mean when you were young you were taken seriously?’ I clarify. ‘That sounds like you’re insinuating you’re not taken seriously now.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m getting on now. I haven’t done badly recently but I’m not such a big name in the sport anymore. I’m probably going to retire this year.’ He cocks his head, unsure as to why I’m looking at him so strangely. ‘I’m not expected to win.’
‘But… don’t you want to win?’
He blinks at me. ‘Yeah, everyone wants to win. I’ve had enough chances, though, and whenever I got close…’ he pauses, his brow creasing as he tries to find the right words ‘…I kept losing.’ He drops his eyes and adds so quietly it’s almost inaudible, ‘Aidan would have kept winning.’
And suddenly, for just a fleeting moment, I once again catch a glimpse of a different Kieran to the one the world is presented with on court. With his shoulders slumped forward, his eyes gleaming with sadness, he seems defenceless and fragile. He’s lost and alone in his thoughts, a boy who has had to carry a crippling weight of expectation and grief on his shoulders for years.
When he clears his throat and lifts his head, the boy is gone.
‘So, in answer to your question, I allow myself the small pleasure of a nice glass of wine or a pint down the local, because why not?’ He plasters on a smile and takes a sip of his drink, forcing his voice to be carefree and upbeat. ‘When I lose at Wimbledon, I can blame it on the Sancerre.’
‘Who says you’re going to lose at Wimbledon?’
My direct comment catches him by surprise. He raises his eyebrows, stunned into silence. I stare right back at him with all seriousness.
‘Flossie, let’s be honest. I’ve never even got to the finals here before.’
I shrug. ‘So?’
‘So, I have to be realistic. No one thinks I have it in me to win.’
‘You did,’ I correct him.
‘What?’
‘There was an interview you did years ago. You said you would win Wimbledon.’
His expression darkens, his eyes glazing over with pain. ‘I was a young brat,’ he says, his voice low and strained. ‘I had no idea about anything. I shouldn’t have done that interview. The stuff they printed about what I said about Aidan… it was taken out of context. I didn’t mean—’
‘Kieran, I’m not talking about what you said about Aidan,’ I say, leaning forwards, my knee grazing against his as I shift and sending a jolt through my body. ‘I’m interested in what you said about you.’
He stares at me, his jaw clenched.
‘Just because you haven’t done it before, doesn’t mean you won’t win now,’ I assert, not sure when I became an expert on professional competing but probably somewhere between my last gulp of wine and now. ‘The way you spoke in that interview, I believed you.’
‘You think… I still have it in me to win?’ he asks quietly.
‘Do you?’
Taking a deep breath in, he sips his wine.
‘This is Wimbledon, right? Anything can happen,’ I remind him.
He lowers his glass, his striking eyes sparkling at me. And then he breaks into a smile, a small one but it’s so genuine and hopeful and inviting, that it makes my heart somersault and my breath catch in my throat. Those dimples.
It’s not until much later in the evening when we’ve gone to bed that I realise what is niggling at the back of my brain. He called me Flossie.
I liked it.