Match Point

Chapter 14

14

I have so many butterflies flitting around my stomach I can’t eat. I honestly don’t know how Kieran possibly handles these nerves – if I’m feeling like this when I’m not even a player, how must he be feeling when he’s the one about to step out on court any moment? The Wimbledon Championships just seem so DAUNTING. Seven rounds over two weeks: first, second, third, and fourth round, then quarter-finals, semi-finals, and lastly, the final. How are these players not completely exhausted by the time they get to the final?! They get, like, one day break between their matches during that first week. I’ve looked it up and, as Kieran is playing today, the first day of the tournament, if things go his way and he keeps knocking his opponents out, he’ll be playing Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday this week, and then Tuesday, Friday, and the final Sunday next week.

That is a LOT. I’m tired just thinking about it.

Also get this: you get paid ￡55,000 for reaching the first round of Wimbledon. Even if you get knocked out that first match, you get that money in your bank account. And it keeps going up from there; you get more prize money for each round you get to. That’s just one tennis tournament in the year.

WHY am I not a professional tennis player?!

Although, the nerves are enough to put me off. When Neil came to collect Kieran this morning, he told me that he would be playing on Court Seven, which isn’t being broadcast with the main coverage on BBC One, but I’m able to live-stream on iPlayer. That was pretty much the extent of our conversation while he waited in the living room for Kieran to get ready to leave. Neil is definitely suspicious of me. After I’d finished offering him every variety of drink available in the house – of which there are quite a few, thanks to Kieran’s nutritionist – and he’d politely declined all of them, he stood by the fireplace looking at his phone while I sat down and pretended to look at mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him glancing at me every now and then with his brow furrowed, as though he was trying to work me out.

Kieran and I had an awkward goodbye thanks to Neil’s presence. If Neil hadn’t been there, I would have hugged him or something, but because he was watching us like a hawk, all I could do was smile at Kieran and say, ‘You’ve got this,’ before he was ushered out the door. I hope he remembered to bring the bubbles in his tennis bag.

Perched now on the edge of the sofa, I take a deep breath as I watch him and his opponent walk out on court. I feel a swell of pride at knowing him. I can’t believe I’ve kissed this man. My heart sinks as Jonah’s voice flits across my brain, reminding me that there must be a few women who have felt like this when Kieran O’Sullivan walks onto the court.

You can’t think he’s genuinely serious about you.

This morning, I put on a Wimbledon podcast that had an Irish commentator on it while I made a cup of tea, and when Kieran’s name came up, I stopped what I was doing to listen, standing still in the middle of the kitchen floor. ‘Kieran O’Sullivan has talent, but he’s never quite lived up to his potential,’ the presenter was saying in exasperation. ‘If you want to win Wimbledon, you have to be controlled mentally, but he’s too volatile. He’s just not a level-headed guy out there. He’s had many chances and he’s always bottled it. But hey, he’s a lovely player to watch… when he controls his temper. Maybe he’ll surprise us this year. But honestly? I’m not holding my breath. John, what do you think?’

I switched it off.

Then, I sat down at the kitchen table. I opened my pad to a clean page, selected a pencil from the tin and I started sketching. Before I switched on the TV to watch Kieran’s match, I actually managed to finish a draft of the panel I’d hoped to complete today, so I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Ever since the story idea sparked into my head, it’s as though the characters have invented themselves without much work from me. They’re driving the plot themselves and every now and then, I’ll find myself sketching something about them that takes me a little bit by surprise – sometimes that alters the plot I’d planned a little – but that’s okay. I’m happily losing myself in their story every day, learning about them as I go. I can’t describe the feeling I get when I’m drawing. I’m not sure you can even call it a feeling. It’s more of a state, a contented haze that I get to enter from which the rest of the world is completely shut off. I haven’t found this place in a long time and I was scared I’d never get to retreat to it again, but recently I can’t stop stepping back into it whenever I get the chance.

Even if this story goes nowhere, even if it doesn’t become the graphic novel I’m hoping it will be, I’m so grateful that it’s taken me this far. It may sound strange, but when I’m sketching, I know I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing.

I wonder if that’s how Kieran feels when he plays tennis.

At least with my chosen art form, I can enjoy it alone without anyone else muscling in on it, but I guess you don’t have that luxury in sport. Kieran’s opponent in the first round is a young Swiss guy, Alex Berger, who, according to my googling, has a killer serve. ‘Power, power, power’ is how the article described Berger’s style, which sounds mildly terrifying and, from the look of him, that does make sense. He’s shorter than Kieran, but seems to be pure muscle, his biceps filling the short sleeves of his white shirt, his thick thighs stretching the fabric of his shorts.

When Kieran strolls to the baseline to start their warm-up, my stomach twists and lurches. Chewing my thumbnail, I have no idea how I’m going to sit through this entire match alone.

FLORA

Are you watching him?

IRIS

No, I have to watch the play on centre court

But I’ll keep checking the score when I can??

I feel so nervous

I want him to win so badly

For him or for you???

If he wins, he stays in the flat longer, right?

He’s rented the flat out

for the whole tournament

Tennis players don’t tend to hang around

Wimbledon once they’ve been knocked out??

So if he loses today,

he might leave today??

Maybe

I hadn’t thought of that

Do you think he can win?

If he wants it badly enough

Wimbledon always has a few surprises in store

Shit it’s starting

*

God, he’s beautiful to watch. Kieran’s a breathtaking Adonis flying across the grass court, so effortless, nimble and fast, so fluid and powerful. You can see the fire in his eyes as he goes for the ball with a fierce expression of grit and determination, whipping it over the net in one swift, flowing swing of his racket that has become a natural extension of his arm.

At the end of the first set, I conclude that his opponent has no chance. Kieran won it 6–4, and he looks like he’s barely broken a sweat. When the camera zooms in on his face as he finishes swigging a bottle of cloudy vitamin water, his eyebrows are pulled together, his mouth a straight line – he’s giving away nothing, but surely he can accept that he’s got this in the bag. I’m absolutely buzzing! Now that I’ve seen what he can do, the nerves have morphed into smug satisfaction and I’ve taken the opportunity to swap my glass of water out for a can of Pimm’s.

When in Rome.

The second set begins and I’m lounging happily on my sofa, cheering loudly at every winner, groaning in irritation at a point loss – although I suppose he has to let the other guy have something. When he breaks Berger’s serve, I jump to my feet and applaud him enthusiastically on the off-chance he can hear my lone clapping through the TV, and when he takes the game and the second set, I’m up on my feet, cheering and whooping along with the Irish in the crowd, dancing around the living room floor.

FLORA

He is SMASHING this!!

IRIS

Don’t jinx it

He’s two sets up!!

Sounds like he’s playing brilliantly

But this is the test

What test??

The third set

He has to keep his head

Does he normally lose his

head in the third set?

When you get close to winning you start

thinking about winning rather than each point

You know?

Not really

But I’m sure you’re making sense

I’m not worried

He’s killing it

????

Also Pimm’s is DELICIOUS

Why don’t we drink this all year round?

It’s an important question

You should address it on your blog

Stop writing about championships and tours

I want to hear more about Pimm’s

Give the people what they want

I’m glad you’re getting into the spirit of things

I love this game!!

*

I hate this game.

I absolutely hate this game. How is this possible? How is this happening? He’s just lost the third set 6–2! It doesn’t make any sense!

My head in my hands, I watch as the camera zooms in on Kieran dabbing the sweat off his neck with a towel before he tosses it on the chair next to him. His right leg is shaking. Or rather, he’s shaking his right leg. I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. His jaw is twitching, his eyes have darkened – he looks more angry than determined.

‘Keep your head,’ I tell him through the screen. ‘You’ve got this.’

But he can’t hear me. I hate that he can’t hear me.

It’s time and he pushes himself sluggishly off the chair while his opponent springs to his feet, racing down his end of the court.

‘No, no, no,’ I mutter, frowning at Kieran as he plucks pointlessly at the strings of his racket. ‘Don’t lose hope. You’re still a set up.’

Not for long. As the fourth set slips away from him, his whole demeanour changes and the atmosphere on court sours. He starts yelling at himself whenever he makes a mistake and knocking at his leg with his racket in frustration. The microphones can pick up on what he’s saying as he tells himself it’s ‘not good enough’ and to ‘sort yourself out’. During an end change, Kieran spends too long at his chair fishing out another racket from his bag and the chair umpire prompts him again.

‘Yes, I’m coming!’ Kieran snaps.

The umpire lifts his eyebrows – he doesn’t approve of the tone.

When Berger wins the set point with a masterful forehand, Kieran watches it fly past from the other side of the court, powerless, and he closes his eyes and nods. It’s like he’s accepted the loss.

I’m worried now, but I won’t lose hope, and I try to send all those vibes through the screen to Kieran, willing him to believe in himself. It’s the fifth set and the crowd are as invested in this match as I am. It’s already been a rollercoaster and could go either way. He wins his serve, but then swiftly loses the next game. As he steps up to serve again, I am sitting on the edge of my seat, leaning forwards with my elbows resting on my knees, my jaw aching from how tightly my teeth are clenched.

Do not lose this game,I’m thinking over and over. Because I can tell that Kieran’s confidence is hanging on by a thread and if the other guy breaks his serve, I’m not sure he will find the strength to come back. I know he has it in him, but I don’t think he does.

Kieran kicks the game off with a powerful serve, but Berger gets the return. They embark on an extraordinary rally, both playing as though everything rests on this one point. Kieran gets in what I’d assume to be a lethal slice drop shot, but Berger miraculously reaches it, tapping it over the net as he stumbles over his feet. Kieran lunges forward and manages to lob the ball back. Only just recovering from the drop shot, Berger doesn’t give up, racing backwards with his racket outstretched and sending it soaring back over the net to the baseline. Kieran isn’t prepared, but he goes for it all the same and manages a clumsy return. Now in full control, his opponent calmly measures up the ball and thwacks the ball diagonally across the court to the open space. It should be a winning shot.

But Kieran has guessed his play and he’s there.

It’s like slow motion, the way his body rotates, pulling the racket back and then swinging it through the air in one smooth, silky flow of movement. A bright yellow blur, the ball zips over the net and lands just inside the singles sideline of the service box.

He’s won the point. Just before he launches into an animated fist pump in celebration, I see the flash of surprise cross his face. Berger is flabbergasted. That one little point was the confidence boost he needed and now, nothing can stop him.

He’s back in the game.

*

FLORA

What type of cake do you think is more appropriate

to celebrate getting through the first round of Wimbledon,

chocolate or red velvet? Or could go Victoria sponge??

Instead of Champagne, I’m going for English sparkling wine

I thought that’s kind of on theme,

because it’s an England tournament

Although now I think about it,

they serve Champagne at Wimbledon

Argh do you think he’d prefer Champagne??

I’ll stick to my guns, it’s already in the basket

How cute is this, I found tennis-themed napkins!!

They have little tennis balls all over them.

I bought two packs of 20

Probably a bit excessive

Also they only had HAPPY BIRTHDAY banners

so I got one of those and I’ll just scribble over it

Hello?

Are you there?

Cool cool just talking to myself

IRIS

Wow

I was updating the blog so have just seen these

How many Pimm’s have you had?

*

Kieran enters the flat arguing with Neil.

‘You knew!’ he snaps, as he steps through the door, his sharp voice echoing off the walls, sucking every ounce of excitement right out of me and making my blood turn cold. ‘You knew this whole time and you didn’t say anything! You lied to me.’

‘I didn’t lie to you!’ Neil protests.

‘You didn’t tell me the truth, Neil. That’s lying.’

Kieran storms into the living room with a thunderous expression, Neil hot on his heels. I’m standing stupidly under the HAPPY BIRTHDAY GETTING THROUGH TO THE SECOND ROUND banner, ready to pull a party popper, but I quickly realise that this is not the time. Kieran barely notices me. He’s rubbing his forehead with his hand, looking pained.

‘Kieran,’ Neil says pleadingly, ‘I was trying to protect you.’

‘Protect me?’ Kieran growls, rounding on him, his nostrils flaring with fury. ‘I was blindsided. I was on a high, Neil, and the rug was swept out from under my fucking feet by a journalist who seems to know more about my life than I do.’

‘I didn’t want it to affect your performance,’ Neil explains calmly, looking him in the eye. ‘I knew it would be a blow and I didn’t think you needed to deal with it right before the tournament.’

‘And dealing with it after the first round of the tournament is much better,’ Kieran scoffs.

‘I had no idea the press knew about it. I wasn’t even one hundred per cent sure it had been confirmed. If I’d had thought for a moment that someone might ask you—’

‘You should have told me, Neil,’ Kieran states coldly. ‘I deserved to know.’

Neil swallows, his eyes glistening with regret. ‘It might not be that bad,’ he says quietly, pressing his hands together. ‘It could be nothing and—’

‘Nothing,’ Kieran hisses, recoiling at the suggestion.

Neil can sense his poor choice of words and hangs his head.

Kieran shakes his head at him in disbelief.

His eyes land on me and he manages to whisper, ‘Sorry, Flossie,’ before he exits the room. I jump at the bedroom door slamming. Neil exhales, his breath shaking.

‘Shit,’ he whispers.

‘What happened?’ I ask, aghast.

He glances at me, his lips pursed.

‘We had a press conference after the match. It was going very well until one of the reporters asked him what he thought about the news that his father has written a book.’

My mouth turns dry. ‘A book about Kieran?’

Neil nods slowly. ‘Kieran, Aidan, all of it. It’s a memoir.’

‘Oh my God,’ I utter, my chest swelling with an ache of sympathy for him.

‘I don’t know how much you know about the O’Sullivan family, but I can’t imagine Kieran will come out looking like the son of the year. And obviously, anything about Aidan—’

His eyes fall to the floor.

I’m too shocked to speak, my heart too heavy to say anything useful.

Eventually, Neil clears his throat. ‘I should go. I’ll be back in the morning to pick him up for training. Lots of work to do.’ He hesitates, giving me a pointed look. ‘Probably best to leave him tonight. Let him cool off.’

I nod.

‘Right then.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

He turns to leave, shuffling out of the room and down the hallway, each step weighed down with disappointment and regret. The front door shuts and the flat descends into an eerie silence. I go quietly into the kitchen to put away the cake.