Chapter 28
28
‘—and with this kind of attitude, Kieran, you’re not going to win tomorrow. Chris Courtney will embarrass you on Centre Court in front of the world. Is that what you want?’
Brian’s voice echoes around the flat the moment he steps through the door on Saturday afternoon, his aggressive remarks making my stomach lurch. I start gathering my sketches sprawled across the table into a neater pile, setting down my pencil and going to the sink to wash the dark smudges off my hands.
‘You have to go on the attack, Kieran,’ Brian instructs, his voice coming closer as they walk towards the kitchen. ‘You’re not playing like you really want it. Do you want it?’
‘Of course I want it,’ Kieran snaps, appearing in the doorway.
I turn off the tap, glancing up at him as he comes in. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ he replies, before his brow furrows even deeper and he heads straight for the fridge to grab an energy drink.
Ignoring my presence completely, Brian lingers in the doorway. ‘You’re floundering because you’re letting your emotions get the better of you. You have to stay focused. Don’t let your mind and your emotions take hold of your performance. Be more…’
He searches for the word.
‘Be more like Aidan?’ Kieran suggests, his tone mechanical but cutting.
My breath catches.
Brian breathes out slowly, his expression darkening. ‘Be more controlled is what I was going to say. Jesus Christ, Kieran.’ His eyes flicker to me before he clears his throat. ‘Get some rest for the next couple of hours. I’ll be back this evening to analyse your play from today. We’ll go through our strategy. Chris has plenty of weaknesses that we can home in on. You’ve got it in you, Kieran, you need to find the strength to fight for what you want.’
Kieran doesn’t say anything, his expression inscrutable as he takes a swig of his drink.
Brian shakes his head and turns, stomping down the hallway and out of the flat. I feel like I can only breathe once he’s left, but his presence still lingers here somehow, as though he’s managed to make the air in here chillier. Kieran doesn’t move, his body tense, his mouth straight, his eyes glazed over.
He’s different. His expression, the way he’s holding himself, it’s all different. Ever since the semi-finals, he’s felt distant from me. That’s what I wanted, it was for the best. But I’ve been grappling with an aching heart as I’ve had to stand by and watch him withdraw into himself the last couple of days. I don’t know how it must feel to reach the final of Wimbledon, to have what you’ve always dreamed of just within your grasp, but I can imagine that it’s hard to keep focus beneath the staggering pressure, and it seems as though the way Kieran is handling it is to turn numb to everything and everyone around him.
The whole world is talking about it. It’s a sensational story: Kieran O’Sullivan and Chris Courtney facing each other in the final of Wimbledon. Two fierce rivals, neither of them youngsters on the circuit anymore, both of them desperate for this one title. Chris is a Grand Slam winner but he’s never got Wimbledon. According to the media, the atmosphere in Ireland this weekend is electric. Kieran’s face is plastered everywhere around Dublin. The pubs are crammed with revellers eager to celebrate their local boy’s surprise ascent to the top once again. On Sunday, the entire country will be watching without fail, cheering him on.
But in the flat, the atmosphere is bleak.
Brian and Neil came home with him after the semi-finals and I only just managed to congratulate him before they started outlining the strict routine they had for him. When they left, he lingered in the living room with me and neither of us seemed to know what to say.
‘You’re through to the final,’ I’d managed to blurt out stupidly.
He’d nodded. ‘Not sure I can believe it.’
‘I can.’
He’d lifted his eyes to mine and his eyebrows had pulled together, his jaw tensing.
‘Flora,’ he’d croaked, ‘the article about your parents…’
‘It’s nothing. I was hoping you wouldn’t see it.’
‘It was shown to me after the match. You must have thought I didn’t care.’
‘No, that’s not… I didn’t think that. I’d rather forget about it anyway.’
He’d bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘We need to stop talking about this and talk about the fact that you’re through to the Wimbledon final! This is amazing, Kieran. I’m so proud of you.’
‘I got a free pass,’ he’d said, his expression clouding over. ‘Everyone knows that if it wasn’t for his calf cramp, then he would have won. He could barely run in the last set.’
‘That’s not true. You would have won anyway. That’s what I think.’
When he didn’t reply, I’d taken a few steps towards him and tentatively put my arms out, pulling him into a hug. His hands slowly came across to my lower back, pressing me into his body, as he lowered his head and exhaled into my hair, as though he was breathing out more than air. He was breathing out the stress, the anxiety, the chaos of the day, and he was finally still. We’d stood there for a few seconds and I’d felt my resolve fracturing as I melted into the warmth of his chest, felt the safe solidarity of his arms around me, breathed in his freshly showered scent that sent tingles down my spine.
I’d so badly wanted to talk to him then. I’d wanted to ask him how he felt and tell him how I felt, talk to him about his day, tell him about my call with Dad. But it wasn’t fair to burden him with all of that when he’d just played in the semi-finals. He was exhausted.
So, I’d pushed away and told him that we should go to bed.
He’d remained quiet and pensive as I’d got the duvet and pillows ready for the sofa.
It was for the best.
But looking at him now, as he remains still against the counter, sipping at his energy drink like a robot that’s been programmed to play tennis and then completely switch off in between, I’m not sure it’s been for the best at all. The last couple of days, I’ve left him at the mercy of Neil and Brian, with no one else to talk to. They’re hardly a barrel of laughs. I doubt he’s had a moment of light relief and, considering this is the biggest event of his career, that might be what he needs. The worst thing is that he knows I lied to him about the job interview. What a stupid excuse.
‘You’ve been working on your book,’ he says suddenly, jolting me from my thoughts. He puts his energy drink down on the counter and gestures to the pages piled up on the kitchen table next to my sketching pencils.
‘Yes, it’s been going well actually.’
‘You didn’t do any drawing yesterday, though.’
I blink at him. ‘Oh. Uh, no I didn’t. You noticed. How did you—’
‘You leave your pile of sketches out. The top one was still the same yesterday as it had been on Thursday.’
‘You’re not supposed to look at my drawings,’ I say lightly.
He shrugs, allowing a weak smile. ‘Can’t help it.’
‘The inspiration wasn’t flowing yesterday. Or today, to be honest. I tried to get a bit done, but I’m not sure it’s any good,’ I admit. ‘Not my best work.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ His eyes drop to the floor. ‘You’ve had to contend with your life being splashed about for everyone to see. I can’t imagine that’s good for creativity.’
I watch him carefully. He looks troubled and tense, and I want to help him.
‘Kieran, are you okay?’ I ask gently, my fingers twitching, aching to reach out to him. ‘Is it your dad?’
He glances up at me, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘What about him?’
‘The things he was saying when you came in. I don’t know, they seem a bit harsh.’
‘He wants me to win.’
‘I know, but does he need to be so mean about it? That stuff about Chris Courtney embarrassing you tomorrow, it’s a little unnecessary.’
‘He’s right, though, isn’t he,’ Kieran says in a low, defeated voice. ‘The way I played today, I embarrassed myself.’
‘I’m sure you weren’t that bad.’
‘You weren’t there,’ he snaps.
I press my lips together. He’s frustrated with himself, I can see that, but there was something else that crossed his expression then. Hurt, I think.
‘Kieran, I’m sorry about the semi-finals,’ I say, stepping back and gripping the counter behind me for something to do with my hands. ‘I wanted to explain about why I made up that stuff about the job interview to miss being there for the match.’
He bows his head. ‘It’s okay, you don’t need to explain. I know why you couldn’t be there. Why you shouldn’t be there.’
Shouldn’t.One tiny word. Or two words, if we’re getting technical. Two little words, meshed together with an ability to cause a blow so considerable it knocks the breath right out of you. It changes everything that word. It tells me that he agrees with his dad and Neil. I think part of me hoped he’d fight for me to be at the final, even if I was the one to take the step back. It’s natural, isn’t it, to want someone to fight for you?
‘You do,’ I say, my heart sinking.
‘I’m sorry that I put you in this position,’ he says quietly. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I was being selfish.’
‘Me too. I want what’s best for you.’
He nods. ‘And I want what’s best for you. It’s better this way,’ he croaks, his voice strained and unnatural. ‘It would be worse to end it further down the line.’
I blink at him. ‘End it?’
‘I want you to know that I never set out to hurt—’
‘Kieran, wait.’ I stare at him in disbelief. ‘You… you want to end it completely? Me and you. You… you’re ending it.’
He watches me in confusion, his eyebrows knit together. ‘That’s what we were saying. That’s what you’ve been talking about.’
‘No! Not… really. I just thought I needed to step back a bit for the end of the tournament,’ I say, the words tumbling out of me as I become desperate to explain myself, desperate to clear up any miscommunication. ‘I had to let you focus on the tennis, rather than… us. I’ve been a distraction. That’s why I didn’t come to the semi-finals. No one thought it was a good idea, and I didn’t want to be the reason you lost your chance, so I thought…’ I trail off, my head spinning. ‘You really want to end it? As in, properly end it?’
His lips part, his jaw set. ‘I… we have to.’
‘No, we don’t.’ My heart is thudding so loudly against my chest, it’s making my ears ring and my breath shake. ‘Kieran, did your dad and Neil tell you to end it?’
He flinches. ‘What? Why would you ask that?’
Because they told me to,I want to shout. But in spite of everything, I’m still not able to bring myself to reveal their meddling ways the day before the Wimbledon final. No matter how I feel, he needs them. He has to be able to trust them. I can’t affect that.
‘Did they?’ I press.
‘They don’t get to tell me what to do in my personal life.’
‘Really?’ I say curtly, folding my arms across my chest.
He glowers at me. ‘Really. I can make my own decisions.’
‘Neil has been against me from the start.’
‘Yes, and I’ve told him to fuck off,’ he says tersely.
‘Okay, so ending it now is what you want.’
‘It’s not about what I want,’ he growls, his eyes falling to the floor. ‘It’s about doing what’s right. This isn’t going to work. The last couple of days have shown that.’
‘Kieran, if this is about me ducking out of the semi-finals and sleeping on the sofa, I’ve told you that I wanted you to be able to focus on the tennis. I knew the team felt that way, and so I was trying to do what’s right.’
‘Exactly, and that’s what I’m trying to do now.’
‘I don’t understand. We can see where we are after Wimbledon. We can give things a go. I want to give things a go.’
‘Flora, we have known each other for a few weeks and look what’s happened,’ he says, scrunching up his eyes and rubbing his temples. ‘Look at what being with me has done to you. The paparazzi everywhere. The news stories about your family, about your past. It’s crushing, all of it is crushing. I can’t… I don’t want this for you anymore.’
A flicker of hope alights in my heart. He’s protecting me. It’s not that he doesn’t want me, he’s trying to protect me. That has to be it. Please let that be it.
‘I don’t care about that stuff,’ I say, my voice raspy and soft. ‘I can cope with it.’
‘They don’t give up. They keep going after you.’
‘I’ll handle it. Kieran—’
‘No.’ He’s shaking his head, his cheeks flushing. ‘You haven’t been able to work because of it. It’s affecting your drawing. I’m getting in the way of your dream. Things will only get worse. It won’t work. It’s for the best.’
Grabbing his energy drink, he pushes himself off the kitchen counter and, taking a large swig from it, he storms out the kitchen heading towards the living room. He needs a break from this conversation, but he’s not getting it. I’m not going to let him.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself the last couple of days. It’s for the best,’ I say, following him in as he moves to stand by the window. ‘But it wasn’t, was it. Kieran, I watched your match. I think… I think you needed me there.’
‘I needed to be better. I got inside my head.’
‘You let your dad inside your head,’ I correct stubbornly. He stares at me, stunned at my comment, but I plough on regardless. ‘I could see the effect he had on you. You were playing differently.’
‘I was too emotional.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I challenge, taking a step forwards. ‘The best times I’ve seen you play are when you play with your emotion, Kieran. You play with passion and fun and love of the game. That used to be your style, didn’t it? You played with flair.’
‘I was never good enough.’
‘You are good enough,’ I tell him sternly, pointing my finger at him. ‘You’re more than good enough. You’re the best and you’re going to win Wimbledon tomorrow.’
He gazes at me, his chest rising and dipping with each haggard breath. ‘And if I do, then what? I keep going on the tour, travelling the world, trying to win again and again?’
‘If that’s what you want.’ I hesitate, watching him as he turns away from me. ‘Is that what you want?’
He doesn’t say anything. He’s standing motionless now, staring at his shoes.
‘I don’t think that’s what you want, Kieran,’ I begin cautiously. ‘I think that’s what everyone else thinks you want. The Grand Slams. The tour. The wins.’
‘I want to win Wimbledon,’ he states firmly.
‘I know. And I think you will. But you don’t have to win to feel… happy. I’ve seen you light up when you’re playing this game, this game that saved you when you felt so lost and alone, the game that gave you purpose. Tennis makes you happy, not the winning. You don’t have to shoulder all this pressure. You can do something else.’
He rubs his forehead. ‘Flora—’
‘I’m just saying, don’t get bogged down by what comes next. You get to choose.’
He sighs, exhaling and closing his eyes. It takes me a moment to realise that he’s called me Flora, and not Flossie. He’s pulling back. I know it before he speaks.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t… I can’t do this to you. It won’t work. It never does.’
Hot tears prick behind my eyes.
‘So you’re giving up now,’ I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘You’re not even going to bother to try. You’re throwing something good away because you’re scared.’
‘That’s not what this is.’
‘That is what this is,’ I retort, a tear rolling down my cheek. My chest tightens as it grapples with confusion and hurt and anger and sadness all at once. ‘You told me that you knew this was something, you promised me a third date, but now you’re doing what you always do, even in tennis. Giving up before it gets real. Saving yourself from the pressure. You’re pushing me away to protect yourself.’
‘I’m trying to protect you,’ he argues, his eyes ablaze. ‘For fuck’s sake, Flossie, it shouldn’t be this hard! We’ve barely even started out and look at us!’ He throws his hands up. ‘This is how it goes. And if I win tomorrow, then it only gets worse. The distance, the pressure, the spotlight. Everything heightens and so everything cracks.’
‘This might not!’ I cry, the tears flowing freely now.
‘It will! Of course it will!’
‘You think you don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t know if it’s because of guilt over Aidan, but for some reason, you think you don’t deserve to win Wimbledon. But you do, Kieran. You deserve everything. You just have to take the chance.’
He exhales and rubs his face with his hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just… I can’t. Not with you. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’
The room falls into silence.
‘That’s it then,’ I whisper.
Unable to bring himself to look at me, he gives a sharp nod.
After a wave of emotion, I suddenly feel numb. I’ve been here before. Rejected, unwanted, foolish for believing it might just work. I’m not going to beg him to reconsider. I’ve tried to make him see, and he doesn’t want to.
So, as I said. That’s it then.
My body seems to know what to do, though my brain and heart are in freefall. My feet take me out of the room and to the coat hooks, where I find my bag that has my sunglasses in. My fingers trembling, I fish them out and rest them on top of my head. I crouch down to take my trainers from the shoe stand and I falter when I see his trainers on the floor next to it. He must have kicked them off when he came in out of habit. Previously, he’s enjoyed teasing me about how long it takes for me to notice his shoes lying around and put them neatly on the stand.
Our little in-joke doesn’t seem funny anymore.
I don’t put them away. I leave them where they are. Sliding my feet into my shoes, I check my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red from crying. My skin is pale from the shock. Reaching for my phone in my back pocket, I order an Uber. There’s one two minutes away. During the championships, they tend to hang around the Village.
Waiting for it to turn onto our road, I inhale deeply and shuffle to the doorway of the living room. Kieran hasn’t moved from where I left him. His head is hanging forwards now, and he’s folded his arms tightly across his chest, his shoulders slumped.
He hears me come back in and he looks up.
‘Before I go, I just wanted to clear up something,’ I say so softly that I realise I’m going to have to speak up for him to hear me across the room. ‘You said earlier that you’re getting in the way of my dream. That all the nonsense that’s been going on the last couple of days—’ I gesture to out there, beyond the front door ‘—has affected my work. You think, because of you, I stopped drawing.’
He stares at me, tight-lipped.
‘But you forgot that you were the reason I started drawing again in the first place,’ I say, mustering a regretful smile. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, Kieran.’
I don’t wait around for him to respond. I walk down the hallway to the door, sliding my sunglasses on and opening it. My exit takes the paparazzi by surprise, but they don’t take long to spring into action, swarming around me as I come through the gate. My head down, I ignore their questions and practically throw myself into the back seat of the waiting car, slamming the door shut behind me.
The driver sets off, taking me away from Lingfield Road.