Match Point

Chapter 29

29

COURTNEY vs O’SULLIVAN

Why the gentlemen’s singles Wimbledon title is all to play for

By Iris Gray

When I started this blog two weeks ago, I was asked by my editor to give my prediction on who I thought would make it to the final. I made a shortlist and I published it, and the majority of comments I received were in agreement.

Neither Australia’s Chris Courtney nor Ireland’s Kieran O’Sullivan were on that list.

But here we are, the day of the final when Courtney or O’Sullivan will walk away as Wimbledon Champion. It’s true what they say, then: at Wimbledon, anything can happen.

I won’t be bothering to predict who will be the new king of Centre Court, but I can say with absolute certainty that we are in for quite the match. Here we have two experienced players, both in their thirties, both delivering a remarkable comeback this tournament.

Let’s start with number-eighteen seed, Chris Courtney, the Aussie who had a meteoric rise in his twenties, winning three Grand Slams: the Australian Open, and the US Open twice. Once admitting in an interview that it was his ‘fear of defeat’ rather than the joy of winning that spurred him on, Courtney remains a top-tier player, although in the last two years has found himself coming up short more than once. Having had a good run at Queen’s in June, this tournament has seen his ambition return and he has had a spectacular two weeks, proving his mental resilience and remarkable power. Woe betide anyone who underestimates this fierce and dynamic player.

Is there a reason he’s back in the forefront? Well, perhaps he’s playing to match the recent unforeseen rise of his long-rumoured rival…

Kieran O’Sullivan. The unseeded Irishman who, against all odds, has reached the final of the Wimbledon Championships. I’m calling it now: this is the comeback of the year.

Two weeks ago there were whispers about his impending retirement, but he’s been, undeniably, the most exciting player of the tournament. Catapulted into international stardom as a fresh-faced teenager who beat the then-world number one to reach the final of the Australian Open, O’Sullivan rendered spectators speechless with his abundance of natural talent, smooth style and exquisite precision – he had, as one commentator at the time put it, ‘a serious spark on the court’. He subsequently faced a number of challenges in his professional and personal life, not least the tragic death of his older brother, Aidan, and his career has had its ups and downs. He’s struggled to find his balance amongst the top players, becoming more recognised for his flaring temper than his ATP wins.

But something has changed in O’Sullivan this tournament, and we have had the privilege of watching something extraordinary: his spark is back. We can’t know for sure what – or should we say, who – may have caused this change, but what we do know is that he is playing with more heart than we’ve seen from him in the last decade and it’s making him a force to be reckoned with.

Two great players who have earned this shot at the most coveted trophy in tennis.

May the best man win.

*

I peer at Iris over the top of my phone as she sets down a mug of coffee on the table next to her parents’ sofa.

‘What?’ she says defensively, moving my feet so she can sit down.

I clear my throat and read out loud: ‘“We can’t know what– or should we say, who – may have caused this change, but what we do know is that he is playing with more heart than we’ve seen from him in the last decade.”’ I lower my phone. ‘Are you serious?’

‘He is! There’s nothing in there that implies it has anything to do with you. I could be talking about anyone! Maybe I’m talking about Neil. Maybe his dad.’

Tilting my head, I arch my brow. She rolls her eyes.

‘Okay, so maybe it could be interpreted in a way that suggests his falling head over heels has impacted his performance on the court.’ She offers me an apologetic smile. ‘In my defence, I wrote that yesterday and it was on a timer to publish this morning. I forgot to edit it.’

I sigh, reaching for the mug. ‘I’ll forgive you because you’ve brought me coffee. And without you, I would have been homeless last night.’

‘Mi casa es su casa.’ She hesitates. ‘Or rather, my parents’ house is your house.’

I smile into my drink. ‘It’s so kind of them to let me show up without warning and crash on their sofa.’

‘It’s really no problem; they love having you. Mum’s been using you as an excuse to yell at Dad for turning the second spare room into a gym that he never uses. I do feel bad you being on the sofa. You should have slept in my bed with me.’ She pats my leg under the duvet. ‘I’m a very good sleep partner. I don’t snore or anything.’

‘I would have kept you up, tossing and turning. My brain wouldn’t let me sleep. Anyway, I’ve become accustomed to sleeping on the sofa recently.’

She looks at me, her eyes filled with concern. ‘Are you okay, Flora?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ I say. She looks unconvinced. ‘I’m fine, really. It was a whirlwind romance, a summer fling, and now it’s over. We’re adults. We move on.’

‘It seemed more than a fling, though,’ she says carefully. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t give up on it quite yet. The pressure of Wimbledon, it would cause even the most level-headed person to spiral. He might have been having a moment yesterday.’

I shake my head, picking at the handle of the mug. ‘He made his feelings very clear, Iris. There’s no hope. And even if I think we have a shot, I don’t want to have to persuade someone to love me back. If he’s giving up, then I’m not fighting for it.’

She’s looking at me strangely, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, her eyes glistening.

‘What? What is it?’ I ask, puzzled by her expression.

‘Oh, Flora. You said you don’t want to persuade him to love you back,’ she says softly, giving me a half-smile. ‘You love him.’

I stiffen. ‘No, I… I didn’t mean…’

My sentence trails off as the realisation sinks in that there’s no point in protesting something that we know to be true. My heart jumps into my throat and I start to feel sick, an uncomfortable feeling sinking into my stomach.

‘I can’t,’ I whisper, looking at Iris in a panic. ‘I haven’t known him that long.’

She shrugs. ‘When you know, you know. And it has been an intense few weeks for you two. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve been living together. Besides—’ she raises her eyebrows at me ‘—I don’t think there’s a rigid rule about how long you need to know someone to fall in love with them.’

I press a hand on my chest in an attempt to steady my erratic heartbeat. ‘I admit, I’ve been falling for him. I mean, who wouldn’t?’

She nods solemnly. ‘He has the body of a Calvin Klein model, he has an Irish accent and there’s only one bed in your flat. Obviously you fell for him.’

‘Exactly. Obviously.’ I chew on my thumbnail, frowning. ‘But I didn’t think I’d fallen, you know, all the way.’

‘And now you know you have,’ Iris says slowly, looking at me as though this is a test.

I take a moment to seriously think about this. It might have been a slip of the tongue earlier. I can still back out; I can still claim that I spoke without thinking. But that’s the thing. I wasn’t thinking when I said it. I wasn’t concentrating on the exact words, choosing the most appropriate and considered ones. I spoke how I felt. I spoke from the heart.

I love him.

It suddenly seems obvious, almost insignificant. Of course, I love him. He’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. He’s kind and thoughtful and smart and fun. Beneath his moody and guarded shell, he’s soft and warm, loving and loveable. He’s unquestionably good-looking, but when you get to know him, he’s breathtakingly beautiful. Think of the way his eyes light up when he gets passionate about what he’s talking about, or the way his dimples show when he grins broadly or properly laughs, and the tiny creases that appear between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating.

When he makes a smoothie for himself, he makes one for me, too. When he discovered my love of drawing, he patiently encouraged it, but didn’t push it. He cooked for me, he bought me wine I liked, he shielded me from the paparazzi. He used a coaster when he knew it annoyed me, and he left his shoes in the hallway every day just so he could tease me affectionately about it when I had to go put them away. He’s a secret comic book nerd, he loves Snoopy, and he is adorably baffled by playsuits.

But it’s the way he made me feel that made it impossible not to love him. Everything he did – the conversations, the tennis lesson, the way he looked at me, the way he kissed me and touched me – made me feel happy and confident and sexy and powerful.

He made me feel loved.

And now it’s all over. The most magical four weeks of my life. Iris is right. We went through it all. From the moment we met it’s been bewildering, chaotic, ridiculous, intense, fun, awful and wonderful. Now it’s run its course and I have to let him go. I should have known that was coming. It’s happened to every other woman he’s ever been linked with. He doesn’t let them get close. Ever. I don’t know why I was stupid enough to think I was any different. It’s embarrassing.

My heart feels like it’s splintering. It’s an all-consuming invisible agony that makes my stomach cramp and my chest tighten. I feel like I haven’t earnt the right to feel this way, because I haven’t known him long enough for him to make this kind of impact. But suddenly I can’t imagine how I’ll ever be able to go home if he’s not there, waiting for me.

‘Flora,’ Iris prompts softly, studying me as she reaches over to take my hand.

‘It doesn’t matter how I feel,’ I say hoarsely, as tears begin to trail down my cheeks. ‘Whatever it was, whatever we had, it’s done.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, squeezing my fingers.

‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ I clear my throat and wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, before taking a glug of coffee. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something else. What is new with you? How have you been? What are you up to today?’

She grimaces. ‘I’m… covering the Wimbledon final.’

‘Right.’ I close my eyes, chuckling at my own stupidity.

‘I can call in sick,’ she offers. ‘Someone else can cover it and we can hang out, do whatever you want.’

‘You write the blog, Iris, you have to go! Besides, you already spent the first bit of the year looking after me as I emerged from a break-up, I’m not going to let you hold my hand through this as well. You’ve done your bit.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘That’s not how it works, Flora.’

‘You have to go do your job. It’s important! And I hear it’s a highly anticipated match.’

‘I’m going to assume you don’t want to come?’

‘No, thanks. The absolute last place I want to be today is at Wimbledon.’

‘I can try to get you a press pass. We can hurl strawberries at him while he plays.’

‘We’d get kicked out and you’d get fired.’

‘It would be a cool story for the blog, though.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m good,’ I assure her.

She sighs, tilting her head back. ‘Argh, I feel bad leaving you here all day on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own. I’ll hang out with your parents; they seem cool.’

‘Ah. They’re coming to Wimbledon. Sorry. They got ballot tickets.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s fine. I can go for a walk and stuff, check out the area,’ I say as brightly as possible, having another sip of my drink. ‘Putney is very nice. There’s loads to do here. Don’t worry, I’ll keep myself entertained.’

‘You’re very welcome to hang out here if you just want to slob around.’

‘Maybe I’ll check out your dad’s gym.’

‘Yeah, he set it up a year ago and the equipment has never been used,’ she says, easing into a grin. ‘Seriously though, make yourself at home. They’ve said you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

‘That’s really kind of them, and if they don’t mind, I’ll stay one more night. But then the rental is up and the flat is mine again. Win or lose today, he’ll be gone tomorrow.’

I keep my smile fixed as though my heart isn’t sinking.

She nods. ‘I’m going to go shower and get dressed. You okay to get ready after me?’

‘Great, thanks. No rush. Although since I left in a bit of a hurry last night, I may need to borrow some things.’

‘Sure, what do you need?’

‘Just a couple of toiletries, like if you have a spare toothbrush that would be amazing. And I’ll need to borrow some toothpaste obviously. And some cleanser, if that’s okay, and then maybe your make-up bag, too. A phone charger would also be really handy as mine is on low battery. And also a clean top if you don’t mind, since I had to sleep in mine from yesterday. Oh, and underwear please.’

She blinks at me. ‘So… everything.’

‘Not everything. I brought my sunglasses.’

She chuckles, getting up and then bending down to give me a hug before she leaves. As she pulls back, she cradles my face in her hands.

‘You want my professional opinion?’ she asks.

‘Sure.’

‘If he wins Wimbledon without you,’ she sighs, ‘it will be a fucking miracle.’

*

Iris leaves for Wimbledon bright and early, and I shower and get dressed – she has lent me a clean T-shirt that I’ve tucked into my high-waisted shorts. I put on a brave face while her parents are still here, answering all their questions about what I’m hoping to do for work and smiling as they express how great it is I’m passionate about drawing. Neither of them mention Kieran, and I’m grateful to Iris who, no doubt, warned them. As soon as they wave goodbye and the front door has shut behind them, I collapse onto a sofa in a heap.

I will allow myself today to wallow. It’s actually a blessing that they’ve all gone to Wimbledon because I have my own space to sit with my miserable thoughts and be sad without worrying about bringing anyone else down with me.

Nothing can push him from my mind. I try to distract myself by scrolling through social media, but Kieran, or something that reminds me of him, keeps cropping up amongst the cute dog videos and funny memes. Everyone is talking about Wimbledon today. They’re posting smiling pictures of themselves in the grounds, or they’re at the pub, or they’re watching it on one of the big screens around the city, a glass of Pimm’s in hand. With each post I glimpse, the pang gets sharper and the ache grows stronger.

When my phone is down to ten per cent, I put it on power-save mode and set it down on the table, pleased that Iris doesn’t have the right charger for it and I have a reason not to torture myself anymore. I get up, make myself a coffee and go stand in the garden, admiring all the colourful flowers cared for by Iris’s dad. It’s a grey, cloudy day, but it’s not cold. I inhale deeply, my heart that little bit lighter from the fresh air, before it sinks again as my mind drifts to strolls in the park with Kieran.

I return to wallow on the sofa and turn on the TV, by which point of course, the first thing that pops up is coverage of Wimbledon. I turn it off and toss the remote aside with a dramatic cry of exasperation. After taking a moment, I turn it back on, knowing full well that I have the ability to change the channel and watch something else.

Having watched a couple of episodes of a reality TV show that just makes me feel worse about the world because everyone is screaming at each other, I switch to the Wimbledon coverage just to check in.

He’s lost the first set and he’s losing 1–2 in the second, with Chris about to serve for the next game. The camera zooms in on Kieran as he makes his way onto the court, his head bowed as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

I turn it off.

After sneaking into Iris’s room and scanning her bookshelf, I select one and settle myself back downstairs, trying my best to lose myself in the story and not let my mind wander to him, even though that’s what it keeps trying to do.

My phone rings. I’d ignore it but it’s Iris, the one person I’m happy to talk to.

‘Hey,’ I say on answering, ‘I haven’t burnt down the house.’

‘What?’ She sounds shocked. ‘Why would you burn down the house?’

‘I thought that’s why you might be calling, to check I haven’t burnt down the house.’

‘No, Flora, I’m calling because you need to turn on the TV.’

‘Why?’

‘Turn on Wimbledon.’

I groan. ‘Iris, I really don’t want to watch it. I’m reading and—’

‘You’ve got to see this, Flora. Turn it on.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Trust me, you’re going to want to see this,’ she says, and I can hear that she’s smiling. ‘He’s doing the strangest thing and I have a feeling that you might know why.’

‘Okay, let me find the remote, hang on.’

I turn it on and Kieran fills the screen. He’s two sets down and he’s sitting in his chair at the side of the court in the break. The crowd is tittering with laughter, the commentators are snickering and wondering aloud what’s going on. I gasp, hardly daring to believe what I’m seeing.

‘Have you got it on?’ Iris asks eagerly. ‘Can you see him?’

‘Yeah, I see him.’

‘What is he doing?’

I break into a smile. ‘It’s obvious isn’t it? He’s blowing bubbles.’

He’s in the middle of the Wimbledon final on Centre Court, being watched by thousands of people in the stands and even more on screens around the world, and he’s holding the bottle of bubbles I gave him, and serenely blowing bubbles, smiling softly as he watches them float up into the air and pop one by one.

‘Yeah, I can see that he’s blowing bubbles, Flora,’ she sighs. ‘But what does it mean?’

Our conversation plays out in my head. I remember it all. If ever I saw him blowing bubbles on Centre Court, I’d said…

You’ll know I’m thinking of you,he’d finished.

‘Flora, do you know what it means?’ Iris repeats when I don’t say anything.

‘Yes,’ I whisper in a daze. ‘It means I have to get to Wimbledon.’