Chapter 8
8
I can’t imagine looking forward to training on a hangover is much fun, but having your coach rant at you all morning on top of that must make it even worse. Put it this way: I do not envy Kieran today. When I glanced into the kitchen earlier, he was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, sipping from a new bottle of water every now and then, listening to Neil who is still pacing up and down the kitchen tiles so loudly, I can hear the slap of each footstep from here in the living room.
‘You do realise that you’ve given him exactly what he wants, don’t you?’ Neil snaps. ‘He knew this is what you would do if he talked about you – send you into a tailspin. Well, congratulations, you’ve strolled right into his trap.’
‘It wasn’t just what Chris said, Neil,’ Kieran responds, his voice low and hoarse. ‘I fancied a bit of a night out. Is that a crime?’
‘It might as well be. You are training for Wimbledon, which, in case you haven’t noticed, is in a week and a half. It’s not just your time and effort you’re wasting when you pull a stunt like this, Kieran, it’s your team’s, too. Or do you not care about us?’
‘Of course I care.’
‘Yeah, you have a funny way of showing it.’
‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Kieran, you say that every time. “I’m sorry, I’ve disappointed everyone”. It’s the same old fucking record. One of these days, you need to wake up and realise that you don’t have many chances left. Do you even want this? Wimbledon?’
Kieran groans. ‘Of course I want it! It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘Then fight for it! Stop telling yourself you don’t deserve it and throwing in the towel before you’ve even given yourself the chance. You act exactly how they want you to act. Why? You’re better than this. I wish you’d see that.’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to keep believing,’ Kieran grumbles.
I hear Neil let out a heavy sigh as the pacing stops, then comes the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. He must have taken a seat at the table. I clasp my coffee mug, straining to hear.
‘Kieran, if you don’t really believe that you might be able to win Wimbledon, then why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?’ Neil asks in a softer voice.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I just like routine.’
Neil laughs gruffly. ‘If you liked routine, you wouldn’t be a fucking tennis player. You’d have stopped travelling all the damn time and settled down.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘Yeah? Then go ahead and give up. You have the money. You have that place in Dublin that’s empty most of the year. You have the flat in Florida. You always said you wanted to retire here at Wimbledon. So go on, sell those flats and buy your dream house here in the Village to sit around in and read the paper all day if that’s what you want.’
It’s silent for a moment and then Kieran quietly replies, ‘I want the Wimbledon trophy first.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Neil says, satisfied. ‘And when you win it – when, Kieran – you can go after all the others. If you would only stop feeling sorry for yourself and start believing that you have as much right to be on Centre Court as anyone else. You’ve got the talent, Kieran – haven’t I always said that? It’s your mind that needs the work.’
Kieran sighs. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Neil.’
‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be when I’m running you round that court in half an hour. Come on, get your bag and let’s go. You can sweat it out. We’ll get you one of those fucking green juices and you’ll feel back on top of the world.’
‘Nicole can’t be happy about the video doing the rounds online. He followed me into the toilet, Neil. He was telling me I was a loser like Chris said. He got me riled up.’
‘Forget it. We move on, okay? No distractions. Only tennis from now on.’
‘Got it.’
I hear the chairs being pushed back as they stand up and I quickly pretend to be on my phone. Neil passes the living room doorway first, without looking in, stopping at the front door to warn Kieran there’s a couple of reporters outside looking for a comment on his big night out yesterday.
‘Guess I asked for that,’ Kieran grumbles. ‘Hang on a second, Neil.’ He steps into the room and I look up from my screen as though I’m surprised he’s still in the flat and I haven’t been listening to every word they’ve spoken. ‘Hey, Flora, you okay?’
‘Yeah, fine. You?’
‘I’ve been better.’ He hesitates, fiddling with the cap in his hand. ‘Sorry about waking you up last night. And for any drunken ramblings.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You were fine.’ I offer him a reassuring smile. ‘You were quite funny, actually.’
‘Yeah? In a good way? Or in a I-should-bow-my-head-in-shame way?’
I pretend to think about it. ‘Hmm. A good way.’
The corner of his lip twitches. ‘Phew. That’s a relief.’
‘Kieran,’ Neil states sternly, ‘we’re already late.’
With a small apologetic smile to me, Kieran puts his cap on and lowers the visor before following Neil out of the flat. As the car pulls away and the barrage of the questions from the paparazzi come to a stop, I take a moment to look at the cherry blossom artwork on the wall. You know, it really is quite good.
Putting my mug down, I get up to go shower. I’ve got a big day ahead of me. It’s time to start my story.
*
My story SUCKS.
I’ve spent a whole day trying to work out what I’m doing and it’s all a complete shitshow. WHY do I still think I can do this? I can’t even start the fucking thing! I’ve tried storyboarding, but my feeble attempts with Post-it notes made me feel more depressed than before I started, so I screwed all those up and threw them in the bin.
After googling ‘ways to get over writer’s block’ online, I made several cups of tea and then went for a long walk this afternoon, but that turned out to be shit advice. All the tea did was make me need to pee loads and when I was walking around Wimbledon, I saw bright, happy people who looked like they had places to be and were walking with purpose, unlike me, aimlessly wandering about with no destination, an eerie parallel to my life in general. It only served to remind me how London is filled with successful people who know what they’re doing, while I continue to fail at everything.
I allow myself a bit of wallowing when I get home and then I realise that the best way to get drawing might be to actually try drawing. I’ve tried plotting, but maybe I’m one of those authors who the story just comes to while I go. After searching high and low through the living room, I realise that all my art supplies are in the bedroom, tucked away out of sight on top of the wardrobe.
Taking a deep breath, I cautiously open my bedroom door, nervous to see what state Kieran has left my room in this morning. It’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be, although there are clothes strewn across the floor, and his attempt at making the bed is embarrassing. He may have half-heartedly thrown the duvet back into place, but he hasn’t smoothed out the wrinkles, fluffed the pillows or placed the scatter cushions back on top. And I see the throw has been kicked off and left in a crumpled pile on the floor. I was expecting it to smell bad in here, like stale booze, but I’m pleasantly surprised – the window is open, so it’s fresh and airy, with a subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air.
It’s a nice scent, sandalwood and citrus I think.
Resisting the urge to snoop through his stuff while he’s not here, I pick my way across the floor. I feel guilty being in here without his permission. I have to respect that while he’s paying to stay here, this is his room – my quarters are the living room – and I don’t really have the right to come barging in here whenever I like. But I really do need my art stuff to start my book, so I’m sure he’d understand why I felt the need to trespass.
Standing in front of the wardrobe, I hitch up onto my tiptoes and try to reach the top but it’s no use. The bed is too far from the wardrobe to use for a step up, so I have to go get a chair, and I place it carefully down on the carpet.
Climbing up onto the seat, I steady myself by gripping onto the sides of the wardrobe, the chair creaking and wobbling beneath my weight, its legs shaky on the soft, uneven carpet. I’m suddenly regretting insisting Jonah and I buy this rickety set of chairs from a second-hand furniture shop. It doesn’t feel sturdy, but my art pad and box of pencils are now in view. I let go of the wardrobe to reach up and the chair jerks beneath me. I yelp, pressing my hands against the cupboard door to find my balance again. I exhale loudly.
‘Easy does it,’ I say out loud to myself, moving much slower this time and only removing one hand from the wardrobe to reach up over my head. My fingers grasp round the pencil box and I pull it forwards, before grabbing it properly and carefully tossing it behind me onto the bed.
‘One more,’ I tell myself.
Stretching up again, I can’t grab onto the sketch pad as easily as the pencil box and I have to go up on my tiptoes, reaching even further so that my cropped T-shirt rides right up, exposing my stomach. Eventually, I brush the corner of my sketch pad with my fingertips. Using my forefinger and thumb to pincer it, I drag it over and above my head, but I’m too enthusiastic and drop my heels back onto the seat of the chair with too much gusto. The art pad comes flying over my head and the chair wobbles forward dangerously beneath me. In trying to balance, I instinctively lean backwards.
I gasp as I slip and tumble into empty air.
But instead of landing on the floor, I fall into the strong arms of Kieran, who has appeared out of nowhere and rushed forwards just in time to catch me.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his voice raspy and urgent.
He has me locked in his grip, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his hands linked across my stomach beneath the hem of my T-shirt. My back is pressed against his broad solid chest, which is rising up and down with each heavy breath.
‘I’m fine,’ I breathe, my heart hammering from both the fright of the fall and the thrill of the catch. ‘Thank you.’
He takes a few moments before he loosens his grip. I turn in his arms as he releases me, so that I can look up at him. I’m so close that I’m able to fully appreciate the long dark eyelashes that frame his eyes, and how defined the slants of his cheekbones are. My breathing shaky and shallow, I grip onto his strong forearms and lean back against the wardrobe. As his eyes travel down my face to my mouth, his throat bobs as he swallows.
Heat flushes up my neck.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, buzzing loudly pressed against the wardrobe door behind me and jolting me from the daze.
He drops his arms.
‘What were you doing?’ he asks crossly, his forehead creased as he takes a step back and rights the chair. ‘You could have hurt yourself.’
‘I forgot that my art stuff was in here,’ I explain, dropping down to pick up the loose pages of my sketch pad that scattered across the floor when it fell. ‘I couldn’t reach it.’
‘Next time, wait until I’m back rather than risk breaking your neck.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be in your room.’
As I gather the paper as quickly as possible, he leans over to pick one of the pages up. It’s a sketch of two people in an embrace – a fair-haired man in a tux tipping back a red-haired woman in a ball gown. She is gazing up at him, her hand cupping his face.
Blushing, I swipe it out from his grasp and slip it into the middle of the pile I’m carrying, hidden from sight.
‘Did you do that?’ he asks, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
I shrug. ‘A while ago.’
‘It was signed “Flossie” in the corner.’
‘Oh. I was “Flossie” growing up and that’s what my grandmother said should be my artist name. I like it but, you know—’ I shrug. ‘No use having an artist name and no art.’
‘Flossie. I like it. It’s a nice name.’
‘Hm.’
‘The sketch is good,’ he says, looking genuinely impressed. He peers over my shoulder at the drawings in view on top of the pile. ‘What are these for?’
‘Nothing, I was messing around,’ I say quickly, clutching the pages against my chest so he can’t study them any further. ‘How was training today? I take it you survived?’
‘They’re drawings of people,’ he continues, ignoring my questions and frowning in confusion. ‘I thought you were into landscapes, like the Lake District.’
‘That’s where I want to draw, not what I want to draw.’
‘I see.’ He gestures to the sketches I’m holding. ‘So, even if you were just “messing around”, what was that story about?’
‘Oh, nothing. As in, these aren’t part of a story. They were random sketches. They’re nothing.’
‘They don’t look like nothing.’
I sigh. ‘I like sketching characters – people – and I’ve always wanted to write a romance. But my ex-boyfriend pointed out that most people want superheroes and action from a comic book, not a romantic narrative. So—’ I shrug, bowing my head ‘—these were just doodles. No one else was supposed to see them.’
He watches me curiously as I blush under his scrutinising gaze.
‘You should draw what you want to draw,’ he says simply.
‘Not if I want to become a successful graphic novelist. I need to create something that will sell.’
‘Who says a romance won’t sell? This ex-boyfriend of yours?’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘What was he, some kind of professional artist himself?’
‘He was an actor and musician. I mean, you won’t have heard of him,’ I add, flustered. ‘He hasn’t made it yet as such, but he hasn’t been out of work. He’s done a bit of theatre. We met in Norwich, when he was touring a play there. That’s where I’m from.’
‘And this actor slash musician knows a lot about the graphic novel market.’
‘He had a point. When you think of comics, romance doesn’t spring to mind.’
‘What about Heartstopper? And Jack Kirby created a romantic comic book series before he came up with the Captain America character. I can’t remember what the series was called, but it will come to me.’
I stare at him, my jaw dropping to the floor. ‘You mean, Young Romance.’
He clicks his fingers. ‘That’s it.’
‘You like comic books,’ I blurt out, nerves fluttering at the thought.
‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling warmly at my reaction. ‘Big fan. Why do you look so surprised? I’m allowed to like things outside of tennis.’
‘I know, but I… I didn’t have you down as a comic book nerd.’
He strokes his chin with a bemused expression. ‘Nerd might be pushing it. But I enjoy graphic novels. That’s why I feel quite confident telling you that your ex was talking… well, quite frankly, a load of shite. It’s no wonder that you haven’t been able to start your story yet – you can’t write something that doesn’t come naturally to you. If it’s a romantic story that you want to tell, that’s the one you should be writing.’
‘I don’t know,’ I murmur. ‘It’s a competitive industry and Jonah said—’
‘What?’ Kieran cuts in, something like anger flashing across his eyes. ‘What else did this guy say to stall you?’
I bite my lip. ‘He didn’t want me to get my hopes up. I didn’t do an art degree or anything. He said he didn’t think I’d practised my craft enough to make it. In other words, I wasn’t good enough.’
Kieran’s jaw twitches. Tipping his head back for a moment, he murmurs something under his breath that I don’t quite catch.
‘What did you say?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Nothing.’ He gestures at my drawings. ‘These look very good to me. I don’t know much about art and so this may mean nothing to you, but I’ve only caught a glimpse at those characters and I want to know more. I want to know their story.’
‘Thanks.’ I hesitate, before adding softly, ‘That means a lot.’
I bring my eyes up to lock with his and there’s something about them that seems different. They’ve softened somehow. Usually his steely stare is cold and guarded, but here, in this moment, it’s soothing and warm. I’ve forgotten how much this guy riles me; instead I’m lost in the gentle, swirling blue of his eyes.
He averts his gaze and the spell is broken.
‘Sorry, for being in your room,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Thanks again for saving me. I’ll… um… go.’
I scuttle out, returning to the safety of my sofa. But later that night, I find that I’m smiling to myself when I think about our exchange.
Kieran O’Sullivan likes my drawings.