False Nine

23

Our two-roomed suite at the Auberge de la Vieille Tour was, we were told, the largest that the hotel had to offer, although that didn’t make it seem any more comfortable. The dressing room at Stoke City was probably better appointed.

There was a long, split-level terrace with a table and couple of sunloungers, a nice view of an amethyst-green lawn and beyond this the sea, and in the blue sky a wide variety of bird life. Mostly these were mockingbirds whose sharp mockery possibly related to our choice of hotel. It certainly felt that way. There was no carpet, only a marble floor, and the suite was furnished with but the one armchair, a cheap-looking sofa that you might have found in any cut-price bedsit, and a TV with all the main French and Italian channels, which at least meant I wasn’t going to be deprived of football. The minibar was about as well-stocked as a student’s refrigerator and the Wi-Fi signal was weaker than a signal from the Mars Rover. One night in Guadeloupe’s best hotel looked like it was going to be quite enough. I couldn’t wait to get back to Jumby Bay and then London.

After the emotional energy of the conversation with Jérôme Dumas I was feeling a little tired and the bed looked comfortable enough so I had a quick shower in the tiny bathroom and climbed under the crisp white sheets. I fell to reflecting on the events of the afternoon. If there’s one thing I hate in football it’s a snivelling crybaby. Some of these pampered kids don’t know how well off they are and quite a few of them need a fucking good slap. João Zarco hit a few City players in his time and probably the only reason I haven’t decked one myself is because I haven’t been in the job for long enough. Believe me, it happens a lot more than you think. In evidence I give you Brian Clough and Roy Keane. Unthinkable, isn’t it? That’s probably one reason why Keano is such a hard bastard today. I got decked myself when I was playing at Southampton, and rightly so.

But Dumas was different. He seemed genuinely depressed and there’s no telling where something like that can end up, especially when the happy pills have run out. Hanging yourself on Wembley Way like my old mate Matt Drennan, or trying to head-butt a lorry on the A64 like poor Clarke Carlisle. In spite of what he’d said I reflected that there was still some careful handling to be done if I was going to get Jérôme Dumas on a plane to Barcelona.

Soon after I closed my eyes I found Grace lying naked next to me and smelling lightly of perfume and body lotion. I lay silently for a minute or two, enjoying the relaxing sound of the ocean through the open window. I love the sound of the sea. Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, but I think it has more to do with the fact that having been born in Edinburgh — which has in Leith a proper sea-port — the sea and the sound of seagulls wheeling over Edinburgh Castle were probably the first ambient noise of which I was ever aware. That and the sound of a few Hearts supporters carousing home along the Gorgie Road after a successful local derby. Relaxation was slow in coming, however; I was feeling a little guilty about the way I’d spoken to the woman now occupying the same bed as me.

‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Debatable.’

‘Jérôme’s father. John Richardson. What are his chances?’

‘John will certainly plead self-defence. There’s plenty of evidence that DJ Jewel Movement gave almost as good as he got. The trouble is that Jewel Movement was popular in Antigua. Finding an impartial jury might be difficult. Lots of people knew him and liked him. So, a jury might easily convict just because of that. Of course, John does have a very good lawyer.’

‘I certainly wouldn’t disagree with that.’

‘I’m glad.’

I turned around and put my arms around her. She laid one long leg across my hip, gathered me closer and licked my chest as if it was the choicest morsel.

‘It’s my considered opinion that she’s a very fine lawyer indeed.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘All the same, I just want to say that I didn’t mean to insult you back there at your cousin’s friend’s house. And I hope you weren’t offended.’

‘No offence taken. I think I’m a lot thicker-skinned than you imagine.’

‘So we’re all right, then,’ I said.

‘Better than all right. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’m certainly not about to contradict you while we’re in bed.’

‘We could do with more people like you in England,’ I said, teasing her a little now; I was going to make her wait for it after the way she had kept the truth from me. ‘People there are increasingly quick to take offence about almost anything. In evidence I give you the Twitter storm caused by something I tweeted a few days ago. For which I shall probably get fined by the FA and for which I shall have to apologise. Otherwise they could take away my coaching licence.’

‘What did you say?’

I sighed. ‘It was a stupid joke. A throwaway remark.’

‘That’s why it’s called Twitter, isn’t it? Because it’s not supposed to mean anything important.’

‘And yet it does. A Brazilian player called Rafinha came off during a football match in Barcelona and I suggested, humorously, or so I thought, that maybe he had his period.’

‘I get it. Like the cranberry juice scene in The Departed. Ray Winstone and Leonardo DiCaprio.’

‘S’right. Anyway, the Twitter sisters thought it was in poor taste and sexist and reported me to the FA who are now investigating the matter. It used to be that it was all right to be a sexist in football. Now everyone is obliged to sound as reconstructed as Ed fucking Miliband. What makes it doubly irritating is that my father had told me to stay off Twitter. And until then, I had.’

‘I like you being a sexist. Especially right now. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

‘I’m pleased to hear you want to have me, anyway.’

‘But seriously, Scott, why don’t you tell everyone on Twitter to fuck off and then close the account?’

‘Is that your advice as a lawyer?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘Your father’s right. You should listen to him. Twitter is just a hostage to fortune. You stay on it long enough you’re bound to slip up. So. Take the FA’s fine, say sorry, and then say bollocks to Twitter.’

‘You know, I think I will.’

‘And being described as a liar is nothing new to me, Scott. I hear much worse than that in court. No, what I’d find more offensive is if you decided that just because I was a little economical with the truth, you didn’t want to fuck me again.’

‘Oh, there’s very little chance of you saying anything that would achieve a result like that. In fact, I think it makes for a more interesting situation in bed, don’t you? If I were to take charge of you, now.’

‘What I think you’re saying is that you’d like to show me who’s the boss here.’

‘It certainly beats getting screwed by my lawyer if I fuck you, don’t you think?’