Rhys broke out into a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon. ‘You can say that again!’
CHAPTER 18
‘Right, who’s up for one across the road then?’ a voice rang out from the back of the home dressing room at Upton Park, the home of West Ham United FC. All the players changing back into their civvies knew ‘across the road’ meant the Boleyn pub, a citadel to West Ham players and fans alike.
‘I’m in, Billy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Yeah, and me.’
‘I’d love to, but gotta meet the missus, sorry.’
‘Same here. Gotta meet Sharon. Promised her an afternoon up West.’
‘Under the thumb, you two are,’ Billy replied playfully, bringing smiles to the faces of his teammates.
Tommy Slater, however, said nothing. He remained seated, his eyes fixed directly ahead as if in a trance. He was still wearing his training kit, arms folded, legs outstretched, his socks rolled down to his ankles.
‘I don’t envy you, Tommy, all the hot water’s gone.’
Tommy did not even raise an eyebrow in the direction of the comment. His mood was foul, his rigid look turning into a scowl. The first match of the season against Norwich City was only two days away on Saturday and the West Ham United First Team squad had assembled for their pre-season photograph in front of the main stand. Tommy’s beaming smile as he sat in the middle of the front row, hands on knees and ball between his feet, hid the anger and despair that was ripping his guts to shreds. When looking at that photograph in years to come, no one would ever guess the anguish he was feeling.
As all the players were in attendance at the ground, the manager had decided on a light training session afterwards, not that anyone had told Tommy. He flew into tackles as if it was the FA Cup Final and, on one occasion, a teammate squared up to him when Tommy caught him painfully on the achilles. Tommy responded by throwing punches at him as if he were John H Stracey, the local boy and former recent World Welterweight Champion, who was a lifelong Hammers’ fan. He had to be pulled off his cowering teammate, compelling his manager to intervene and end the training session there and then in order to let tempers cool.
Everyone could sense that something was up with Tommy the second he arrived at the ground that morning but he refused to reply to any questions why. It was just one of those things, his teammates concluded, and they let him stew in peace. As long as he was alright for Saturday, that was all that mattered. When they had all traipsed off to the dressing room, Tommy had stayed out on the pitch and changed from his football boots into training shoes. He then proceeded to run up and down one of the terraces twenty times as hard as he could. Bent over double and panting like a knackered dog, he almost threw up afterwards, his kit drenched in sweat, but even this failed to rid his body of the agony of losing Vicki. And now, as all his teammates finished changing around him, he knew that he would never get her back.
Monday night had been the worst night of his life, he reflected, as he kicked violently at the discarded trainers lying by his feet. He crossed his left leg over his right, his heel beginning to ache as it took the weight and pressed firmly into the harsh concrete floor. He adjusted it slightly to ease the dull pain before thinking back yet again to that wretched evening.
Tommy had been stunned and in need of a chair, for his legs had turned into the most wobbly of jellies, when Vicki, all nerves and tension, had asked him for a divorce. He had not seen it coming. She had seemed happy enough, he thought, as he refolded his arms and shook his head. He just couldn’t understand it. Didn’t most women like to stay at home and potch around the house all day? It was better than work, surely? And didn’t most women like to dote on their man and accept the way the man wanted it to be? It had always seemed that way to him when growing up in the East End. And look at all the clothes and jewellery he had bought her, the luxury she lived in, the functions and dinners she had attended. How could the ungrateful cow not appreciate any of that? His mind wandered to numerous girls he knew who would die for such a life. What a bitch, Tommy thought, not for the first time, though he had taken umbrage at his brother who had called her a stuck-up slag when he called him to convey the news. He had slammed the phone down on him for the insult, reminding him first that it was his wife who more closely fitted the description.
Perhaps he was better off without her, Tommy mulled, trying to look on the bright side, as Billy touched him on the shoulder before exiting the dressing room. After all, Vicki was probably infertile. Must be something to do with the air those posh tarts breathe down in Surrey, he considered nastily. You only had to look at East End birds to get them up the duff, he mused. Yeah, having a kid with Vicki was looking right dodgy. I’m better off without her, he decided, though the ache in his stomach and trembling of his body told him otherwise. He sighed deeply and looked up and around him. Only a handful of teammates remained, either fixing their ties, combing their hair or zipping up their kit bags. Their cheeks were still pink through exertion and their hair damp and shiny. One of them lit a cigarette which he had been gasping for and offered a teammate another. Dry mud and twisted pieces of dirty-white tape were strewn all over the floor and the aroma of soap, shampoo and deodorant swirled around the air, though the rasping fart of the team’s centre-forward soon added a less-appealing smell to the mix.
‘Sorry about that, Tommy, still got last night’s ruby in the system.’
‘You might want to crack one on Saturday, Al. The Norwich centre-half won’t want to get near you,’ Tommy replied, accompanied by his first smile of the day. He loved the banter of the dressing room and it helped him to forget Vicki for a second or two. But it was short-lived. He just couldn’t get Monday night out of his head.
Al laughed. ‘Not a bad idea that, Tommy,’ he answered before picking up his kit bag. ‘See you Saturday, big man,’ and noticing a teammate outside the door dragging hard on his fag, he rushed out to join him. Tommy remained alone and the chatter tailed off to nothing as his teammates strolled down the corridor away from the dressing room.
The ensuing silence led to a greater clarity of thought and he wondered whether he could have kept his temper better in check when confronting Vicki, cringing and shaking his head at the images of the two broken glasses, broken kitchen stool and upturned armchair. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and he was in such a rage on Monday that all reason flew out of the window.
‘Who the hell does she think she is, the bitch? No one does that to Tommy Slater,’ he blurted out defiantly.
She had deserved the slap as well. His brother and friends all thought it acceptable to give their women a smack every now and again to keep them in their place and even conjectured that women actually liked it, but Tommy had never bought into this. On many occasions he had been angry enough to hit Vicki, but he had always resisted it … until Monday. He could not help himself for it was clear she would not relent to his wishes and back down. That incident had been the end, with Vicki rushing out of the apartment, an already packed suitcase in one hand, the other covering her eye. ‘Fuck off’ were the last words he spat at her, feeling better for the slap. Perhaps his brother and friends were right after all, though it had not had the desired effect of forcing Vicki into submission.
‘Fucking cow! Fuck off then. What do I care?’ Tommy yelled out to let off steam. The startled dressing room attendant loitered outside and walked away, thinking it the wisest course of action. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? No one walks out on Tommy Slater like that. I can have any fucking woman I want.’ He recalled the smile Sylvia Kristel had given him at a function at the Café Royal in Piccadilly a few weeks back. ‘Yeah, I could even fuck Emmanuelle herself if I wanted to, you fucking whore!’
Tommy’s face was puce with rage but releasing the pressure had the desired effect for, a few minutes later, he was relatively calm again. He was also realistic. There was no way Vicki was ever going to come back to him.
‘Fuck her,’ he said quietly under his breath.
‘If she wants a divorce she can have one, but she’s gonna have to wait. I’m not gonna let her fuck off and marry any old Tom, Dick or Harry whenever she likes. Yeah, she can fucking well wait, the cow,’ Tommy added, his voice overflowing with bitterness. ‘Let some other wanker find out she can’t drop sprogs. Teach ’em right.’ And particularly if that wanker happens to be that ex-sheep-shagger of a boyfriend of hers, Tommy thought with venom. Vicki had not mentioned Rhys’s name once on Monday night, nor ever, but Tommy always suspected she carried a bright light for him. Well, he’ll make sure they never have a nice life together.
‘Yeah, Vicki’s picked the wrong person to mess about with here. I’ll show her. If she thinks she can just run off with someone else, she’s got another think coming.’
This statement of defiance emboldened him though his immediate concern was whether anyone outside the dressing room had heard him. He stood up and took a few strides to the door. He looked left and right but saw no one. Coming back in, he decided to make a move. He was dry now and decided to shower back home. If fact, he wouldn’t even change; he’d drive home as he was. Sitting back down, he put on his training shoes, his mind still spinning like a top, full of swirling unstructured thoughts. There was no way he could hide the break-up of his marriage from the press so he tossed around which journalist he would give the story to. As ever, Tommy wanted to be in control. The break-up would be portrayed as sad but amicable with no hard feelings and the public would get to know that they still loved and respected each other. He would come out of this unfortunate episode as someone who had tried his best to make the marriage work. Above all else, he would maintain his positive public persona. Later on, he would drip-feed snippets to his favourite journalists to show up Vicki in a more unfavourable light. Maybe she would crack up like Cheryl had, he hoped. As Tommy stuffed his civvies into his kit bag, he repeated his last statement.
‘Yeah, Vicki’s picked the wrong person to mess about with here. I’ll show her.’ Ominously, as he strode out of the dressing room with a cruel grin on his face, he added, ‘And the press will be the least of her worries, I promise.’
CHAPTER 19
The doorbell rang and Rhys thought he was going to have a heart attack. His legs felt so rubbery he could barely leave the kitchen chair. The clock on the wall showed five past eleven. For the hundredth time that morning he checked his wristwatch, which also showed five past eleven, as if he were a commando synchronising time for an assault on an enemy position. So badly had he slept the night before that he had risen at the crack of dawn and been dressed and ready to go out hours earlier. Time had never elapsed so slowly in his life. The last five minutes, in particular, had been agony, out of worry that Vicki would not be turning up. Surely the clock was running fast, he had thought, only for his wristwatch to confirm it was not. Rhys steadied himself, took a deep breath, and strode purposefully to the front door, wiping imaginary crumbs off his cobalt-blue Fred Perry polo shirt on the way. This was it and, with a final sigh, he opened the door.
‘Oh my God, it’s Purdey!’
The first thing that struck him about Vicki was the difference in hairstyle from her more familiar honey-blonde corkscrew and, in his nervousness, the words tumbled out of his mouth in a manner that seemed less complimentary than he had wished them to be. An equally nervous Vicki looked down before looking back up again, her eyes flicking furtively left and right as if she had no control over them. Finally, they settled on Rhys. She thought he looked fantastic as did Rhys of her.
Like him, Vicki had been on edge all morning and had arrived on Lavender Hill twenty minutes early. She had parked in a side road opposite a laundrette and only stopped looking at her watch in the meantime when considering her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Did she really like the new hairstyle? Had she overdone the make-up? Why had she changed from her usual safe pink lipstick to one much rosier? Her confidence had drained as she wondered what Rhys would think of her and so often had she run her fingers through her hair that she had spent five minutes removing loose strands from her pale yellow shirt. Undoing one more button at the front for luck, she had finally left the car. She may not have been totally satisfied with her appearance but at least she had made a big effort.
‘Hello, Rhys, Joanna Lumley here,’ Vicki joked and she shaped her hands to form a karate chop pose like the beautiful and alluring New Avenger.
‘Joanna Lumley! Give me Victoria Mitchell any day of the week,’ Rhys replied full of charm, stepping out of his doorway to greet her and enveloping her in his arms. Vicki placed hers around him and they held each other tightly, not saying a word. Vicki’s head rested on his shoulder and they breathed in the familiar body smells they thought they would never experience again.
After planting the lightest of kisses on the top of Vicki’s head, Rhys took a step back, holding her upper arms and stroking them with the gentlest of touches. He was on the point of speaking when he noticed some faint yellow and purple colouring around Vicki’s right eye. His smile vanished for he could see instantly that her eye was bruised. Vicki noticed his expression and lowered her gaze. Before Rhys could ask the question, Vicki volunteered the answer. ‘I thought it might have faded away by now but it’s like I said on the phone, Tommy didn’t take my asking for a divorce too kindly and unfortunately he’d been to see Rocky a few too many times.’
Rhys placed his index finger under her chin and Vicki raised her head, looking Rhys straight in the eye. He could see the bruise more clearly now and felt his blood boil. ‘He should be ashamed of himself. That’s the most disgusting thing a man can do to a woman.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. My dad said the same and was as mad as hell. He wanted to go round and sort him out.’
‘Don’t blame him. If he’s still up for it, I’ll join him.’
Vicki grinned. ‘I’m sure he is but let’s just leave it. I want nothing more to do with Tommy. It’s over.’ Rhys said nothing but Vicki could see he was seething. ‘Anyway, are you going to invite me in or are we going to stand outside your front door all day?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Rhys replied with a shake of the head and embarrassed smile. He stood aside and beckoned Vicki to cross the threshold. He followed her inside and closed the door behind them.
‘Wow, what a lovely place you’ve got,’ Vicki blurted out as she walked along the hallway. ‘It’s so big.’
‘I’ll give you a quick tour.’ Opening a door, Rhys invited Vicki to peer inside as if he were an estate agent showing a prospective buyer around. ‘This here is the bathroom.’
Vicki looked around, her eyes open wide. ‘It’s fabulous,’ she commented, trying surreptitiously to fathom whether any feminine products were lying about.
‘And these are the two spare bedrooms,’ Rhys carried on as he walked further along the hallway, pointing left and right. ‘I just keep odds and ends in them for now so mind the mess.’ Vicki did not say a word as she surveyed them both. ‘And over here is my bedroom.’ He stepped aside to let Vicki past. She lingered longer, again trying to uncover any evidence of a female’s presence. She saw none. ‘Along here are the kitchen and the living room.’ Vicki left Rhys’s bedroom, took a few paces to the kitchen, stepped inside and looked around. She then brushed past Rhys and entered the living room, her head swivelling round as if a radar picking up transmissions.
‘My compliments, Rhys, it’s fantastic,’ Vicki finally replied, her eyes as large as saucers.
‘Thanks, Vicki. I love it here and it helps that I’m at the office in thirty seconds flat,’ Rhys joked. ‘Would you like something to drink; tea, coffee?’ he added, returning to the kitchen.
Vicki followed him in. ‘A soft drink would be nice. I feel really thirsty.’
Opening the top compartment of the fridge and peering inside, Rhys advised, ‘I’ve got coke, orange juice or your favourite dandelion and burdock Corona pop if you prefer? I bought it specially as I thought we might go and have a picnic on the Common.’
‘I was won
dering what the basket and blanket were doing on the floor. Dandelion and burdock would be great, thanks. I haven’t had that in ages.’ After a slight pause, she added, ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rhys.’
‘No problem,’ Rhys answered nonchalantly, grabbing the bottle and pouring the pop into a tall glass. ‘We can still go for a drink in The Windmill afterwards, but it’s such a beautiful day I thought a picnic would be fun.’
‘It’s a great idea. I wish you’d told me earlier, I could have prepared something.’
‘Oh, there’s no need. I rustled up some stuff myself. If you look in the basket, I made some tuna and sweetcorn and Cheddar and Branston sarnies; brown bread before you ask ’cos I know how fussy you are.’
‘I’m not fussy!’ Vicki replied, thumping Rhys playfully on the shoulder.
Rhys sniggered Muttley-like. ‘Only kidding. There’s a couple of pork pies in there as well, some fruit, some Stilton and a nice Bakewell tart.’
Vicki looked inside. ‘Gosh, you shouldn’t have. It looks wonderful.’
Rhys poured himself a glass of pop as well. ‘There should be a couple of baguettes in there, too.’
‘Yeah, there are. Two sticks of French bread and some cream for the tart wrapped in silver foil.’
‘French bread? I thought I bought baguettes?’
‘Very funny,’ and the two of them smiled at each other. Vicki took her pop from Rhys, deliberately brushing her fingers lightly against his, and they clinked glasses before taking their first sips. ‘Thanks, Rhys. You must have spent ages putting this together?’
‘Not really. It’s easy when you live above the shop. Most of the stuff’s downstairs. I love the hair, by the way. It suits you.’
‘Thanks. I’d been thinking about it for ages and took the plunge last week. Tommy expressly forbid me before, can you believe it? I’m glad I did it ’cos I do like the style and the colour worked out well, I think. I got fed up of being blonde all the time so went for this chestnut tint.’
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