I’d sent him a card after every match since the day I’d been to see him. As he wouldn’t talk to me, it was the only way I could get through to him, to try somehow to keep him going. I’d drawn little stick figures, with mottoes—that ‘Keep on keeping on’ when they’d managed a draw, or ‘Nil illegitimus carborundum,’ when they’d lost again. Now they’d won, he wouldn’t need that any more.
I drew carefully, trying to make each little figure slightly different, trying to fit in as many as I could. On the radio, there was a phone-in about the match. Yes, I was listening to a football phone-in. Sad or what? Even though Shadwell had won, the fans weren’t happy. They knew that the top players were all likely to be sold. JoJo was, as Nell predicted, already off to Paris St.-Germain. The players involved in the rape allegations had had their charges dropped and were off to Middlesbrough and Hull. Sandro was probably going to either Chelsea or Manchester United. Becca said that Sandro didn’t know yet, but I knew she was just pleased he was still going to be in England. ‘It’s all agents talking to agents. I don’t understand it and I’m not sure Sandro does,’ she’d said when I’d spoken to her the night before.
As for Clayton, the fans on the phone-in seemed certain he was going to follow in the path of David Beckham and go to one of the American clubs. Lots of money and glamour for his last year or two at the top. I wondered if he’d like that. It would be very filmstarry and probably a lot more fun than turning out with whoever was going to be left at Shadwell.
‘Turn up with your boots and you’ll get a game, there’ll be so few players left,’ said one caller. Another urged the club to give up, go into administration, accept the ten-point penalty and relegation and start again from the lower league.
‘It’s too late now. Why prolong the agony?’ he asked, which seemed a bit defeatist. But probably realistic.
But Clayton didn’t think it was too late. He was still trying hard.
Mum and Bill were having a good time in Zanzibar. I had the texts and the pictures to prove it. That broken ankle—or something—certainly seemed to have changed Mum’s outlook. I picked up my phone and clicked again on the picture she’d sent: the two of them sitting at a café table in the sunshine, the sea a vivid blue behind them. I remembered that photo of my parents and me and my little brother all those years ago and I felt a small pang for the father I could hardly remember and a huge rush of relief that my mother and Bill could be so happy.
Becca had got her website up and running. While her arm had been strapped up, she’d thought up all sorts of new designs and got her mum, her aunties and her cousins to knit them for her as she couldn’t wait to see them. Now she had a team of knitters, a real cottage industry, and the scarves were flying out—helped by Matty being pictured wearing one. Never hurts to have a top model looking stunning in something you’ve made.
As for Matty, she was bubbling over. She and Dexter had bought the old chapel and she was spending nearly as much time up at Hartstone as she was in London—with the exception of work in enviable places such as New Zealand. Dexter had assembled a team of architects and designers and was just waiting for the official planning permission to come through before getting on with it. Matt and Dexter had spent days together sorting out just what they wanted in it and how it could be done, discussing, arguing, laughing.
‘It’s great,’ said Becca. ‘He’s going round with this huge grin on his face. All he talks about is Matty and the chapel gallery. And all Matt talks about is the chapel gallery and Dexter. She’s been in love with him since she was about twelve years old. She was devastated when he got married. But it’s fantastic that they’ve got a second chance, isn’t it?’
‘Fantastic,’ I agreed, thinking about Matt and Dexter, Mum and Bill, and wondering if I would ever get a second chance. But it was too late for me and Clayton. Much too late.
Finally, I couldn’t fit a single more matchstick figure onto the postcard. The effect looked quite good, though—a whole crowd of cheering fans.
I looked at my drawing on the postcard. If I wrote Clayton’s address quite small, I could put more of the cheering figures spilling onto that side of the card too. I carried on, drawing carefully, reluctant to finish it, reluctant to let him go.
There, that was it. I couldn’t squash another figure on anywhere. I stuck a stamp on it and went straight round to the postbox to send it off.
That was me done with Clayton Silver. The End.
I went back to my flat and made myself a bacon sandwich—all in the line of work. I was well on with the database of small producers for Frankie’s. I was really enjoying creating it, even though it was hard work. Every specialist sausage maker or cake or biscuit baker recommended another two or three. I talked to people who ran farm shops and farmers’ markets and food fairs. There was so much going on. I already had plans about which producers I could go and visit. In the meantime, I was having a very jolly time ordering samples for taste tests. Chill boxes of goodies kept turning up at the flat. The bacon had been that morning’s delivery. It had real flavour, didn’t shrink when you cooked it and grilled to the most delicious crispness. Who needs gourmet meals when you can have the perfect bacon sandwich? There was some lemon cake too, for pudding. I could smell the tantalizing, sharp tang of the lemons. Purely research, you understand. I was actually knee deep in notes as well as crumbs and I wanted to get the first draft of a plan ready by the time Mum came back from Zanzibar.
A few months ago the mere idea would have sent me into a panic, but now I knew I could do it. I’d stayed in the cottage on Hartstone Edge on my own. I’d got help for Alessandro and Becca when the car crashed. I could do things, I realised. I could do things. I settled down to work.
A few evenings later I was testing chocolate made by two former archaeologists living in the Yorkshire Dales—rich and dark and flavoured with ginger, strong coffee or the wonderful light taste of fresh raspberries—when Matt rang.
‘You stay in too much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to a fish-and-chip-shop opening tonight. Do you want to come?’
‘A fish-and-chip-shop opening?’ I said, licking the last of the chocolate crumbs off my fingers. The raspberry version had been particularly good.
‘Yeah. Well, very upmarket fish and chips, of course. Terry Wotsisname—one of those cockney geezer actors—reckons we’re all getting too into foreign food so wants to restore the good old British chippie.’
‘No, I don’t think so, Matt, but thanks. I’m not sure it’s my sort of thing.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Matt firmly, ‘most definitely. No excuses. Trust me. Anyway, it’s food, isn’t it? It might give you an idea for a feature. And I promise not to go on too much about the chapel gallery, though I must tell you about Dexter’s latest idea. He’s only—no, I’ll tell you when I see you. Anyway, fish and chips might be fun. Wear jeans.’
And she was gone. Matt was right. It was better than working all the time. Or even eating chocolate. And Matt was a force of nature, anyway.
So I dug out my favourite jeans, a pair of boots, a bright stripy top and my gold bracelet from Sandro’s mum. I wondered who was wearing the wonderful silver and amber necklace now, but that was nothing to do with me any more. There was a ring at the bell. I ran downstairs and got into the back of Matty’s car.
We were stuck at traffic lights for ages. While her driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, Matty was telling me the latest about the plans for the chapel. It all had to go to a planning committee.
‘Dexter’s got a brilliant architect on it, so we’re sure the council will agree. It will have to be better than letting it sit empty and fall down. The survey was good. Structurally it’s pretty sound. Most of the damage is just cosmetic and it shouldn’t take us long…Tilly, are you listening?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Matty followed my gaze. We were stuck outside a newsagent. An old newspaper bill said, ‘Quicksilver works magic for Shadwell.’
‘I wonder how he is,’ I said. ‘The last
time I saw him, he looked dreadful. Ill, tired, defeated. I misjudged him, you know. I got it all wrong about him walking off from his son.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes. I’ve been asking round. There was no truth in it at all. The woman was as mad as a fish and as sly as a snake. Now there’s an interesting animal. No, Clayton Silver might be a typical flash footballer, but he didn’t abandon any son.’
‘No. I got it totally wrong. He’s not even a flash footballer. I just decided that he was and then made everything he said and did fit. By the time I realised I’d got it all wrong, it was too late. I tried to tell him. But it was no good. The damage was done.’
I felt sad and wistful for what might have been. But Matty was having none of that. ‘Oh, it’s never too late,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look, I thought it was too late when Dexter went off to Manchester and got married when I was sixteen. And he hadn’t even registered that I existed, except as a kid who followed him around. End of the world, I was sure. But it wasn’t, was it? Because there he is, back at Hartstone, just older and wiser.’
‘Old and wise enough to realise he needs a successful model as business partner and maybe something more?’
‘Precisely,’ said Matt, smiling happily. ‘So who knows? Even Clayton Silver might get old and wise one day. Even you…’
I was just trying to work out what she meant when the car stopped and she leapt out. She was wearing a pair of impossibly skinny jeans that looked as though they’d been sprayed on, plus little boots with heels so high they must have taken her to well over six foot six. I ambled in behind her, knowing no one would notice me in her shadow.
Fish and chip shop? This place was so far up itself that…no, let’s not go there. There was lots of champagne, of course. And the fish and chips were served in tiny little cones wrapped in newspaper. But not any old newspaper. Oh no. This was specially printed newspaper full of splendid reviews of all the shows that Terry, the cockney geezer owner, had been in. Very authentic. They do that all the time down the Mile End Road. The vinegar was balsamic. The mushy peas were tiny, minted and pureed, and the tomato ketchup was handmade, organic, sun-blushed, probably made by the light of a waxing moon by a score of young virgins—but, frankly, it didn’t taste as good as Heinz’s. OK, the fish was good, very good—tiny little pieces in the lightest of tempura batter. But in portions the size of a fingernail.
Even so, at least half the guests weren’t eating anything. I swear one of the skinniest actresses I’ve ever seen spent all evening with the same chip, holding it seductively against her bottom lip while she fluttered her eyelashes alluringly at anyone who mattered.
There was lots of air-kissing and screeching. And people taking pictures. I loved the way Matty looked as though she were too busy talking to people to take any notice of the camera, but I also noticed that she seemed to know just when a camera was near and very subtly pose for it. That’s what made her good, I suppose. Among the other guests were restaurant reviewers, actresses, and lots of people who were famous on account of being well known. It was all quite fun to watch.
I tucked myself in a corner that was out of the way but from which I could see the main room. I had my little cone of chips—about five of them—and was just stabbing the last one into the remains of the tomato sauce when I had that funny feeling you get when you know someone’s looking at you. I looked up.
There, on the other side of the room, under a picture of a lobster, was Clayton.
My insides lurched. He was gazing at me through the crowd of minor celebs. Just looking. There seemed to be no expression on his face at all.
He’d been the last person I expected to see. Yet, on reflection, it was the sort of event he was quite likely to be at. Wasn’t he a friend of the cockney actor who owned it? Vague memories surfaced of them both in Shadwell scarves.
And then suddenly it dawned on me. Matt knew! She’d known he would be here. That’s why she was determined to get me here too. She knew I’d got it wrong about Clayton and was trying to put it right. I looked around the room in a panic for her. She seemed to have vanished. But Clayton was still watching me.
Suddenly all those little cards I’d sent him seemed ridiculous. Pathetic. Why on earth had I done that? I remembered how cold he’d been with me when I’d gone round to his house, the disdain he’d shown me. Well, he wasn’t going to get a chance to do that again. No way.
I crumpled up my empty chips cone and placed it on one of the counters that was Formica pretending to be marble. Though, actually, knowing this place, it was probably marble pretending to be Formica. I slid round behind a group of men who were either rugby players or club bouncers—in any case nice and big and solid. From there I thought I might be able to work my way behind a group of vaguely familiar blondes and out into the street.
No. Clayton had moved round. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen me, but he was definitely blocking my way. I ducked down out of sight. A food critic from one of the glossy Sunday supplements looked down his aristocratic nose at me. I smiled feebly and crept past him on bent legs. There was a corridor. I went along it. LADIES. Hooray. Clayton couldn’t follow me in there. I nipped in, shut the door and wondered what to do next.
I remembered the first time I’d seen Matty, leaping from the Ladies at Club Balaika. I eyed up the possibilities. The window was narrow and covered in bars. Even if I could get through it, I’d struggle to reach it. I was neither as tall, nor as slim, nor as supple as my cousin. Still, I’d just wait here for a while. Clayton wouldn’t stay long, I was sure.
People came and went. Each time they did I leant towards the mirror and did my eye make-up. My mascara has never looked so good. Finally, when I thought the coast was clear, I went out cautiously. To the left the corridor led back to the restaurant, but to the right there was an emergency exit. Thank you, God! I pressed down on the bar and escaped into the cold January night. Straight into the arms of a waiting figure.
‘Aargggh!’ I screamed.
‘Hello, Miss Tilly,’ said a deep, familiar voice. ‘What kept you?’
‘Clayton. What are you doing?’ I shouted at him. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me!’
With that there was a flash of camera lights. A couple of photographers had heard the noise and come to investigate. That made me even crosser. ‘Clayton, will you just let go of me, please? And tell them to go away.’
He loosened his grip but still held my hands. I couldn’t escape.
‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ he said. ‘And I had the idea you were trying to avoid me, which would be a shame, a real shame.’
The lights of the cameras flashed again. We both turned and glared at the photographers.
‘Look, I’m sorry about those cards,’ I gabbled. ‘They were just a bit of fun. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I was just worried that you seemed so low and I was scared that you might just waste everything and I didn’t want you to do anything stupid and it was just to sort of encourage you really and to—’
He kissed me, gently, slowly. ‘I know. I know why you sent them and I loved them. I really loved them.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. They made me smile.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. And right then there wasn’t a whole lot to smile about.’
He kissed me again. The camera lights flashed like fireworks.
‘Will you not do that, please?’ I said, rather primly.
He stepped back and grinned. Even in the orange light from the streetlamp and the yellow gleam from the back rooms of the restaurant, I could see that Clayton Silver was restored to his old self. His eyes look tired, older somehow, but the bounce, the confidence, the grin and the gloss were back. I wanted to grin back because I was just so pleased to see him like that.
The photographers, having decided we weren’t going to have a punch-up or a slanging match, got bored and went back to the fish and chips and celebs.
‘Come on
,’ said Clayton, and led me quickly down the side of the restaurant until we were out in another street, far away from the fuss. He slowed down. We were walking past big houses in quiet streets.
‘I’m glad you were here tonight,’ he said. ‘Saved me ringing you.’
‘You were going to ring me?’
‘Yeah. I liked those little cards and messages. They were sort of cool. Didn’t want them to stop.’
‘Oh. I…I didn’t know…I wasn’t sure if you’d just throw them away. If you’d even look at them.’
‘The fans were booing us. The papers were calling us worse than shite. Half the staff had left the club. Message boards were making out I was some sort of international drug dealer or gun smuggler or terrorist or rapist. And that was just the good stuff. We were a laughing stock.’
For a moment he looked angry. I remembered how he hated to be made a fool of, hated to be a loser.
‘Then, in the middle of all that, there’d be a silly little postcard with a drawing and stupid message on it. And they made me laugh. It got so that after every match I was looking for that little drawing to come through the letter box, because then I knew there was someone on my side. And, for the last few months, I’ve certainly needed someone on my side.’
‘I’m sorry, still sorry, about not believing you, about believing that crazy woman.’
‘Yeah, well. It was a strange night anyway. I should never have taken you to that party. Should never have gone myself. I’ve been to enough Maynard parties to know the score. But we always went along with it. He was paying the bills. Well, we thought he was. So he made fools of us too in the end. Though he paid a pretty harsh price for it.
‘But that night was weird, even by Maynard’s standards. So maybe it was easy to get hold of the wrong idea. Still, I thought it was a cool thing to do to come round and see me and say so.’
‘Did you? You didn’t seem very pleased!’ I remembered his blankness, his utter lack of emotion.
‘Well, it was a pretty bad time. Absolutely rock bottom. But yeah, it was good you came. And you were worried about me. That was good. I didn’t have anybody worrying about me. Things started changing after you’d been round.’
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 29