“No,” she said grimly. “It’s me telling you to get your arse in gear.” Then she seemed to become aware of the destruction around him. “Oh my God! Did Molly do this?”
He shrugged and Trish shuddered.
“Thank God you’re not marrying into that family. They’re all bonkers.” She glanced at his chagrined face. “Sorry. But you’re better off without her. What did the police say?”
Nick almost laughed.
“I haven’t reported it.”
Trish’s eyes widened.
“For God’s sake! Why not?”
“Seriously? You think I want anything more to do with the police?”
“But . . . you can’t let Molly get away with this!”
Nick shook his head and rubbed his throbbing temples.
His sister looked as though she was about to argue, but then pressed her lips together in a hard line and didn’t say anything.
Nick thought about his ex-fiancée. It hadn’t all been bad, had it?
A memory of silver-grey eyes and Anna’s ready smile flashed into his mind. What would she think of him now?
“Nick, you have to get up!”
Nick ignored his sister, too tired, depressed and hungover to function.
Then Trisha grabbed his hands and attempted to pull him off the settee.
“Oouf! How much do you weigh?” she asked, giving up the unequal struggle and slumping down next to him.
“Twice as much as you, shrimp.”
“Bog off, you great heathen. God, you stink of whiskey. Take pity on my sense of smell and go and have a shower.”
“What for? I’ve got nowhere to be.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Check your messages, Einstein. Steve Jewell wants to see you. He phoned our place first thing when he couldn’t get through to you. And I’ve brought your car back. Again.”
“Thanks, Trish,” he said, touched that she’d bothered with him after their fight the night before.
She stared at him seriously, crossing her arms.
“Just because you’ve behaved like a dickhead doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, little brother. And you’re not alone.”
He gave a weak smile, because whatever she said and however much his family cared, the problems were his and no one else’s.
“Thanks, sis.”
“Thank me with an amazing present at Christmas.”
She hustled him up the stairs and he took a long shower, washing away the sour smell of whiskey and failure, then dried himself with a shredded towel.
The only wearable clothes were in his kitbag, slightly wrinkled sweatpants and t-shirt, but clean.
When he came down again, feeling like a bad photocopy of himself, he found that Trish had called the police about the vandalism.
He was too tired to be angry with her. Besides, the police couldn’t say when an officer would become available—it wasn’t the kind of crime that was a priority. Trish had even taken photographs of the damage, but Nick wasn’t going to hold his breath.
She had a guilty expression and was busy sliding her phone back in her pocket.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Are you looking at the news pages?”
“Don’t read them, Nick,” she said, her voice pleading. “You know they only print lies.”
Nick took her phone and flicked through the pages she’d bookmarked. The trouble was, as far as Nick could see, they’d all told the truth, or a version of it.
“It’ll blow over,” said Trish quietly, squeezing his arm.
He couldn’t bear any more sympathy and he hadn’t even told his family yet that he needed another surgery.
“You’d better get going.”
“Yeah.”
She handed him his car keys and he pulled a dark blue beanie over his damp hair and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, trying to ignore the camera flashes and questions from the two journalists standing outside.
“How long you been knocking her about, Nick?”
“Did you know they were having an affair? Did you do threesomes?”
“Give us a quote, Nick!”
He climbed into his car, carefully reversing down the driveway so he didn’t run them over, even though he really, really wanted to.
One of them pressed the lens up against his window and nearly blinded him with another camera flash.
“Wanker!” shouted one of the journalists as Nick drove away.
An hour later, he arrived at the Minotaurs’ HQ for what he strongly suspected would be the last time.
“Morning, Sally,” he said to the woman on the front desk who’d smiled at him every day for the last three months.
She stared stonily at her computer screen, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Mr. Jewell is waiting for you. In the boardroom.”
The boardroom? Yeah, that didn’t sound good.
“Thanks,” he said shortly.
She acted as if he didn’t exist.
Steve Jewell wasn’t alone. He was sitting with the assistant coach, the club’s manager, Sadie from PR, and Ernie Carter, the club’s owner. Nick was relieved to see that on the other side of the table was his agent, Mark Lipman.
“Take a seat, Nick,” said Steve, grimacing slightly as Ernie blew cigar smoke and stared impassively.
Nick’s heart beast faster but his face remained blank. He wished he was better dressed.
“This is a bad business,” said Steve Jewell, shaking his head. “Very bad. But we’ve thrashed out a deal,” and he nodded at Mark to take over.
“You’re being released from your contract, Nick.”
The blow fell soundlessly, but all Nick could hear was the death knell of his career.
“The club is willing to pay you a third of your annual salary,” Mark continued carefully. “You can’t talk about this to the Press. That’s the deal.”
“Released?”
Nick’s heart slammed against his ribs. This was it. It was really happening.
Steve Jewell leaned forward. “You’re not being sacked. It’ll look better for you this way.”
“We ought to bloody well sack you!” snorted Ernie, teeth fastened around his cigar like a Bond villain. “Men like you make me chuffin’ sick and . . .”
Sadie tapped her pen on the table, effectively halting what would have been an unpleasant tirade.
“We feel it’s best for everyone . . .” meaning the club “if you leave quietly.” She pushed a piece of paper towards him. Sign here.”
Mechanically, Nick took the pen, then stared up at the ring of faces.
“The orthopaedic consultant you sent me to says I need another operation on my Achilles tendon.”
Steve Jewell nodded slowly.
“We know, son.”
Ernie spat out his cigar.
“We’re not chuffin’ paying for it. You shouldn’t have lammed your lass!”
Nick signed and stood up to leave the room, looking around for one last time.
His moment of playing for a top team had come and gone and left him in the dust. He nodded at the grim faces and walked out.
Nick tried to concentrate while his solicitor went through the charges against him.
“I’m not going to sugar-coat this,” she said. “It doesn’t look good. As I said, I’m recommending you plead guilty, because if you don’t, it’ll be six months of negative publicity before the case even gets to court. Then they’ll paint you as a woman-beater with no remorse. The prosecution are going to whip out a photograph of your fiancée with a black eye, and you’ll be finished. You used a weapon—the fact that you had to go and get it out of the tool box in the boot of your car looks bad. Not quite as bad as a premeditated assault, but bad nonetheless. Nick, are you even listening to me?”
Nick heard the exasperation in her voice, but still felt like he was watching a badly-written soap opera, all melodrama and facial tics.
“Hitting Molly was an accident.”
“So you said. G
iven the circumstances, a magistrate will take one look at you, a six foot, fourteen stone rugby player, then take a long hard look at her, all five foot nothing and a hundred pounds after binge-eating a litre of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and you won’t like the answer.”
“There’s sod-all I can do about that.”
Ms. Wilson-Smith nodded.
“We need lots of women—credible women—to come forward and say that you’ve never lifted a hand to them, not even during a bit of slap and tickle . . .”
Nick grimaced, feeling like the soap opera had turned into a 1970s sitcom.
“ . . . I’m talking ex-girlfriends, significant women in your life—and I don’t mean family. So let’s hear it.”
She stared at Nick expectantly, a fountain pen with green ink, poised over a yellow legal pad.
“I was with Molly for three years . . .” Three wasted years.
“Nothing on the side?”
“No!”
“Sure?”
“Very.”
“Because I need to know where the hits will be coming from.”
Nick gritted his teeth.
“I was faithful.” Like a stupid, trusting fool. Unlike Molly.
“Right, well . . . before Molly?”
Nick sighed and then listed all the girlfriends he’d ever had, and the solicitor wrote careful notes.
“That’s it? That’s all of them?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“No one-night stands?”
Nick ran a hand through his hair, making the curls even wilder.
“A couple. I don’t remember their names—it was a long time ago.”
Ms. Wilson-Smith tapped her pen.
“It’s, er, quite a short list . . . sure you haven’t left anyone out?”
“Bloody hell! How many times are you going to ask me that? No, that’s it!”
“Alright, you’ve made your point. But let me give you a tip, don’t lose your temper like that in court—it’ll be exactly what the prosecution will want. They’re going to portray you as an aggressive, laddish thug with violent tendencies. Got it?”
“Yes,” Nick seethed.
She adjusted her glasses and pursed her lips.
“You’re paying me to represent you, Mr. Renshaw. I’m just doing my job.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Okay. So, you and Molly, anything kinky in bed? Handcuffs, punishment, any rough stuff?”
Nick’s mouth dropped open.
“What?!”
The solicitor sighed again.
“These are the kind of questions you could be asked. They’ll try to show that you have . . . tendencies, like I said. So, once more . . .”
“No, nothing like that.”
The solicitor raised her eyebrows as if expecting more, and Nick felt his anger start to build again. When the fuck had his sex life become important in a criminal trial?
“Ah, well, okay. So . . . you’re saying the whole incident was out of character?”
Nick wasn’t sure how to answer that—he barely knew who he was anymore. He didn’t have a fiancée, didn’t have a career, and now his reputation was in shreds, too. The newspapers were reporting it as a nasty piece of domestic violence, in a what can you expect from a rugby player sort of way. It made him sick. Ironically, it made him want to punch someone.
“Yeah, it was out of character.”
“Have you ever been arrested before?”
“No.”
“Ever been involved in any drinking-related incidents? Any trouble at all?”
“No. I kept my head down, worked hard, trained hard. I didn’t want to go back.”
The solicitor looked up.
“Back to what?”
Nick shifted in his chair.
“Back to working in a paint factory.” Back to being nothing.
There was another pause.
“We’ll need to bring in some character witnesses—people who can say what a great guy you are, wouldn’t hurt a fly . . . off the rugby field. Anyone come to mind?”
“Not my best friend . . . former best friend.”
“No, indeed . . . but we might be able to work in some deep-seated jealousy of your promotion to the Premiership that led to his . . . the affair.”
Nick wondered about that. Could it be true? He’d always thought that he and Ken were mates, solid.
“I’d asked him to be my Best Man.”
The solicitor’s eyes brightened. “Excellent! That’ll show how much you trusted him. Good . . . anyone else who’d speak up for you?”
“Um, my old coach at Rotherham, Henry Selby, he might.”
“Anyone else?”
Nick scratched his beard. Why was it so hard to think of people who’d stand up for him?
“Steve Jewell might.”
“Hmm, he might . . . as he hired you in the first place. And then fired you.”
“I was released from my contract.”
“I’ll put him on the list. Next?”
Nick named a couple of former teammates, knowing that he was putting them in the awkward position of having to choose between him and Ken: a teammate and a former teammate.
“We need some women—other than your sister and mother, of course. All this testosterone isn’t going to play well when you’re accused of hitting your ex.”
One name flashed to Nick’s mind, but he hesitated. The solicitor caught it at once.
“Yes?”
“Uh, well, I was seeing a sports psychologist to help me with my game. She might speak for me.”
“How exactly did she help you?”
The solicitor’s gaze was sceptical, and Nick felt irritated on Anna’s behalf.
“She works on confidence, visualisation techniques, stuff like that. Dave Parks, one of the Props, was seeing her, as well. The Minotaurs sent us both.”
“Excellent, I can use that. Name?”
“Dr. Anna Scott.”
“A doctor? Even better. How close were you and this Dr. Scott?”
“I had appointments with her weekly since September . . .”
Would Anna speak for him or would she walk away? The thought disturbed him more than it should.
“Did you ever socialise with her?”
“No. Uh, once she turned up at the same pub as me. But I was with Molly, and Anna . . . Dr. Scott was meeting someone. That’s everything.”
The solicitor wrote it all down, looking pleased, then placed her pen on the yellow jotter filled with tiny notes.
“I’ll be honest, Mr. Renshaw. I’m looking for potential factors that could reduce blame and ultimately help you to achieve a fair, just and positive outcome.”
“Such as?”
“A nominal fine, a couple of hundred hours community service. That’s the best case scenario.”
Nick swallowed.
“And the worst case scenario?”
“Let’s focus on the positive.”
“Tell me.”
The solicitor folded her arms, looking grave.
“Well, court listings are matter of public record, so the media will know everything . . .”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should. It will affect your future career.”
That seemed unlikely since there was no chance of a club signing him now, injured and in trouble.
“What’s the worst case scenario.”
“Upwards of six months in custody, possibly a year.”
Nick’s mouth dried and he felt a cold sweat break out across his body.
“Shit.”
The solicitor gave him a hard stare.
“You used a weapon—that makes it a lot more serious. I have to show that it wasn’t premeditated and that you were under extreme stress. If the wrench had been on the passenger seat, that would have been better. But by your own admission, you got it out of the boot of the car. That’s why we have to show how out of character it is for you.” She paused. “However, the courts look closely at
the specific factors of the case and the individuals involved and, on occasions, the conduct of the victim. The fact that your fiancée was caught in flagrante delicto with your best friend and Best-Man-to-be is in your favour . . .”
Nick grimaced.
“ . . . because one factor that is relevant to sentencing is whether the victim provoked the assault—and that can be construed in many different ways.”
She gave Nick a chilly smile that was meant to be reassuring.
Nick’s heart sank.
ANNA HAD NEVER been in a court before. She’d been surprised to be called as a character witness for Nick’s defence, and wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She hadn’t seen Nick since his last appointment, only his photograph in the Manchester Evening News as well as several national newspapers. She suspected the trial would put the story on the front page again, locally at least.
She clutched her purse more tightly and stared up at the grand Victorian building of the Magistrates’ Court. It reminded her of a redbrick version of New York Public Library, somewhat swaggering and self-satisfied.
Belinda was already at the courthouse, waiting for her.
“Thank goodness they decided to call you,” she said cheerfully. “It was awful this morning—the prosecution lawyer interviewed the ex-fiancée and her hideous family. He had to get them off the stand as quickly as possible. What on earth did he ever see in her?”
Anna had asked herself the same question.
“And I’m sure she’s lying when she says he deliberately hit her. That man doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.”
Anna raised her eyebrows and Belinda gave an apologetic smile.
“I mean . . . well, um. But honestly, that woman! She’s already been caught in one lie. She said that the bonking was a one-off thing, but then Nick’s lawyer brought up her phone records and they’d been at it for months. Sexting, too.”
Belinda was definitely Team Nick.
“He looks so tired. Still a hunk, of course. Then the defence brought in two of his ex-girlfriends who both said that he’d never laid a hand on them and they couldn’t imagine it. You should have seen the other piece when they said that—face like a smacked bottom.”
Anna winced. Probably not the best analogy.
Belinda filled Anna in on the rest of the case that she’d been watching avidly from the public gallery, then hurried off to find a seat, “before all the good ones are taken.”
Undefeated Page 10