Glory Of The Football Manager System

[Dulwich. Friday April 6. 14:15 BST.]

We landed at half twelve. Sarah said her goodbye on the apron and got into the car park separately because she had a niece in Wimbledon she had not seen in three weeks and the niece was four. I drove home alone.

The Friday traffic on the M4 was the Friday traffic on the M4. I got to Dulwich at quarter past two. Parked in the residents’ bay outside the flat. Took the holdall up the stairs.

She heard the key.

She was off the sofa before I had the door shut behind me. Bare feet on the wooden floor. Academy hoodie, joggers, her hair tied up with a pencil that was about to fall out and did. She did not bend down to pick it up. She came across the room and put her arms round my neck and her face into the side of mine and stayed there for a long time without saying anything.

I put the holdall down with my left hand. Got my right round the small of her back. Held her there.

”Hi.”

”Hi.”

She did not let go. Stood back enough to put both hands on the sides of my face and looked at me properly, the way she did when she had not seen me for three days and wanted to make sure she was still seeing the same person.

”You look tired.”

”I’m tired.”

”You look more than tired.”

”I’m more than tired.”

”How are you.”

She did not say how was the match. She did not say you won. She did not say Coppell’s text. She said how are you, the way you ask the man you live with how he is when he walks in the door from somewhere that has been on him for three days.

”I’m all right.”

”Don’t lie to me.”

”I’m tired and I am all right. Both. Together.”

”All right.”

She kissed me. Slow. Not the kitchen kind. The other kind, the one she gave me when she was glad I was in front of her and the words were not going to do it.

Then she stepped back and picked the pencil up off the floor and stuck it back in her hair and put a hand on my chest.

”Tea is in the pot. Pasta is in the fridge from last night, I will heat it for you in twenty minutes if you can stay vertical that long. You can do whatever you want until then. If you want a shower, the towels are on the rail. If you want to lie on the sofa with your eyes closed and not talk, the sofa is exactly where you left it.”

”Sofa.”

”Sofa.”

I went to the sofa. The cat from next door was on the cushion at the end. Emma made me a cup of tea and brought it over and put it on the coffee table. She sat down next to me and pulled my head down to her shoulder.

”You don’t have to talk.”

”I know.”

”You don’t have to think.”

”I know.”

We sat there for twenty minutes. I closed my eyes. She did not close hers. Every so often she ran a hand up the side of my head into my hair and left it there for a while.

She did not ask me about the match. She did not ask me about Mateo. She did not ask me about Coppell. She did not ask me about Mum. She let me be the tired man on her shoulder for twenty minutes, and that was the whole of it.

At quarter to three she got up and heated the pasta. We ate it at the kitchen table. She told me her week. The editor had butchered the FA Cup piece exactly as she had said. The follow-up was better.

Caitlin’s brother had not been at the pub on Tuesday. Caitlin had been worried. Caitlin’s brother had texted Caitlin on Wednesday saying he was sober. Caitlin did not know if she believed him.

”Do you believe him.”

”I want to believe him. I do not believe him.”

”Right.”

She finished her pasta. Looked at me.

”I’m proud of you.”

”Em.”

”I know. I’m not going to say it twice. But I am, and I wanted you to know, and now you know, and you can stop pretending you didn’t need to hear it.”

I did not say anything. She got up. Took both plates to the sink. Started washing them. Did not turn around.

Jessica called at half past four.

”Daniel.”

”Jess.”

”Five minutes.”

”Go on.”

”Hugo Boss have come back. They want you for the autumn campaign. They have moved the number from where it was last time to a place where my job becomes harder to say no to. I am still saying no to it. I am saying no on Monday morning. I want to tell you so that if you have an opinion you can tell me by Sunday night.”

”You are saying no on my behalf.”

”I am saying no on your behalf. You told me when I started that the answer to anything that involves you in a print campaign was no, and I have been saying no for two years on the basis of that one conversation. The number is high enough this time that I want to check in before I do it again.”

”Say no.”

”Saying no.”

”What’s the number.”

”You don’t want the number.”

”What’s the number.”

”Five-fifty for ten days of your life including travel.”

”Jess.”

”Yeah.”

”Say no.”

”Saying no. The other thing.”

”What.”

”Elena Vasquez wants thirty minutes of you sitting still on Tuesday. She has the camera time booked at Beckenham at three. She has been told it can be moved. I am asking if she should move it.”

”Tuesday at three works.”

”Good. The match yesterday.”

”Yeah.”

”Coppell texted me too. After he texted you. He asked me to tell you he meant it.”

”All right.”

”Sleep this weekend, Daniel.”

”I am sleeping this weekend.”

”Sleep harder.”

She hung up.

Emma had finished the plates. Came over. Sat back down on the sofa. Looked at me.

”What.”

”Five-fifty for ten days.”

”You said no.”

”I said no.”

”Good.”

We watched something on Netflix neither of us would remember. We went to bed at half past ten. She fell asleep first.

[Beckenham. Saturday April 7. 10:00 BST.]

Training was light.

Elena Vasquez was at the side of the pitch with Tomás and Ruth and the new camera lad whose name I had not learnt yet because he had only joined Elena’s crew two weeks ago. The three of them had been in the building three months now. The lads did not notice them any more. Olise walked past Tomás like Tomás was a goal post.

Elena came over after the session. Notebook in her hand. Asked me three quick questions for the voiceover she was building for the Salzburg first leg footage. I answered them. She thanked me. Went away.

The new lad followed Bowen all the way back to the dressing room with a small handheld camera. Bowen did not notice. Bowen rarely noticed.

Sarah read the team out from her clipboard.

”Pope. Joel, Tomkins, Mama, Lucas. Rúben, McArthur. Bowen, James, Olise. Pato.”

”Eight changes.”

”Eight changes. Aaron, Ben, Wayne, Konaté, Mateo, Mili, Wilf, Eze, Christopher all on the bench or in the stand.”

Wilf grinned at me from the back of the room. Christopher closed his eyes. Mama was already at the door. Mama was always already at the door.

”Bournemouth at home in October was a Bray set piece. Eddie will set them up the same way at the Vitality. Sit deep. Don’t press. Give us the ball in our own half. Pato in behind every time the line pushes higher than it should. Olise wide and direct. James anywhere he wants to be. Rúben and McArthur control the middle. Joel and Lucas overlap when the moment is on.”