by Alison Bond
More brisk Polish followed as Lubin conducted two conversations at once. One with Gabe, friendly and casual, and one with the unfortunate Pole whom he realized was in the process of being fired. He tried to intervene.
‘Perhaps I went to the wrong entrance – forget about it. I didn’t expect special treatment.’
But the lambasting continued until with a final grandiose sweep of his hand Lubin turned sharply back to Gabe.
‘So, lunch?’ he asked as the man he had just fired slunk off with his bag over his shoulder, his shoelaces still undone.
Several of the team glared at them as they walked out. He held his firm jaw high and reminded himself yet again that he wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to play football. He had been given one last chance at something he had wanted for as long as he could remember, a dream that he had resigned himself to never achieving.
If he wanted to be best mates with the man that was making it happen then sod the dirty looks.
Lunch was served in the executive box with a commanding view of the stadium. In contrast to the awkward wooden seats and bare concrete stands in obvious need of an overhaul the executive box was a no-expense-spared slice of luxury, complete with cushioned leather seating and ornate fixtures perhaps better suited to a box at the opera than a sporting arena.
‘So, you must have been very happy to secure a professional contract,’ said Lubin as they ate perfectly cooked pasta washed down with chilled white wine. Apart from the unbelievably small wine glasses the food and drink were faultless, as good as any he’d ever had in England, or for that matter on his honeymoon in Italy.
‘But perhaps a little confused?’ Lubin smiled thinly. Not a good smile. ‘It is unusual, a player of your age?’
The truth was that he hadn’t actually given it much thought. Obviously White Stars had signed him because he had scored a hat-trick in the FA Cup, one of which was a world-class goal. Wasn’t that so? Saying any of this would make him seem arrogant, and though he suspected that arrogance might be a trait the Russian admired, he instead murmured something about being grateful for the opportunity and then despised himself for being a pussy.
‘I think English football is the best in the world,’ said Lubin.
You and everyone else, mate. It had long been said that despite the inflated salaries of the Italian game, the inflated egos of the Spanish and the flair of the French, the English game was something special.
‘And you are here as their ambassador. I would like you to counsel me on why my team do not have passion. You will play with them for a while; you will be able to tell me, no?’
‘I, uh …’ He could hardly refuse. But it was surely a psychological question? A cultural difference, nothing that could be easily defined, let alone taught. He was neither a psychologist nor a coach, and no expert. He kicked balls at goals – that’s what he did. But he thought it prudent to assure Mr Lubin, his new boss, that he would do whatever he could to bring a little English spirit to the Polish game.
‘Good,’ said Lubin. ‘And what are your first impressions? Is it very different from what you are used to?’
Apparently his counsel would start immediately.
He searched for anything worthwhile he could say. ‘Smoking before training wouldn’t fly well with any English manager, I’ll tell you that much.’
‘Interesting,’ said Lubin.
‘I used to smoke twenty a day,’ he said, largely to distract his host from asking anything further. ‘I was stuck in goal for fifteen years, then I quit, got fit. The coach tried me up front more for a laugh than anything else, and suddenly I’m a striker. Scored my first match goal at the age of thirty-two. Makes you wonder what I might have done if I’d found that form at twenty-one, doesn’t it?’
‘Then perhaps you would not be here, Gabe,’ said Lubin, ‘and we are very glad to have you.’
Lubin changed the subject and started talking about Krakow, Gabe’s new home, recommending places with complicated names that he would never remember. He told him where he could eat and drink, where his wife could shop, where he could buy a car. ‘You like cars?’ he said.
‘Well enough.’ He was hardly about to tell a man who had a football club as a hobby that he drove a Ford Mondeo. ‘I like motorbikes,’ he said. ‘When I was a kid I loved my Triumph Bonneville.’
‘I have a bike,’ said Lubin. ‘Come, I will show you it, my cars too.’
Cars plural?
Underneath the stadium there was parking space for a dozen cars. Four of the spaces were occupied with the kind of luxury vehicles that Gabe lusted over on television. The rest of the spaces were empty. The cars gleamed like treasure in the dimly lit garage. A silver Bentley Continental GT, a Ferrari 550 Maranello and, almost as an afterthought, a TVR Cerbera. There was also a Ducati Testastretta superbike with tyres that looked as pristine as the sole of an unworn shoe. Those tyres must have been gagging for the open road.
Gabe’s shoulders twitched to ride that bike, to feel the powerful engine between his legs, to control a machine of such force, to feel the ground zipping past his knees on tight bends, to feel free.
There and then he decided to get another bike. Christine wouldn’t like it, but maybe given her newfound adoration he was willing to bet that she wouldn’t complain.
A wiry-looking kid was polishing up the bonnet on the Bentley. One of his team mates, a nippy little striker who, if he remembered rightly, was called Josef.
Lubin said something to him in Polish and the kid finished up quickly and disappeared.
He couldn’t be much more than sixteen. What kind of wages must that kid be on if he cleaned the boss’s car for extras?
Cars, plural.
Lubin seemed to be waiting for Gabe to comment, but he had no idea what to say. How do you comment on what must be a million pounds’ worth of machinery?
‘Impressive,’ he said eventually, in the fraction of a second before the silence became uncomfortable. Why was Lubin trying to impress him? ‘Do you have a favourite?’
Lubin laughed and clapped his arm round Gabe’s shoulders. ‘That’s like asking if I have a favourite child,’ he said.
It really isn’t.
He laughed anyway and let his new boss talk him through some of the features on the Ferrari, the custom-designed interior of the Bentley and about the Porsche he had back home in Russia.
‘Talk to me about Samantha Sharp,’ said Lubin.
‘About Sam? Why? What do you want to know?’
‘She is very highly regarded?’ said Lubin. ‘For a woman, I mean.’
‘For anyone,’ he said, because Gabe had been brought up by a strong mother who would never forgive him for letting such a statement pass uncorrected. ‘But I really don’t know her very well.’
‘Extremely fuckable,’ said the Russian, flicking a tiny speck of dust off the bonnet of his TVR.
‘I, er, I suppose so, yes.’
‘There is no suppose,’ said Lubin. ‘That mouth, those legs.’ He laughed. ‘And everything in between. You and her, you have never …?’
‘I’m married,’ said Gabe. What was he meant to say? Of course Sam was fuckable, she was bloody gorgeous, but she was also a class act, not some trollop barfly out on the pull.
‘That’s not an answer,’ said Lubin. ‘Maybe you have something to hide?’
Gabe stuttered. He wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was heading. Then the Russian laughed abruptly and patted Gabe’s shoulder.
‘I am joking,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Gabe, forcing out a sour chuckle. ‘Good one.’
‘A woman like Samantha Sharp would need more of a man than you.’
Gabe waited for Lubin to say that he was joking again, but he did not. Rankled, Gabe looked for a way to tie up the meeting, eventually using the excuse that he was meeting his wife. Like a good husband. He wished that he had been able to come up with something that sounded a little tougher, but it was too late.
He relaxed the momen
t they said goodbye.
He left the stadium with his cold hands tucked deep in his pockets. Would he ever make enough money to be able to afford cars like that, and, even if he did, is that what he would spend it on? After the bike, what next? He couldn’t imagine going home to Christine and telling her that he’d just bought a car worth more than their house. Perhaps if he said it was a gift for her? No, then she’d probably guess what he was trying to pull and punish him by never letting him drive it.
But it was good to dream.
Nothing that ostentatious then, but still a luxury, a Merc maybe, a BMW even. They weren’t far from Germany – maybe he was well placed to get a bargain.
So lost was he in thoughts of the car he would buy if his wife would allow him to that he didn’t notice the two young men that had approached him in the deserted street.
One of them started talking to him in Polish, at least he thought it was Polish – it could have been anything as far as he was able to tell – while a second one pushed a map at him, quite forcibly.
‘I don’t understand, mate,’ he said. ‘English? I’m English.’
It didn’t make any difference. The two men continued to jabber at him, stabbing their fingers into the map.
‘No comprenez,’ he said, starting to get irritated. ‘No savvy, you get me?’
Then he tried to walk away and felt his first flash of fear when one of the men, his face cold and unsmiling, grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
‘Hey, watch it,’ said Gabe.
Suddenly the atmosphere turned dark. He sensed he was in danger, and assessed the threat. Two of them, one of him, but because of the way they were positioned he couldn’t make a run for it.
Shit. This could be trouble. My legs, don’t go for my legs. Wouldn’t that just be too unlucky? The chance of a lifetime, a professional football contract, wasted because of a smashed fibula.
Then out of the blue stormed Josef, the little car valet, brandishing what looked like a – could it be? – a baseball bat, and hollering in Polish, a thundering voice coming out of his small frame, his sleeves pushed up to reveal surprisingly powerful biceps, blue eyes flashing an icy warning.
Josef grabbed the arm of the one holding Gabe’s wrist, twisting it so that Gabe was immediately released.
Josef shouted first at one assailant and then the other.
Gabe, who knew perfectly well that this kid was on his side, was scared, so could only imagine what the two little scam artists thought of the sudden ambush by this angry young man. They shrunk under his wrath, exchanged glances and scarpered, running off round the corner at speed, shouting insults as they left, but leaving all the same.
Gabe tried to thank his rescuer in awkward English.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘They surprised me. They appeared from nowhere, whoosh!’ His heart was racing. ‘It’s Josef, isn’t it? I’m Gabe.’ He patted his chest. ‘Gabe.’
‘I know who you are, mate,’ said his junior saviour. ‘Loving those goals against Spurs, nice one. Josef Wandrowszcki. But you can call me Joe, yeah?’
‘You’re English?’
Joe flashed an open and easy smile. ‘And they say all footballers are thick.’
14
Samantha stiffened when the knock on her front door came again in the middle of the day.
One thirty, bang on time.
She could ignore it. She wanted to ignore it, but from experience she knew that ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away. Last week it had shouted through the letterbox until she opened the door. She dropped the sample contract she had been only half reading, ostensibly brushing up on the finer points of licensing image copyright and loyalty bonuses, and walked resignedly to the door to let in Leanne.
Without these daily visits the only person she would see was the guy who sold her daily coffee and her reflection in the mirror. It occurred to her that this was quite unhealthy, but until she was allowed to return to work she had no intention of doing anything other than waiting.
For how long?
As long as it takes.
Her bare feet tingled on the cold wooden floor in the hallway. One good thing about this enforced leave of absence: it gave her a break from heels. And that was really the only good thing. If she stopped to think about it she even missed the heels. Mostly though – to her dismay – she missed Jackson.
She would forgive him. All she wanted was her job back, and until that happened she wouldn’t be speaking to him again. Mistakes were made, she knew that better than anyone, made and corrected. She wouldn’t hold a grudge. But she must be absolved. And when this mess was cleared up she would be back at her desk within an hour working as hard as she ever had.
I miss my life.
Her current occupations were a poor substitute. Keeping the boredom at bay by reviewing old paperwork, and having a lunchtime conference with her assistant, who would probably get into trouble if anyone at Legends knew she was there. Surely there must be rules about consorting with the recently disgraced.
She opened the door without even saying hello.
Leanne was happy to get into the habit of dropping in on Samantha during her lunch hour. It meant that she didn’t get back to the office until gone three o’clock but nobody noticed. Lately she spent most of her days bidding for vintage clothes on eBay. Nobody noticed that either. To her horror she found that she was a teeny bit bored.
‘Any idea when you’ll be back?’ she asked casually, passing over the same Marks & Spencer sandwich she had brought Samantha for years. Everything was in a state of flux, but the lunch order remained the same.
‘Soon,’ said Samantha. ‘Surely it’ll have to be soon.’ She picked the bacon out of her BLT, and nibbled at the edges. Being away from work was like an illness, sapping her strength, killing her appetite. Every day that went by she felt herself being cast further adrift. It was as if she was walking around with an enormous question mark over her head, one that would remain over her trustworthiness until she was cleared. And even then a trace of the question mark might haunt her for years to come.
But the next day everything changed. Instead of lunch, Leanne came bearing a newspaper, a yellow Post-it note marking a story. ‘I have to show you something,’ she said.
Samantha lifted her head, only mildly interested, expecting a bit of gossip about some WAG or another. But when she saw Leanne’s ashen expression and the way her hand trembled when she passed the newspaper over her stomach lunged with a dreadful sense of foreboding.
Leanne hung back, afraid that Samantha might kill the messenger. But Samantha was too busy staring at her own picture in the newspaper and seeing her career flash before her eyes, as life does in moments near death.
She scanned the article frantically and with each damning word her hopes for a simple conclusion to her current circumstances plummeted. Next to her picture ran an overstated self-righteous piece about the latest scandal to sour the flamboyant world of high-end football transfers. It detailed Samantha Sharp’s career, from her improbable rise to her latest coup, the multi-million-pound deal for the two Welstead boys. The article practically made her a poster girl for everything that was wrong with the game. Money ruined football, that was the common consensus, and Samantha Sharp was all about the money.
Leanne watched anxiously, knowing the adage about all publicity being good publicity was just plain wrong.
Samantha closed her eyes. But when she opened them again the offending article was still there. ‘Has Jackson seen it?’
‘I assume so,’ said Leanne. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ How ridiculous, thanking someone for bringing this small time-bomb into the Belsize Park living room, all done up in calming beige and mushroom tones, high-maintenance white upholstery, low-maintenance bamboo floors. Now splattered with scandal.
‘How did they find out?’ she murmured. The media destroyed people every day. They could destroy her too.
‘I couldn’t s
ay,’ said Leanne. ‘But you don’t know how three hundred thousand dollars found its way into your life either.’
‘It’s all the same person,’ said Samantha faintly. It had to be. It would seem she had enemies after all.
The last vestiges of denial were blown away. This was no mistake. Somebody had leaked this story to the press. Somebody had planted the vicious sum of money in CoralBanc that threatened to dismantle the life she had so painstakingly constructed.
She had tried to be good. To play fair. Other agents would ride roughshod over anyone in pursuit of their goals, but not Samantha. She went out of her way to ensure that she didn’t antagonize people as she climbed to the top. So she was well liked in her business, but evidently not by all. By someone, she was hated. And if it wasn’t someone in the business, then who? Something personal? Impossible, she had no personal life. There was no skeleton of a significant ex or a betrayed spouse lurking at the back of her closet. Liam was the only family she had. Leanne her only friend. But she knew in her gut that somebody had her in their sights. She felt hunted. She felt like checking her doors and windows even though rationally she knew that they were already locked.
She closed her lips and eyes tight. It looked as if she was trying not to cry, but really she was trying not to scream.
She had been so stupid believing that her innocence would be enough to save her. She should have known better than that. It wasn’t enough to be blameless. The world just didn’t balance so fairly, and especially not when someone was tipping the game wildly against her.
Who was doing this? How do you fight an enemy you cannot see? How do you make them stop?
‘They called the office,’ said Leanne gently. ‘A journalist asking lots of questions about your past, about your family.’
Her head snapped up. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t tell them anything; I don’t know anything about your family.’
‘I don’t have a family,’ said Samantha.
She swallowed down the bitter bile that rose in her throat. The tabloids would go into a feeding frenzy if they found out about her brother. She told herself that she was protecting Liam, admitted to herself that she was protecting them both, but knew deep down she was keeping him secret for the sake of her reputation. What little reputation she had left to salvage.
