A Reluctant Cinderella

by Alison Bond

  ‘Your Highness?’ said Samantha.

  ‘A princess of Spain and Poland,’ he confirmed.

  ‘I didn’t think Poland had a monarchy any more.’

  ‘Technically they don’t,’ he said, lifting two glasses of champagne from a passing silver tray, and handing one to her, ‘but lineage is as important as it has ever been. She’s from Madrid, the king’s second cousin. Married a Pole. Her husband can trace his ancestry back to the fifteenth century. He is still royal, even if they no longer rule.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Her husband?’

  He nodded towards a dark-haired man with a moustache slamming back shots of vodka in a smoky corner by one of the open fireplaces. His loud voice carried all the way to them and though she couldn’t understand a word she could tell he was drunk.

  ‘Eurotrash,’ he said dismissively.

  The cocktail party was in the vaulted cellar of one of the finest museums in Europe. Aleksandr had insisted that they all detour to inspect the Leonardo Da Vinci on the second floor before descending to the party below. Samantha had pretended to be impressed, but really art left her cold. If she had eighty million US dollars, the conservative estimate of the painting’s value, she could think of far better ways to spend it. Nevertheless, the cellar made an atmospheric venue for a party, lit as it was by candles in sconces that reflected on the marble floor and made the glasses and silverware glint with the refracted light of a hundred separate flames. There was some serious money in the room. How many people here could afford to buy a Leonardo of their very own? Knowing they were partying beneath eighty-million-dollar paintings made it even more glamorous.

  His voice dragged her back to the room.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘I was thinking about … art.’

  ‘I said your guests look as though they’re having a pleasant evening.’

  The two men from the FA were each embroiled in private conversation with a pair of beautiful Polish women. Their ties were loosened, looks of slight bewilderment on their faces. In England she suspected such attractive women to be well out of their league.

  ‘Being English makes you popular with women,’ said Aleksandr.

  ‘Even here?’ She gestured around her, meaning the trays of champagne and caviar that circled endlessly, the designer clothes and ostentatious bling, the obvious wealth that lingered in the air like the heady perfume.

  ‘Even here,’ he said. ‘This is new Europe. It will take a few more years yet before it occurs to these people that they are equal to old Europe in every sense. Until then, the girls still dream of marrying an Englishman to take them away.’

  ‘I think both those men are already married,’ she said.

  ‘That matters less than you might think.’

  How very different this all was to a night out with her old Legends colleagues in some painfully trendy London bar where more often than not she pretended not to feel old while she watched Richard and his sort chat up women only recently out of their teens who would really rather have a footballer but would be willing to take a millionaire agent as a substitute. Trying not to feel jealous if Jackson played the part of a single man as she often insisted that he did to maintain their cover. The women here seemed more sophisticated, dressed far more elegantly, not a flash of thigh in sight. The age range was wider and, most unusually, nobody seemed particularly drunk. If this was England people would be dancing badly by now, a girl with new boobs would be offering a feel and Samantha would be thinking about going home.

  There was only one couple dancing here. A blonde woman draped over a handsome young man she recognized as a defender from the White Stars team. He had the sort of build that would have been playing rugby if he had been born British, big and bearlike, and was gently stroking the hair of his dancing partner as they whirled a slow dance, lost in a world of their own.

  The blonde looked awfully familiar.

  ‘Leanne?’

  Leanne raised her head from the bear’s shoulder and winked at her boss.

  She wasn’t quite sure how Leanne did it, but she never missed an opportunity to mingle with footballers. Here as in London, or so it seemed.

  Aleksandr saw her looking. ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘A friend,’ said Samantha.

  She wondered if he could tell how turned on she was just by standing here talking to him. The thought of his tight young body under those sharp clothes was distracting. The memory of going to bed with him meant that every time she glanced at his face she remembered how it had looked that night, furious with desire, desire for her. Her body felt liquid at the recollection. She fought the impulse to drag him into one of the convenient dark spaces to satisfy the need turning her body hot and molten.

  Calm down.

  ‘Whose party is this anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine.’

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. He should have said. If this was her party she would be installed on a throne somewhere watching over her guests.

  She surveyed the crowd. Where was Joe? He had the address; he could have caught a cab and been here by now. Meanwhile she had another client to try to sell. Gabe hadn’t played the best game of his life, not like Joe, but he had still made a valuable contribution. It would be worth trying to make an impression. She saw him on the opposite side of the room with Christine.

  ‘You should mingle,’ she said to Lubin.

  ‘Mingle?’

  ‘Mix with your guests.’

  ‘I know what it means. I was curious why you think I would want to when I am here with you.’

  ‘I should spend some time with my clients,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to monopolize you.’

  He held her eye for a long moment, then nodded slowly and took her hand in his. ‘Of course,’ he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it like an old-fashioned lover. ‘But also you should spend some time with me. I will look for you later, after I have … mingled.’

  She made her way over to Gabe and Christine. She was too busy thinking about the charming billionaire to notice that they were in the middle of an argument. She was close enough to hear them before she knew, even though they were talking in whispers. It was too late to change her trajectory. Christine saw her and nudged Gabe sharply in the ribs. They stopped talking abruptly, requiring her to fill the tense silence that followed.

  ‘Great game, Gabe,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re both enjoying yourselves.’

  ‘We are, aren’t we?’ said Christine.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Gabe, and it was impossible to miss the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I want to bring the chaps from the FA over to meet you properly,’ she said, ‘but they seem to be a little preoccupied right now.’

  ‘These Polish girls definitely have their charms.’ Gabe drained his champagne swiftly and swapped his empty glass for a full one as a tray passed him, drinking half of it with his first sip.

  ‘Gabe,’ said Christine. ‘Don’t you think you ought to slow down?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But obviously you do.’

  She was with Christine on this one. Gabe needed to slow down, preferably stop. She was hoping that Gabe’s natural charm would add to a solid but unspectacular performance and give him a chance of making it onto some wildcard list somewhere, but only if he was able to demonstrate some of the maturity that could be his greatest selling point. She knew from experience that too much to drink made most men, and footballers in particular, act about fifteen years old.

  Samantha made a risky decision.

  ‘Come with me, Gabe,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce you to Alan Bull.’

  It was now or never. His lucidity was on the wane. She had to get this little meet and greet over and done. She reintroduced the two men and stood beside them while they talked about the current standing in the English Premier League.

  The Polish girls stood beside them and pretended to look interested. They gave her outfit the once over and from the looks of things found her
lacking in some department. Dressed as they were in frilled pelmet hems over black leggings and with matching asymmetric fringes that made them look like rejects from an eighties girl band she didn’t feel particularly slighted by their judgement, but the intense scrutiny made her contribution to the conversation stilted.

  ‘Gabe’s a Tottenham fan,’ she said.

  ‘Or at least I was until I put a hat-trick past their goalie,’ crowed Gabe. ‘Now I just feel sorry for them.’

  ‘That must have been some day for you,’ said Alan.

  Gabe took this as an invitation to launch into his favourite story, dressing it up with exaggerated descriptions and generally taking far too long to describe a game that had taken place months ago. She could sense Alan losing interest, but Gabe was oblivious. He painted a picture of the match kick by kick. She tried to push him to the end.

  ‘It was a fantastic game, Gabe, and look how far it’s brought you.’

  ‘My favourite goal will always be number three,’ he said. ‘The clock was ticking …’

  And off he went again.

  Alan smiled politely and waited for a natural pause and then asked, ‘Where’s the boy? Wandrowszcki, right? That’s some name.’

  ‘Joe?’ she said. ‘He’s on his way.’ Though privately she echoed Alan’s sentiment. Where was he? Between Gabe’s pomposity and Joe’s tardiness it wouldn’t matter if they both played like Pelé – attitude was important too.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ said Gabe. ‘I’m in the middle of a sentence here.’

  Alan turned back to him and grinned benignly. ‘It sounds like a day you’ll never forget.’

  ‘You taking the piss?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Alan looked across at Samantha to smooth over the awkward moment. She started to make vague apologies, knowing in her gut that if Gabe’s undistinguished performance hadn’t stamped out any glimmer of an international career then being rude to somebody this influential certainly would put an absolute end to it.

  Gabe moved to swap his empty champagne glass for yet another one, but his hands were clumsy and missed their target. He tried to correct himself, but it was too late. What might have been a simple dropped glass became an entire tray of upset drinks crashing to the marble floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the room who saw Gabe swaying and swearing, almost slipping on the wet floor, ungainly and inebriated.

  She looked across the room and saw Aleksandr – unexpected eye contact – and he was wearing what could only be described as a sneer and for a disconcerting second she thought it was directed at her. But no, he was looking at Gabe. When he noticed her looking he corrected himself and turned away. She took a step towards Gabe, but he backed off, stumbling further in the process, holding up his arms to say ‘I’m fine’ when it was obvious to everyone that he was not.

  ‘Gabe!’ Christine came running across the room, hurrying back to his side, holding him up, whispering something in his ear that nobody could hear but Samantha. ‘Calm down,’ she whispered in gentle tones. ‘Calm down. Come on, let’s go, okay?’

  He shook off her arm and stood up stiff and rigid, making a point of his ability to stand on his own two feet.

  ‘He’s really not much of a champagne drinker,’ said Christine, knowing that she was making a weak excuse to try and save a little face. ‘I told you to take it easy,’ she said, and forced out a little laugh. Gabe scowled but stayed quiet.

  Alan just looked relieved that the incident was over.

  ‘I think we ought to go,’ said Christine, stating the obvious. ‘Will you thank Mr Lubin for inviting us, Sam?’

  ‘You’ll be all right getting home?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll get a cab. Prosze na Hotel Copernicus,’ said Christine shyly. ‘I’m taking Polish lessons.’

  It had started snowing again. They clambered into one of the many taxis lining up outside the venue. Gabe slumped into the corner, opened the window a fraction and breathed in the frosty air. He was sobering up quickly, too quickly, and willed her not to launch into a lecture, telling him all the things he already knew.

  It wasn’t just the champagne. The champagne was merely a symptom, something he was drinking to try to blot out a painful, inconvenient truth. That even when he played as hard as he could he was still not good enough, and it was too late in his life to get any better.

  ‘You okay?’ asked his wife, and slipped her hand into his.

  But he was too ashamed to answer her. He’d embarrassed Sam. Sam, who only ever wanted to make his life better, and she had. He had no idea how he would ever make it up to her.

  Christine was thinking of the trip she had made to a private fertility clinic that day, where she had sat and talked to a specialist who in perfect English told her that a cycle of IVF treatment would cost a fraction of what it cost them in England, that she and Gabe could begin by making a few lifestyle changes: a healthy diet, minimal stress and no alcohol. Christine wanted a baby. But she had no idea how to make Gabe want one too.

  He could sense an aching gulf between them on the way home that night. She was slipping away from him, and he was mortified to find himself momentarily wishing he had never scored the hat-trick against Tottenham that day at all.

  ‘Isn’t that Joe?’ said Christine, pointing out onto the street where Joe and Layla walked along hand in hand.

  Kids like Joe, they were the future, and he was just Gabe Muswell, part-time player who’d had one lucky day against Tottenham that he would try to trade on for the rest of his life. Despite what he might have thought, that day hadn’t been the beginning of anything; it had been the summit of his achievement, the pinnacle of his footballing career.

  It had been the end.

  Layla’s thumb was resting on the back of his hand where she had clasped it casually. He fancied that he could feel the warmth of her fingers, even through the leather gloves that she wore. Black leather gloves. Sexy. His hand where she was touching him was an inferno, keeping the rest of his body toasty warm. And Layla was far too excited to feel the cold. She kept raving about the city, about the match, about him and all Joe could do was stare at her and grin like an imbecile.

  How could she not know? To Joe it was so obvious that he might as well have her name tattooed across his heart. The Eric Clapton song she had been named for ran in an endless loop in his head whenever he was close to her, the soundtrack to every conversation they had ever had. For Joe it was the ultimate love song, rich in unrequited desire, and it played loudly in his mind tonight, tuned into the pulse of the blood rushing through his veins.

  Lay. La.

  Maybe he should stop, look into her eyes and lean in to kiss her. He didn’t have to use words; he could kiss her and she could kiss him back and they would always remember their first kiss in this place, on this night, the first kiss of so many kisses to come. Clumsy words would spoil it. A kiss could say it all.

  But it was too late; they were there.

  And Joe let another opportunity to tell his love that he loved her pass him by.

  After Gabe left the party Samantha quickly drafted in Leanne to help with charming Alan, and she did an admirable job pretending that everything he said was fascinating, doing her best to make him forget that there had ever been an embarrassing moment – ‘Really? British Airways? I came with easyJet. Would you like to dance?’ – proving that she was perfectly capable of flirting with someone who was not a footballer. Samantha sat in the corner and fretted that she had lost any credibility she had managed to claw back since London.

  Then finally Joe arrived.

  And everything was okay again. More than okay.

  They liked him.

  26

  For the next few days she worked hard on a whispering campaign about this boy wonder playing out in the back of beyond. She waited patiently for the phone to ring and for some third party to ask her to find out about him. Only then would she know that her subtle PR operation had worked and that the backrooms and boardrooms of Eng
lish clubs had added a new name to their lists. It would be a pleasure to take such a call, to be able to say, why yes, I know him, he’s mine.

  But before that could happen she received a different kind of call. One she dropped everything to answer. Liam had been granted parole and was due to be released.

  ‘It’s all down to you,’ he said. ‘You know that, right?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said.

  Tears of joy were spilling soundlessly down her cheeks and she forced her fingernails into the palm of her hand to keep control of her singing emotions.

  ‘I mean it. That lawyer you got? He knew all the right things to do. Got my case referred to the Home Secretary right away. He requested all the reports on me, told me exactly what resettlement courses would look good and wrote the most amazing representation on my behalf. You should read it, Sam. You wouldn’t recognize me. The guy makes me out to be some kind of hero.’

  ‘You’ve always been my hero, Liam,’ she said. And it was partly true.

  ‘Until I killed people?’

  ‘You didn’t kill anyone, Liam. It was an accident.’

  ‘A little dark humour, Sam, that’s all.’

  She heard him pull hard on a cigarette, his breath whistling down the line, and she realized that her big brother was scared. After all those years behind bars he no longer knew his place in the world. Except that he had a place with her.

  ‘So you’ll be here?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  She was nervous too. They had gone from being as close as brother and sister could be, to seeing each other at most once a week and talking of nothing important. Now their relationship was entering a new phase, the first really as adults, for she had only been a child when he was put away; she knew that now. Without drugs and drink to bond over, and with unlimited time to try, nobody telling them that visiting hours were over, she was fearful of what shape their new relationship would take.