A Reluctant Cinderella

by Alison Bond

  She turned back to Toby. ‘Call me,’ she said. ‘Even if you just need to talk it out, I’ll be impartial. I won’t hold you to anything.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, and walked off to find a stiff drink to feed to the butterflies in his stomach.

  She looked up at Jackson and smiled. ‘I suppose you’re going to have a go at me for trying to poach your clients?’

  ‘Would it have any impact?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then I won’t bother,’ he said. ‘Sure you won’t reconsider the job offer? Senior partner, seat on the board. I’ll even give you my parking spot if that’ll swing it. A raise for Leanne.’

  They turned to look at her assistant schmoozing the VIPs. After years of flirting with footballers, hospitality came naturally to Leanne. So Samantha had put her in charge of corporate relations and told her to hire an assistant of her own. Leanne agreed; she was getting too old to trail around after footballers anyway. The company was growing. Samantha would always chase success, but with friends like Leanne and Jackson, and her brother close by and settled, she felt satisfied whatever happened.

  ‘I can’t come back to Legends,’ she said. ‘Not if something is happening between us personally – it just won’t work. And if something’s not happening then, well, that won’t work either.’

  ‘Oh, it’s happening,’ he said. ‘And this time we do it my way.’

  And right there, in the middle of the family-and-friends box at Wembley Stadium, where everyone could see, her lover kissed her long and hard.

  No more secrets.

  Joe had made his peace with the need to puke before every important match. It had practically become a ritual, as much a part of his superstitious preparation as his lucky pants or his pre-match pep talk.

  Go for goal.

  He hung over the toilet and was a bit disconcerted when nothing came up. Was it a sign? Perhaps he wasn’t even going to play. Of course it was possible he would watch the entire game from the bench. Likely, some might say. Except he’d done well in training, he knew he had. And so he thought that maybe he would get a few minutes, at the end perhaps, and if he did, then he would play so well that Layla, the lovely Layla, his girlfriend, would be giddy with pride.

  Goal.

  One word. A new mantra.

  Gabe looked up with a guilty expression when Christine came back to their hotel room shortly after kick-off.

  ‘Are you planning on staying drunk all day?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ said Gabe. He’d thrown the cans out of the window into the hotel grounds; she couldn’t prove a thing.

  ‘We’ve been together for fourteen years – you think I can’t tell when you’re plastered?’

  ‘I should be playing,’ he said mournfully.

  ‘For England? Gabe, the truth is you had one lucky game. You could have made the most of it, but you didn’t.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Have you been smoking in here?’

  ‘Give it a rest, will ya?’

  ‘Give it a rest?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you. Listen to me. Gabe, stop watching the television for one minute and listen to me. Look at me.’

  He did as he was told.

  She was still beautiful. He had put her through far too much these last few months. The embarrassment of his infidelity being splashed across the papers back home. But he would make it up to her.

  Just not right now. Not while England were playing.

  ‘I’m leaving you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  That got his attention.

  ‘I’m leaving you. Right now.’

  ‘Babe, come on.’ Shit, he wished he wasn’t drunk right now. If he wasn’t drunk perhaps he could think of something better to say, because all he could think of was, ‘Babe, don’t be like this.’

  ‘I’ll be however I want to be, Gabe. I’ve had enough.’

  He rallied. A bolt of sober thought smacked him into sense. He was really losing her, this was really happening.

  ‘Let’s go back to England,’ he said. ‘Our house, our home, our life. Our life together.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Neither of us was happy, not really.’

  ‘We can try for a baby. We can try as many times as you like.’

  She laughed a little, even though she was sad. ‘It’s too late. Not for a baby, for us.’

  ‘But it can’t be.’

  ‘But it is.’

  He forgot all about football. All he wanted to do was find the words that would make her change her mind. They must be there somewhere behind the muggy haze of drunken shame. ‘So what now?’ he said. ‘You want to go home on your own?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said. She lowered her eyes. ‘I’ve met someone. He’s a waiter, Polish. He’s young, but I love him …’

  Maybe he deserved it. She was right, they hadn’t been happy, not really. He’d go back to England. He could make something of himself there, not a footballer, no chance, but there would be a tabloid newspaper prepared to pay for a ‘my shame’ exclusive, there would be panel shows and reality shows. He’d ditch Sam and get himself a showbiz agent – hadn’t that Seamus McDonnell said he could be a celebrity? Yeah, he liked the sound of that. Deep down he knew that being a celebrity wouldn’t get Christine back. But he’d live with it. The girls liked celebrities almost as much as footballers, right? Right?

  The England match was tied at two goals apiece. There were fifteen minutes left to play and neither team would surrender any ground.

  Everyone on the pitch was tired. But they dragged their bodies onward, playing with their hearts.

  It had been a classic match, packed full of incident. Four goals, one missed penalty, five yellow cards. All over the country the fans were glued to their screens waiting for a miracle.

  Samantha had chewed both her thumbnails to the quick. She had to admit it. She did love the game. It wasn’t all about the money.

  Although the money helped.

  Jackson said something to her and she flinched. She had forgotten he was there.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘what was that? I was thinking about something else.’

  ‘What were you thinking of?’

  ‘Is it just me or are the team looking weak on the left? It seems obvious that they should put Joe on, but perhaps I’m biased?’ She wanted him to play, she wanted him to play better than he had ever played before, to rise to the occasion and make the world sit up and ask his name. She wanted him to score a goal because then he would join the elite group of greats who had scored on their England debut. She wanted nothing less than perfection.

  ‘You’re right. They should put Joe on,’ he said. ‘They will.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, and pointed. Down at the touchline Joe started to warm up.

  She looked back up at Jackson. ‘So what was it you said?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A minute ago, you said something.’

  ‘Nothing, just that I love you.’

  *

  The ball went out of play and the England bench signalled that they wished to make a substitution. Joe’s one-word mantra kept him calm.

  Goal.

  He knew what he had to do. England expected.

  Samantha held her breath and hoped for the perfect goal.

  And Joe Wonder didn’t disappoint.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to the following people for their support and advice while I wrote this book: Judith Murdoch, for always being the first to read and the last to hold back; everyone at Penguin, but especially Clare Ledingham and Lydia Newhouse; John English – any football mistakes that remain are against his sound advice; anyone in Krakow who ever let me chatter through a match; my family, all the Puros, big and small, with special thanks to Sara for the loan of her Mac – having destroyed so many laptops I began to fear this book was cursed – and Manny, for fixing one of them so expertly. Also Emmanuel Petit, jus
t because.