The Footballer's Wife (2 page)

‘What d'you think?' he squeaked, trying to put his arms up only to find he was unable to lift them any higher than hip level.

Tracy looked at him and shook her head. She wanted to bollock him for being such a fool as to own an Elvis jumpsuit in the first place, never mind trying to pour himself into it. But he looked like such an idiot she couldn't help but laugh. ‘Lovely meat and two veg, Evel Knievel.'

‘I'm the bloody King!'

‘Which one? Henry the eighth?'

‘You cheeky sod.' Kent tutted and tried to walk off but found that he was swinging his legs like John Wayne.

‘Where d'you dig that up from?'

‘It's the one I won Butlin's Skegness “Elvis of the Year 1989” in.'

‘Well, I think you might want to have a look at a picture of Elvis just before he slumped off the toilet with a burger in one hand and a handful of Temazepam in the other and get yourself another suit made up.'

‘D'you think I've put on weight?' Kent asked, self-consciously stroking his portly belly.

Tracy rolled her eyes. ‘When was the last time you saw your feet? Year after Skegness I reckon,' she
said, without a thought for Kent's bruised feelings. ‘So am I booking this holiday or not?'

‘What's the date?'

‘Next week.'

‘I can't next week. It's the competition.'

Tracy spun around in her chair, finally listening to Kent. ‘What competition?'

‘The Bolingbroke Lane Working Men's Club Elvis competition,' Kent said as if it was his thousandth time saying it. ‘Winner goes through to Blackpool. Then Blackpool winner goes through to Memphis. And that's what I'm talkin' 'bout.' Kent finished his sentence with his best Elvis impression, not realising that Tracy was staring at him agog.

‘No fucking way!' Tracy said, sparking up a cigarette and jabbing it in the direction of her common-law husband.

‘What you on about, “No fucking way”? I've been looking forward to this for months!'

Tracy glared at him. She knew that he had been rattling on about some competition that was coming up but she hadn't really been listening. Now she knew it was at Bolingbroke Lane Working Men's Club she was all ears. ‘Anywhere but there, Kent. Over my dead body.'

‘It's just a club.'

Tracy jumped to her feet. ‘How can you say that? Any place that has Len Metcalfe running it is not just a bloody club. That man is poison.'

‘Just because his daughter chucked Scott.'

‘Get your facts right. That little slag bled our Scottie dry until the first opportunity she got to jump ship and shack up with that nob-head footballer. I told our Leanne not to introduce her to anyone famous but did she listen? No. And now she's in every frigging paper I open, rubbing our Scott's nose in it. And I wouldn't mind but he's still paying off Fat Paul at the warehouse for all the bags he had nicked for her, while she swans around the place dripping in money. No morals, any of them Metcalfes.' Tracy shook her head indignantly.

‘That's her, not her dad. He's just a fat get who calls the bingo every Sunday; he's hardly Don Corleone, is he?'

Tracy's face clouded over and rare angry tears welled in her eyes. ‘I hate him!' she yelled. The ferocity of her statement took Kent aback. Tracy looked at Kent alarmed. She knew she was showing too much emotion about some bloke whose only connection to Tracy, as far as Kent was aware, was to be the dad of her son's ex-girlfriend. She took a
deep breath. ‘He's an arsehole, trust me. I know him from old.'

‘What's he done to you?' Kent waddled over to Tracy in his spray-on jumpsuit and took her hand.

‘He hasn't done anything,' Tracy said adamantly. She knew that she had to lighten the mood otherwise Kent would be grilling her about Len and that was the last thing she needed. She didn't like to think about that portly little man and his chavvy family if she could help it. ‘Look, go to the competition if you want.'

‘You don't have to come with me if you don't want to,' Kent said seriously.

Tracy arched an eyebrow. ‘No way. If we're going we're going in force. I'll ring round and gather the troops. I don't want that Metcalfe lot thinking we do things by halves.' She sat down purposefully.

‘Right.' Kent smiled proudly. ‘Better get down the market and see if someone can run me up another jumpsuit.'

*

Charly Metcalfe was perched three seats back from the infamous manager of Manchester Rovers, Martin Connors. The ground was packed to capacity
and she was sitting alongside her brother Jimmy. Jimmy had made a reappearance recently when it became obvious that his sister's new relationship meant free premiership tickets were on the cards. For the past few years he had been lying low on account of the fact that he had stolen anything valuable from his dad's house to fund a burgeoning heroin habit. He was now clean and seemed to be contrite – although he still couldn't look Len in the eye, Charly noted.

Len had accepted an uneasy truce with his son over the last few months, but Charly had a feeling that it would all come out in the wash at some stage. Although her dad had managed to keep his temper in check for a good few years, the legacy of the old Len was never too far away. A look or a pause was enough for people who knew him well to think that there was a possibility that he might blow. Not today, though. Today Len was as proud as punch, Charly could tell. They were in VIP seats with the rest of the Wives and Girlfriends and the TV cameras that were filming the game kept panning to Charly, who managed to maintain sphinx-like poise even when Joel, star player for Manchester Rovers, scored. The reality was that inside she was jumping up and down with excitement.

Charly couldn't believe sometimes how much her life had changed beyond recognition. When she and Joel had first met she had been living in a tiny flat with her then-boyfriend Scott Crompton who, although a lovely bloke, was too much of a pushover for Charly to see herself with permanently. She had met Joel at the opening of the Glasshouse nightclub in Bradington, where Charly had been out for the evening with Scott's sisters Leanne and Jodie. Leanne had signed Charly up to work as a glamour model for her recently founded agency and the three had gone out that night to promote the new enterprise. Joel had chatted to Charly and she knew immediately that there was a connection. When he asked for her number she hadn't hesitated. They had been together ever since.

A year on and Charly could pick and choose the modelling assignments she undertook and she didn't have to work if she didn't want to; Joel's huge salary took care of both of them. Leanne's modelling agency was doing well and Jodie was the one who was bringing in the most business. This didn't surprise Charly in the slightest; Jodie was a real grafter and would work her socks off to make sure she succeeded.

Jimmy cheered when he saw an image of his
sister flash up on the screen, which was more of a courtesy than the away fans were affording Charly. They had begun chanting a song speculating in which orifice she was most fond of having sex. Charly wasn't bothered; they might be making a joke of her but she'd be the one waking up in Egyptian cotton sheets in the morning, with freshly squeezed orange juice awaiting her prepared by the maid. Most of the chanting fans would be getting out of bed when their alarm told them to, next to a wife they never spoke to, to go to a job they despised. She knew where she'd rather be standing.

‘What are that lot singing?' Len asked, straining to hear.

‘Don't worry about it,' Charly said, putting her hand on her dad's large, tattooed arm.

A look of shock registered on Len's face as he realised what the away fans were chanting about his daughter. Soon his eyes were bulging out of their sockets with indignation. ‘Dad, leave it,' Charly urged him.

‘I'll leave nothing. That's a bloody disgrace!' Len said, flying off in the direction of the nearest steward. Charly watched as her dad protested vehemently, pointing at his daughter then pointing to the away crowd. She wanted to curl up and die
but thankfully she had her Christian Dior shades on which helped keep her expression inscrutable.

‘What's he showing us up for?' Jimmy asked. Charly thought this was particularly rich coming from someone who'd spent his life showing his family up. Other people in the area where they were seated were now craning their necks to see what was going on. Len jabbed his finger at the steward who in return went to grab Len to throw him out. Len quickly pulled away and followed this move with a lightning punch that sent the steward reeling. Suddenly he was surrounded by six policemen. Charly couldn't see where they'd come from but they were wrestling her father to the ground and pulling him out of the stadium. She felt her jaw fall open and quickly shut it again, knowing that was the photo any long-range lenses that were trained on her were waiting for. She grabbed Jimmy's arm. ‘Come on, we've got to go after him.'

‘But it's not even half time!' Jimmy complained.

Charly slid her glasses down her nose and eyeballed her brother. ‘Get your arse out of that chair, now!' she said menacingly. Her brother did as he was told.

*

Len was sitting in a police cell somewhere on the outskirts of Manchester, holding his head in his hands. He hadn't wanted any aggro, especially not today. Charly had tried to do something nice for him and Jimmy by bringing them to the game and what happens? He gets slung out on his backside for all to see and ends up in the cop shop.
Nice going, Len,
he thought. He had sat quietly in the back of the police van on the way to the station. Gone were the days when he would wax lyrical about the arresting officer's wife or make a meal out of asking if the coppers in the front of their van enjoyed their jobs – invariably they did and it wouldn't get him anywhere being mouthy.

The door opened and a young policewoman asked Len if he'd like to follow her. He was being released now that the match crowd had been dispersed in their different directions and he was no longer a threat. They were not going to press charges this time; they were going to let him off with a caution and some friendly advice to not attend a Rovers match for the foreseeable future.

Len walked out of the police station onto the anonymous road in South Manchester. He didn't know how he was meant to get home. He had a mobile phone but he'd forgotten it – he didn't really
like the things and only used them for emergencies – forgetting that emergencies rarely announced themselves and that he should probably keep it with him rather than placing it next to his landline as if that was where phones lived.

‘Dad!' he heard Charly shout, and looked up. She was getting out of her sports car, quickly followed by Jimmy. Len smiled, shamefaced.

‘Sorry, love,' he said, and he genuinely was. He knew that it was a big thing for her and he was meant to be meeting her boyfriend, Joel, after the game for the first time; something Len had managed to put off until now simply because he wasn't so sure of this flash young super-stud.

‘Get in the car.' Charly's voice was stern. Jimmy was standing next to her doing his usual impression of a useless lump. Len opened his mouth to try and apologise to her again when a round of flashes went off in his face. He turned to see two photographers standing with their cameras flashing away. Len could feel his blood boil, and angrily turned on the men.

‘What the bleeding hell do you think you're doing?' he asked menacingly.

Charly grabbed his arm.

‘That's a right temper you've got on you, Mr
Metcalfe,' one of the snappers goaded. Len lurched forward but he felt a far stronger pull on his other arm. Jimmy had hold of him and was pulling him towards Charly's car.

But Len wasn't finished. ‘And who the bloody hell are you, you twat? This how you make a living?' Len spat.

‘Dad!' Charly shouted. ‘Get in the car now!'

Len glared at the photographers before pulling his gaze away and allowing himself to be bundled into the car.

Charly and Jimmy jumped in quickly after him, Charly turning the key in the ignition and pressing the accelerator to the floor. ‘Jesus Christ, Dad,' was all she could muster as the car shot away from the still-snapping paparazzi.

LEN METCALFE HAD
a job, which was more than could be said for the rest of his family. He took great pride in his work. As the club steward of Bolingbroke Lane Working Men's Club, Len had a fair amount of responsibility. He oversaw the draymen, making sure they delivered the right amount of beer – a shortage of bitter on a busy night could easily lead to a riot. He booked the turns, and more importantly turned people away that he didn't think were suitable. That woman who pulled light bulbs out of her whatnot who turned up to audition the other week, for example; he had sent her packing, but not before asking her how on earth she thought that passed for family entertainment. He cashed up and made sure that no one had their fingers in the till: he could tell a thief a mile off, coming as he did from a long line of them. Len's brothers were both
in prison doing a long stretch and his dad had spent more time inside than out by the time he died five years ago. Len himself had spent two years in Strangeways when he was in his early twenties. He had believed his dad's stories about the camaraderie in prison; how everyone looked after one another. But he found out first-hand that these were just stories that his dad made up so that his boys weren't worried by the truth. Len's two years had been long and violent, although he'd managed to keep himself to himself. He tried not to think about those times. It was nearly thirty years ago and since then he had kept his nose clean and made sure that he didn't spend any more time at Her Majesty's pleasure.

Len was cleaning the optics and checking the drinks invoice for that week. He liked the order and routine of his work. It kept him focused and calm. All in all, Len was very proud of what he did. It wasn't Caesar's Palace but it was alright, and although it was named Bolingbroke Lane, it wasn't actually in Bolingbroke, which was a godsend. Bolingbroke might be where Len lived, but he didn't need the hassle of running a place there; it'd be easier to run a bar in Basra. It was on the outskirts between Bolingbroke and the marginally more upmarket area of Bilsey, so it drew a more
mixed crowd than the Beacon, the hell-hole of a pub perched on the top of the estate.