The Lost Guide to Life and Love (15 page)

‘I think she belongs here. Like you do. You both had to go away for work, but you came back. You’ve come back for the pub and Matty comes back because she’s happy here…’

‘But she won’t come back here for long,’ said Dexter. ‘Nothing could bring her back here. She’ll find some rich man and that’ll be it. We’ve lost her.’ He fell into a gloomy silence. He had, I noticed, tiny flecks of grey in his mad curls.

But, more immediately, I was still wondering how on earth I’d managed to confuse the stunning Foxy with a
bloke. I mean, she was one of the most photographed women in the country, and just because she wore old jeans and a tatty Barbour, I decided she was a man. I wondered, quite seriously, if I needed specs. I hadn’t dared tell Polly yet. She’d think I’d totally lost it.

Becca was meant to be polishing the tables but she had the papers spread out on the bar and was studying them intently. She lifted her eyes up for a moment. ‘Did you really not know you were related to Matty Alderson?’ she asked, astonished.

‘No. Our families lost touch ages ago. Mum would never have realised that Foxy’s real name was Matty Alderson. If she had, then she’d have probably made the connection.’

‘No. Matt likes to keep that quiet. It gives her some sort of privacy, I suppose.’

‘But how has she managed to keep it secret? I’d have thought it would have been great PR for her—shepherd as model and all that. The papers would love it. They’d be up here like a shot to get pics of her up on the fellside, with the sheep, striding off with bales of hay…’

‘Then it wouldn’t be somewhere she could escape to, would it? If people started coming up here to gawp?’ Becca shuddered. ‘That would be terrible.’

‘But how come no one’s told the papers?’

‘Because the people who know her, know she’d hate it,’ said Becca simply. ‘Anyway, if you’re related to Matt, then it probably means you’re related to me too. I think the Aldersons are some sort of cousins of my mum’s. Or is it my dad’s? No matter.’ She had lost interest in genealogy and was looking again at the newspapers. ‘Look at these. Here’re pictures of Alessandro and Clayton at last night’s match. Don’t they look gorgeous?’ She pushed the paper towards me.

Both men were caught mid-air, Alessandro’s long hair
whipping round his head and his normally rounded baby face looking fierce instead. Clayton was at full stretch, his face a grimace of determination and his legs a knot of muscles.

‘Look a bit different from when they were in here, don’t they?’ I said, as noncommittally as I could. ‘Do you know if Alessandro liked the scarf ? Did he get it all right?’

‘I expect so. I haven’t heard anything,’ said Becca, and went reluctantly back to polishing tables.

‘I meant to ask you,’ I said, ‘could you make a scarf for my mum? She’d love one—especially if she knew it was made up here.’

‘Yes, of course, no problem,’ said Becca. ‘Any particular colours?’

‘Well, she wears a lot of black—lots and lots of black, so I guess that would have to be the base, or it would just be a waste of time, she wouldn’t wear it. But if you could make all the embroidery and embellishments as bright and cheerful as possible? That would be good. And tell you what…’ I dug deep down into the pocket of my jacket. ‘Could you manage to work this bit of ribbon into it somewhere for me?’

I handed Becca the piece of cherry-red velvet I’d found on the tree. She turned it over in her hand and, just like I had done, stroked it. ‘Lovely colour,’ she said. ‘Wonderful texture. Is that all you’ve got?’

‘Yes, I just found it up on the moor and it seems too pretty to waste.’

Becca put the ribbon carefully into her big knitting bag under the counter and went back to looking at pictures of footballers.

I couldn’t say anything about that because I went straight to the computer and, before I did anything else, I Googled Clayton Silver. It was all there, the story of his life in different
interviews, the single mother, the rough estate, the bunking off school. There was a nice piece about when he got his GCSE results. He looked so proud and so young. It was when he was at his first club and he still had a terrible haircut, before he’d got that gloss that being rich and famous gives you. There was an approving comment piece by one of those smug middle-class lady columnists, saying what a great example it was when people like Clayton Silver made education cool. Far better than any government initiative. But she was right. I felt sort of proud of him too.

Dimly, I heard the beep of a mobile phone in the bar and could hear Becca talking. Her voice sounded surprised and then breathy with excitement, until finally I heard her say, ‘Well, yes, fine, seven then. See you there,’ as if she were restraining a whoop of delight.

She came rushing round the corner to me and gabbled, ‘That was Alessandro. There’s a big football charity dinner in Newcastle tonight. He and some other players are flying up. He wants me to go with him! Tonight! Newcastle! He’s just rung. He’s sending a car! Oh, I can’t believe it.’

She was standing there, her eyes shining with excitement, still clutching her phone and the cloth with which she’d been wiping the tables. With that, my phone rang too.

‘Hello, Miss Freshface. What you doing this evening…?’

The bright lights of the hotel reflected on the Tyne and the massive single arch of the Millennium Bridge gleamed silver as Becca and I peered out from the huge four-by-four with its tinted windows as it edged its way through the crowds of revellers on the quayside. If it was like that midweek, what must it be like on a Friday night? Our driver—a taciturn Cockney called Tony who’d barely said a word since he’d picked us up—stopped the car right in front of the
entrance and leapt out to open the door for us. Some of the waiting crowd stared in our direction.

‘They must think we’re someone important,’ giggled Becca, as she sashayed into the hotel entrance with great aplomb.

I had not wanted to go to this dinner. Not at all. Mainly because Clayton Silver was so damn sure that I would. Yes, I know that I’d had a very pleasant lunch with him, but that was different, a one-off. He couldn’t think that I would come running every time he snapped his fingers or dangled the chance of a free meal in front of me.

I did not need free meals. I did not need famous footballers. Most of all, I did not need Clayton Silver and his ridiculous self-assurance. I wasn’t some silly little groupie or wannabe-WAG, dazzled by him. I had my own life, thank you. And I told him all that. Quite firmly. He just laughed.

‘Miss Tilly, this is for charity. You’d be keeping me company and helping me support a really good cause. And I know you’re just too nice not to do that. So I’ll send a car. It will be at the pub at seven. You want to help a charity, don’t you?’ And he was still laughing as he ended the call, not giving me time to refuse.

So here I was, arriving at a glitzy Newcastle hotel to join him for an evening. What could I be thinking of ?

As soon as I told Becca that Clayton had invited me, she took it as a done deal that we were going together.

‘But I don’t want to go!’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be one of Clayton Silver’s groupies!’

‘But it might be fun,’ said Becca, ‘and if you don’t go, I don’t want to go by myself. And—’

‘Oh, all right,’ I said, finally, with bad grace, feeling as if I were back in primary school and being pressurised by my best friend. ‘But I haven’t got anything to wear. I’ve only
got work clothes and jeans. I wasn’t expecting to be going to fancy dinners.’

‘We can sort that. Easy! I’ll help you.’

I couldn’t let her down. I was only going to keep her company, right?

I nearly changed my mind again. We had spent most of the afternoon getting ready. I’d abandoned work. Becca had rung one of the other barmaids to cover her shift, though as Becca was gabbling hopelessly on the phone, I’m sure Jan had no idea why. Probably thought Becca had finally flipped. I’d had to dash down to the little shop that sold Becca’s scarves to buy myself a dress and shoes. Amazingly, the dress was easy to find—a very simple silk shift in a deep, dark green that looked quite ordinary on the hanger but surprisingly good on me. I couldn’t believe my luck. That ran out with the shoes: in the tiny shop I had been given the choice of precisely two pairs in my size—and I thought longingly of all the shoes I had back in London—but they would have to do, I thought as I keyed in my credit card PIN. No time for anything better. Clayton might call me Miss Freshface, but I don’t think he’d be too impressed if I’d landed here in my hiking boots.

So here we were. One of the doormen had already moved very politely to greet us and block our path. We gave our names, both of us suddenly panicking that we might be turned away, that it was all a joke. I hoped not, because Becca was so excited. At least this time, I’d brought phone, money and a credit card with me. I might get stood up but I wasn’t going to be stranded.

The bouncer glanced at his clipboard, bowed slightly and waved us in. The doors opened and another flunkey ushered us up a grand curved staircase. As we made our way carefully—especially me in my new shoes—up the stairs, I wondered what we would do when we got to the top. Along
the balcony I could see a gathering of men in dinner jackets and lots of glamorous-looking women. They gazed down at us for a second then, clearly deciding we were of no interest, looked away again.

Suddenly, there, at the top of the stairs, grinning, were Clayton and Alessandro, both of them looking elegant in dinner jackets and startlingly white shirts. ‘Good evening, ladies,’ said Clayton, bowing elaborately, kissing me, then Becca. Alessandro bowed and kissed us both too. ‘Tony called to say he’d delivered you.’

Yeah, like a parcel.

Clayton stepped back for a moment and looked me up and down. ‘Wow, you scrub up well,’ he grinned. I glared at him.

‘I’m only here to keep Becca company,’ I said, stiffly.

‘Well,’ replied Clayton with a very serious face, ‘that’s extremely kind of you. I hope you won’t suffer too much. I’ll do my best to try and make it bearable.’ With that, he passed me a glass of champagne from the tray of a hovering waiter and led me to the banqueting room.

The evening was in aid of a cancer charity. The wife of Ted Blake, a local footballer, had died when only thirty years old, leaving him a widower with three young children. After a year out of the game he had returned as a successful player, then manager, brought up his children and raised millions for research into the illness that had killed his wife. Now, ten years on, he was on the verge of marrying again and this was possibly his final grand fundraising event. He was mingling with the guests, working the crowd, shaking hands, greeting people, laughing. ‘I’m warning you all, I hope you’ve got your wallets and chequebooks handy because tonight you’re going to need them!’

The crowd was full of footballers’ faces that I vaguely knew, and a lot of older faces that I recognised from television,
though it was harder to recognise them in real life and posh clothes, and they all looked smaller than they did on television. There was a scattering of stunning girls too. Tanned and toned in designer dresses and shoes so high I’m amazed they could walk in them. I felt suddenly very drab in my hurriedly bought outfit. Clayton caught me looking enviously as one girl with a sheet of long blonde hair and a tiny sequinned dress sashayed past in heels at least five inches high. He grinned. ‘Can’t see her walking along no moors in those,’ he whispered.

But I had nothing to prove. Whether Clayton really wanted me there or not didn’t matter a fig. I might not have my favourite outfit on, but I looked perfectly respectable. It was another new experience, another small adventure. I could sit back and enjoy it.

I even managed to smile at one of the cameramen, several of whom were wandering round the room. The pictures they took immediately appeared on a huge screen above the stage. I appeared briefly, smiling, and not looking too bad. It made me smile even more. Clayton leant towards me and pointed at the camera and I could see it at the same time on the vast screen. It made it strangely unreal. Then the cameras cut to some of the glamorous girls who flashed enormous smiles and impressive cleavages.

We were being ushered to our table. My place card said merely, ‘Guest of Clayton Silver,’ and I wondered why he had asked me and not brought along one of his many London girlfriends. Still, I was here now, and I might as well make the most of it. On my other side I had Bert, a retired football manager, whom I also recognised from television. He was famous as being a bluff, no-nonsense northerner. His wife Joan was kind and motherly. She decided that Becca looked just like her granddaughter. ‘Eeh, you’re just like our Kim,’ she kept saying, and treated her
with kindly interest, and kept asking Alessandro if he was homesick.

Ted Blake stood up and welcomed us all, said that everyone there tonight had given their services for free. ‘There’ll be many opportunities for you to give money tonight,’ he said, ‘I hope you make the most of them.’

It was an amazing evening. Even before the first course we had a short set from a top girl band, the members of which then went round selling raffle tickets at a tenner each. The MC was a top-rated comedian who kept popping up with more jokes and cajoling us to spend, spend, spend. I went to buy a raffle ticket from one of the girls, but Clayton put his hand on mine as I reached for my bag. ‘No you don’t, girl, this is my treat,’ he said, and peeled off £100 from the bundle of notes in his wallet and then put the raffle tickets on the table in front of me. I glared at him, picked up the tickets and plonked them right back in front of him. Then I waved the girl back, got out my purse and bought some tickets myself.

‘I can do my own charity-giving, thank you,’ I said to Clayton, who looked surprised but laughed.

Most of the time the conversation ranged across the table and centred on football, on players, league rankings, contentious refereeing decisions. But all the time, in between, almost protected by the surrounding noise, Clayton and I were having our own private conversation too.

‘I’m glad you could come,’ he said, as he took a sip of his Merlot. ‘I know phones don’t work where you’re staying: it’s like a Bermuda triangle up there, isn’t it? I thought I wouldn’t find you. But I’m glad I did.’