The Lost Guide to Life and Love (21 page)

The paintings themselves were powerful, dramatic and bleak. If the paintings made a statement, it was an unequivocally depressing one. Cityscapes full of dereliction and no hope. Boarded-up houses and burnt-out cars. Industrial wastelands of abandoned factories. Children playing outside dock gates overgrown with weeds. L. S. Lowry meets Leonard Cohen. On a bad day. The pictures had a lot to say but I wasn’t sure whether I would actually want them saying it on my living-room wall.

Clayton looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I guessed he was thinking the same as me. We whispered conspiratorially.

‘I grew up in places like that,’ said Clayton. ‘It’s what I got away from. I’m not paying good money to be reminded of it all the time.’

Nevertheless, he made a few notes on the catalogue and went back to take another look at two or three of the paintings. Then he put his water glass back on a tray, nodded briefly at some of the other visitors, said goodbye to a disappointed-looking Marcia, took my hand and we fled.

Out in the street, a taxi immediately screeched to a stop in front of us. Impressive.

‘So, Miss Foodie, where do you fancy?’ Clayton asked as the taxi driver waited for instructions.

My mind flipped through all the great London restaurants that I longed to visit. Clayton was reeling off a list of suggestions—all the sort of places where you would normally have to book weeks—if not months—ahead. And also the sort of places where there were always photographers outside.

‘It’s up to you,’ I said. ‘You know the places where you can get in, where you’re most comfortable.’

‘OK, right,’ said Clayton, ‘good thought.’ Turning to the driver, he said, ‘Number Thirty-eight, please.’

Number 38 was so discreet that the taxi driver could barely find it. But as soon as we walked in, there was no question that we would get a table. Inside it were small, intimate, high-backed benches keeping each table private from its neighbours. The sort of place where you come for privacy rather than to be seen. Such a relief. As I slipped along one of the benches, I giggled. Clayton looked at me questioningly.

‘Thank goodness we’ve come somewhere like this. I had visions of photographers and my picture in the papers and people asking, “Who’s that scruff with Clayton Silver?”‘

‘You’re certainly no scruff. But would you really not like to have your picture in the paper?’

‘Oh, no. I’d hate it. Especially just for being with you.’

‘Am I so bad to be seen with?’ He looked surprised.

‘No, no.’ How did I get myself into this mess? ‘No. I meant that I wouldn’t like to have my picture in the paper just because I was with you. No one would take my picture otherwise, would they? I wouldn’t mind if I’d actually
done
something on my own account—like my mum. My mum’s often in the papers, but that’s because she’s actually doing something, not just because she’s gone out for a meal.’

‘Lots of girls would love to have their picture in the paper with me.’

‘Yes I know, I’m sure they would. But I wouldn’t. Well, not because…I mean not just because…’

Clayton was laughing now. ‘Don’t worry, Tilly, I know just what you mean. Well, I think I do. And if you mean what I think you mean, then I think I like you for it.’

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. The waiter, offering us menus, didn’t blink.

‘Do you think that artist bloke ever has a laugh?’ asked Clayton. ‘Judging by his pictures, he could certainly do with one.’

‘Yes, but I could see what he was getting at. He did make you think of how bleak some parts of our cities are.’

‘Yeah. I was lucky to get out.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘My old manager, you know, Denny Sharpe? I told you about him?’ I nodded. ‘Well, he’s working to set up a football academy at the club.’

‘To spot new talent?’

‘Yeah, I guess so. But he wants other kids there too, who might not make it as professional but who just enjoy playing football. Beats playing with knives on the streets. Like I played for a boys’ club that Travis took me to, but Denny would get it all under the club umbrella. That would get even more kids involved.’

The waiter was back for our order. I settled quickly for sea bass and truffles. Clayton, predictably, went for steak and chips, but had taken a lot longer over choosing two bottles of French wine—Pouilly-Fuissé for me and a red Burgundy for him.

‘But we can share, of course,’ he said. And we did.

‘You know Denny gets his footballers to go into school, help kids with their reading and such,’ said Clayton.

‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ I said. ‘Footballers will make reading cool. Denny Sharpe sounds quite a man.’

‘He is,’ said Clayton. ‘I owe the guy a lot.’

‘Couldn’t your club do that sort of thing?’

‘Nah,’ said Clayton, nodding appreciatively to the sommelier as he tasted the wine, ‘our manager’s not the community type. The guy’s Italian. He’ll be here for a year or so and then move on. He’s OK, but all he cares about
is football and winning. Anything else just gets in the way. I guess he doesn’t even notice the streets outside the ground. But we’re winning and that’s all that matters.’

‘And what about Simeon Maynard?’ I asked, interested to see Clayton’s reaction.

‘Well, he’s the money-man, isn’t he?’ said Clayton. ‘He’s the one who’s bankrolling us. We’re his club, his little toy.’

‘So where does his money come from?’

Clayton shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who cares? As long as he buys in good players, we’re not bothered.’

‘Maybe you should be.’

‘Maybe we should, Miss Tilly, but sometimes you know it’s better not to ask too many questions, especially with someone like Maynard. Look, he rescued the club. He’s bought in some great players. We’re racing up the table.’

His face lit up. ‘Do you know what it’s like to play with the best? All my life I was always the best player in any team I was in. Always. Like I was God, you know? And now there’re ten others on the field just as good as I am and another ten waiting for a place. Some of them can work magic. And you know what? Every match, I have to work out of my skin to be the best. Because I’m playing with these guys, I’m working harder, training harder. Every moment of the match I can’t stop thinking, can’t stop concentrating. It’s like driving at a hundred miles an hour, you can’t let up.

‘There are kids in the team just eighteen, nineteen: they call me the Old Man. Old Man? I show them. They are geniuses on the ball. But you know what? I can still outplay them, still score when they don’t even know where the ball is. They’re just standing there looking, saying, “How did he do that?” And it’s fan-fucking-tastic.

‘I’m playing better than ever because I have to show these kids how it’s done. And that’s all thanks to Sim
Maynard and his money. OK, the man’s a slimeball. We don’t have to like him, do we? And I can see why people hate him. I don’t rate him either. In fact, he’s a right pain in the arse. But he loves football, likes to hang out round footballers. He’s the little boy who’s got his real live Subbuteo team. And if that means he’s spending his money on our club instead of building an island off Dubai, well, I’m not going to moan about it, am I? It’s his money. He can spend it how he likes.’ He grinned. ‘Especially if he’s paying my wages. Especially if we’re winning.’ He sat back triumphantly.

With that, our food arrived, and Clayton and I forgot about Maynard. Instead we ate and talked and drank and talked. About football, about Denny Sharpe, about paintings, about our childhoods, about the people Clayton had met, about some of the other footballers and their girlfriends. About one footballer who’d come back from his honeymoon alone.

‘Alone?’

‘Yeah. They’d been together for a few years, had a kid. But she was just on the make, just one of those who was determined to bag a footballer—any footballer, as long as he was earning a hundred thousand a week. She got her teeth into him when she had the kid. Then, once they were married and it was all legal; once she had her bit of paper—well, that was it. Didn’t have to be nice to him any more. It will cost him an absolute mint.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, in mock sympathy, ‘it must be
so
difficult for you, having women throw themselves at you.’

He grinned. ‘I struggle with it. But it’s not fair, is it, taking a kid away from its dad? She’s making it difficult for him to get access. Not right, is it? Kids need their dads, don’t they? Especially lads. I mean, who’s going to teach them football, otherwise?’

‘There are other things to being a good father than teaching your son how to kick a ball,’ I laughed.

‘Yeah, I know, but it’s still high up on the list, isn’t it? Still part of it all.’ He looked wistful. He was a grown man, still pining for the dad he’d hardly known and never forgiving him for walking out. ‘I don’t know how a dad can do that.’ He looked fierce and sad at the same time. ‘I could never do that. If I had a lad, I’d never leave him.’

‘I know. I know,’ I said.

Somewhere along the line, in that mellow glow that comes from good wine, good food and good company, I realised—without a hint of panic—that I had missed that last train…But it didn’t matter. There would be one very early in the morning. I could catch that. I’d still make it for my monk.

We were the last to leave the restaurant. The other high-backed booths were empty and the waiters were clearing up, discreetly, but still making it clear they were ready to go home, as Clayton paid the bill and we went out arm in arm into the night.

‘I’ll have to go via your place to fetch my bags,’ I said as we got into the cab.

‘Of course,’ he said.

When we got to his gates, he didn’t ask the cab to wait. Neither did I. I felt emboldened.

‘A nightcap?’ he asked, as I perched on the huge sofa and looked out at the lights of London.

I nodded dreamily. He poured me a glass of grappa. ‘Bottled sunshine,’ he said. I sipped it happily. On top of all the food and wine I’d had that evening, it slid down wonderfully…

Clayton had disappeared. Gone to the loo, I supposed. Never mind. He’d be back in a minute, and then I’d call a taxi and go home, back to my own flat, just for a few hours,
because I had to be up early. Very early. I tucked my legs up under me. The sofa was very comfortable. Soft and squashy. I snuggled down into it. I rested my head on one of the arms. I was so tired, so sleepy. I would just close my eyes for a moment, just for a moment, until Clayton came back from the loo…

What? Where? Why? As I blearily opened my eyes, I struggled to work out where I was. Not in a bed, on a sofa. Ouch, that explained the cramp in my leg and the crick in my neck. Yet I had a duvet over me. But all my clothes on. Why was I on a sofa with a duvet over me? And whose sofa was it anyway? Outside the window, I could see the first grey light of dawn breaking across London.

Ohmigod! I sat bolt upright. I was still at Clayton’s flat. I looked at my watch. Seven a.m.! I’d been there all night. Oh no…I had a train to catch. I had to go quickly. But how? I leapt up from the sofa, cramp and crick forgotten, and went off in search of a bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. I had to find Clayton, or the way out. There were staff, weren’t there? The lady who’d let me in. Maria. Where was she? How did I get out of this place? Help! Where were my bags? I didn’t even know how to open the fancy gates. I couldn’t just sneak out—I’d have to find someone. And quickly.

Why had I been here all night? I’d meant to go back to my own flat. It was the grappa—I shouldn’t have had it. I must have gone to sleep. Dimly, I had a very vague, half-memory of a faint chuckle, of someone putting the duvet over me, of the lights being switched off.

Downstairs, after going through endless rooms, I finally found the kitchen, a huge palace with every gadget ever seen. I would have loved to explore further, but not now. There was no one around. At least I had found my bags,
which were just inside the hall. I looked at the front door. Tentatively, I tried to open it.

CLANGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!! CLANNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

An alarm shattered the silence and made me jump in the air, my heart pounding. Had I done that? I looked at the control panel at the wall and had no idea how to turn it off. It would wake the whole house, the whole street.

CLANGGGGGGGGG! CLANGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh help.

‘Is that you, Tilly?’

I looked up the wonderful winding staircase to see Clayton standing at the top. Actually, he was hopping on one foot while tugging on a pair of grey training shorts. Even half asleep, even in a panic, even still not quite knowing what was going on, I could see that he looked seriously fit.

CLANNNGGGGGGGG! CLANNGGGGGGG!

‘What’s the matter, Tilly? Why’s the alarm gone off ?’ He loped down the stairs in about three strides and clicked the buttons to stop the alarm. The silence was wonderful.

‘Sorry about that, but I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘
Now.
I must catch that first train. If I don’t…I’ve got no chance of catching it now. And the photographer will be coming and I won’t be there and it will all have to be be…’ Oh why had I been so
stupid
as to go back to Clayton’s? And then to go to sleep?

‘I’ll take you,’ said Clayton.

‘No, it’s all right,’ I said automatically and then thought again. ‘Actually, no it isn’t. Yes please. If you don’t mind.’ There was no time to be polite and fanny on.

‘No problem. Got your bags? Well, come on then.’ He raced up the stairs, came back still in his shorts, but with
a pair of leather flip-flops on his feet and his car keys, his phone and a fleece in his hand.

He was tugging the fleece over his head and we were dashing out of the door just as Maria was appearing, tiny and bleary-eyed, anxious.

‘It’s OK, Maria. Just a false alarm. Go back to bed.’

She stood there in the doorway, shrugging helplessly as the car beeped open.

‘We’ll never make it!’ I said as I clambered up into the front of the Hummer.

‘Now that sounds like a challenge!’ grinned Clayton, and we roared off, barely giving the automatic gates time to open as we raced through them.