Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
EVIE
Six weeks later…
‘Who wants to come to the pub with me?’ I asked brightly as if I’d only just thought of the idea.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jamie, then added with a smirk. ‘What time’s kick-off?’
‘Half three,’ I said.
‘See, she knows without even having to look it up,’ said Jamie. ‘Who are they playing?’
‘Palace,’ I said, and then blushed.
‘Ha!’ Esther pointed at me. ‘Why don’t you just call him?’
Jamie ran over to the blackboard on the kitchen wall and added another chalk line to the tally count. Apparently, it was the ninety-seventh time Esther had asked that very question in the last six weeks.
‘Because…’
Both Jamie and Esther rolled their eyes.
They didn’t understand. They were dozens of reasons. Namely, that I’d never heard from Noah after I’d dropped off the Tiffany box at his agent’s office with a little note apologising and thanking him for making me reassess things.
I cringed now, thinking of the note and the hours I’d spent crafting it – it really was my last-ditch attempt to reach out to him.
10 January
Dear Noah,
I hope you’ve fully recovered from the injury to your knee and head, and that neither were too serious. Thank you for the gift. But I felt it wouldn’t be right to keep it under the circumstances. But thank you for the thought.
I also wanted to thank you for opening my eyes and making me realise that I’ve been living in la-la-land for too long.
You were right, I was hiding from real life and using my grief as a shield, as an excuse to avoid investing in the future.
I’m having counselling. Early days, but hopefully it will help.
I’ve also set up a TikTok channel to highlight fraud, inviting people to share their experiences to help stop others falling victim.
So far, so good. Again, early days, but I’ve been invited to write a few freelance articles.
Good luck with everything, and thank you for the time we had in New York. I know it didn’t end well, but boy we had some fun. I hope you’ll remember the good bits.
With best wishes,
Evie Green
‘You’ve really got to stop stalking him,’ said Esther. ‘Why don’t you just text him?’
Jamie added another mark to the tally chart. ‘Arrange to meet up.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I said, knowing I sounded slightly sulky but there was no point. Noah had had plenty of time to contact me. I had to get used to the fact that he never would.
* * *
The pub was busy, full of Fulham and Palace supporters trading fairly low-key insults, but the game hadn’t started yet.
‘There’s a space over there,’ said Jamie. ‘See if they’ll let you join their table. They’re more likely to say yes to you two hotties. I’ll get the drinks in.’
We approached the table, where two men were sitting facing the big screen high up on the opposite wall.
‘Mind if we sit here?’ I asked, glancing at their black-and-white-striped football scarves. The older of the two, clearly father and son, responded with a cheeky grin. ‘Palace or Fulham?’
‘Fulham, of course,’ I said.
‘That’s okay, then. If you were Palace fans you could sing.’
We sat down, half-turned towards the screen. The usual pre-match discussion was taking place with a panel of pundits all talking about each team’s chances. My ears pricked up when I heard Noah’s name – when didn’t they? I was primed for it, even when I hoped I might be over him.
‘So, what do you attribute to Sanderson’s change in form?’ said one pundit to another. ‘I mean five assists in four matches plus a couple of goals. He’s on fire this season. What do you think’s changed about his style?’
‘He’s always been a great forward. I mean he’s a great striker but this year…’ The other pundit shook his head.
Esther slyly turned to me. ‘What do you think, Evie?’
‘No idea,’ I said.
‘No special insight?’
The dad opposite us caught her eye. ‘He’s doing something right.
I thought at first he’d lost his nerve after the “tackle that must not be mentioned” – but he’s all over it.
Being a lot more considered when he’s taking chances, but also setting up some cracking goals.
That one against Arsenal two weeks ago has to be goal of the season.
’ His son nodded enthusiastically. ‘I mean, he could have easily taken the shot himself, even though it would have been risky. Instead, he passed it on the inside and Welton hammered it in.’ The man laughed. ‘He’s positively selfless these days.’
‘Probably because he had a mid-season holiday,’ I pointed out. ‘Came back refreshed.’
This weekly, masochistic Saturday ritual was based on the theory that if I kept seeing Noah on the screen I’d build up some kind of immunity, which would stop thoughts of him being triggered.
It wasn’t working. Memories intruded when I caught sight of someone with his colouring on the tube, or his name was mentioned on Radio 5 Live, or there was another picture of him celebrating a goal with his teammates.
Jamie returned with three pints of lager, just in time for kick-off.
Once the game had started, the pub went quiet as the two teams settled and got rid of their initial nervy energy.
Then things began to heat up as Fulham got possession of the ball, working their way down to the goal.
The camera panned in on Noah running down the wing, his long legs pumping, followed by a close-up of his face, stern and determined.
Every time I saw him I’d forgotten how gorgeous he was.
Esther nudged me and I realised I’d not been as subtle as I thought. I ignored her as the camera homed in on him. Was I the only person that noticed he’d had a haircut?
‘Evie, either phone him or stop crushing on him. He’s really not that…’ The expression she pulled said it all.
But he is, whispered my sad little heart. Was she blind?
I focused on the screen, watching and concentrating on his lithe movements as he weaved through the defence.
My pulse picked up. Surely, he was never going to try and score from—’ The pub erupted as at the last minute he chipped the ball over to the other striker who had a clear shot.
It sailed into the top-right corner of the net missing the post by a whisker.
Jamie punched the air. We were all on our feet. ‘What a goal.’
‘Belter.’
The replay was shown several times, with admiring punditry from the three ex-footballers in the TV studio. Biased as I was, it was without doubt a superb goal, which might not have happened if Noah had taken the shot himself.
A hot bubble of pride burned in my chest even though I had absolutely no right to feel it.
‘He’s got magic boots, that boy,’ said the man at our table. ‘Something’s put a rocket up him, make no mistake.’
The rest of the team were hugging and jumping all over Noah and the scorer, and he disappeared from view beneath a flurry of white shirts.
With Fulham one–nil in the lead, it was a nail biting second half as we prayed they’d hang on to the lead, and then in the seventy-sixth minute, Noah scored again.
One of those goals that came out of nowhere, he just seized a chance and made the shot and to our amazement it went in. He looked pretty surprised, too.
‘Somehow, if he keeps this form up, I don’t think he’ll be playing for Fulham next season,’ said the man to his son. ‘Someone is going to snap him up. He could go to Europe again.’
The final whistle blew, and I watched as the players shook hands and trooped off the field, the camera favouring Noah the most. This was the last time, I told myself. I had to stop this. No more watching Fulham. Noah had no interest in me.
I was ready to leave, but Jamie had got another round in so we stayed while the post-match dissection began.
‘Look,’ Esther nudged me again with her ever-sharp elbows. ‘They’re interviewing Noah.’
There he was, slightly sweaty, his chestnut hair damp around his forehead, and those smoky-blue eyes sharp and alert. I couldn’t take my eyes off his jawline. The jawline I’d kissed. Those lips. Urgh. I was a tragic mess.
‘Great game, Noah. Another two outstanding goals. I mean everyone is commenting on your form. What do you attribute to this change of tactics?
Noah looked directly at the camera and a little shiver ran down my spine. Good job we weren’t at home, I’d probably have kissed the television screen or something daft. My heart ached just looking at him.
‘I realised that I wasn’t in love with the game like I used to be. After that tackle, I was terrified of taking a risk. So, I started looking at the way I played and I realised that there’s such a thing as a calculated risk and that’s what I weigh up every time I’m on the pitch.’
The interviewer waved his microphone under Noah’s mouth, as if trying to snake-charm more words out of his mouth.
‘What brought on this change of approach? Was it the accident with Menzies?’
Noah shook his head. And then he smiled, right at the camera.
A desperate urge to run away seized my limbs and I jiggled my legs.
‘I met someone who showed me that you need to have some fun in life otherwise none of this is worth having. You need to take risks to live and it’s easy to play it safe, but it might not make you happy.’
I could have sworn he was looking right at me, and my heart did its best to jump out of my chest cavity or give me fatal palpitations, I couldn’t make up my mind which.
Hope flared bright and sharp, almost taking my breath away. Was he talking about me? Did he mean I should take a risk? Or was he crediting me with changing his outlook.
‘Sometimes you need to glimpse a different reality to realise that there are other ways,’ he continued.
‘We need to be open to alternatives and not just walk the same path. Someone once told me that life is about risk. But there’s a calculation to be made about what you stand to gain and what you stand to lose. ’
The interviewer frowned at that one as he tried to make sense of it, and I giggled to myself, amazed that Noah had remembered the phrase that I’d cobbled up out of anger and indignation.
‘Right, and where do you see the team finishing at the end of the season. You’re already mid-table and have won the last five games.’
‘There are no guarantees in football.’ Noah grinned. Despite this vague answer, the interviewer had more airtime to finish, so he asked a couple of the typically inane questions that no one was ever going to commit to answering.
Eventually, they cut back to the studio, where there was now an analysis of Noah’s words.
‘Do you think he’s working with a sports psychologist?’ asked one pundit.
‘Certainly sounds like it,’ said another.
The funny man on the team who could always be relied on to add a laugh cut in, ‘Or he’s met a woman.’ They all collapsed with laughter at this before moving on to start a new topic.
Esther and Jamie both turned to look at me. I glanced at the man and his son who were standing up to leave. As soon as they’d gone, the two of them started whispering furiously.
‘I bet he means you,’ said Esther.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, although my heart rate was still up there. I could feel my pulse thudding in my temple.
‘It’s entirely plausible,’ said Jamie, tilting his head like a concerned doctor. ‘His form improved dramatically after he shagged you.’
‘Shhh,’ I said looking fearfully around the pub.
‘Jamie’s right,’ hissed Esther in a not-so-stage whisper.
‘No,’ I said emphatically.
‘Yes,’ said Esther.
‘Then why hasn’t he messaged me? He’s the one that left me without a word. He never responded to my note.’ I buried my head in my hands. ‘Guys, please don’t do this.’
That ever-optimistic sense of hope raised its happy little head, even though I was desperate to smack it down and I was back on the roller-coaster, wondering whether I’d imagined that connection between us.
But then, I couldn’t bear the rejection again.
Once was enough. Noah wasn’t coming back.
How many times did I have to tell myself before it finally registered?