Chapter 11
11
It’s not hard to work out which door leads into Monica’s bedroom. From the top of the stairs, I can already hear her interrogating Natalie over why guests are arriving early. I’ve no clue why I’ve been summoned, but I’m guessing it’s not good from how Monica barks, ‘Come,’ in response to my knock.
As I shuffle in, Natalie makes a break for the door, muttering, ‘I’ll just, um…’
Monica keeps me waiting while she applies an extra coat of lipstick. I can’t help noticing the state of her dressing table is the exact opposite of mine. I bet Gavin loves the perfectly aligned row of tastefully packaged products, instead of my mess of half-empty bottles and circus-worthy collection of eyeshadows. All the same, getting ready for tonight was definitely more fun at mine. Though somehow, I can’t see Monica fighting with Katia for the mirror, or joining in with Skylar, teasing about Tony.
Monica blots her lips then brandishes her tablet. ‘What possessed you to approve this?’
Tonight’s invitation is blown up until the start time fills the screen. And it’s an hour earlier than it should be, which explains why the reception room is thronging with guests when Monica’s still in a dressing gown. I can see why she’s angry, but not why it’s directed at me.
‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t.’ I feel bad, throwing Natalie under the bus, but I have to add, ‘Player Care’s just helping out tonight. Hospitality did all the arrangements.’
Monica achieves a scowl that her Botox shouldn’t allow. ‘I instructed Hospitality. They should have been responsible for all arrangements. But it appears not.’
She pulls up a Slack conversation. And she’s right, there’s me, saying:
The invitation is good to go. Let’s get it sent to the sponsor’s list before EOD.
But I’ve got zero recollection of seeing the invitation, let alone sending that message. And when do I ever use EOD?
I’m still staring at the screen, mouth open, when Gavin walks in, fiddling with a cuff link. ‘Monica, there are people…’
He spots me. There’s a hunted dart of the eyes. I suppose that’s understandable, finding your ex-wife in your bedroom has to be uncomfortable.
‘Oh. Charlotte.’ God, I hate it when he calls me that, even if it is my christened name. ‘Are you…’
Monica wheels around to him. ‘She’s explaining how she signed off on an incorrect start time.’
Gavin puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. I guess she can’t see that he gives me a small consoling smile. ‘Perhaps it’s best not to dwell on that, my dear. The start of the season’s a busy time. It’s understandable if sometimes staff are overwhelmed.’
Foot-stamping, toddler-temper-tantrum rage bubbles up. I’m not overwhelmed, this isn’t fair, it wasn’t me. Only Monica’s just proved that it was, so it’s fortunate that she gazes up at Gavin and nods rather than anything worse. And looking at their faces in the mirror, perhaps this is why they work? Monica seems genuinely grateful for Gavin’s guidance, when I’d be bridling over him interfering. Though I have to say, I’ve seen her give the director of football much the same look after a shrewd transfer suggestion. Perhaps that’s Gavin’s role? Director of behaving like a normal human. If it is, I guess hiring decisions are Monica’s only business blind spot.
But whatever, at least it means I can start to back out, murmuring about helping Natalie.
‘One moment, Genie.’ Monica waves to the two outfits laid on the wrinkle-free bed. ‘Which one?’
I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Gavin clearly wasn’t either. He looks at my own dress and frowns slightly. To be fair, it is more figure-hugging than is strictly work appropriate. But after Katia found burgundy jersey silk at the back of my wardrobe, I’d got no chance of leaving the house in a sensible black midi. Gavin’s disapproval is enough to make up my mind.
‘That one, definitely.’ I point to the white sheath dress, slit high enough to show Monica’s legs are wasted, hidden under the board table.
As I walk out, Gavin’s already busy persuading Monica that the decidedly matronly skirt suit is a better option. And maybe it’s relief that I’m not the one being talked into dressing like a fifties housewife, but when Monica and Gavin’s twins rush out of the playroom with their nanny in hot pursuit, I don’t feel the usual twinge of envy.
Only I don’t think it is that. Because walking downstairs, I’m trying to work out what happened with the invitation. Could someone have fired off a quick Slack message from my work station, without signing me out? It doesn’t seem likely, but even so, me not rushing to take the blame, well, that’s major progress.
I’m pretty sure that’s down to Tony. The second he saw me today, Tony did his ‘you’ve just made my day’ smile. I’m fully aware that’s a well-rehearsed part of his repertoire, not spontaneous delight at my presence. All the same, it’s kept me floating for quite a while. Plus, I’m privately amused that he’s every bit as good at charming the sponsors as I’d expected.
He looks like a sartorially aware mafioso, with his gleaming white shirt setting off the carefully sculpted six o’clock shadow beautifully. And obviously, he’s fantastic with the wives and daughters. What’s more surprising is that he’s equally good with the men. Unfortunately, that means he’s been stuck with Ian and Christopher Craig for at least fifteen minutes.
The brothers’ software business isn’t our biggest sponsor but they’re old university friends of Gavin’s, so they have a direct line to Monica. Sadly for Tony, they’re also two of the most boring men I’ve ever met. I doubt there’s much conversational common ground and Tony’s backslapping full-on masculinity might have charmed everyone else, but he’s getting drowned in the Craigs’ general wetness. Tony’s started scanning the room for an escape with an intensity he usually reserves for hunting out a player who’s slipped free from their defender. But the brothers have him trapped in an awkward corner between a mirrored sideboard and an oversized orchid. So, when he catches my eye and calls across the room, ‘Genie, get over here and say hello,’ he’s obviously looking for help.
I hesitate, remembering the throat-closing mortification when it became clear we’d been overheard on Friday. But Tony’s eyes are pleading and I do want to spend time with him and… and maybe it’s best to just brazen it out?
The only problem is, I’d forgotten why I’ve only worn this dress once since buying it to celebrate losing the last few pounds of marriage-related weight gain. But I remember now, the slightest movement is enough to send it creeping up my thigh. With Sky’s choice of heels forcing me into supermodel-length strides, it’s practically indecent.
Not that Tony seems to mind. The second I’m beside him, his arm is around my waist, like it’s a life preserver. I say hello and manage to resist resting a hand on his rolled-up sleeve. He smiles back with the hint of a wink.
‘Hello, Genie.’ His voice is soft, like he’s talking only to me, though this whole thing is for the benefit of the Craigs. ‘You all right, love?’
‘I am, thank you,’ I reply. If you’re going to be a prop, you might as well get a little subtle flirting in too. ‘Am I allowed to tell you how good you were yesterday, or are you sick of hearing it?’
He manages not to laugh, but his eyes have got extra diamondy, so it must be taking a reasonable amount of effort. ‘Funnily enough, I can take a fair bit of that.’ He tightens his hand on my waist and I snuggle in. ‘’Specially when it’s coming from someone who knows the game so well. You look amazing by the way,’ he adds, a look in his eyes that I hope no one else can spot. He turns to the Craigs. ‘Don’t Genie look nice, fellas?’
I’m the one who wants to laugh now. They’re forced into making polite agreeing noises, while looking deeply uncomfortable. It’s delightful. I’d bet a year’s salary they’ve had numerous little chats about how Gavin’s done better second time around.
‘You know each other, I’m guessing?’ Tony asks, which I suspect means he can’t remember their names.
I stretch out my hand. ‘Ian, Christopher, how nice to see you.’ They shake back limply and I make my face conspiratorial. ‘Do you mind if, while I have Tony’s attention, I ask him something?’
They shake their pale blond heads, while exchanging the sort of smiles that go with infants offering to perform their party pieces. It’s the same tolerant amusement Gavin perfected during the mid-stage of our relationship, when he was dutifully standing by me despite my being a massive disappointment. If anything, I preferred the final phase, characterized by continuous barely masked irritation. So, I’m not going to feel remotely guilty about teasing the Craigs, I’m going to thoroughly enjoy it.
Tony smiles down at me and his hand begins to migrate from my waist to my hip. ‘What’s it you wanna know, beauty?’
That throws me off. He hasn’t called me that before. Though I doubt I’m the first woman he’s used it for. But actually, it works quite well, me gazing up at him for a second too long, then fluttering my lashes to break the eye contact. It creates a pleasing contrast when my voice becomes business-like. ‘Yesterday’s rotation in midfield. Do you think it’ll hold up against teams that are more fluid defensively?’
Tony gives me an approving nod and launches into an intense discussion of the difficulties inherent in exploiting half space. It’s reward enough that he’s getting a break from computer programming or the motorway system of the UK, which would be my top guesses for the Craigs’ cocktail party conversation so far. But it’s a nice bonus that the brothers are staring at me as if I’m a Labrador who’s just expressed a considered opinion on cryptocurrencies.
I could happily spend the rest of the evening at Tony’s side, but it’s not long before Gavin looms over. As usual he starts to irritate me almost immediately. Maybe it’s the way he leans in to show he’s actively listening; or could be the all-boys-together, rugby and rowing club way he loops an arm around the Craigs, ready for a tour of his collectibles? In the dim and distant past, I might’ve found Gavin’s love of sci-fi an endearing chink in his otherwise intensely serious personality. But I can’t say it was ever remotely interesting, so I peel myself away from Tony and make a break for the kitchen.
As I push through the revolving door, I glance back. Tony’s been scooped up with the Craigs. He catches my eye and mouths, ‘Help me.’ I grin and mouth back, ‘Have fun.’ From the expression of Mrs Forrester, the ultra-churchy wife of a manufacturer of industrial coolants who happened to be watching, you don’t have to be an expert lip reader to pick up on the ‘Bitch’ he sends my way in return. Which means I’m laughing as I walk over to tackle the washing-up.