Chapter 3 #2
But then the photo at Heathrow had just told me that either he had other plans, or the tail he’d chased was good enough to run away for.
And if he ended up dead in a ditch, well that was fine too.
“Finally,” I breathed as the car pulled up outside my house. “What a day.” I climb out of the car and lean back to smile at Holly. “I hope you’re going home to relax.”
“A bubble bath is calling my name,” she replies with a smile. “You enjoy Girl’s Night with Char!”
“I surely will!”
I close the door with a wave, and the car waits until I’ve keyed in my code to my gate, and closed it securely behind me.
It’s only 4pm, but it’s almost completely dark now, and the breeze is chilly.
Light spills through the stained glass door of my pretty Victorian terrace house, and before I even open it, I can hear excited yipping.
“Baby!” I exclaim when I open the door, Tank jumping and nipping at my legs. “Were you good for Trish? Were you a very good boy?” I stroke his soft brown ears, and he eagerly licks my hand.
Trish, his dog sitter, rounds the corner from the front room with a bright smile on her face. “Afternoon, Mrs Graves. He’s been such a good boy today. We just got back from a very long walk, and he’s proper knackered now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I scoop my wiggly French bulldog up in my arms, pulling two fifty pound notes from my pocket to hand to Trish. “Here, little bonus for the overtime.”
“Thanks, Mrs G!” Trish exclaims. “It was no problem, really.”
“Still, I feel bad.”
“I don’t mind, got to study for my exams a bit more.” Trish says, hoisting her backpack onto her back. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yes, 11am would be great.”
“Right you are!” Trish leaves with a wave, winding her way down the garden path and disappearing through the gate.
I put Tank down on the ground, and he sprints off toward the kitchen.
With a sigh of relief, I kick off my boots and pad after him in my thick socks.
In the kitchen, I put on the kettle before refilling Tank’s water bowl, then look at the TV for a second before clicking it on and finding the sports news.
As always, it’s a panel of middle-aged men who used to be Premier League players, who now think their opinions are very important. One of them I recognise from previous events I’ve gone to with Archie, and he seems just as boring on screen as he is in real life.
“Now, of course a team is more than its striker,” the man says to his colleagues, who all nod thoughtfully. “But when a star like Archie Graves leaves a team, you have to wonder how well it’s all going to be held together.”
The third man nods his bald, shiny head, rubbing his chin. “It would be like Man United losing David Beckham way back when, that’s the scale of catastrophe we’re talking here.”
The other two nod, humming their agreement.
“Do you think Sumner is up to the job of captain?” One of the other men asks, and they all snigger.
“The pretty blond Irishman?” The first man asks, and I want to smash his face in.
Jordan Sumner and I have been friends since I first arrived on the scene by Archie’s side. He had a troubled history back in Ireland, one he never really talked about, but whispers spoke of something involving a priest, which had earned him the nickname.
But I adore Jordan, and he’s a damn good player. To see these bloated, privileged men well past their primes sit here and mock the new, young captain makes my blood boil.
“I think Sumner has a good chance of being a decent captain,” the first man says, “but we’ll have to see what the fans think, and whether they’ll forgive him a loss against Salford on Tuesday.”
“And Everest?” Asks the bald man. “How do you think he’ll perform as striker?”
“Does Everest know what a striker is?” The first man asks, and they all break into laughter.
With a frustrated grunt, I click the TV off. Stupid old football players. It’s a wonder my father-in-law doesn’t sit on one of these panels, pressing his handsome face to the camera so he can woo yet another unsuspecting woman with his white teeth and smooth words.
Wankers, the lot of them.
“So, where are we burying him?” Char asks, dipping another strip of pita bread into the thick eggplant dip she’s been downing for the past 10 minutes.
I chuckle into my glass of wine. “I hear there’s some pretty dense woods a bit further north of here.”
“What about an old quarry?” Char chews her food with a frown, then her eyes light up. “Wait, we can drive down to the coast and just dump him in the sea!”
“Archie did always like the beach.”
Char cackles and claps her hands. “Burial at sea, wanker. See how you like that.” She grins at me, her expression softening a little, and she reaches across to take my hand. “I could joke about murdering Archie Graves all day, but you know I’m only worried about you, yeah?”
“I know.” I put my hand over her own. “I’m… I don’t even know. I thought it would hurt more. I feel like I’ve been checked out on this marriage for a long bloody time.” I pick up my wine glass and sigh. “Not as long as Archie, I guess.”
“I wonder who she is,” Char says, looking out the kitchen window. “And how he’s managed to keep it secret for so long.”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
The trashy TV show playing in the background that we’ve both long forgotten switches over to a commercial break, and the news pops up.
Char leans back in her chair, wine glass in hand, watching the Arlington press conference play out.
The headline underneath reads Graves still AWOL - Sumner to Captain.
“What a bloody mess,” Char mutters. “Sumner’s that sexy one with the man bun, isn’t he? The Irish one? Blond?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s scrummy, isn’t he?” Char gives me a lascivious grin. “He’d be a better choice than Archie bloody Graves.”
I shake my head with a snort. “That’d be like shagging my brother, yuck.”
“OK OK, we’ll avoid incest for now then.” Char keeps her eyes on the screen as the camera flashes over to Dominic, standing off to the side of the press conference. “Bloody hell he’s fit,” Char mutters, and I burst out laughing.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
She turns her gaze to me with raised eyebrows. “Come on now, that man is aging like a fine wine. Look at his arms.” She looks back at the screen. “Reckon they could give you a good crushing.”
“Charlotte Marion Jones, that is disgusting,” I say, getting to my feet to retrieve the bottle of wine from the other side of the kitchen. “That man is a million years old.”
“All those wives, all those girlfriends, come on. The man obviously has skills. And that beard? The tattoos? And he’s about 17 feet tall.” Char sighs as I refill her wine glass. “A DILF if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Oh my god, please stop fantasising about my father-in-law or I will actually kick you out.”
“No, you won’t.” Char raises her glass to me with a wink. “You love me too much.”
“My love has its limits.” I glare at her over the edge of my glass. “And if he does have skills, he didn’t pass them on to his son.”
Char’s eyes widen and she sits up straight. “Now now, wait a second, you told me Archie was great in bed. Did you lie to me, you sneaky bitch?”
I roll my eyes with a shrug. “I mean… it’s not that he was bad in bed-”
“But?” Char leans forward eagerly. “Come on, don’t hold out on me.”
“He was… He liked shagging in front of a mirror so he could look at himself and check his form,” I say, my cheeks burning with second-hand embarrassment.
Char throws her head back and howls with laughter. “Oh my fucking hell, he what? Check his form?”
I nod and start laughing too. “And he always wanted me to tell him how good he was, how deep he was going, no one was bigger than him.”
Char’s face is bright red and she can barely breathe from laughing. “Stop, stop!” She waves her hands in front of her, trying to catch her breath. “Oh my god!”
“And he always asked if I came,” I say, causing Char to giggle again. “Like, every time.”
“Did he go down on you?” Char asks.
“I mean, not often. And when he did, he was never very enthusiastic.”
Char wrinkles her nose. “He seems like the type. Can’t be bothered about something that’s not about him getting off.”
The doorbell rings, and we frown at each other.
“Who the bloody hell is that?” I get to my feet, following an excited Tank down the hall to the intercom. I hit the button, and Dom’s face appears on the screen.
“Who is it?” Char calls from the kitchen.
“Your favourite DILF!” I call back, and hit the speaker button. “Everything alright, Dominic?”
He looks straight into the screen at the sound of my voice. “Hiya, sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to have a quick word. If that’s alright.”
“You’re interrupting girls' night, you know.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Sorry, I promise I’ll shove off in just a minute.”
“Alright then.” I buzz him in through the gate, and wait by the door as he makes his way down the path. “Evening, Dominic.”
“You alright?” He asks, bending down to pat a very excited Tank. “Sorry to disturb.”
“Hi Daddy DILF!” Char calls in a sing-song voice. “Looking goo-ood on camera today!”
Dominic laughs, his cheeks flushing pink above the silver-white of his beard. “Bloody hell.”
“Ignore her,” I say, waving a hand over my shoulder. “She’s four glasses deep. What can I do you for?”
He straightens and tucks his hands into his coat pockets. “I take it you saw the press conference today?”
“Most of it,” I say with a shrug. “Got the general idea.”
“Jordan’s going to be captain.”
“Yes, Dominic, I know. And Troy’s striker. Is that what you came here to tell me? The team coordination? Because I don’t care.”
“Are you going to come to the game on Tuesday?”
Holly’s words echo in my head, and I shrug. “I was thinking about it. Why?”
“I was talking to the club’s PR manager,” Dominic says slowly. “She thinks it’d be wise for you to… be more present.”
I cross my arms over my chest and frown at him. “Present? How?”