Glory Of The Football Manager System

Friday morning. Eight forty-one. The kettle clicked. The flat was quiet. Emma had gone into The Athletic offices for a Friday editorial; the Sakho piece had run with a photograph of the corner-flag moment and her phone had been buzzing since six.

My wallet was on the counter where I’d left it after getting up at five for tea.

The card from Streatham was on top of it.

I’d taken it out at one in the morning to look at it. Put it down. Got up at three. Looked at it again. Put it down. Got up at five. Made tea. Looked at it. Put it down.

I picked it up now and slid it into the inside pocket of my coat.

I checked my phone for the first time at quarter to nine. There were eighty-seven messages on the family thread. Mum had sent eleven voicemails, none longer than thirty seconds, the first at twenty past ten last night when Sakho headed the corner in. I played the most recent.

”Daniel. It’s me. I watched the whole second half without breathing properly. I’m having a cup of tea with Bev next door now. She wants to know if you’ll come up at Easter. I told her you would. You will. Don’t argue with me. I love you. Bye.”

Frankie had sent one text. Three words.

Sakho. Bloody hell.

Big Dave had sent a photo of the Crown and Cushion at five to eleven last night. Twenty-seven faces, most of them with their mouths open. Tommo was sat in the middle, crying. The caption was We won the World Cup, son.

I put the phone down. Picked up the keys.

[Beckenham. 10:00 recovery session. Friday March 9.]

The car park at the training ground had four cars in it when I pulled up. Rebecca’s Mini, Steele’s old Volvo, the security cabin lights, and a black Range Rover that didn’t belong to anyone at the club.

Jessica was in the canteen with a cappuccino and a folder.

”Daniel.”

”Jess. I didn’t know you were in today.”

”Netflix. Their lawyer wants to renegotiate the approval window. They’re trying to halve it. They will not be halving it.” She tapped the folder. ”Sit down. You look tired.”

”Cheers.”

”I mean it. You look like you slept ninety minutes.”

”Sixty, maybe.”

”Last night’s match was excellent, by the way. Sakho. Worth every penny.”

I got a coffee from the machine. The machine took two attempts at the foam, which it usually did. I sat down opposite her and didn’t say anything for about thirty seconds.

She watched me.

”Right,” she said. ”What is it.”

”Nothing. I’m just tired.”

”Daniel.”

”It’s not contracts. It’s not Netflix. It’s personal.”

”Right.” She closed the folder. ”Talk.”

I took the card out of my coat pocket and put it on the table between us.

She looked at it. Looked at me. Looked at it.

”Streatham,” she said.

”Yeah.”

”You went into a jewellers in Streatham at twenty-three minutes past ten on a Thursday night.”

”Yeah.”

”After the Atlético match.”

”Yeah.”

”Did you buy anything?”

”No.”

”Did the man know who you were?”

”Yeah, but he played it dead well. Acted like he was just inventorying the shop. Renovating upstairs, plumbers in the morning, didn’t try to sell me anything. Gave me his card.”

”Daniel. Have you ever bought a piece of jewellery in your life?”

”I bought my mum a necklace from Argos for her sixtieth.”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile. She picked the card up and turned it over and read the back and then looked at me.

”This is for Emma.”

”Yeah.”

”You’re going to propose.”

”Eventually.”

”Eventually.”

”Look, I don’t even know if I, you know. I just saw the lights. I went in. There was a ring there. I liked it. I left. I didn’t buy it. That’s it.”

”You liked it.”

”It was just a ring. An oval stone. Plain band. Looked like it had always been there.”

She was very still for a moment. Then she put the card down and pulled out her phone and made a note on it.

”Give me three weeks.”

”Sorry?”

”Three weeks, Daniel. You are not going back to a jewellers in Streatham at half ten on a Thursday night and buying the first ring that catches your eye because the shop was lit and you were tired. You are going to give me the brief and I am going to find the right ring.”

”Jess.”

”I am not going to be the agent who lets her client propose to one of the most photographed women in London journalism with a ring from a shop he found by accident on the A23.”

”Right. Okay.”

”Tell me about her hands.”

”Her hands?”

”Yes.”

”They’re, I don’t know. Small. She paints her nails sometimes. Not very often. She wears one ring on her right index finger that her grandmother gave her. Silver. Plain.”

”Stone?”

”No stone. Just a band.”

”Other jewellery?”

”She has a thin gold chain. Hairline. With a little disc on it. She wears that most days.”

”Earrings?”

”Studs. Pearl, mostly. Sometimes the gold disc ones that match the necklace.”

”Watch?”

”A vintage one her dad gave her when she got into Cambridge. Cartier. Tank. Pre-owned, he bought new.”

”Does she wear it for everything?”

”Yeah.”

Jessica was writing all of this down on her phone.

”Right. She’s understated. She wears things that have a story. She doesn’t like new. She likes inherited. She likes thin, plain, small, gold.” She paused. ”What’s her ring size?”

”I have absolutely no idea.”

”Of course you don’t.”

”How am I supposed to know that?”

”You’re not. I’ll find out.”

”How?”

”I will figure it out. Daniel. Trust me to do my job.”

”Right.”

She put the phone down.

”That’s the brief. I’ll start today. Hatton Garden, Bond Street, a couple of independent makers I’ve used before. I’ll go to your Streatham bloke as well. If his shop’s any good, I’ll know inside a minute. I’m not promising the ring in the case. I’m promising the right ring.”

”Okay.”

”You will not buy a ring without showing me first. You will not propose without telling me at least a week in advance because I need to talk to Selhurst’s communications team, you idiot, you are the manager of a Premier League football club and your to-be fiancée writes for The Athletic. The whole back page will be on this if we don’t get ahead of it.”

”Right.”

”Are you sure?”

”About what?”

”All of it. Are you sure?”

I looked at the card on the table. I thought about Emma asleep on the sofa with the wine glass and the academy hoodie. I thought about her at the door at the penthouse after Marseille saying I love you like it was the only word left in English.

”I’m sure.”

”Good.”

She picked the card up and put it into her own bag. The card was gone. The project was hers now.

”Now drink your coffee. I have got to go and explain to Netflix’s lawyer that the word non-negotiable is one word.”

She left. I sat in the canteen for another six or seven minutes.

Elena was in reception when I came out. Black puffer jacket, hair tied back, two crew behind her, one with a shoulder-mounted camera and one with a sound rig.

”Daniel.”

”Elena.”

”Three minutes. The Atlético night. While it’s still fresh. Sit there. The light is good.”

She knew not to push. She also knew when not to take no for an answer. They set up at the corner of the canteen by the window. I sat in the wooden chair and answered three questions. Sakho’s header. The 27th minute when Griezmann scored and how I had not moved on the touchline. What the dressing room felt like at full-time.

I gave her three minutes of footage. She thanked me by name. The crew packed up in ninety seconds.

”Sunday I will be on the bench,” she said. ”Wagner’s people have signed the dressing-room permission. We have ten minutes at half-time.”

”Right.”

”Madrid Thursday. I am on the team plane. The paperwork came through this morning.”

”Right.”

She smiled. They went.

Then I went out to the pitch.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the Massage Chair.