Glory Of The Football Manager System

”One more thing before you go. Not the documentary. The Spider-Man people.”

”Yeah.”

”They rang again this morning. They want a third scene.”

”Tell them yes.”

”Nine hours of your time in August instead of six. They will not tell us what the third scene is yet.”

”Tell them yes.”

She closed the tablet. Tomás and Ruth started packing the cameras. Ben unplugged the laptop from the projector. Elena paused at the door with her hand on the frame.

”Whatever happens between now and the end of May, the four hours is already there. The matches are the loud part. The film is the quiet part. We already have the quiet part.”

She went out.

I sat in the screening room for another five minutes. Then I drove home.

[Dulwich. 18:48 BST.]

She had been to the shops.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and onion and something she was reducing on the hob. Two glasses of wine on the kitchen table. A candle that was not the fig candle and which I did not recognise. She had changed out of work clothes into the jeans and an oversized cream jumper of mine that came down to her thighs and the kind of pair of thick walking socks that meant she was not going anywhere tonight.

Her hair was down.

She was at the hob with her back to me, stirring something with a wooden spoon.

”Walsh.”

”Em.”

I dropped the keys in the bowl. Took my shoes off. Crossed the kitchen and put both hands on her hips from behind. Kissed the side of her neck under the loose hair.

She did not turn around.

”Risotto. Twenty minutes. Wine is poured. Go and sit at the table or get out of my kitchen.”

”I’ll sit.”

I sat at the kitchen table. Picked up the wine. Watched her cook.

She talked while she stirred.

The piece had gone in at four. Half an hour late. The editor had said yeah, fine in the way the editor said it when he was busy and the piece was actually good, and Emma had not been sure whether she had wanted yeah, fine or wanted an argument about it.

Caitlin’s brother had been at the gym again on Wednesday. Twice this week. Emma did not know yet whether to tell Caitlin to be hopeful or to be careful, and Caitlin had not asked, which was also a thing.

Her mum had texted three times this week which was three more times than her mum texted in most weeks. She thought her mum might be coming down in June. The Tate Modern was on the table. Her mum had said for ten years she would go to the Tate Modern and not been.

I let her talk. Drank the wine. Did not interrupt.

When the risotto was done she put the spoon down and turned around.

”Are you going to tell me how it was.”

”How what was.”

”The screening with Elena. Four hours. Or however long it was. You went in at four.”

”Three quarters of an hour.”

”What did you see.”

”Sarah meeting Mateo at the door in January. The way her shoulders dropped. She does it for every signing. She does not know she does it.

Bray making tea for the analyst room every afternoon because Bray became a tea person to bring it to other people. Mama crossing the room to put his lips on the top of Coppell’s head after Salzburg. Konaté’s grandmother taking the headscarf off her head. Raj’s footage from Moss Side that Elena tracked him down for in November.

The first day of pre-season last summer. The fifth match of the interim. The whole eleven months in twelve minutes. There are four hours of it she has not put on the cut. She has more to film. Mum is in there. She is going to ring Mum next week. And Raj.”

”Raj is going to be on television.”

”Raj is going to be on television.”

She did not say anything for a moment. Stirred the risotto two more times. Turned the heat down.

”You said Anfield.”

”I saw the Anfield dressing room from inside the room. The footage was from inside looking out at me at the door. Elena had Mama in the same shot crying without making a sound. I told her to take Mama out.”

”Did she say yes.”

”She said she’d try to replace it in Paris in May. If she can’t she keeps it.”

”All right.”

She did not stir for a second.

”The you on the door.”

”Yeah.”

”Tell me.”

”The me on the screen looked older than the me you are looking at now. He had not slept in two days. He was not coming in and he was not going. He was just standing there. He looked truer than I look right now.”

She turned the hob off. Came over to the table. Sat in the chair next to mine. Put her hand flat on the back of my hand.

”The one I am looking at is the one I am marrying. The one on the screen is the one the country is going to love. They are the same one. Eat your risotto, Walsh.”

I put my fork in the risotto.

She had not said the one I am marrying out loud before.

I did not look up at her. I ate. She ate hers. The candle that was not the fig candle smoked a little in the corner. The wine was the Friday-night wine she had picked up at the place on Lordship Lane that had become our place on Lordship Lane.

She did not say anything else about it.

I did not ask her to say anything else about it.

When we had finished she got up and started to clear. I caught her wrist as she came past with the bowl. She stopped. Looked down at me.

”You said it.”

”I said it. You did not propose. I am not getting ahead of you. I am just saying it because we both know we are getting there and I am tired of pretending we don’t both know. Whenever. The answer is yes. You do not need to be nervous about asking.”

”All right.”

”Eat the bit you missed.”

I ate the bit I had missed.

She washed the bowls. I dried them. She put the radio on. We danced in the kitchen for two minutes the way two people who have done this twice and not three times before dance, which is awkwardly and with both of us laughing. Then she sat in my lap on the sofa for an hour and we did not talk about Wembley once.

At half past ten she went to bed.

I sat for a moment in the kitchen with the candle that was not the fig candle still going. The Wembley team meeting at the hotel was at nine in the morning. The bus from Beckenham at eleven. Kick-off at five-fifteen.

I blew the candle out.

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the support.