The Lost Guide to Life and Love (16 page)

‘I thought you’d have plenty of people you could ask,’ I said, swallowing the suggestion that he might have given me a little more warning.

‘Yeah, well, London girls don’t travel too well. They need at least three days to get ready.’

I thought for a moment. It clearly meant I was not in the same class as the girls I’d seen him with in the club. I didn’t need it to be underlined.

‘Well, you’re wrong. I’m a London girl, born and bred.’

‘No you’re not,’ he smiled. ‘You belong on those moors, all clean and outdoorsy. Or in the pub eating sausages with grease on your chin.’

Instinctively I put my hand up to my chin and then laughed at myself and he kissed the top of my head. Patronizing smoothie.

But Joan, my grandmotherly neighbour, smiled approvingly. ‘Nice to see the young ones at an event like this. Not many of them can be bothered. And it’s such a good cause. Have you two been courting long, pet?’ she asked as we set about our trio of salmon starter.

‘Oh, we’re not courting,’ I laughed, loving the old-fashioned phrase. ‘I only met him a week ago. Before this we’ve only had lunch together once. I hardly know him,’ I said, keen to put some distance between us.

‘Eeh, well, you look just right with each other,’ she said, and I took the remark and turned it over and over in my mind, examining it like a present waiting to be opened. Or a bomb waiting to explode.

Between the first and the second course, a very distinguished doctor stood up and spoke briefly of how desperately they needed more money for research. Then the comedian came back and told us that the envelopes in front of us contained forms on which we could make donations. It was a new scheme, he said, to encourage people just to give an hour of their time, or an hour of their wages.

‘If I had a Premiership player’s salary for an hour, I could live for a month,’ he said. ‘Instead we could help find a cure
for cancer. So what are you waiting for? One hour, lads, come on. If you can’t work it out, we’re happy to do the sums for you!’

Clayton looked up at the picture of the young mother and her children. He pulled the envelope towards him. ‘Guess I’d better put some money in the pot,’ he said.

‘Good for you!’ I said.

‘Yeah, I suspect you always do the right thing, Miss Tilly.’

‘I wish!’ I said. ‘But you’ve got to try, haven’t you?’

‘Have you? Why?’

‘Because, well,’ I floundered, and thought of my mum and her endless talks about helping others…redressing inequalities…the privilege of generosity, etc, etc, etc. ‘Well, it makes the world a nicer place, doesn’t it?’

Clayton nodded and smiled. ‘Yeah. It makes the world a nicer place. That’s cool. I like that.’

He took his credit card from his wallet and filled in the form in the envelope. Before he replaced it and sealed the envelope, I leaned over to see how much. The figure filled in said £10,000.

‘That’s more than an hour’s wage, even for you,’ I said slowly. Even if he were showing off, he was certainly paying for the privilege. ‘That will make the world quite a bit nicer, I think. And maybe let a few more children have their mothers around for longer.’

‘I hope so,’ said Clayton. He gazed at me for a moment, straight into my eyes, and it was as if the whole room vanished, the noise and the people, the comedian and his prattle, the waiters and waitresses, all faded out. For a moment I felt giddy, struggling, desperately trying to get my feet back on the ground. Then ‘Hey Pete!’ Clayton said to the footballer sitting opposite him. ‘What d’you reckon to that young lad United played last night?’ and the conversation returned, inevitably, to football.

On the other side of the table I could see that Alessandro and Becca were getting on very well, their heads, one so blonde, one so dark, bent together talking. Alessandro was busy with one of the heavy paper napkins, folding it this way and that until he had turned it into a rose, which he presented, with an extravagant bow, to Becca.

‘That’s beautiful!’ she said, her face pink and happy as she took it. ‘How do you know how to do that?’

‘I worked with my uncle in his restaurant. I learnt to do this there,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself and not at all like his fierce, determined image in the paper that morning.

‘I shall give you real flowers,’ he said, ‘but for now, this is the only flower I have.’

Bert and Joan beamed approvingly. Not to be outdone, Clayton stretched out and picked one of the freesias from the table decoration and presented it to me.

‘For you, Miss Tilly.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ I said, putting the dripping flower back in the vase. ‘It’ll only die. Let it stay in the vase where we can all enjoy it.’

As the meal went on, everything became more relaxed. People were wandering about the room. Many people stopped at our table to talk to Clayton. Other footballers came whooping up, giving high fives. A couple of people asked for his autograph, for their children. Clayton obliged cheerfully. It was getting warm. We seemed to have eaten and drunk so much already. The comedian announced that the auction would start in twenty minutes. A gay group, famous for singing outrageous lyrics, were doing a set in the foyer outside. A brigade of waiters and waitresses swept in to clear the tables.

Clayton took my hand. ‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ he said, and led me out into the foyer, past the band and towards
a glass-covered balcony that seemed to hang over the river. It was cooler there and blissfully quiet. Just us and the lights on the water.

‘You were very generous with your donation in there,’ I said.

‘Yeah, well. Bad enough to grow up without a dad, even worse without a mum, even a mum like mine,’ he said. ‘And we all know I ain’t earning the minimum wage,’ he laughed.

‘What will you do,’ I blurted out, ‘when you don’t play football any more?’

‘Hey, that’s a big question, a very big question,’ he said, gazing out at the water. ‘Maybe do my coaching badges. Maybe television. Maybe just enjoy being rich. There’s this man does my money for me. Tells me what do with it. ‘Cept I keep buying wine with it. And pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘You know I didn’t think I knew anything about art, but there’s this Celia, she works with the man who looks after my money, she took me to a gallery and said I didn’t have to
know
anything about art, just see if I liked anything.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yeah,’ he said dreamily, ‘yeah I did. I bought an Iolo John painting. Huge it is, just blue and white and green, but it sort of looks a bit like the sea, a bit like the sky. I don’t know. Just a lot of clean space. Like being in the air.’

I nodded. ‘I saw some of his paintings at the Royal Academy last year. After all the installation-type pieces of blood and bottles and dead cows, you can actually get what he’s on about. They’re beautiful.’

‘The money-man reckons it’s a good investment. But I just like it on my wall.’

‘I’m sure it’s fantastic.’

‘You can see it when you come round.’

I stayed very calm. ‘Oh. I’m coming round, am I?’

‘I hope so, Miss Tilly. It would be nice if you did.’ And he leant forwards, took my face in his hands and kissed me. He smelt of wine and coffee and a wonderfully citrus cologne. I surfaced, blinking.

‘Gosh,’ I said. Clayton hooted with laughter.

‘You are
so
not like any other woman I know,’ he said. And kissed me again. Then took my hand and led me back into the banqueting suite where we were the last to return to our table. As we wriggled our way back into our seats, Becca grinned at me, and my grandmotherly neighbour smiled indulgently. The auction was about to start.

This was a serious event. The auctioneer—a sports presenter—could really do his stuff. He started with autographed football shirts which local businessmen paid up to £500 for, and was moving on through such delights as a hot-air balloon ride, a spa weekend, a week in a Tuscan farmhouse, the last going for £10,000.

‘Lot Fifteen, a silver and amber necklace, specially designed and donated by top jeweller Theodore Bukala. “
Rectangular silver links interspersed with polished amber in an unusual modern setting
,” it says here. “
Striking and elegant with an intriguing contemporary simplicity.
” Who’s going to start me off ? A thousand pounds anyone. Yes, to you sir…Fifteen hundred, anyone giving fifteen hundred?’

Becca and I looked on amazed as the bidding rose quickly to £10,000, then more slowly to £15,000. ‘Any more?’ asked the auctioneer. ‘It really is a lovely piece, absolutely unique—and all for such a good cause. Any more?’

With that, Clayton casually lifted his menu card and the bidding was on again. It was between him and a player from Man United and Becca and I could barely dare to look as the bidding rose over £15,000, then £20,000, and finally up to £25,000. Then the other player’s girlfriend must have decided that £25,000 was enough because I could see her
put her hand on the man’s arm and he shook his head at the auctioneer.

‘Twenty-five thousand one hundred,’ said the auctioneer. ‘I think that’s our final bid. Any more? Any more?’ He looked round the room in the silence. ‘Going, going…’ And then brought the gavel down with a short sharp rap. ‘Twenty-five thousand one hundred to Mr Clayton Silver.’ And he moved on quickly to the hire of a small yacht currently moored in the Mediterranean.

Just as the bidding finished, a waiter appeared with a tray of brandies.

‘I think we need those,’ said Bert. ‘Here, lad,’ he said to Clayton, ‘you’d better have a couple of these, the amount you’ve spent tonight.’

Clayton looked relaxed as he downed the brandy and a man appeared with a portable card payment machine. Clayton paid up and the man produced the box. The necklace was beautiful. As the man said, it was simple and elegant, the amber small, smooth and polished. It was absolutely beautiful.

‘So that’s twenty-five grand’s worth, is it?’ said Clayton. He lifted the necklace out of its presentation box.

He stood up, came behind me, and carefully fastened the necklace round my neck.

Joan clapped her hands in glee and excitement. ‘And you’ve only known him a week, pet! Not bad going for a week!’ she laughed.

I blushed bright red and looked round at Clayton. ‘Oh no. I’m only trying it on,’ I explained. ‘It’s not for me.’

‘Yes it is,’ said Clayton. ‘Who else am I going to buy it for? Begging your pardon…’ as he grinned at Joan.

‘But surely…there must be…’ I was stunned. I had never in my life even tried on anything costing £25,000, let alone been given something.

‘I bought it for you,’ said Clayton, quietly, looking at me. ‘I wasn’t thinking of anyone else. And very good it looks too.’ Then he laughed. ‘And worth it just to see you going pink again.’

I don’t really remember much after that. There were a few more speeches. A lot more drink. A lot of cheering. By now I was leaning right back against Clayton, comfortable, at ease. Becca and Alessandro had disappeared, I noticed.

‘Well, that’s me done, my dear,’ said Joan, getting up from her seat. ‘I’m off to my bed.’

‘Are you staying here?’

‘Yes, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

In fact I had no idea what was happening later. The elderly lady patted my shoulder as Clayton talked to her husband.

‘Good luck, pet,’ she said. ‘But just remember, footballers aren’t like other people. They’re a funny breed. They don’t live in the same world as the rest of us. And I should know, I’ve been married to one for more than forty years. And they’re a lot stranger now than they were when our Bert started out.’

With that she took her husband’s arm and walked out of the room.

A red-faced man came bustling importantly up to Clayton. ‘We leave for the airport in five minutes. Where’s Sandro?’

‘Around somewhere,’ said Clayton vaguely. ‘Can’t be far.’

He pulled me gently to my feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. He got out his mobile, sent a text and then rang Alessandro.

‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘See you downstairs in five minutes.’

Then he put his arms round me, brushed a wisp of hair from my eyes and said, ‘Sorry we’ve got to go, sweetheart, I’ve got training tomorrow and the plane’s waiting. Tony’ll
be downstairs to take you home when you’re ready. It’s been really good to see you. I’ll see you again soon?’

‘But…’ It didn’t seem right that the evening should end like this; that we were going home separately. Especially as I was wearing the amazing necklace.

The red-faced man came stomping back. ‘Clayton, it’s time to go!’

Clayton whispered to me. ‘He reports right back to our boss man. Any problems and—wow, do we hear about it. So I’ve got to go, gorgeous. See you soon, yeah?’ He kissed me again and went off with the red-faced man.

I was left on my own, wearing a necklace that had cost £25,000. I stroked it as I walked down that huge staircase.

Downstairs, Becca was already waiting. Outside, the black four-by-four swept up and Tony leapt out to open the door. Becca and I climbed in.

‘Did this really happen?’ she asked, still clutching the rose Alessandro had made for her as we slumped in the back of the car and it raced down the A1. ‘Did all that really happen?’

‘I think so,’ I replied, though actually I too found it tricky to believe. But as the car sped down the motorway, and Becca chatted breathlessly about Sandro, I could feel the weight of the necklace on my throat and I could remember the way Clayton had looked into my eyes.

The rain had stopped and a clear watery light filled the dale. Perfect for photographs. Matilda Allen had insisted first on being photographed seated with her Bible. That was the reminder she wanted to send to her children. But then Peart persuaded her to stand as he had first seen her, in her garden with her shawl round her head, a background of fellside and stone. A fine, strong woman.

‘Your husband…?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Killed in the mine eight year ago.’

‘I’m sorry…’ But he wondered how such a woman had never married again. Not for want of asking, he suspected.

‘My wife too,’ he said, ‘ten years now. And our baby daughter with her.’

She flashed him a look.

‘Then we’ve both known loss, Mr Peart. And learnt to endure it.’