‘Oh, I love Gary Lineker,’ said Shane enthusiastically. ‘The silver fox.’
‘I like him too,’ said Nelson.
‘Although I preferred him in his playing days. When he wore the outfit.’
Nelson frowned.
‘Obviously I was talking about women’s football,’ said Susan, rolling her eyes.
‘She really is a footballer,’ confirmed Shane.
Nelson looked her up and down, as if he wanted to be certain about something. ‘But you’re a girl,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you? I mean, an actual girl. A real girl. An original girl. As in, born a girl.’
‘Yes, I’m a girl,’ she replied. ‘Why are you rambling?’
‘Am I? Am I rambling? It’s a funny word, rambling, isn’t it? Rambling.’
‘You are, yes. Does it bother you in some way when women engage in historically male activities?’
‘Not at all. In fact, my mother has been a career woman her whole life.’
‘Career woman!’ sneered Susan, shaking her head as the food arrived. ‘Oh, I’ve heard it all now. A career woman. And what are you, a career man?’
‘No, but—’
‘And why did you seem uncertain that I’m female? Don’t I look female?’
‘You do, yes. You’re very girl-like. It’s just, you can never be too certain these days so it’s best to be careful. My father got into a lot of trouble recently on this front, as you may have heard.’
‘Nelson’s father is quite famous,’ said Shane, turning to his sister.
‘Really?’ she asked, intrigued now. ‘Who is he? A politician or something?’
‘No, a television host.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘George Cleverley.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No, I’m serious.’
She whipped out her phone and started tapping away on it.
‘But hold on,’ she said. ‘I’m looking at George Cleverley’s Wikipedia page and it says here that he has three children, the oldest of whom, Nelson, is a teacher. It also says that his daughter is an influencer and that his youngest son is an idiot. Why would it say something like that?’
‘Because he is an idiot,’ said Nelson. ‘Although a very nice idiot, to be fair.’
‘No, why would it say that you’re a teacher?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Nelson, laughing a little. ‘You can’t trust Wikipedia. People just go on there and change whatever they want. It could say that I’m a giraffe, but it wouldn’t make it true, would it?’
‘Why would someone want to pretend that you’re a teacher when you’re quite clearly a police officer?’ asked Shane. ‘What’s in it for them?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Nelson, checking the time. ‘Nowt as queer as folk, as they say.’
Susan put her phone away but didn’t look at all convinced. At a table on the other side of the restaurant, the voices of two men disagreeing with each other began to be heard over the low hum of conversation. The heads of everyone in the room turned in their direction and they watched as a waitress approached them and had a quiet word.
‘Anyway,’ said Nelson, turning back to Susan, ‘you were saying that you’re a professional footballer. Are you the only one, or are there others?’
‘No, it’s just me,’ she said. ‘I go out on the pitch alone every Saturday and just kick the ball around for ninety minutes, trying both to score and to stop myself from scoring. I almost always win.’
‘Right,’ said Nelson, looking at Shane. ‘Do you have any other sisters?’ he asked.
‘No, just Susan,’ replied Shane.
‘Good.’
‘Of course there’s more of us,’ she continued. ‘Although most female footballers have day jobs because we don’t get paid like the men because of—’
‘The patriarchy, I know.’
‘Yes,’ she said, bristling a little. She looked irritated to have been robbed of her chance to use the word.
‘How strange,’ said Nelson.
‘Is it? Why?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Maybe that was the wrong word.’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Shane.
‘I meant unusual. The thing is, I’ve never met a female professional footballer before. And I’ve met a lot of famous people. Through my father, I mean. Presidents, prime ministers, pop stars. I met Mariah Carey once and she told me to get the fuck out of her way. I still remember that moment. It was my highlight of 2018.’
‘As it happens, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to a policeman either,’ she said. ‘Other than our cousin, but he’s a garda and I think he just likes dressing up. He’s getting married in a few months, actually, so you’ll be able to compare notes with him. If you’re still around, that is,’ she added, glancing at her brother, who looked down at the table and ate his sandwich. ‘It feels a little odd to be sitting here while you’re sat opposite me in uniform. I have to say, the Met doesn’t exactly put a lot of money into them, does it? It’s very tatty material, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ She reached across and took a fistful of his shirt sleeve in her hand before letting go and glancing at her palm as if she was worried that it might be covered in nuclear waste. ‘It’s like something a person might buy online for a fancy-dress party.’
Across the room, the men’s voices were raised again, this time in fury, and the waitress returned to their table to tell them off. One of the men swore at her, then apologized and promised to keep the noise down. She looked unconvinced but walked away.
‘I should be getting off soon,’ said Nelson, checking his watch.
‘You have some more time yet, surely,’ said Shane.
‘Well, maybe a few more minutes,’ he said reluctantly, not wanting to let his boyfriend down.
‘Yes, do stay,’ said Susan coldly. ‘You’re such fun. I can see why my brother likes you. You’re the absolute life of the party.’
‘Thank you,’ muttered Nelson.
‘You must have some wonderful stories. About police life, I mean? I’d love to hear them.’
‘Oh, not really. Most of it is surprisingly mundane. Drug kingpins, terrorists, flashers, that sort of thing. The really good stuff is top secret, you know. For your eyes only.’
‘For my eyes?’
‘No, for the eyes of, you know, my superiors.’
‘He’s being modest, he has lots of good stories,’ said Shane. ‘Tell her about the time you captured a cat burglar.’
‘Oh no,’ said Nelson, feeling himself begin to blush again. ‘No, she wouldn’t want to hear about that.’
‘A cat burglar?’ said Susan, perking up. ‘That sounds fascinating. Oh, go on, tell me!’
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Tell me!’ she insisted. ‘Then you can go. Just tell it quickly, the main points.’
‘All right, then,’ said Nelson, taking a last bite from his sandwich, wiping his lips with a napkin and pushing the plate away. ‘Well, it didn’t start in London, I should point out. It started in France. On the French Riviera, in fact. It seems that there was a cat burglar working the area, breaking into rich people’s houses and the bedrooms of luxury hotels and so on, stealing all the women’s jewellery. Really high-priced stuff.’