‘You could just tell her the truth and throw yourself on her mercy?’
‘It would be less painful to throw myself on a pitchfork. And the divorce would be horrendous. She’d take half of everything and the newspapers would have a field day with it. They’re always looking to take me down a peg or two. And with the current temperature at the BBC, I’m not even sure that they’d back me. Although at least Angela is age appropriate.’
‘How old is she?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘And you’re sixty.’
‘Well, that’s age appropriate, isn’t it? What do you expect, that I’ll have sex with a woman in her fifties? If I wanted to do that, I’d just go to bed with my wife.’
‘Can I offer you a piece of advice?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Of course you can. That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?’
‘These types of conversations. Never have them with anyone else. Just with your legal representatives. Or a priest. No one else. Never in public and never within spitting distance of a live microphone.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not a total idiot. I’ve been in this business long enough to know how it works. But I’m not a nasty old dinosaur either and I resent being treated as one, which is why your receptionist annoyed me so much. The real problem is, Angela doesn’t want to break up with me. She’d prefer that I left Beverley and went to live with her instead.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Jeremy. ‘It means that she might cause trouble.’
‘Which is why I’ve come to see you. Because, if it’s at all possible, I should like to avoid trouble.’
‘I think the best thing would be if you left it with me for a while,’ replied the solicitor. ‘Let me have a think about how best to proceed. How does that sound?’
‘Right,’ said George, standing up. ‘I suppose that will have to do for now. But remember, I want to do the right thing. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ agreed Jeremy as his phone buzzed again and he reached for it.
‘You’re popular,’ said George, making his way towards the door. ‘Having a little fun on the side too, are you?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that,’ he replied, laughing nervously. ‘Just someone I met recently who … well, yes, I suppose it might resemble something like that. I mean, nothing’s happened, as such.’
‘Well, be careful, that’s my advice to you. Don’t find yourself in the same position as I have. Keep it zipped.’
GOAL
Nelson walked quickly along the edges of the playing field, filled with dread that the football might come his way. And then, naturally, it did, one of the boys kicking it with such an extraordinary lack of precision that it floated over the heads of the other players and flew across the pitch, landing only a few feet from him. He glanced towards the pitch, hoping to see one of the boys running towards him to retrieve it, but no, they were standing in a group, their hands on their hips, calling to him to send it back their way.
Nelson had never been any good at sports and lived in fear of moments like this, when he would inevitably be shown up in front of others as lacking in the basic skills that other men seemed to have instilled in them from birth. The only thing that lay ahead of him now, he knew, was humiliation. If he kicked the ball back to the players, it would inevitably fly over his head in some tragic boomerang movement, breaking one of the windows of the music rooms behind him. But if he refused to engage with it and hurried on his way, he would be left looking ridiculous. To make matters worse, Martin Rice appeared from the front doors of the school at the same moment, lighting a cigarette and grinning gleefully when he saw the scene that was playing out before him.
‘Well, kick it back to them, Stupidly,’ he shouted. ‘Break’s nearly over. They want to finish their game.’
Nelson glared at him before putting his backpack down on the ground and approaching the ball gingerly, staring at it as if it was some strange, unidentifiable animal that might leap up and bite him, were he to advance too quickly. In the distance, the boys were calling out his name, some being polite enough to add ‘Sir’, others using far less gracious terms. He looked in their direction, swallowing nervously. One of the taller boys had started to walk over, shaking his head in frustration, and Nelson realized that it was now or never. He pulled back his right foot and, keeping one eye focussed on the ball, aimed just below its centre, the toe of his shoe lifting it cleanly off the ground. He watched as it sailed through the air in a perfect arc, over the heads of the boys, all of whom turned to watch as it soared above the playing field, making its way along the length of the pitch before gradually starting to descend. The goalkeeper at the other end realized that it was coming directly for him and stretched his arms out in a desperate attempt to save it, but it was too late and the ball flew into the back of the net, top-right corner, as the entire playing field fell silent, every head turning towards Nelson, who was as stunned by what had just happened as everyone else.
He waited a few moments, nodded his head in satisfaction, retrieved his backpack and continued on his way into the school.
‘Fucking hell, Nelson,’ said Martin, staring at him. ‘Shame no one was filming that. Might have gone viral.’
POPULAR FICTION
‘Old woman.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Old woman,’ repeated the ghost. ‘That’s how stara zhinka translates.’
Beverley frowned and shook her head. ‘Then I must have written it down wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s more likely that it means something along the lines of beautiful woman.’
‘That would be prekrasna zhinka.’
‘Or captivating woman.’
‘Zakhoplyuyucha zhinka.’
‘I’m not sure your grasp of Ukrainian is quite as good as you think it is,’ said Beverley after a moment’s pause, her smile as forced as one of Piers Morgan’s co-presenters.
‘Well,’ replied the ghost, who took her language skills very seriously, ‘I have been speaking it since I was four years old. It was very important to my grandparents that we all stayed close to our roots. But it’s true that I don’t get a chance to practise it as much as I’d like.’
‘Then that explains it. You need to join a society of immigrants, my dear. There’s probably some sort of organization somewhere in London. Regular conversation with native speakers will help to keep you proficient and you won’t make such basic errors.’
They were walking through Selfridges department store on Oxford Street, looking at clothes, Beverley occasionally raising her hand to roar ‘DON’T!’ at any assistant who dared to approach her, atomizer in hand, preparing to douse her in unsolicited perfume. The shopping expedition was a ritual that Beverley had undertaken with all her previous ghosts when they were setting out on a novel, believing that if they could decide on the sartorial look of her central character, then the rest would fall into place. Her current amanuensis, however, did not seem entirely convinced, pointing out that every hour spent examining overpriced designer outfits that they had no intention of purchasing was an hour that she could pass more beneficially at home, writing.