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It had to be a lie, because the bitch was still doing all those things, and doing them well. Playing a fucking part, same way she’d always played.
I sat in silence alongside her at our stupidly over-priced table, smiling when she smiled, meeting her eyes when they flashed in my direction. Ten years we’d been doing this shit, and each year it got so much fucking harder.
I’d have served less time for class-A drugs, and an easier pissing sentence.
Champagne after supper, because nothing sayshelp the homelessbetter than a seven course meal and vintage bubbly. I’m sick to death at the whole pissing hypocrisy of this cruddy scene we creep around in.
Reece fell into the empty seat beside his weathergirl other half, Kate, already half gone on scotch. Reece was from April’s circle, but he was one of the few good guys. A property expert on one of those shitty daytime TV shows.
He pooh-poohed my mineral water, chugging back another shot of whisky.
“Not even one? You bloody paid enough for it.”
I waved his comment aside. “Training tomorrow, heavy session.”
“Dunno how you do it,” he laughed. “Mr Clean, no vices.”
If only he knew.
“Odds are this is my final season, want to go out on a high.”
“Nah, April says you’ve got at least another year in you.”
“April’s convinced I’ll be signed until I’m on a mobility scooter, just as long as I schmooze the right people and look the part when I get on the pitch.”
“Is it true?”
“No. I’m out. Club’s said as much.”
Reece raised his scotch. “To retirement. Lucky bastard. Wouldn’t mind a life of leisure with that little jewel. You’re a lucky man, Jay.”
I choked down my distaste. “Just call me Mr Lucky.”
Reece’s toast interrupted his wife’s monologue, and both Kate and April’s attention speared in my direction. April raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. “What was that?”
He shot her a smile. “Jay was just gloating, telling me how lucky he is to have you.”
That grin again, the one I’d believed all through our engagement. It punched me in the gut so hard I could’ve retched.
“Oh, baby. I’m lucky to have you too.”
She leaned in close enough to brush her lips against the stubble I’d refused to shave for her, soft fingers twisting in the dark tangle of hair I’d refused to have cut. She lingered too long, even for her, and I groaned inside as I saw the official photographer catch us in his crosshairs. I used the opportunity to whisper in her ear.
“I’ve done about as much of this as I can take.”
“Veronica Ashdown’s still here. We’ll go when she goes.”
“Veronica Ashdown’s a fucking alcoholic; she’ll be here until the bar runs dry.”
“Then so shall we.” She disguised the hiss of her words with another doting stroke of my arm.
“I’ve got training in the morning.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother you any other night,” she breathed. “I checked out your phone bills earlier. You’ve become quite the fucking night owl.”
She pulled me in for a kiss to smokescreen our conversation, and I used the opportunity to jam my tongue in her bitchy little mouth. I felt her stiffen, her nails like claws on my knee under the table. It made me laugh inside.
“I can’t wait to get you home, Mrs Redfern,” I lied, loudly.
