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It was too much to deal with all at once.
And that wasbeforeshe even factored in the other thing: Alfie Harding, one of the greatest footballers of all time, who had played for decades and was an acknowledged expert on all things having to do with the game, who had won multiple awards because of it and was currently having her write a memoir entitledMy Life in Football, had not actually wanted to be a footballer at all.
He had wanted to be a writer.
She knew he had.
His expression had confirmed her guess.
He’d looked at her like she’d slapped him.
Then walked into the house seeming shell-shocked.
And of course that wasn’t the only reason it rang so true. There were other hints. Like how publicly hurt he’d seemed over the reaction to that foreword he’d written. Or the answers to the questions he’d written down that she hadn’t intended to give him. How much he’d appeared to enjoy writing them; how smart and funny his words had seemed. The way he’d had such trouble settling on a ghostwriter—once just evidence of his crotchetiness, now suggesting something more. Something like shame about hiring someone, or maybe even a repressed sense that he could do better himself.
So it just felt terrible to press him on it now.You shouldn’t have guessed out loud, she chided herself. But really, how could she have done otherwise after that? He was good. There was no way to get around the fact that he was good. That he would be good if he tried his hand at it.
Considering how it had made her feel.
So now she had to deal with the fact that he had longed for something.
Something he could have had quite easily, under different circumstances.
But he hadn’t had those circumstances. So instead, he had thrown it all away.
Buried it down deep, never told a soul about it.
Been just like her, without even the benefit of the consolation prize she’d taken.No wonder he’s angry all the time, she thought. He had every reason in the world to be angry. If anything, he should have been even more furious than he already was. Or at the very least, not as kind as he often revealed himself to be. Like when he had threatened to murder her dead dad. And defended her against the paparazzi and internet insults.
Oh, and then there was the fact that he had bought her things.
Because the second she stepped into his house and saw the furniture he had purchased, she knew that was what he’d done. And she knew why he had done it, too. It wasn’t for himself, or even to save face in her eyes. It couldn’t possibly be when therewasn’t a thing there that he could use to either sit on, or make himself seem more normal. There was no couch or coffee table or anything of that kind.
No. There was just something for her.
Something that would makehercomfortable.
And so obviously that she couldn’t even doubt it.
He’d bought her a squishy, pastel love seat, of the exact kind she had in her own place. Then just in case that wasn’t enough, he’d put a little table next to it. A really fancy table, with compartments for putting things in, and holders for pens and drinks, and then she touched it and saw what else it did.
It swung out, over the chair.
Like the sort of thing you found in universities.
So you can take notes with ease, her brain reminded her.
But of course it didn’t need to. She was already feeling that purpose, right up to the roots of her hair. It was honestly all she could to not scream something ridiculous at him, likeThis is the nicest thing anyone has ever bought for me. She had to keep her back turned to him and squeeze hard until the only thing that came out was “thank” and “you.” Though even that didn’t go well.
Her voice sounded real shaky.
And kind of a little breathless.
She couldn’t blame herself, however. She was still recovering from all the rest of it, and now there was this to contend with. Of course she was going to be all weird. She just hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Then was surprised when he didn’t.
He just said “No problem,” and by the time she’d managed to turn around again and face him, he’d gone to make them both a cup of tea. She could hear him in the kitchen, rattling spoons and mugs and probably whatever futuristic device he used to boil the water.I bet he’s got one of them taps where it comes out scalding hot, she thought. And then felt a bit calmer about things.
