The vase hadn’t even hit Archie. Nowhere near.
And that wasn’t even what the argument was about anyway.
Stupid Paulie Hardcastle. He always knew just how to get the best photos of me and make me look like a psycho.
“So, we’ve got tomorrow off, then on Monday we have the Ladies Who Launch event with Joanne Murray,” Holly says, scrolling through my schedule for the next few days. “Then Tuesday there’s the game against Salford.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to that,” I say quickly, and the silence is so loud I turn to look at Holly. “I mean, why should I?”
“To support the team?” Holly raises her eyebrows. “To show solidarity? I don’t know but I think it would be wise.”
“You don’t think it’ll piss the fans off more that Archie Graves’ wife is there, and he isn’t?”
“No, I think it shows that you’re one ofthem, not just a WAG.” Holly looks back down at her phone with a shrug. “Up to you. Game’s at 4pm.”
“Yeah.” I stare back out the window, the streetlights rolling past as we navigate the busy streets.Football.I’d never expected it to become such a big part of my life. I was just a 21-year-old working a make-up counter when a beautiful man in anexpensive suit, surrounded by an entourage stopped right in front of me, asking when Harrods started selling angels.
It was a cheesy line, it made me laugh and blush - and it totally knocked me off my feet. No one could believe I didn’t know who he was.That’s Archie Graves!My friend had squealed into my ear, and I still hadn’t known who he was.
Football royalty.
His family had a stadium named after them. They’d played for Arlington since its founding in 1899. Everyone in his family lived and breathed football. And then Archie had dragged home a poor shopgirl with tattoos and a Yorkshire accent, who made money posing in her underwear and selling mascara. Must have been a bit of a shock to them.
“There’s been another report that Archie was spotted,” Holly says, and I glance over to see her peering at her phone. “This one’s in Madrid, but it’s just a side angle shot and it’s hard to say if it’s him.” She flips the phone around to me, and I squint at the photo.
The set of the jaw, and the way he seems to be biting his lip, definitely makes it look like Archie.
“Why the fuck would he be in Madrid?” I mutter, and rub my head. “I just don’t understand what he’s doing.”
“What you going to do when he gets back?” Holly asks, and I shrug.
“Haven’t even thought about it,” I reply, playing with the strap of my handbag. “I don’t want to either. I’m done wondering what to do about him. I’m done worrying, and I just want to forget he exists.”
“Good plan.” Holly pats my leg. “Nothing to be done right now anyway.”
I wonder if I should be more worried about Archie. I’d assumed he’d run off to hide with his mistress, but for him toabandon the club, it felt like maybe something else was brewing in the background.
But then the photo at Heathrow had just told me that either he had other plans, or the tail he’d chased was good enough to run away for.
And if he ended up dead in a ditch, well that was fine too.
“Finally,” I breathed as the car pulled up outside my house. “What a day.” I climb out of the car and lean back to smile at Holly. “I hope you’re going home to relax.”
“A bubble bath is calling my name,” she replies with a smile. “You enjoy Girl’s Night with Char!”
“I surely will!”
I close the door with a wave, and the car waits until I’ve keyed in my code to my gate, and closed it securely behind me. It’s only 4pm, but it’s almost completely dark now, and the breeze is chilly. Light spills through the stained glass door of my pretty Victorian terrace house, and before I even open it, I can hear excited yipping.
“Baby!” I exclaim when I open the door, Tank jumping and nipping at my legs. “Were you good for Trish? Were you a very good boy?” I stroke his soft brown ears, and he eagerly licks my hand.
Trish, his dog sitter, rounds the corner from the front room with a bright smile on her face. “Afternoon, Mrs Graves. He’s been such a good boy today. We just got back from a very long walk, and he’s proper knackered now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I scoop my wiggly French bulldog up in my arms, pulling two fifty pound notes from my pocket to hand to Trish. “Here, little bonus for the overtime.”
“Thanks, Mrs G!” Trish exclaims. “It was no problem, really.”
“Still, I feel bad.”
