Mia sighs heavily. “Dominic, what is fucking going on? What does my childhood have to do with any of this?”
“Archie likes to use people’s weaknesses against them. Their past and their pain, he sees it as a way to justify his own bad actions.” I grunt out a laugh. “A lot like my dad, as it happens.”
“A lot like men, I think you’ll find.” Mia laughs darkly. “I think that’s an in-built factory setting for your lot.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“And since you asked… No, he didn’t ever discuss it with me. I think it made him feel like he’d rescued me, the hero, like you said.” There’s a sound in the background like ice tinkling into a glass. “Archie likes to feel important, like the most important man in the room. And when he isn’t, well… He doesn’t much like that. That’s why he sent Jordan that text. He saw all the accolades and lost it. Couldn’t even keep his mouth shut in exile, no. He had to come steaming in and remind everyone he was still the big man.”
“He’s freaked Jordan right out.”
Mia scoffs. “Tell Jordan to forget about it. It’s Archie’s MO, nothing more.”
“That’s what I said.”
Mia giggles softly. “Guess you and me are alike after all.”
I don’t quite understand the warmth that blooms in my chest at those words. I like the idea of being like her, even just a little. Like this sassy, loud woman who doesn’t take anyone’s shit.
“Anyway, look, I just wanted to tell you what happened.”
“Yeah, in a word, nothing.” Mia laughs, and takes a sip of something. “Just Archie being cryptic and painful.”
“Are you going to divorce him?”
“I don’t think Andrea is going to give me much choice,” Mia replies, and sighs heavily. “But yes, I’m going to divorce him. I’m done being miserable.”
“Fair enough.” I hesitate, taking an uncertain breath. “Mia…”
“Yes, Dominic?”
I’m a fool. An utter old fool. “I was wondering… Are you still going to come to the games? And the gala? Only…”I had a really nice time with you the other night, and I don’t want to let that go yet.
Her silence seems to last an eternity. I’m ridiculous. She probably thinks I’m ridiculous. She won’t want to come within 50 feet of my family, let alone spend time with me willingly. Me? Her old, grey father-in-law? Why would she-
“Yeah, go on.” She chuckles sweetly, the sound making me break out in goosebumps. “Archie’ll hate it, and since we know he’s watching, may as well torture him a bit more, ey?”
I laugh, hoping to sound nonchalant. “I support that plan.”
“See you at the next game then.”
She hangs up, and I keep the phone pressed to my ear for a minute longer, before putting it down very slowly.
What are you doing, old man? I catch sight of my reflection in the oven door. I’m 52 years old. And I just asked my son’s wife to spend more time with me, because it turns out I enjoy her company.
What the bloody hell am I doing?
7
MIA
Soft music playsand waiters flit about the ballroom in immaculate white shirts and black trousers, distributing champagne in tall crystal flutes to the assembled WAGs. Joanne Murray always goes all out for her evening events, and right now, in the middle of the premier season, she’s going to go the extra mile.
I lean against the wall of the ballroom, tucked away in an obscure place behind an impressive green plant with large fronds. With a champagne glass in hand, I watch Joanne Murray as she smiles and schmoozes and poses for photographs. She’stheWAG, the wife of Peter Murray, a man whose reputation and ability rivalled David Beckham’s back when they played for opposing teams.
Peter, unlike David, didn’t keep his looks, and now hosts a show on smallholding and gardening on ITV. Joanne, on the other hand, raised an empire. She has a fashion line, make-up brand, several perfumes, a homewares collection, and someone even said she was now designing the interiors of luxury yachts.
The ultimate WAG.
