She’d texted him that morning, reminding him of the time, the place, and the paperwork he would need to bring. The underlying message was clear: don’t get cold feet. Too late for that. He had ice blocks that he’d had to force into his shoes for training that day. The only thing stopping him from putting an end to the whole ridiculous charade was the knowledge that Theresa was more than capable of coming to find him and persuade him into it all over again. Well, that and Gatz breathing down his neck.
“Don’t forget to bring a witness,” Theresa had told him. “Doesn’t have to be anyone you know.”
He couldn’t just bring a stranger. For an intelligent woman, Theresa was clueless about what it meant to be as famous as he was. Inviting a stranger to witness their wedding was asking for the story to be sold to the highest bidder and all over the tabloids the next day. And, while he needed the publicity, he needed to stay in control of it. No candid shots taken with a phone at awkward moments. No one talking about whether he and Theresa acted like a real couple. They’d pose outside the registry office for the paparazzi, smile, and keep their mouths shut.
He scanned the changing room where the team had finished their training session for the day. A couple of guys were still in the shower. Others had towels around their hips and some not even that. Emile caught the eye of the friend he was looking for and raised a finger in his direction. At least Rafael di Santo was Italian. There was half a chance he would understand why Emile was doing something so crazy when there was a woman involved.
“What’s up?”
“Are you free this afternoon? Just for a couple of hours. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The kind where you witness my wedding.”
“Today? Bit quick, isn’t it?”
Emile raised his hands, dismissing all responsibility. “Can you do it?”
“Si. I have to meet Camille later but she is…I don’t know, having something extended. Hair. Or nails. Or something.”
Emile grinned. He’d bet that Theresa never spent her afternoons in a hair or beauty salon. There was nothing fake about her—no fake tan, no fake hair, and no fake breasts. All natural and all woman. And very soon, all his.
“It won’t take long.”
He dressed swiftly in jeans and a dark blue casual shirt. Nothing too formal, since Theresa would be coming straight from work, too. They’d planned to keep the whole thing low key and understated.
Outside, Emile pressed the button on the remote to unlock his pride and joy. He loved the Mercedes McLaren Roadster more than any woman. She wasn’t only as expensive as most houses, she was also rarer than hen’s teeth. The waiting list had been over twelve months, but she was worth every minute of it. In steel grey carbon fiber with polished chrome trim and doors that lifted up like something belonging to James Bond, it was the kind of car he’d imagined as a kid, when all they’d had was his mum’s battered old 2CV. He pushed a second button to raise the roof.
“Might as well make the most of the weather.”
Rafael laughed and looked to the sky, which was dotted with white clouds amongst the blue. “This is not weather.”
Emile grinned as he eased into the driver’s seat. “It’s the best you get in London.”
“I know.” The Italian sighed dramatically. “Now tell me about the mystery woman. How long have you known her?”
“Three and a half weeks.” He checked the road was clear and pulled smoothly out into the traffic. “Quick work.”
“Thanks.”
“I meant her.”
Emile grimaced. His friend had a point. “It’s been accelerated.”
Raf’s lips widened even further. “What’s she got on you?”
“Not her. Gatz.”
“This is because of what happened with Ernestinho?” He sounded appalled.
“That and the last three years. Gatz has a file on me. This thick.” He held his thumb and forefinger three inches apart. “I bring the club into disrepute, apparently.”
“Not half as much as Ernestinho does. I’m sorry, my friend.”
“Thanks.”
“So who is she? I’d have thought Prada would be first in line to get your ring on her finger.”
“She’s nothing like Prada.”
“Clearly. This one has succeeded in getting you where she wants you.”
“She has a well-paying job.” Theresa had made it quite clear she wasn’t in this for the money. She’d insisted on splitting the costs for the ceremony, and when Emile’s lawyer glanced over the pre-nup she’d drawn up, he’d shaken his head in disbelief. Theresa had waived all her rights to a share in Emile’s fortune.
“Good for her.”
“She doesn’t watch football.” That irritated him more than he cared to admit. He’d invited her to his first match back after the ban and she’d turned him down. How were they supposed to convince anyone it was a real relationship if she couldn’t be bothered to show up to watch him?
“Neither did Prada.”
“True.” Prada was happy enough to go to the matches and be photographed for the gossip pages, but he knew she always spent the time texting her friends and flipping through magazines. Usually, she remembered to check which team had won before she met up with him afterwards. “But Theresa didn’t know who I was.”
Rafael gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s what they all say.”
Emile shook his head. Theresa didn’t seem like the sort of woman hungry for her fifteen minutes of fame in the trashy tabloid media. In fact, she’d done what she could to stay out of the papers in the past few weeks. The press release had mentioned her name and she’d supplied a blurry photo, which must have been taken some time ago when her hair was long. Emile had to squint to see that it was the same woman.
“We’ll just go through the ceremony, sign the register, and be out of there. No fuss, no gossip.”
“Sure.” Rafael leaned forward to look at something outside his window. “Where is this registry office, anyway?”
“Just up here on the left.” Emile stopped looking for a parking spot and followed Rafael’s gaze. “Putain de bordel de merde.”
The pavement was blocked and the crowd of paps spilled over into the road. Long lenses were already focusing on him in the car and journalists were yelling questions. Behind them, at the top of the steps into the building, two women stood calmly amongst the crowd—a tall, slim woman with shocking white-blonde hair and Theresa, looking like a dream. Or a fantasy. Or maybe a damn fairytale. Whichever was the one that got its clutches on your heart and made breathing an optional activity.
…
“Looks like he’s arrived,” Julie whispered, without letting her smile slip.
The paparazzi had been waiting for Theresa when she arrived with her friend. For the past fifteen minutes, the two of them had done their best to maintain their composure under the barrage of flashes and questions. Theresa had hissed at Julie to shut up the first time she’d tried to say anything, and since then, they’d both waited silently, smiling calmly into the press pack.
But Theresa’s shoulders tensed as she watched Emile slide his ridiculously impractical sports car effortlessly into a tiny parking space on the other side of the street. Up until that moment, she hadn’t quite believed he would go through with it. She could have laughed the whole thing off with Julie and no one else would have been any the wiser. Now she had no excuse to pull out, despite the butterfly doubts that swirled in her stomach. Doubts that she quelled sharply. They both knew what they were doing. He’d signed the pre-nup without any amendments. He’d get his contract at Woolwich renewed, and she’d never have to face her mother’s matchmaking again. No harm no foul.