‘Who was he?’ I tear my eyes away from the cigarette. ‘What was his name?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. His first name was Alex, I don’t know his surname. He was foreign, French, I think. Black. Plays for Chelsea someone said. Or Man U. One of the top clubs anyway, I forget which.’
‘This premiership footballer she slept with, this Alex.’ The words feel like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. ‘How can I get hold of him?’
Keisha sucks on her cigarette and opens the side door, her eyes never once meeting mine. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry.’
‘Okay,’ I say and smile, even though I’m pretty sure she’s lying to me. They’re all lying about something – Brian, Danny, Ella, Liam – and they think I’m too emotionally unstable to see through it.
They’re wrong.
I wait for Brian to go to bed and then I creep into his study and turn on his laptop.
Alex famous footballer I type and press enter.
The first entry is for a Brazilian footballer who plays for Paris Saint-Germain. Is that who Keisha meant? Maybe she got confused about whether he was French or lived in France? I look at the next entry, another French footballer – this time he’s called Alexandre Degas, but there’s no mention of him playing for a British club. Alexandre Laurent then? Or Alex Sauvage? There’s an Olivier Alexandre who plays for Tottenham Hotspur but it can’t be him, can it?
I push the chair back from the desk. I don’t know what I was thinking, expecting that I’d find contact details for this Alex person when I haven’t got the slightest idea who he is. I twist from left to right in the chair scanning the room for solutions but none come so I stand up and wander into Charlotte’s room. I should have pushed Keisha for more details. I should have asked her how she knew Charlotte had sex in the club toilet. It’s so out of character. She was besotted with Liam, absolutely doolally about him. She’d never have cheated on him. It was one thing she felt strongly about because of the fall-out of her own father’s infidelity. I just can’t imagine her doing something sexual with someone she’d only just met, even if she was drunk and he was a famous footballer and astonishingly good looking and—
I smooth out her duvet then straighten up to get a better look at the posters above the headboard. They’re pages she’s ripped out of Heat magazine’s ‘Torso of the week’ and the wall is crowded with an array of good-looking topless men – soap stars, film stars, TV presenters and … footballers. There’s David Beckham, Ashley Cole, Ronaldo and … someone I don’t recognize, a tall, handsome mixed-race man with pale brown eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. Alex Henri, the caption at the bottom says, Striker, Chelsea FC.
I rush back to Brian’s study.
Alex Henri Agent I enter into Google.
Details appear on screen for Steve Torrance, ‘international sports agent’. I click on his website and an image of a balding, middle-aged man appears, his top lip curled into a half smile, half sneer. I skim read his biography, glance over his list of clients and then click on the ‘contact’ link. An email address and a PO Box address and London telephone number pop up on screen and I scribble them down. It’s too late to call now so I tuck the piece of paper into my purse, leave it on the hall table and then pad into the bedroom. I change into my nightdress in the dark and slip into bed. It’s a very long time until I fall asleep.
‘Could you tell him it’s urgent?’
The woman on the other end of the line sighs. ‘Mrs Jackson, this is the third day you’ve called. I know it’s urgent. You tell me every time you call. I’ve passed on your messages and if Mr Torrance hasn’t called you back yet then …’ I can practically hear her shrug. ‘He is a very busy man.’
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘It’s vital I get a message through to Alex Henri. My daughter’s in a coma and he might be able to help.’
The PA makes a little ‘ooh’ sound. ‘How terrible for you. I’ve got a daughter myself. She had to spend some time in Great Ormond Street when she was seven and I was beside myself. Made her day when H and Claire from Steps visited the ward. How old’s your girl?’
‘She’s seven too.’ It’s scary how easy the lie comes out. ‘And such a tomboy. Football’s her life, her dad’s too, they’re massive Chelsea fans, never miss a game. Alex Henri’s her favourite player, he’s on her bedroom wall in pride of place.’
‘She wouldn’t be the first,’ she laughs. ‘Look Sue, can I call you Sue?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well Sue, I probably shouldn’t say this but the truth is Steve isn’t such a big fan of charity requests. They’re good for PR but PR doesn’t pay the bills so he only allows his clients to do high-profile gigs – cancer charities, Sport Relief, Children in Need, that sort of thing. You need to approach Alex independently.’
My heart leaps. ‘But how? I’ve searched the internet and the only phone number I’ve been able to find is Steve’s.’
‘Now listen,’ the PA lowers her voice. ‘I could lose my job if what I’m about to tell you gets out.’
‘I won’t say a word,’ I breathe. ‘I swear.’
‘I would never, never normally do this but I’m in a good mood today – my Sean got back from Afghanistan yesterday – and with your daughter being the way she is, well … anyway, if you want to catch Alex I suggest you get yourself along to Greys nightclub in Chelsea tonight. He normally goes on a Friday. I’m not promising he’ll agree to visit your little girl but he might agree to a signed shirt or a message on your mobile or something. You could play it to her.’
‘I could!’ I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice but not for the reason she might think. ‘What a wonderful idea, thank you so much.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for. Just promise me one thing, no, two things Sue.’
‘Of course.’