The Footballer's Wife (7 page)

‘Is he going to be OK?' Charly begged as she ran alongside Joel as he was wheeled through A & E. She knew they were drawing stares; any injury to Joel Baldy's foot was potentially big news.

‘The consultant will be here any minute. Then we'll have a better idea. If you could take a seat in the waiting area, Ms Metcalfe, that would be a big help.'

Charly looked at Joel, who managed a smile through his obvious discomfort. ‘Go on, babe, I'll be alright.' He winked at her. If Charly had been told about this situation before she had found herself sliding into it, she would have wondered why anyone would put up with such Jekyll and Hyde behaviour. But as it was, she clung to this display of positive attention like a sinking man to a life raft. ‘But I don't want to leave you,' she said, grabbing Joel's arm.

‘I'll be alright, babe. Go sit in the waiting room; see if we're in
Hello!
this week,' he joked. The orderly pushing the football star along the hospital corridors laughed at this self-deprecating joke. Charly smiled; the Joel that she loved was back.

‘If you go to the counter you can give the receptionist your details,' the orderly informed Charly.
She quickly grabbed Joel's hand and mouthed
I love you
to him before setting off for the reception area of the casualty department. Joel winked at her.

Standing in line, Charly realised that the receptionist recognised her. ‘Charly Metcalfe, isn't it?' The receptionist smiled.

‘That's right,' Charly said, putting her hand to her head as she suddenly noticed the searing pain that was coming from the lump on her forehead. She hadn't had time to think about herself; she had been too busy trying to get Joel to the hospital.

‘That looks nasty, what have you done?' the woman asked, poised to fill out a form to pass to a triage nurse.

‘Oh,' Charly said, shocked, ‘nothing. This? I banged my head. Really stupid. I walked straight into the fridge door this morning, can you believe it? But I'll be fine. I'm not here for me, I'm here because my boyfriend Joel has some glass in his foot and someone told me to come and give his details.'

The woman looked at Charly's forehead. ‘You might want to have that looked at while you're here,' she said. Charly avoided her gaze – did she suspect that the fridge door excuse was a lie?

‘OK, but I think it's fine, really,' Charly said reluctantly.
Should she say something?

‘Right. Well, tell me what your boyfriend has done to his foot. My husband's a big Rovers fan. I hope it's nothing too bad or my Keith won't sleep for a week.' She smiled again.

Charly returned the smile weakly. Everyone was a Rovers fan, she thought; she wouldn't get any sympathy from anyone if she started telling people where the lump on her head had really come from. Not that she wanted any sympathy. Right now, Charly couldn't see past her own certainty that everything that had happened that morning was all entirely her fault.

*

Jodie was sitting in Leanne's city centre office when Leanne offered her a sheet of paper for her approval. ‘Why do I always get roped into these things?' Jodie wailed.

‘Because a) you're my sister and b) you're my best model.'

‘So shouldn't one of your up-and-coming I-need-to-please-my-agent models have to do all this?'

‘Refer back to point a).' Leanne smiled at her sister.

‘Bloody hell,' Jodie said, looking at the list of
models in her hand. Leanne had arranged for Jodie to take six of the newer girls signed to her agency for a night on the town. Leanne had made all the plans; they would be picked up from their hotel and whisked off to some beautiful-people cocktail bars.

‘Why can't you take them?'

‘Because then, my dear, it looks like what it is, a cynical PR exercise. This way it just looks like you all get on so well that you just have to go out together.'

‘Genius,' Jodie huffed grudgingly.

‘I try my best.'

‘Have you recovered from the other night?' Jodie asked.

‘What, Kent's encore? I don't think I'll ever recover from that.'

Jodie laughed. Kent had returned to the stage to accept his coveted Elvis prize and treated everyone to a performance of him doing the splits. The only thing was, his recovery wasn't quite as polished as his execution and he'd become stuck and had to be helped to his feet by Len Metcalfe. Kent had limped off stage triumphant. ‘Yeah, brilliant. I thought Mum was going to kill him.'

‘Talking of Mum, what did you make of it all, then? Why were we all there?' Leanne asked.

‘Well, maybe she did really just want to make up with everyone,' Jodie said simply.

Leanne raised an eyebrow. ‘Mum? You're kidding, aren't you?'

Jodie laughed in agreement. ‘Yeah, you're right. We were all there for a reason. I've just not figured out what it was yet.'

*

Tracy looked in the mirror. She wasn't a fan of spending money on clothes, but she'd been to Peacocks and bought herself a skirt, a smart work shirt and some shoes for less than twenty pounds so she was quite happy with herself. Today was the day that she had finally decided to make herself useful. She had bumped into Mac Jones the other day and they had had a good chat. She'd always liked Mac. She wasn't the only one: there was a queue of women in Bradington who quite liked Mac Jones. He had the look of Ray Winstone and an attitude to match. But he'd been with his wife Candy for decades. Candy had died a few years ago. When she was alive there were rumours of other women; but not since her death. But now it seemed, as far as Tracy could tell from Mac's obvious flirting, he
was finally coming out of the other side. And if he was coming out of the other side Tracy couldn't help thinking that it might be nice to get a piece of the action. Kent was OK but she'd already strayed from that path with her ex, Paul. So doing it a second time wouldn't seem so bad. Kent got on Tracy's nerves but she quite liked having him around – she knew that they had some shared interests, which was more than Tracy had with most people. Tracy checked her reflection in the mirror and headed for the door. The title music for
This Morning
was playing and Tracy smiled smugly to herself. This was the earliest she'd been out of the house in years.

She walked through the doors of Markie's office. Behind the reception desk was some snotty-nosed girl who looked like she'd had a rod inserted up her bum. ‘Can I help you?' the girl asked superciliously.

‘Tell Markie his mum's here.' The girl's face rearranged itself into something approaching humility and she smiled the only smile she could dredge up after having assumed that Tracy was something that the cat had dragged in. She pressed the buzzer and announced Tracy's presence in reception.

Tracy sat down feeling morally superior and
picked up the stray men's lifestyle magazine on the coffee table.

‘I'm Tammy, by the way,' the girl said, swallowing her pride.

Tracy looked at her. ‘Always thought that was a rough name to give your kids.'

The girl looked confused.

‘Don't tell me they didn't call you Tampax at school.'

Tammy looked disgusted. ‘No.'

‘Must be the way my mind works then. Forget I said anything.' Tracy continued leafing through the magazine. Inside there was a picture of Jodie holding a mobile phone in as provocative a pose as it was possible to hold a mobile phone in. Had Tracy managed to remain silent she would have won her little battle with the receptionist, but she just couldn't help herself. She held the picture of Jodie up. ‘See that, that's my daughter.'

‘I know it's Markie's sister,' Tammy said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

‘Pretty, isn't she?'

‘Yes, she is.' Tammy nodded.

‘Used to be a plain old ugly duckling when she was a bit younger,' Tracy said. Tammy looked on, obviously wondering where this conversation was
heading; she was about to find out as Tracy continued nastily, ‘So there's hope for that sour mush of yours yet.' Tammy looked as if she was about to burst into tears as Markie popped his head around the door.

‘Mum. What you doing here? I see you've met Tammy.'

Tracy smiled sarcastically at the girl. ‘Yes, we've just been having a lovely chat, haven't we, doll?'

Tammy glared at her.

‘That cup of tea would be lovely. Three sugars. Ta,' Tracy said, waltzing into Markie's office.

‘So then Mum, what can I do for you?' Markie asked, sitting back down behind his desk.

‘I've come to offer my services.'

‘What services?' Markie looked puzzled.

‘Well, you said something the other day that made me think . . .'

‘What?'

‘In the club, you were saying that some of the loan stuff you do, it's hard to lean on the women.'

‘That was a conversation I was having with Tony.'

‘It was a conversation that I was earwigging into.'

‘I knew it. Your ears were flapping.'

‘I thought you two had fallen out.'

‘Well, we've made a truce.'

‘And are you hiring him in again to sort people out?' Tracy asked. ‘Because what you need is someone possessing what is known by the old bill as
soft skills
. Women have them, men don't. So that means you'd be better off sacking Tony and giving me a job.'

Markie snorted a laugh. ‘Soft skills, you?'

‘Yeah, me. Softly softly catchee monkey.'

‘Fuck me, Mum, any monkey that you were trying to catch would think there was a foghorn up its arse before you got anywhere near it.'

‘Listen, do you need a bird to go in and sort out the mither with women who aren't paying up or not, cos if you do, I'm saying I'll help.'

‘You're not exactly qualified.'

‘I didn't realise they did courses in extortion at the tech.'

Markie sighed and leaned back in his chair. He studied Tracy for a moment. ‘I'll have to ask Mac,' Markie said.

‘Ask Mac what?' Mac said as he walked into the office. ‘Hello, Tracy, love, don't see you for ages then twice in one week.'

‘Well, hopefully you can make this son of mine see some sense. Tell him,' Tracy instructed Markie.

‘Mum wants to help out on the money collection
side. Overheard me saying we were struggling getting money out of women.'

Mac raised an interested eyebrow. ‘Well, we can't go in all heavy-handed, not like the old days. Doesn't look professional.' He studied Tracy for a moment. ‘But we really could do with someone who can dish out a good tongue lashing.'

‘I'm your woman.' Tracy smiled.

‘You've got that right,' Markie said wryly.

‘And you're family, so there's trust there,' Mac said. Markie coughed behind Tracy, but she didn't bother looking at him.
Sarky get
, she thought.

‘Is there any harm in giving your mum a trial run at a couple of the clients we've had no luck with?' Mac took down a folder and opened it. ‘I can drive you round a few addresses. Saves us going through the courts: takes forever and we get fuck all in return.'

‘So have I got a job?' Tracy asked Mac.

‘You have for me, love.' Mac smiled. Tracy could see Markie rolling his eyes, but she didn't give a monkey's what he thought. She was interested in two things: one was earning some money and the other was Mac Jones.

LEN HAD A
niggling feeling that something was wrong. He couldn't place it. He made himself a cup of tea and sat down. But the feeling wouldn't go away. He checked on the twins, Anita and Tanita, and they were both fine. The twins were his nieces but they had lived with Len for over ten years, since their mum and dad, relations from his ex-wife's side of the family, had been deemed unfit parents. Len didn't want to see the girls go into care so he had taken them in as his own.

Anita was organising her friend's hen do, and had been busy sewing luminous penises to a veil when Len had called round to the flat the girls shared around the corner from his house. Tanita had been at Tantastic topping up her year-round tan and had banged her head when her phone rang, meaning that Len got a mouthful as soon as
she picked up the call. For someone with pale skin and strawberry blonde hair, Tanita was fighting a losing battle chasing a mahogany glow, Len would often think, but he didn't like to interfere. And anyway, she'd got an unlimited sunbed pass for fifty quid so you couldn't say fairer than that, he thought.

He called Jimmy. Len wasn't happy with Jimmy. He'd shown up like a bad smell the minute it looked like Charly might be onto something with this Joel Baldy character, but there hadn't been so much as an apology for stealing Len's valuables and pawning them. He hadn't seen Jimmy since the football match. He was shacked up with some rake-thin bird called Gemma on the other side of Bradington as far as Len knew, but he wasn't altogether sure where the house was. Jimmy answered the phone. ‘Hello, Dad,' he said sheepishly. Jimmy's default tone was sheepish. It was from a lifetime spent being bollocked for being a dickhead.

‘You've gone quiet. Again,' Len said disapprovingly.

‘I've just been busy since the match.'

‘Ask 'im!' a shrill rough voice squawked in the background.

‘That's Gemma. She wants to know if you fancy
coming round one night to meet her. We can get some cider in.'

This was the most grown-up gesture Len could ever remember his son making. He was taken aback. ‘Well, tell Gemma that would be very nice. I can come round tomorrow if you fancy.'

‘Tomorrow any use, Gem?' Jimmy asked his girlfriend.

‘Well, it's not like we ever bleeding go anywhere, is it?' she said. Finishing school obviously left a few rough edges with Gemma, Len observed.

‘Yeah, come round about half seven, Dad. We're on Thorpecliffe estate. Near the offy. Give us a ring when you get there and I'll come and get you.'