Her expression darkened. “I saw Jason’s face when they sent him off, it’s been playing on all the shitty news channels. Bad day for him, hey?”
“Shit day for him.” I chewed on my thumbnail. “This is a nightmare. I sent him away because I was scared of all this happening, only it happened anyway.”
“I thought you were dead set on never being a footballer’s wife?”
The idea turned my brain to mush. “I am. I was.”
“And now?” Chocolate pools searched for answers. “What do you want now, Figi?”
Tears again, stupid fucking tears. “I miss him so much, Cara. Ridiculous, I know.”
“Not ridiculous.” She smiled. “Real. It’s ok to be real, Gemma, it’s why people are rallying for you.”
I checked out the Twitter feed again and it was all so obvious, so fucking obvious. “I have to go to him. Cobham, tomorrow, like Steve said. He might not be staying, not if they bin him for the rest of the season.”
“Cobham? What time?”
“Too early to get a train. Shit, a taxi will be expensive, too.”
“You can get his autograph, right? Jason’s?”
I stared at her, puzzled. “...Yeah... I would guess so...”
“Then I might well have a solution...” She paced away to the kitchen with her phone to her ear, muttering and laughing and making little mewls that sounded suspiciously like begging. I chewed my nails, trying not to eavesdrop. “Ok, I’ve got it. Lift at six a.m. Will be quite a carful.”
“A carful?”
She nodded. “You met Cat, right? At burlesque night? Green eyes?”
“Yeah, I met her.”
“Her mum’s guy is Singers crazy! Singers and bingo, don’t ask. He’d go crazy for a Jason Redfern autograph.”
“She’s going to drive me? To Cobham? At six a.m.?”
She smiled. “Not her exactly... just wait and see.”
Chapter Twenty Three
Gemma
A big black car pulled onto the yard at ten to six. I peered out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the passengers before I bounded on down the stairs. Cara was waiting for me, practically jumping on the spot with excitement. She bundled me into the back, pushing the remaining messy curls up under my hat.
The guy in the driver’s seat was a hulk of a man. Stern eyes met mine in the rearview, and instinctively I settled down into my seat.
“Gemma, this is Masque,” Cara said. “You know Cat already.”
“James,” the man said. “We’re not at Explicit now, Cara.” His eyes sought mine again, just for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear about the tabloid hounding. I hate people invading my privacy, I can only imagine how unpleasant an experience it’s been to have your personal life plastered all across the media.”
I nodded. “Thank you. I’ve had quieter times.”
Cat spun in her seat. “My mum’s boyfriend is crazy over the Singers, he’ll piss himself when he knows what we’ve done for him.”
I smiled. “Thanks for doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “We’re hoping he pops the question sooner rather than later, he’s good for my mum, keeps her out of trouble.”
“I guess an autograph will help your case.”
“That’s the plan,” James said. “We’ll all sit back when we get to the ground, give you some space, don’t worry.”
I clutched at the notepad on my lap, the crappy little biro. I’d scrawled out a letter, just a few lines. I hoped it would be enough.
It was getting light as we pulled into the Singers’ training ground. Sure enough, the players’ car park was beyond. It was virtually empty, no sign of life. One old man hung around in a woolly overcoat, a Singers calendar under his arm. And me, with my little notepad. I pulled up the collar on my coat. Please nobody recognise me.
A few more people turned up. A mother with two young boys, and a teenage girl with Singers’ pom-poms. A couple of lads, too, armed with a football and some marker pens. Then the press. I saw them setting up at the entrance, training their lenses on the players’ car park. Shit. I turned away, keeping my back to them.
A sporty BMW pulled up first, some lanky blonde lad getting out of it. He came over to the fence, smiled and signed his autograph. When it was my turn I made sure to pick a blank page, smiling like I was some kind of mega fan. He seemed to buy it. My heart sped up as a Range Rover pulled up, but it wasn’t Jason who got out, just some young whippet with hair as curly as mine. Theo Fernandez was next, and this time even I recognised him. He grinned as he signed the autographs, strutting around like he owned the place. A few more players came and went, and my nerves started up. What if he didn’t show?