‘Ah yes, of course, the football. We mustn’t forget what we all came here for,’ said Simon.
‘You have to be careful,’ said Felix, leading James out. ‘They’ve realised you could be valuable to them.’
‘I think I can handle myself,’ said James. ‘We were just talking business. Don’t worry, I know what these evenings are for.’
‘Yes, but remember what I told you? Never forget that they’re capitalist swine and you mustn’t give anything away too easily. You’ve made a good impression; I saw that. But you need to make the most of it. Anyway, you can always talk to them later. You should really watch some football now.’
Back out on the balcony, James could see that things were more exciting. More importantly, he had drunk a great deal of lager, and was now prepared to annihilate himself for the common cause, to forego his ability to reason effectively and make sound judgements. For the rest of the match, he would enthusiastically defer to the wisdom of the crowd. He would risk his happiness on something he had no control over, identify with one group of immensely wealthy footballers whom he had never met, and develop an intense hostility for another. In short, he was going to be a fan.
‘Come on,’ shouted Adam. ‘Come on, come on, you arseholes.’
‘The referee doesn’t have a fucking clue,’ said James, for no particular reason.
Adam shook his head approvingly. ‘Too fucking right,’ he said. ‘Where is he from, anyway?’
‘He’s a fucking Austrian,’ said Angus.
Even James could tell that Chelsea were playing well now. They had much greater possession of the ball and were kicking it forward more often. They were running faster than the red team and seemed to be trying harder. There was a reason for all this urgency. It seemed that Chelsea had to win the game. For reasons James accepted but didn’t quite understand, a draw would mean expulsion from the competition, and nobody would regard such a thing as any more satisfactory than actually losing.
‘Ten minutes left,’ said Angus. ‘Come on, you fuckers. Come on.’
James was now incredibly anxious. The red team didn’t look in the least like scoring, everyone was agreed on that point, but the big problem was that Chelsea had to score and there was nothing he could do about it except watch and shout. Harmful chemicals were building up in his bloodstream.
‘I’m not enjoying this in the least bit,’ said Adam.
‘These overpaid homosexual fuckers are going to fuck it up for us,’ said Angus.
James went back inside and swiftly drank some more beer. He had now drunk six pints of lager and was, to all intents and purposes, drunk. Adam and Felix came with him.
‘Jesus Christ, we better win this,’ said Adam.
‘Do you think we can?’ said James. ‘I think we’re going to fuck this up. I can’t see us scoring.’
There was a weighty pause, and then Felix spoke. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’re going to win this.’
Adam and James nodded. No wonder Felix was so professionally successful. He was a leader and radiated assurance, good faith, fearlessness and a lack of moral scruple. He was very different from James. He was the very opposite of Lionel. No wonder people bought all those hair products and chocolate bars he marketed.
They went back out on to the balcony, and sure enough, eight minutes later, Chelsea had won the match, just as Felix had said they would. Although James had been watching intently, he still had little idea how it happened. There had been a corner kick, and a jumble of bodies and thrashing arms and legs as red and blue players jumped around and, essentially, fought one another. After five seconds of this, the ball bounced into the net. He was pretty sure that the scorer had been black and that he had meant to do it.
The euphoria was comprehensive. Adam and James and Angus were clutching each other tightly and swearing joyously. Robert the developer and James the planner embraced. He was the poorest person there, but it didn’t matter. He still didn’t like football and could barely name two members of the Chelsea team, and that didn’t matter either.
‘We’ve fucking done it,’ shouted Adam. ‘We’ve fucking done it.’
The referee ended the match immediately afterwards as if, just like the girl serving drinks, he too was under instruction, and they marched triumphantly back inside. Adam was right – they had done it, they had made the emotional investment and it had paid off.
‘Thank fucking Christ for that,’ said Angus. ‘We need to celebrate this one properly.’
‘Well that’s easily done. Come on through,’ said Robert. ‘James – let’s speak again very soon. Why don’t you come over to visit at the office? Something tells me we’re not going to talk business again tonight.’