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‘Hey, we could go to that place in Mayfair – the one that all your colleagues were raving about.’
‘Maybe, yeah.’ He seemed to brighten a little at this suggestion.
Alexa smiled. She knew how important it was for Matt to keep up with all the ridiculously expensive new restaurants in town. It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed the experience; it was more, as far as she could tell, that he liked to have something to talk about with his firm’s wealthy client base.
‘I’ll make a booking,’ said Alexa. ‘See you on Saturday. Mine at six?’
‘See you then.’
Alexa slipped her phone into her bag and stepped up to the road, waiting for a gap in the traffic. She was determined not to think about Matt, not to feel bad about letting him down. She had to leave that part of her behind, for now. It was time to mix with the lads.
The Eagle was a traditional pub with small wooden tables and benches that were nowhere near sufficient for the hordes of beer-fuelled revellers that filled the place. A giant screen had been erected on the end wall, directly above one of the tables, around which sat a group of girls who were clearly oblivious to the focus of attention above their heads.
It wasn’t hard to identify the Banter team. They were by far the largest group in the bar, and the noisiest. Alexa watched from the doorway as Derek pushed a pint into Marcus’ face, whereupon, to the sound of a slow hand-clap, the news editor gripped the glass in his teeth and downed it in about four seconds, hands-free. The clapping was drowned in a roar of jeering as the editor received another pint as his prize. Alexa hung back, wondering whether this venture was wise after all. Sienna wasn’t here, she noted.
The noise level swelled as a line of players in red kit filled the giant screen. She pushed herself further into the pub, one foot after the other.
Derek was the first to spot her, his expression morphing quickly from one of surprise to one of smug anticipation.
‘Ahha!’ he cried, pausing for a moment in the distribution of beers around the team. ‘Our esteemed leader has arrived!’
All faces turned towards Alexa, who continued to venture towards them, ignoring the sarcasm. She couldn’t meet anyone’s eye.
‘You getting the beers in?’ she asked. Her approach, she had decided, was to be bold – not laddish; she didn’t want to try and emulate the deputy editor – she just wanted to make it known that she too could drink beer and enjoy a game of football like the rest of them.
‘What’re you drinking?’ asked Derek, reluctantly. There was a spot of beer froth on the tip of his goatee.
‘Pint of Grolsch, please.’
Derek raised his eyebrows at the nearest team members, who responded with looks of amusement.
Alexa grabbed her lager and tried to retreat to the edge of the group, but Derek reached out and nudged her elbow with just enough force to spill her beer.
‘Have to say,’ he announced, competing with the TV for volume, ‘I didn’t think I’d see you here, Ms Long!’
Alexa turned to him, frowning. ‘Ms—’
‘Oi, Derek!’ Marcus yelled from the group nearest the screen. ‘You ain’t got Lewis!’
‘Don’t need ’im to beat a bunch a poofters like you!’
Alexa pretended to find the exchange amusing. In fact, she felt mildly repulsed by the way men turned into inarticulate, fist-waving tribesmen the moment a competitive game came on. She wondered whether Matt was the same when he got with his rugby mates.
‘Won’t ’ave ’im for a while, most likely,’ muttered Derek, wiping a bare arm across his mouth and removing the beer foam. ‘Be partying too bloody hard, after the boost we gave ’im.’ He laughed.
Alexa realised that in the din, she was probably the only person who could hear him. She wondered whether he might be making conversation.
‘Ricky Lewis?’ she clarified.
Derek looked at her. In an instant, Alexa realised that she had been mistaken. Derek’s face was a picture of contempt.
‘Yeah,’ he sneered. ‘You know? As in, the subject of a four-page spread in our magazine this week?’ He rolled his eyes and strutted off towards the front of the group, where Marcus and other disciples were standing, bellowing at the screen.
Alexa fought back the tears of humiliation. She knew that Derek felt threatened – that they all did. They thought she was after their jobs. The irony was that she was here to save their jobs, not to steal them, but she had no way of telling them this. They had no idea how close they had already come to losing their livelihoods. Alexa could see why Peterson had kept the Americans’ threats from the team; he knew as well as she did that fragile egos did not cope well under stress and that Banter would quickly collapse if news of the plans to fold leaked out. She couldn’t, therefore, expect everyone to understand why she was there. But still . . . couldn’t they see she was trying?
Having fought her way into the thick of the group, Alexa suddenly found herself standing by the bar, alone. One by one, her colleagues had pushed forward towards the screen, turning their backs on her. At first, Alexa had surged forward with them, but she couldn’t help feeling that the further she pushed, the further they pushed, so that she was always left at the back.
She pretended to watch the game, forcing her face into various expressions as a player on either team made a run for the goal, occasionally joining in with the cries of exasperation as the shot went wide or the keeper made a save. She gulped down her beer, taking refuge in its cold, bitter taste and its mildly numbing effect. It was only her sense of self-preservation that was stopping the tears from flowing.
Alexa stood, her eyes blindly following the movements on the pitch, too scared to blink in case a tear leaked out. What had she expected? That she could win them over by turning up to a football match and drinking pints? That Derek’s followers would suddenly start listening to a young female management consultant who had worked in magazines for all of two years? Alexa tipped back another slug of lager, slowly coming to the conclusion that there was no point in her being here. Expecting to command respect by coming over all laddish was no better than turning up in a low-cut top, Sienna-style, and joining in with the banter. Sienna wasn’t a respected member of the team and nor was she. As a woman, was it even possible to command respect in an environment like Banter’s? She drained her glass and took a step back, planning her exit. If she waited for half-time, Derek would almost certainly draw attention to her disappearance, but if she sloped off now then he’d do so behind her back, which was probably worse. Alexa stared at the referee, willing him to blow the whistle for half-time and wishing she were back at her flat, with Matt.
‘Who d’you support?’
She looked round, still wearing her vague, open-mouthed expression from some player’s attempt at goal. She shut her mouth and returned Riz’s smile. Then she opened it again, realising that in the whole time she had been staring at the screen, she hadn’t once thought to figure out who was playing.
‘Well . . .’ Alexa remembered her pledge to be bold and decided she had nothing to lose. ‘Do I look like a reds supporter?’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad you said that. I’m with Spurs, too. Way too many Arsenal fans in our office, if you ask me.’
Alexa laughed. She could have deduced one of the teams, she realised, from her conversation with Derek; Ricky Lewis played for Arsenal. She felt glad, somehow, that she and Derek were on different sides.
‘Get it all done?’
It took a couple of seconds for Alexa to understand the question.
‘Oh. Most of it,’ she said quickly. ‘I decided a game of football would help me think.’ She laughed unnecessarily, wishing she could learn to stop filling gaps in conversation with noise.
He nodded. ‘And the pint.’
Alexa smiled. They turned their attention back to the game – or rather, Riz did. Alexa’s eyes were focused on the screen, but her mind was still on her sports editor. She couldn’t work him out. Of all the young men in the office, Riz was the only one who spoke openly to her, like this. Neil, Jamie, Paddy and the rest – they spoke to her, but only in a professional capacity. Riz would just come up to her and ask how things were, seemingly oblivious to the sideways looks from the others. In fact, that was the strange thing: Riz’s reputation didn’t appear to be damaged by his conversations with the estranged MD. He wasn’t best buddies with Derek, but they got on well enough. Riz seemed to have a way of getting on with everybody. Alexa wished he could impart his secret to her.
‘Oh, shit.’
Alexa came to and followed Riz’s gaze. Beneath the big screen, the group of girls were finishing their drinks, putting on jackets and hugging one another. They were in blissful ignorance of the obstruction caused by their heads and limbs as they said their farewells.
Alexa watched, amused, as the expressions on the men’s faces around the bar became more and more irate. Then suddenly, a man lunged forward from the crowd.
‘Get the fuck out of the way!’ yelled the redhead, pointing at the screen with one hand and trying to force them aside with the other.
Riz groaned. Alexa closed her eyes, embarrassed and ashamed. The aggressive man was Marcus.
‘Jesus.’ Riz shook his head as someone from the news desk stepped forward and hauled his boss out of the way.
Alexa turned to see whether the commotion had alerted the bar staff. Remarkably, they seemed oblivious, too busy serving customers.
‘Is that normal?’ she asked.
Riz shrugged. ‘I guess he has more respect for the game than for women.’
Alexa didn’t reply. She couldn’t tell whether Riz was joking, but she had a feeling he might be right.
The whistle blew for half-time and Alexa found herself lifted off her feet, buckling under the force of a hundred thirsty men, surging towards the bar.
‘Drink?’ she found herself saying, as Riz, swept up in the same surge, appeared at her side. The idea of disappearing back to her flat seemed both strategically unwise and physically impossible, all of a sudden.
‘Go on then.’
Several minutes later, Alexa emerged with two pints of beer and two dripping, sticky wrists.
‘Thanks.’ Riz lifted his glass against hers, laughing as a drunk football fan stumbled between them. ‘The downside to watching the game in a shit-hole, eh?’
Alexa frowned. ‘What’s the upside?’
‘Well, er . . .’ Riz looked slightly embarrassed. ‘It means not going home. I’m living with my folks for a bit – between houses.’
Alexa nodded understandingly. She too had moved back with her parents the previous year, in an effort to save money to buy her flat. It had lasted six days.
They sipped their drinks, glancing instinctively at the ads on the screen.
‘You’re pretty young, to be a managing director.’
Alexa looked at him. For once, the words didn’t sound like an accusation.
‘You’re young,’ she returned, ‘for a sports editor.’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘See?’ He nodded. ‘Young.’
‘I’m only an interim.’ Alexa shrugged, making out that it was no big deal while secretly feeling flattered that Riz was taking such an interest in her career. ‘Fixed contract, fixed targets. Then I’m out of here.’
‘Like a Premiership football manager.’
‘Do they have targets?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Good point.’
Alexa smiled. This was incredible. She hadn’t reverted to babbling.
‘Maybe they should,’ she suggested.
Riz nodded. ‘I’ll put it to our readers.’
The second half passed much more quickly and seemed significantly more enjoyable. As a newfound Spurs supporter, Alexa no longer made expectant noises as Arsenal players took shots at goal. She noticed things, too. Like, for example, the way the Arsenal players spat more and tended to writhe around, feigning injury after every tackle. From what she could tell, Spurs had the upper hand. They just needed to score.
With one minute to go, there were still no goals from either side. Alexa found herself willing the players on, muttering words of encouragement, desperate to see them win. She was about to ask Riz what would happen if the score was nil–all at the end when she felt a vibration in her pocket. She pulled out her phone. Mum – home, said the display. After a moment’s deliberation, she took the call.
‘Hi!’ she cried, above the din. ‘Hold on a second.’
With hindsight, thought Alexa as she fought her way through the crowds, taking a call in the final minute of a local derby in a crowded pub was not the best idea. She spilled onto the pavement and looked at the phone, taking a couple of seconds to regain her breath.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Watching the football.’
‘Oh.’
Alexa smiled. Bewilderment, disdain, disappointment . . . it was incredible how much could be conveyed in a single syllable.
‘Is it urgent, or shall I call you back at the weekend?’
‘Oh, well . . . it’s nothing much.’ There it was again. Watching a game of football was clearly not deemed a sensible use of time.
‘Go on,’ Alexa prompted.
‘Well, I just wanted to find out whether you’d managed to talk to your colleagues yet. About Lara. Only I was talking to Janice at youth group and she said that Lara hadn’t heard.’
‘Sorry.’ Alexa grimaced at the thought of her unmet promise. ‘I’ll do it this week.’
‘Only if it’s not too much trouble.’
A deafening roar emanated from inside the pub.
‘No trouble.’
‘Lovely. Thank you, darling. Um . . . how is Matthew?’
Alexa was already in the doorway, waiting to return to the game. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Good. That’s good. Do send him our love.’
‘I will. Bye, Mum.’
‘Right, yes. Bye, darling!’
Alexa took a moment before returning to the pub. She was beginning to realise that she didn’t actually need to tell her mother about the job. It was only a nine-month contract, of which she had already served one. Her mother didn’t need to know. She would be better off not knowing. Alexa could just imagine the pained expression on her mother’s face whenever somebody from youth group or scouts asked what her daughter was up to. This way, her mother wouldn’t have to lie. Alexa felt the relief engulf her as she came to terms with her decision. It was better for everyone this way.
Even before she got close enough to see the TV, Alexa knew that she’d missed a goal. The pub was alive with activity: men standing on chairs, fists clenched in exasperation, eyes fixed on the screen. The question was: which team?
Riz’s expression told her the answer.
‘You should disappear more often!’
Alexa laughed. The score was one–nil to Spurs and there were only seconds of injury time left to go. As she watched, though, an Arsenal midfielder lobbed the ball half the length of the pitch and Alexa watched, dismayed, as a waiting team-mate crossed it perfectly into the goal.
‘Offside!’ Alexa found herself yelling. She knew the rules.
‘Fuck off !’ shouted a man, very close to her ear.
