Wednesday morning. Heathrow, T5. The British Airways charter to Madrid was at eleven. We were through security at nine because Elena and the Netflix crew needed an extra forty minutes for the bag x-rays on the camera equipment and Jessica had asked for a thirty-second pre-flight piece to camera with me near the bar.
I gave her thirty seconds. Then twenty more, because she had a follow-up.
"How does it feel," she said into the lens, "to be flying out to a place no Crystal Palace manager has ever taken a team?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me on the plane."
"Cut," she said. "Thank you, Daniel."
The squad were in the British Airways lounge by ten. Sakho was sat at the window with a coffee and a paperback. Konaté was opposite him. Pato was on his phone showing Bojan something. Neves was eating a banana and doing the Times crossword.
Sarah was beside me at the bar with three folders open on the high table.
