We flew down on the Wednesday.
There was no drive this time, no privacy-glass corner and no greasy spoon, because I had a clock on me now with a federation at the end of it, and because a man who got signed by a World Cup on the Tuesday does not spend five hours on the M6 on the Wednesday.
Jessica had a plane on the runway at Manchester before I had finished saying I needed to be in London by noon. A small one, eight seats, the kind of quiet money that does not have a name painted on the side. I have flown business to away legs in Europe. I had never had the whole tube to myself with my fiancée and a flask of proper coffee somebody had remembered I take black.
