The line went dead.
I sat in a plastic chair under a football stadium holding my fiancée's phone against my ear, listening to nothing at all, for about 4 seconds longer than a grown man should.
My own phone had been in a drawer in that dressing room since 8 o'clock, which is where it goes on a matchday. That is why Jessica had spent an hour ringing Emma. She has had Emma's number since the engagement and she does not ask anybody's permission for anything.
I rang her back. Voicemail on the 1st ring, which means she looked at the screen and pressed the button.
"Well," Emma said.
"She has had 4 calls tonight."
Emma stopped turning the watch round on her wrist, which I have seen twice in 3 years.
"Clubs."
"She did not say clubs."
"She did not have to say clubs."
What happened in that dressing room afterwards belongs to another day, and I will put it down properly when I can stand to.
