[Dulwich to Mayfair. Monday 23 July 2018. 06:40.]
She was awake before the alarm. That never happens.
I came out of the shower and Emma was sat up against the headboard in my white shirt from Saturday night with her knees up and her phone face down on the duvet, watching me get dressed.
"You are quiet," I said.
"I am looking."
"At what?"
"At a man who is about to be told what 4 football clubs think he is worth, and who has not eaten a proper breakfast since the 31st of May." She reached over and hooked 2 fingers into my belt loop and pulled, hard enough to move me. "Sit down."
"Em, I have got to be in Mayfair at 9."
"You have got to be in Mayfair at 9 and it is 20 to 7 and it takes 40 minutes." She did not let go of the belt loop. "Sit down, Danny."
I sat down on the edge of my own bed.
"Whatever she says to you this morning," Emma said, "you do not answer any of it today. Not yes, not no, not maybe. You listen, you say thank you, and you get on an aeroplane tomorrow."
