Michael Cooke dropped me at the end of our road in Dulwich at 10 to 8. He said, "8 o'clock," and I said, "8 o'clock," and he drove off with his cap on.
I left my shoes in the hall.
Emma was in the kitchen with her back against the counter and her phone face down beside the kettle. There was a pan on the hob with the ring turned off under it and a lid on.
"Well?"
"He is ready. Cooke told him in front of his mother."
"Good." She looked at me properly. "And?"
I told her. The man who works for Florentino Pérez, and Dougie on the phone at 10 past 8 that morning, and the call I had not returned. Then the kitchen in Hampton, and the woman in the tabard, and the second question.
"She asked about the club," Emma said.
"Yes."
"And you said no."
"Yes."
She picked the lid up off the pan, looked in, and put it back.
"What are you going to do about her?"
"I am saying no to Dougie in the morning. Before anybody asks again."
