Page 83 of Playing the Field
I’m shaking with adrenaline as I turn my laptop screen towards him. I watch him crane his neck closer then his hand flies to his mouth, most of the remaining shaving foam ending up on his fingers as his jaw drops open. ‘Is that real?’
A Cheshire cat grin takes over my face as I nod and show him Frowley’s email. His eyes grow wide in disbelief.
‘We’d better send him a season ticket,’ he says eventually, which makes me want to hug him. Of course that would be the first thing he thinks of.
‘I’ve compiled a thank you message, but I’ll try to set up a video call as well so we can thank him more personally. Maybe on Sunday, when you and Cassie aren’t working, if that fits in with Frowley.’
‘Have you told your sister yet?’ Dad asks.
‘Her phone’s always off while she’s teaching. But we can fill her in this evening– she’s coming here first before the party.’
Dad squints at my laptop again then shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure this has really sunk in yet,’ he confesses.
‘It took me a while to stop thinking it was somebody messing with us, too. But now all I can think about is reworking Crawford United’s budgets.’
‘Why don’t we put our heads together now,’ he suggests.
‘Is that really how you want to spend your birthday?’
‘I could think of worse ways,’ he says. ‘And it might help me to get my head around this.’
While he finishes shaving, I send my thank you note to Alasdair. It starts by apologising for being so slow to respond and admitting I was initially suspicious about the authenticity of his email, adding that I hope he won’t be offended by this.
I express our gratitude and tell him how proud we are of Crawford United, share some of the highs and lows of the team’s journey so far and spell out our hopes for the future, which now looks much rosier thanks to his generosity.
I sign off with the suggestion of a video call and say we’d all be delighted to meet him.
I know there won’t be an immediate response– it’s about one o’clock in the morning in Los Angeles– and to be honest I don’t expect to hear back from him this side of the weekend, given how long it took me to reply to him. But while I’m waiting for Dad to finish making himself a cup of coffee, Alasdair’s name pops up again in my inbox. I click to open the message and feel the skin prickling all over my body as I read what he’s written.
‘Er, Dad.’ My voice wobbles. ‘We might need to get some extra security in for the match against Ashbridge on Saturday.’
Dad frowns. ‘Have their fans got a bit of a reputation?’
‘It’s not that. Alasdair Frowley has already come back to me. He’s apparently more embarrassed than I was that I thought his email was a hoax, and says he can see now how he could have gone about this better. So he’s flying to London for an impromptu visit, to introduce himself to us properly. And he wants to make sure he catches a game while he’s here, so he’s arriving tomorrow evening.’
‘And coming to the Ashbridge game? So I’m actually going to meet him?’ Dad exclaims.
‘It looks like your dream is coming true.’
He chuckles softly, eyes sparkling. ‘What a birthday this is turning out to be. I don’t think security will be a problem though, will it? How many people really know what authors look like?’
‘He’s not coming alone,’ I tell him, still not quite able to believe who’s going to be accompanying him. ‘Apparently he’s having a late-night drink with some of theDying Dayscast right now, and when he started talking about his love of soccer, Angela Paramore mentioned she’s never been to a match before. So he asked if she wants to rectify that, and she’s decided she’s going to join him.’
Dad leans back against the kitchen counter and lets out a low whistle. ‘Today just keeps on giving. So we now have my favourite author and one of the most famous actresses on both sides of the Atlantic coming to sit with us in our uncomfortable plastic seats for the best part of two hours while our lads face the club that’s held the top spot in the league for something like six consecutive years. Do you think we should order in some cushions?’
‘I’m not worried about whether their bums go numb!’ I exclaim.
‘So you think we should put a message out on the website to say we need a few extra volunteer stewards? There’s got to be a couple of bruisers among our fans who’d be willing to stand around looking burly in exchange for a free pitchside view of the game.’
‘Did you just saybruisers?’ I roll my eyes. Sometimes Dad stops being a football club manager and is just my dad again. ‘I think we might have to hire official event staff on this occasion, for insurance purposes. We need people we can rely on, and we can afford it now, thanks to Alasdair.’
‘Good point. Okay, get it booked in. Do you think we should ask them if they want to stay at ours?’ he asks.
I assume he means Angela and Alasdair, not the ‘bruisers’, and I can’t help laughing. ‘I don’t think Cassie’s old bedroom is quite going to cut it when they’re used to LA mansions and five-star hotels.’
‘They’ll miss out on my breakfast special.’ He sounds affronted.
‘I’m sure Claridge’s, or wherever it is celebrities stay these days, will put on a decent spread. You can always bring a half-time snack to the game if you feel the need to show off your culinary skills.’
