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With love to the Amos men—
Mike, Owen and Adam—who
filled my life with football.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Tilly’s Recipes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Suddenly, the photographers stopped slouching and snapped to attention. They threw their cigarettes into the gutter and hoisted cameras into position, jostling for space and a good angle as the limo glided right up to the red-carpeted steps.
Dazzling flashes of light filled the autumn air alongside shouts of ‘Over here, Clayton!’ ‘Give us a smile, Tanya!’ ‘This way, darling!’
Before the limo pulled away, two taxis arrived. More shouts, more flashing lights. A glimpse of the top of a blonde head, a sparkle of jewellery, a protective male arm. Then a glimpse of expensively cut jackets and a fluid athletic movement as more men sprang from the taxi almost before it had stopped.
Our queue pushed forward, straining to see. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Jake, as I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to jump up and look. My view was blocked by the huge presence of the security man, whose massive head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, his broad chest straining the seams of his jacket.
‘Clayton Silver and some other footballers, I think,’ said Jake, over his shoulder, ‘and a couple of those girls off Hollyoaks or EastEnders.’
‘Oh, I hope we get in!’
The footballers and their glittering girls went in through the canopied entrance, shielded from view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.
When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…
Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.
The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?
Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.
There was nowhere to sit down. Well, there were plenty of tables in alcoves where laughing groups sat round ice buckets full of champagne and bowls of strange-looking drinks. But to get a seat you had to reserve a table and you could only reserve a table if you were going to spend serious amounts of money. Not hard, as Jake muttered, going pale as our two drinks took a huge chunk from his credit card. We were definitely out of our league. But we could pretend for a night.
As my eyes got used to the dim but changing light—an icy blue made everyone look like ghosts, almost green, like aliens from a cheap science-fiction film. I thought I could recognise some of the people—someone from a boy band perhaps, or the guy who played Hugh Grant’s little brother in something. But maybe it was just a look. All the guys looked like Hugh Grant’s little brother. Handsome is as handsome does, as my mother used to say, quoting her fearsome Granny Allen; but handsome is still very nice to look at. Everyone seemed to know each other—lots of shrieks and greetings and extravagant air kisses. I couldn’t see the footballers but there was no VIP area—the whole place was a VIP area—just a series of booths leading off the main room, and I guessed they were in one of those. Then I stopped looking, made the most of the music and leaned into Jake for a dance, surrounded by all the beautiful people.
This was all for work, of course. For Jake, everything revolves around work. Clubbing isn’t his first choice for a night out. And such a club…I spotted Kit Kenzo, who does that late-night music programme, all over the girl who does the football reports. Then that earl who’s a model, and I couldn’t help gazing at him over Jake’s shoulder. This was beginning to be fun. Then a tall elegant girl with the most perfect shoulders gazed with interest and a hint of envy at my earrings. Good.
As the night wore on, the music grew louder (great DJ), the atmosphere looser. Even the beautiful people looked not quite as beautiful now and not quite so bored. I wanted to keep dancing, but Jake was standing by the bar, watching people over the top of his bottle of Asaki.
‘Come on, Jake, let’s dance,’ I said, putting my glass back on the bar and taking his hand, trying to encourage him onto the dance floor. I wanted to make the most of this.
‘Yeah, OK, Tilly,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, a rare show of affection these days. I glanced up happily to meet the warmth of his gaze, but instead I could see he was watching someone on the other side of the room. I turned to see a couple of middle-aged men in expensive suits coming in and going round to one of the booths. I recognised one of them—Simeon Maynard, a billionaire businessman who had come from nowhere to buy Shadwell, the premiership football club that Clayton Silver played for. Presumably that’s who he was drinking with. A few minutes later a waitress went over with ice buckets of champagne.
Of course this was why we were here. For weeks Jake had been researching some big story. Not quite sure what it was about—he didn’t talk about work so much to me these days and we were increasingly like ships that passed in the night—but it was hard not to notice all the newspaper cuttings about Maynard piling up in the flat.
I danced close to Jake, my arms round his neck, but he didn’t bend into me, the way he usually did. Somehow it felt as though he wasn’t there with me at all. Or didn’t want to be. After a while I gave up, stood back from him, let my arms drop to my side. At the same time, the two actresses who’d been drinking with the footballers and Maynard were coming out of one of the private booths and heading rather unsteadily across the floor.
Now Jake took my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Try and listen in to their conversation. See if they say anything interesting.’
Excuse me? He was definitely beginning to lose it. I looked at him and shook my head, and then followed the actresses downstairs to the Ladies. At least I’d get a sit-down. My strippy-strappy shoes were beginning to give me strippy-strappy blisters; there’s a limit to what party feet gel insoles can achieve.
In the Ladies, there was a whole different party going on. Small groups of girls giggled round the washbasins. I didn’t look too closely at what they were doing, but I don’t think they were sharing their holiday snaps. A girl with a face straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting lay slumped across an armchair, her eyes shut, her minuscule handbag dropped on the floor. She groaned slightly. I must have looked alarmed because a blonde with the sort of tan you only get from sunbathing on the deck of mega-yachts said dismissively, ‘Leave her. She’s always the same after too much of the house hooch…’ she paused…‘on top of everything else.’
Other girls in their tiny dresses, as leggy as storks, leant forward into the mirrors, pouting provocatively at their own reflections as they brushed back manes of expertly highlighted hair.
The actresses I had followed had already emerged from the cubicles, swaying, laughing loudly. They joined the girls at the mirror.
‘Not sure about this lip gloss. Too red, I think. What do you think?’ said the dark one, peering at her image.
The fair one looked at her through the mirror and concentrated hard. ‘No, you’re probably more of a reddish pink. Me, I always prefer a pink. My colour consultant told me it brings out the warmth of my skin tones.’
‘Yeah. I can see that.’
Riveting stuff. They snapped their handbags shut and tottered off. This was what I was supposed to be listening to? What had got into Jake? What had it to do with any story he was working on? Of course, if he talked to me more about what he was doing, then I might have more of an idea.
Suddenly the room emptied, instantly, magically. ‘The princes?’ one girl breathily asked another. ‘Both of them? Oh, yes please. Such good fun. And I just so adore the bodyguards.’
Out they all swarmed, a mass attack that would strike terror into even a prince. All except the girl slumped in the armchair, who was now at least sitting up and looking less green.
I was about to follow them. A chance to dance with a prince—well, within a few yards of one, at least—was too good to miss. I was just drying my hands on one of the neatly rolled little towels when the door suddenly burst open.
The girl who charged in wore a short sparkly dress that was definitely not a chain-store knock-off, but she could have worn a bin liner and looked stunning. Six feet tall with red hair piled on top of her head, she had the sort of cheekbones that make the rest of us just want to give up hope. She glanced quickly around the cloakroom, gave me the briefest of nods and raised her eyes to examine the high windows. Then, while I watched with my jaw dropping, she took off her shoes, stepped up onto the marble surround of the washbasins, reached up to push open the narrow window, then pulled herself up, wriggled through it and dropped out into the night.
I pulled a chair over and jumped up, twisting my head to peer down through the window. The girl was loping easily down the back street, past a surprised security guard, towards a taxi rank. Her hair had come loose and my lasting image was of her in the light of the streetlamps, her copper-coloured hair streaming out behind her, shining, dazzling.
Chapter Two
‘So, Tilly, did you get to dance with a prince?’ asked Bill, my godfather, the next day when I called in to his bistro. He and his kitchen staff were prepping up for lunch and I stood by the door of the kitchen, out of their way. While Bill talked to me, he was still keeping an eye on the chopping, slicing, searing, stirring going on all around him. I always loved watching him, cooking with him, tasting, experimenting. His restaurant kitchens had been a second home to me, and it was all down to him, really, that I was working for The Foodie magazine.
‘A prince? Sadly, no,’ I laughed, helping myself to a deliciously sweet cherry tomato. ‘It was impossible to get near them—and seriously uncool to try. So I don’t think I’ll be the next princess.’
‘Shame,’ said Bill, kissing the top of my head as he came past me with a tray of prawns. ‘You’d be a perfect princess. And it would be good for business too. The princess’s godfather! Everyone would want to come and eat here.’ He grinned at me. ‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Actually, I’ve come to ask a favour.’
‘Ask away.’
‘Jake and I are going up north for a sort of holiday.’
‘Sort of holiday?’
‘Well, yes, he’s got some project he’s working on. And I thought I could do some stories up there too, so we’re renting a cottage for a couple of weeks. I’ve got the names of some really interesting food producers—cheese-makers, chocolatiers, and a monk who makes cider from the monastery apples, but if you know of any more, it would be really good. And as long as I keep sending them plenty of articles, the magazine’s OK about me being away.’
‘Sure,’ said Bill, ‘I can give you some contacts. If you’re staying for lunch, we can sort it out then.’
‘Sorry. Can’t. I’m lunching with Mum.’
‘Ah,’ said Bill with a sigh, ‘your mother. How is she?’
‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you seen her recently?’
‘No. She has, she says, been far too busy. Too busy for anyone as frivolous as me.’
Bill looked sad for a moment and I felt sad for him. He’d loved my mother for years. Hopelessly and helplessly. There was a small silence. I helped myself to another tomato.
‘These are really very good,’ I said as the juice spurted sweetly in my mouth. ‘They taste of sunshine.’
Bill’s face brightened. ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? They’re from a new supplier. Tell you what…’ He picked up a generous handful of the tomatoes and popped them into a paper bag. ‘Give these to your mother, with my love. And I’ll email you some suggestions for those foodie pieces.’
‘Right. I’ll give them to her and I hope they bring you luck.’
I gave him a hug and a kiss and set off with the usual mixed emotions to meet my mother, Frankie Flint…
Yes, that Frankie Flint, Fairtrade Frankie, the one who set up the chain of coffee bars. You’ll probably have heard of her. She’s always in the papers. There’s even talk of making a film about her.
About how Frankie Flint and her husband Theo started a tiny little restaurant making delicious food so even though the chairs creaked and the tables wobbled it was quickly a huge success. Critics enthused about it, famous people ‘discovered’ it. Their friend Bill came in as a partner to help them. The day they had their first rave reviews in the colour supplements they held an impromptu party at Theo and Frankie’s house. In the middle of the afternoon, Theo popped back to the restaurant to get some more food and wine. He took Josh, their two-year-old son, with him.
And in the middle of a sunny Sunday, on an almost deserted road, a drunk driver, just nineteen years old, jumped the lights and rammed straight into their car. If Theo himself had not had a couple of glasses of wine, he might have seen it coming and avoided it. Maybe. Maybe not. But he didn’t. Theo and the other driver died instantly. Baby Josh lingered on before he, too, died three weeks later. I think my mother would have liked to have died, too. But she had her daughter, me, aged five, to look after.
Years later, probably when I was about ten, I came across a photo tucked into a book at home. It was a typical holiday snap of a family sitting around a café table in the sunshine. Father with a baby boy perched on his shoulders, a small chubby girl in big sunglasses reaching up to drink from a straw in a perilously tilted glass, and a young woman with long flowing hair laughing at the camera, eyes slightly screwed up in the sunlight, nothing more to worry about than the chance of some spilled orange juice.
‘Who are they?’ I asked my mother, who had gone pale at the sight of the picture.
‘That’s you,’ she said, pointing to the chubby toddler. ‘And your dad, and Josh, the year we went to France.’
‘But who’s that?’ I asked, pointing at the laughing woman.
‘That’s me,’ said my mother. ‘You won’t recognise me because I wore my hair long then.’
But that wasn’t why I didn’t recognise my mother laughing in the sunshine. It was because in the five years since the accident, I had never once seen my mother laugh.
After my father and brother died, I think my mother must have had some sort of breakdown. Understandable really. But somehow she emerged and set up a new business. Energised and determined, she wanted to give people an alternative to pubs and bars, so she set up Frankie’s Coffee Shops.
Long before Starbucks, Mum took the 1950s coffee bar and reinvented it. At a time when Britain was desperate for decent coffee, she provided it, and a great place to drink it too. Her cafés had armchairs and newspapers. Bigger branches had rooms with TV screens and table football and a jukebox and opened until late at night. They served soup, snacks, sandwiches and cakes but never, ever, alcohol. Still don’t. But, despite that, Frankie’s coffee shops are cool. She found the knack of appealing to all ages and all types. In the daytime it was the sort of place you could meet your granny, while at night you didn’t have to apologise for suggesting a Frankie’s Coffee Shop on the way home from a movie.
What started as a little, hippyish establishment soon grew. She set up franchises—very strictly controlled—until there were Frankie’s Coffee Shops in most big towns. My mother had always been the business brain when she and Theo and Bill had their restaurant, and now she went into overdrive. She often said, ‘Work is the best medicine, as Granny Allen used to say.’
Don’t get me wrong. Frankie wasn’t a bad mother. Not at all. It was almost as though she was trying so hard not to smother me that she left me almost too much alone. She didn’t want to get too close to anyone any more, not even me. And certainly not Bill.
In any case, her business took huge amounts of time and energy. And because it was such a novelty—ahead of its time, fairly traded and organic—she was always in the newspapers, on radio and television, commentating on this, that and the other. She was the absolute model of the perfect business, the perfect employer, the perfect ethical entrepreneur. What’s more, she talked well and passionately, looked stunning and stylish and even made a profit—most of which, needless to say, was ploughed back into good causes. She was a one-woman retail phenomenon.
But all that didn’t always make her easy to live with. Hard-working, high-minded, high-achieving, successful mothers with high moral standards and an insatiable work ethic aren’t always the best flatmates for day-dreaming, chaotic teenage girls with a serious shoe habit and a pathological desire to sleep till lunchtime.
Frankie’s New Road branch is aimed at ladies who lunch. It has huge squashy sofas, piles of glossy magazines and walls decorated with fashion ads. It is light and stylish and welcoming. And, as always, very busy. The place buzzes with chatter and is a glow of colours and good smells.
There, tucked in the corner in her trademark black, is my mother. She has a phone to her ear and a pile of papers in front of her. She likes to take her work round to the various coffee shops and work in the middle of it all, so she can see what’s going on and her staff and customers can talk to her. It’s another reason the media love her.
I bend over to give her a quick hug and kiss. As always, she makes me feel large and awkward. My mother apparently takes after her father’s family and is small-boned and neat. She says I have inherited characteristics from her mother’s family and that’s why I’m so tall with enormous feet. Still on the phone, she gives me a quick acknowledgment as I sit down and order a smoothie—apple, pear, ginger and beetroot. Beetroot? I have to try it. When it comes, I sip it tentatively, then with more enthusiasm. Mmm, yes, it works. As I lean back, untangling the different flavours on my tongue, I watch my mother as she discusses a problem at one of the branches. The lines round her eyes I am used to. They’ve been there from the time my father and brother died. Maybe it’s the light, but today they seem deeper. The black, stylish as it is, does little to flatter. Sorrow had aged my mother when she was young, but now she’s fifty and age is beginning to do its bit as well. She is as smart as ever but there is, I realise sadly, a hardness about her.
She finishes her call. ‘Sorry about that, darling, but you know what it’s like.’ And I do, I do. ‘Do you mind eating here? They have some wonderful fish soup today. And the new bread is delicious.’
So we sit there and have the fish soup, thick and creamy with lots of mussels. I dig each one out with the shell of another and lick the creamy, lemony sauce from my fingers. It’s all very good. But my mother’s eyes are constantly darting hither and yon, watching the staff, watching the customers, thinking, considering.
‘Oh I forgot,’ I say suddenly, producing the little bag of tomatoes, ‘Bill sent you these.’
She looks into the bag and closes it up again without taking any of the tomatoes. ‘And how is Bill?’ she asks politely.