Monday evening, November 6th. The first night of the international break. The training ground was empty, the squad scattered to their national teams, and for the second time this season, I had nothing to do and nobody to shout at.
I was lying on the sofa in the penthouse, my head in Emma's lap.
Her fingers were moving slowly through my hair; absent, rhythmic, the unconscious gesture of a woman who was reading something on her laptop balanced on the armrest and petting her boyfriend like a cat without fully registering that she was doing it.
She was wearing her glasses the tortoiseshell reading glasses that she claimed she didn't need and only wore "when the screen is being difficult" and a cream cashmere jumper that hung off one shoulder, exposing the line of her collarbone and the freckled skin beneath it.
Her legs were tucked beneath her, bare feet, her toes curling slightly against the sofa cushion in that way they did when she was concentrating.
