of a huge deal at the moment, and it’s been hard going. After all this, I’d jump at the chance to get away.”
As a property developer, Steve didn’t have to keep nine to five office hours like everyone else and (unlike Natalie) could easily get away at the drop of a hat. This had been the main reason she’d been so confident about booking it at such short notice.
“So, I’ll let you know when would be a good time for me, and we’ll talk about it then, OK?” he told her.
Natalie gulped. This was obviously not the time to tell him that she’d already arranged the entire thing, first class flights, five-star hotel, lock stock and barrel and that they were leaving in a few days’ time! But she’d been certain that Steve would be fine with it in the end. After all, what man wouldn’t want to be whisked away on a last-minute holiday by the woman in his life? All men loved an assertive woman, didn’t they?
So, later that week, she’d phoned Steve, and excitedly left a message on his answering machine, informing him that she’d booked them a fabulous last-minute break in Egypt, and they’d be leaving first thing Saturday morning.
And by the end of that particular week, Natalie sorely needed a holiday herself.
It had easily been the toughest few days at work in living memory. Midweek, Michael Sharpe had been involved in a punch-up with his team mate, not in a nightclub, but right on the football pitch in full view of the fifty thousand or so spectators at the match. He’d got in a strop because his team mate, a younger and more inexperienced player, hadn’t passed the ball to him at a crucial stage, which Michael believed was an offence deserving of a punch in the eye. But it got worse. When the referee tried to intervene, Michael promptly spat in his face, earning himself an immediate red card and, Natalie reckoned, a three-match suspension for his troubles, if not more. Having just about managed to get the Sun story pulled earlier that week, she just couldn’t believe that Michael had got himself into more trouble so soon. Player altercations she could handle, spitting at referees was a different story altogether. Still, she’d had to do something to try and save face, and that evening she and Danni had stayed till all hours at the office and brainstormed until the two had eventually come up with something that would serve as a decent excuse as to why he’d lost the rag on the pitch.
“We could say that Clara had threatened to leave him unless he stopped his boozing and wandering eye,” Danni suggested and Natalie wanted to hug her.
So, with a speed that would put the Schumachers to shame, they’d arranged an exclusive interview with the Mail on Sunday for the following afternoon during which Michael carried off a truly Oscar-winning performance as a ravaged and tormented human being, terrified of losing his family.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Clara – she’s my rock,” he’d sniffed. “I couldn’t cope – I try not to bring my problems onto the pitch, but once I got out there, I just cracked. It was all too much for me.”
Natalie had to admit that the man was good; for the benefit of the photographer, he had even managed to produce real tears.
“My family mean everything to me!” he wailed. “If I don’t have them, all the medals and trophies in the world mean nothing.”
Clara had no more threatened to leave him than she had to give up shopping, but painting such a doleful picture of this talented player, haunted by demons and so upset over family meant that he at least gained sympathy from fans and most importantly, from certain sections of the media. Everyone loved a tortured genius.
So, thanks to Danni and Natalie’s savvy bit of PR, come Sunday, Michael Sharpe would no doubt be once again restored to position as England’s most adored and even-more-indulged footballer.
But by the weekend, Natalie had been feeling the effects of a full week’s
As a property developer, Steve didn’t have to keep nine to five office hours like everyone else and (unlike Natalie) could easily get away at the drop of a hat. This had been the main reason she’d been so confident about booking it at such short notice.
“So, I’ll let you know when would be a good time for me, and we’ll talk about it then, OK?” he told her.
Natalie gulped. This was obviously not the time to tell him that she’d already arranged the entire thing, first class flights, five-star hotel, lock stock and barrel and that they were leaving in a few days’ time! But she’d been certain that Steve would be fine with it in the end. After all, what man wouldn’t want to be whisked away on a last-minute holiday by the woman in his life? All men loved an assertive woman, didn’t they?
So, later that week, she’d phoned Steve, and excitedly left a message on his answering machine, informing him that she’d booked them a fabulous last-minute break in Egypt, and they’d be leaving first thing Saturday morning.
And by the end of that particular week, Natalie sorely needed a holiday herself.
It had easily been the toughest few days at work in living memory. Midweek, Michael Sharpe had been involved in a punch-up with his team mate, not in a nightclub, but right on the football pitch in full view of the fifty thousand or so spectators at the match. He’d got in a strop because his team mate, a younger and more inexperienced player, hadn’t passed the ball to him at a crucial stage, which Michael believed was an offence deserving of a punch in the eye. But it got worse. When the referee tried to intervene, Michael promptly spat in his face, earning himself an immediate red card and, Natalie reckoned, a three-match suspension for his troubles, if not more. Having just about managed to get the Sun story pulled earlier that week, she just couldn’t believe that Michael had got himself into more trouble so soon. Player altercations she could handle, spitting at referees was a different story altogether. Still, she’d had to do something to try and save face, and that evening she and Danni had stayed till all hours at the office and brainstormed until the two had eventually come up with something that would serve as a decent excuse as to why he’d lost the rag on the pitch.
“We could say that Clara had threatened to leave him unless he stopped his boozing and wandering eye,” Danni suggested and Natalie wanted to hug her.
So, with a speed that would put the Schumachers to shame, they’d arranged an exclusive interview with the Mail on Sunday for the following afternoon during which Michael carried off a truly Oscar-winning performance as a ravaged and tormented human being, terrified of losing his family.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Clara – she’s my rock,” he’d sniffed. “I couldn’t cope – I try not to bring my problems onto the pitch, but once I got out there, I just cracked. It was all too much for me.”
Natalie had to admit that the man was good; for the benefit of the photographer, he had even managed to produce real tears.
“My family mean everything to me!” he wailed. “If I don’t have them, all the medals and trophies in the world mean nothing.”
Clara had no more threatened to leave him than she had to give up shopping, but painting such a doleful picture of this talented player, haunted by demons and so upset over family meant that he at least gained sympathy from fans and most importantly, from certain sections of the media. Everyone loved a tortured genius.
So, thanks to Danni and Natalie’s savvy bit of PR, come Sunday, Michael Sharpe would no doubt be once again restored to position as England’s most adored and even-more-indulged footballer.
But by the weekend, Natalie had been feeling the effects of a full week’s
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