Ark Angel

and into a dining room with a buffet table on one side. Waitresses were circulating with champagne. Unlike the rest of the complex, the room was old-fashioned with a moulded ceiling and a series of ornate, smoked glass windows. But for the two widescreen televisions mounted on the walls, it could have belonged to the nineteenth century.
    Drevin accepted a glass of champagne and sat down at one of the tables where about half a dozen people, including the Stratford East chairman and a couple of the footballers’ wives, were already seated. There were about fifty people in the room.
    Alex recognized a couple of television actors chatting to the Chelsea chairman, who—unlike Drevin—
    looked completely at ease. A waitress gave Alex a glass of lemonade, and he sipped it in silence.
    He found himself standing beside Tamara Knight. “Are you a football supporter?” he asked.
    “No.” She looked bored. “I’ve never really understood the British obsession with football. Of course, I want Mr Drevin to win. But otherwise I don’t really care.”
    Alex found himself getting annoyed. Tamara looked like a model or an actress. But she seemed determined to act like a cold-blooded businesswoman. “How did you come to work for Mr Drevin?” he asked.
    “Oh, an agency recommended me.”
    “Do you enjoy it?”
    “Of course I do. Mr Drevin is a very interesting man.” She was unwilling to say any more and looked relieved when the door suddenly opened and a young woman came striding in. Alex took in the blonde hair, the permanent tan, the diamond collar necklace and the perfect teeth. He recognized her instantly. Her face was rarely absent from the tabloids or the television screen.
    Her name was Cayenne James and she had once been a model and an actress. Then she had married Adam Wright, one of the country’s most famous strikers and a member of the England squad. Wright had made the headlines himself when Drevin had paid twenty-four million pounds to buy him from Manchester United; he was now the captain of Stratford East. Alex wasn’t surprised that his wife had turned up to see him play.
    He watched as she went over to Drevin and kissed the air close to his cheeks, then sat down and helped herself to champagne. The conversation in the room had quietened when she came in and Alex was able to hear their first exchange.
    “How are you, Niki?” She had a loud, school-girlish, voice. “Sorry I’m late. I just popped into Harrods. It’s only down the road.”
    “Was your husband with you?”
    “No! Don’t worry!” She giggled. “Adam’s been concentrating on the big match. He never comes shopping when there’s a game coming up…”
    More food was served. Alex was feeling increasingly out of place. He was sorry Paul hadn’t been able to come. It was half past two. He wished the game would begin.
    Half an hour later it did. The smoked glass windows and doors were opened and everyone walked out.
    Alex went with them, emerging onto a stand with about a hundred seats, one tier up, exactly opposite the tunnel. And at that moment he was able to forget Drevin, Neverglade, gokarting and all the rest of it. The magic of the stadium, moments before kick-off, overwhelmed him.
    Stamford Bridge has room for over forty-two thousand spectators and today, in the bright afternoon sunlight, every seat was full. Music was pounding out of the speakers, fighting with the fans, who were already chanting good-humouredly. Alex watched as a Mexican wave travelled in a huge circle in front of him. He had been given seat A10, perfectly placed between the two goals. There were no policemen in sight. Chelsea has its own army of stewards but it didn’t look as if anyone was in the mood for trouble.

    Then there was a roar as the teams emerged and formed two lines, each one accompanied by a small child.
    The referee and the two linesmen joined them.
    “You’re next to me,” Tamara Knight announced.
    Alex sat down. He was determined to enjoy the next hour and a half.
    But it was obvious, almost from kick-off, that it was going to be a hard, unfriendly game. After just ten minutes, one of the Chelsea players was brought down by a vicious tackle that immediately earned Stratford East a yellow card. It was to be the first of many. Chelsea dominated the first half, and but for the hard work of the Stratford East keeper, they would have soon taken the lead. Then, half an hour in, the right winger gathered the ball and sent it in a perfect