drifting apart; I was sure she was seeing someone else. I was doing my best to turn a blind eye to that, but it was difficult. We didn’t have any children, which was good since we were headed for a divorce.
Anyway, I’d started seeing a woman called Karen, who was one of Anne’s best friends. That was mistake number one. Karen was the mother of two children and she was married to a sports lawyer who had cancer. At first it was just me being nice to her, taking her out for the odd lunch to cheer her up, and then it got out of hand. I am not proud of that. But there it is. All I can say in my defence is that I was young and stupid. And, yes, lonely. I wasn’t interested in the kind of girls who throw themselves at footballers in nightclubs. Never have been. I don’t even like nightclubs. My idea of a nightmare is an evening out with the lads. I much prefer dinner at The Ivy or The Wolseley. Even when I was at Arsenal the club still had a reputation for some hard drinking – it wasn’t just silverware that the likes of Tony Adams and Paul Merson helped earn for the Gunners – but me, I was always in bed before midnight.
Karen’s house in St Albans was conveniently close to the Arsenal training ground at Shenley, so I’d got into the habit of dropping in to see her on my way home to Hampstead; and sometimes I was seeing a lot more of her than was proper. I suppose I was in love with her. And perhaps she was in love with me. I don’t know what we thought was going to happen. Certainly we could never have imagined what actually did happen.
I remember everything about the day it happened as if it has been etched onto my brain with acid. It was after one post-Shenley visit, a beautiful day near the end of the season. I came out of Karen’s house after a couple of hours to find that my car had been nicked. It was a brand new Porsche Cayenne Turbo that I’d only just taken delivery of, so I was pretty gutted. At the same time I was reluctant to report the car stolen for the simple reason that I guessed my wife, Anne, would recognise Karen’s address if the story got into the newspapers. So I jumped on a train back to my house in Hampstead, thinking I might as well report the car stolen from somewhere in the village. Mistake number two. However, no sooner had I got back home than Karen rang me and said the car was now standing outside her house again. At first I didn’t believe it, but she read out the registration number and it was indeed my car. More than a little puzzled as to what was happening, I got in a taxi and went straight back to St Albans to collect it.
When I arrived there I couldn’t believe my luck. The car wasn’t locked but it didn’t have a scratch on it and, anxious to be away from Karen’s house before her husband came home, I drove off telling myself that perhaps some kids had taken it for a joy-ride and then returned it, having had second thoughts about what they’d done. Oddly enough I’d done something like that as a kid: I stole a scooter and then returned it after a couple of hours. It was naïve of me to think that something similar had happened here, I admit, but I was just happy to be reunited with a car I loved. Mistake number three.
Driving home I noticed a knife on the floor of the car and, not thinking straight, I picked it up. Mistake number four. I should have tossed the knife out of the window; instead I put it in the compartment underneath the armrest. I was so pleased to recover a car I thought had been stolen that perhaps I did exceed the speed limit here and there; then again I wasn’t driving dangerously or under the influence of drink or drugs.
Somewhere near Edgware I noticed a car in my mirror flashing me and ignored it, as you do; London is full of half-wit drivers. I had no idea it was actually an unmarked police car. The next time I looked, near Brent Cross, the same car was still in my mirror only now it had a cherry on top. And still not suspecting that
Anyway, I’d started seeing a woman called Karen, who was one of Anne’s best friends. That was mistake number one. Karen was the mother of two children and she was married to a sports lawyer who had cancer. At first it was just me being nice to her, taking her out for the odd lunch to cheer her up, and then it got out of hand. I am not proud of that. But there it is. All I can say in my defence is that I was young and stupid. And, yes, lonely. I wasn’t interested in the kind of girls who throw themselves at footballers in nightclubs. Never have been. I don’t even like nightclubs. My idea of a nightmare is an evening out with the lads. I much prefer dinner at The Ivy or The Wolseley. Even when I was at Arsenal the club still had a reputation for some hard drinking – it wasn’t just silverware that the likes of Tony Adams and Paul Merson helped earn for the Gunners – but me, I was always in bed before midnight.
Karen’s house in St Albans was conveniently close to the Arsenal training ground at Shenley, so I’d got into the habit of dropping in to see her on my way home to Hampstead; and sometimes I was seeing a lot more of her than was proper. I suppose I was in love with her. And perhaps she was in love with me. I don’t know what we thought was going to happen. Certainly we could never have imagined what actually did happen.
I remember everything about the day it happened as if it has been etched onto my brain with acid. It was after one post-Shenley visit, a beautiful day near the end of the season. I came out of Karen’s house after a couple of hours to find that my car had been nicked. It was a brand new Porsche Cayenne Turbo that I’d only just taken delivery of, so I was pretty gutted. At the same time I was reluctant to report the car stolen for the simple reason that I guessed my wife, Anne, would recognise Karen’s address if the story got into the newspapers. So I jumped on a train back to my house in Hampstead, thinking I might as well report the car stolen from somewhere in the village. Mistake number two. However, no sooner had I got back home than Karen rang me and said the car was now standing outside her house again. At first I didn’t believe it, but she read out the registration number and it was indeed my car. More than a little puzzled as to what was happening, I got in a taxi and went straight back to St Albans to collect it.
When I arrived there I couldn’t believe my luck. The car wasn’t locked but it didn’t have a scratch on it and, anxious to be away from Karen’s house before her husband came home, I drove off telling myself that perhaps some kids had taken it for a joy-ride and then returned it, having had second thoughts about what they’d done. Oddly enough I’d done something like that as a kid: I stole a scooter and then returned it after a couple of hours. It was naïve of me to think that something similar had happened here, I admit, but I was just happy to be reunited with a car I loved. Mistake number three.
Driving home I noticed a knife on the floor of the car and, not thinking straight, I picked it up. Mistake number four. I should have tossed the knife out of the window; instead I put it in the compartment underneath the armrest. I was so pleased to recover a car I thought had been stolen that perhaps I did exceed the speed limit here and there; then again I wasn’t driving dangerously or under the influence of drink or drugs.
Somewhere near Edgware I noticed a car in my mirror flashing me and ignored it, as you do; London is full of half-wit drivers. I had no idea it was actually an unmarked police car. The next time I looked, near Brent Cross, the same car was still in my mirror only now it had a cherry on top. And still not suspecting that
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