[Beckenham. Tuesday April 17. 14:18 BST.]

I sat at the desk for an hour after Jessica left. I did not work. I did not read Bruno Fernandes. I did not return Marcus’s messages. I sat with both feet flat on the floor and looked at the photograph on the wall behind the desk, the one of the Carabao Cup lift in February with Mili holding the trophy and the bench piling on, and I thought about everything Jessica had said and about everything Steve had said on Saturday night and about everything I had not yet said to Emma.

Then I picked up the phone and rang her.

"Walsh."

"Em."

"It is Tuesday afternoon."

"It is Tuesday afternoon."

"You are going to tell me."

"I am going to tell you. Tonight at home. Not on the phone."

"All right. What time?"

"Six."

"Six."

"I love you."

There was a pause on the line.

"I love you too, Walsh."

I hung up. Sat at the desk another five minutes. Then I picked the phone back up and rang Steve Parish.

"Daniel."

"Steve."

"You’re early."

"I am early. I am not telling you my answer. I am asking you a question. After the question, I will tell you my answer tomorrow morning at nine on your desk in my own words, the way you asked."

"Go on."

"If you ever sell."

"Yeah."

"I want a seat at the table for the buyer interview."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"All right."

"I want to be in the room when the buyer is being chosen. Not in a voting capacity. In an advisory capacity. I want to know who is buying my football club and I want to be able to walk if I do not like the look of them."

"You will be in the room, Daniel."

"In writing."

"In writing. I will have the clause drafted by tomorrow morning. You will see it before you sign anything."

"Thank you."

"Daniel."

"Yeah."

"I am not selling. I want you to know that I am not selling. I am sixty-two years old and my wife wants me in Cornwall at the weekends and I am not going to Cornwall."

"All right."

"But the clause is fair."

"All right."

He hung up. I put the phone down. Looked at the ceiling for another minute.

Then I drove home.

[Dulwich. Tuesday April 17. 18:04 BST.]

She was at the kitchen table when I came in. She was not in lingerie. She was not in a hoodie. She was in jeans and a jumper and her hair was down and she had a cup of tea in her hand and she was sitting at the kitchen table the way you sit at the kitchen table when you have been told something is coming and you have decided you are going to be ready for it.

"Walsh."

"Em."

I sat down across the table from her. She did not take her eyes off me.

"Tell me."

I told her. The boardroom on Saturday night. The five men at the table. The two percent. The contract extension I had signed at nine this morning. The conversation with Jessica. The phone call to Steve about the buyer clause.

I told her all of it. In the order it had happened.

She did not interrupt. She drank her tea. She let me finish.

When I was done she put the mug down on the table.

"That is what you have been carrying since Saturday."

"That is what I have been carrying since Saturday."

"And the answer is yes."

"The answer is yes."

"You knew the answer was yes on Saturday night when you walked out of the boardroom."

"I knew the answer was yes. I needed the weekend to find out why."

"And you found out why."

"Yeah."

"Why."

"Because Steve Parish gave me the senior job on the twenty-third of April last year when there were ten more experienced managers in the country he could have rung. Because Steve has not asked me for anything in eleven months he was not entitled to ask for.

Because the club is a club and the directorship is the directorship and the difference is the difference, and if I am going to be at this club for nine years on the new contract, I am going to be at this club properly. I am going to sit at the table. I am going to vote on the budget. I am going to be in the room when the buyer is being chosen if the buyer is ever being chosen. I am going to be part of the building."

She did not say anything for a moment.

Then she said:

"All right."

"All right."

"Daniel."

"Yeah."

"Once is enough."

"Once is enough."

"You knew the answer on Saturday night and you waited the weekend to come and tell me the answer because you knew I would say yes too. You waited the weekend because you were scared."

"Yeah."

"Of what."

"That you would say yes and that I would not be allowed to walk away from this club ever again because you and I would own it together."

"We do not own it together. You own two percent. That is not owning it together."

"It is closer than I have ever been."

"Walsh."

"Yeah."

"I am not afraid of being closer to a thing. I am the woman who bought you lingerie on Lordship Lane on Friday morning. I am not afraid of being closer to anything."

She picked up the mug. Took a sip.

"Sign it tomorrow morning. Sign all of it. Take everything Steve is offering."

"All right."

"And then on Saturday at Wembley you beat Southampton, and on Thursday at home you beat Sporting, and on the third of May at the José Alvalade you beat them again, and on the sixteenth of May in Lyon you win the Europa League, and on the twentieth of May at the Etihad you beat Manchester City and you win the Premier League. And we go and eat ice cream on the third of June."

"That’s the plan."

"That is the plan."

She got up. Came round the table. Sat in my lap. Put both arms around my neck.

"I am proud of you, Walsh."

"Em."

"And after the season, you can take me to Lordship Lane and we can buy something to celebrate."

"All right."

"And then I will tell you what I want from the rest of our life. I have been thinking about it since Friday."

"All right."

She did not say what she had been thinking. I did not ask. I held her on the chair at the kitchen table for a long time without either of us saying anything else. The Tuesday evening of Dulwich was coming through the window. Sporting was forty-eight hours and ten minutes away from kick-off. Wembley was four days. Lyon was twenty-nine.

I closed my eyes.