Part 12 (1/2)

'Of course. Now I can hobble round I'll be fine. Inez and Penny are here and I don't seem to be able to get rid of Bill. We have a system and even if I can't get into his car, I can get into taxis fairly easily. Once my face doesn't scare the punters I can get back to proper work, so yes, you go and get back on with your life. And catch up with your sleep too.'

It was true. I'd hardly slept since I'd been at Mum's. A decent night's sleep would be such a treat. But with her wrist recovering, she was a lot more mobile now. I could get back to work with a clear conscience.

'Give my love to Kate and the long-lost family,' Mum said.

'You'd really like them. Can I tell them you'll be going up to see them?'

'Oh yes, one day. But not yet. Once I'm back at work I'll have far too much catching up to do.' Her accident hadn't mellowed her that much, it seemed.

I'd booked myself on an evening train so that I would be back in time for an interview with some apple-growing monks on Thursday. But there was something I had to do first. That necklace was still burning a hole at the bottom of my bag. I had to get it back to Clayton but I could hardly just stick it an envelope and post it, even if I knew his address. I got out my phone, took a deep breath, but I couldn't ring him. What if he was with Kim? Or his teammates? Or didn't remember which one I was out of all the females hanging round him? That would be awful, having to explain myself. No. So I texted. 'Need to talk to you. Are you around this afternoon?'

A reply pinged back almost immediately. 'Back from training 4.' And giving the address.

Hey. That had been easy.

Then of course I worried about what to wear. Of course I didn't want to impress him. On the other hand, you can't turn up on the doorstep of one of the fittest men in Britain in your scruffs, can you? Even if you're just returning an unwanted gift. I know I couldn't compete with the Kims of this world, but I could scrub up with a bit of effort. I was wearing black trousers, but didn't have a suitable top with me. I rummaged through my mother's wardrobe and found one of her numerous black tops-this one had a low boat neck and batwing sleeves with deep embroidered cuffs. She normally wore a silk s.h.i.+rt underneath it. Boring. I did my hair and make-up with extra care and reckoned that after an hour's effort I'd got the right casual-hardly-bothered effect I was after.

Bill arrived just as I was leaving and whistled in approval. 'Very fancy just for a train,' he said. 'I hope the other pa.s.sengers appreciate it.' He looked at me quizzically, but no way was I going to tell him what I was up to.

'Look after yourselves. And each other,' I said, hugging them both.

'We shall,' they replied as they stood in the doorway, Mum leaning determinedly on her crutches, despite her obvious discomfort, and refusing all help from Bill.

I ran down the stairs and into the taxi and set off for Clayton Silver's house.

Chapter Fifteen.

The houses were big, solid, expensive and discreet. Not the sort of street I expected to find Clayton Silver living in. But, as the taxi slowed down and the driver was asking, 'What number did you say, love?' I spotted it.

'Twenty-two, I think it must be that one. It's got to be,' I said, peering out of the window.

'If it's the footballer you want, then that's the one,' said the taxi driver. 'That's got to be a footballer's house, hasn't it?'

Behind the high, gated wall, I could see the top of a tall modern house soaring to the sky. It had been squeezed into a narrow plot, but what it lacked in width it made up for in height and balconies. Each of the four floors was wrapped around by huge curving decking, the architectural equivalent of Ray-Bans, breaking up what seemed to be towering walls made entirely of gla.s.s. In this street of quiet, old-fas.h.i.+oned wealth, it looked totally out of place-no doubt a bit like Clayton-but it was sunny and frivolous and strangely beautiful, like a s.h.i.+p about to break free of its moorings.

I had my luggage with me ready for my trip north and, as I put the bags on the pavement and paid the driver, I wondered how I would get in through these gates. There must be an intercom somewhere, a tradesman's entrance.

With that, a huge black Hummer came up the road. Blacked-out windows and personalised numberplate. It looked more like something from an invading army than a car. It slowed down by the gates, which automatically opened for it. I couldn't see who was behind the windows. The car stopped, a window purred down and Clayton leaned out of the window, smiling. 'Well, h.e.l.lo, Miss Tilly. How nice of you to drop by. Come in.'

Dutifully, I followed the car through the gates. Clayton switched off the engine, left the Hummer where it was and came back and picked up my bags, then ran up the stairs where the front door also opened apparently magically, but actually by a tiny Filipina woman.

'Cheers, Maria,' he said, dumping my bags in the vast entrance hall and then leading the way up the wide curved stairs into a room full of light. With the floor-to-ceiling windows and curved balcony stretching round the entire length of the room, it seemed as if we were hovering above the treetops.

'Wow!' I said.

'Good, yeah?' asked Clayton as I walked to the balcony to admire the view over the street, the park and down across London.

'Fantastic. And just not what you'd expect in a road like this.'

'That's why I had to have it. Things that aren't what you expect are always more interesting, aren't they?' he grinned. 'So, would you like a drink? Wine? Champagne?' he gestured at a bar in the corner.

'No, thanks, what I'd really like is a cup of-oh gos.h.!.+'

One wall of this amazing room was taken up by a huge plasma TV set, but on another was a painting, even bigger, twice the size of the TV screen. It was just dashes of colours really-blues and greens and a splash of white-yet you knew it was a boat on a wide bright sea. As I looked, the huge voile curtain, tucked back to the side of the curving window, billowed out with the breeze and added to the impression of sails and waves.

'It's the one you told me about. It does make you feel you're out on the sea, doesn't it?' I said, and Clayton whooped triumphantly.

'That's why I had to have it. Sometimes I lie on that sofa and look at that painting and I'm not here in London but I'm floating above the sea, free as a bird, just letting the winds take me. Some people just don't get it. But you do. I thought you would. No, I knew you would.'

He was standing there, still in his tracksuit and training top, smiling at the painting. 'That picture cost me shed-loads of money, but every time I look at it, it makes me happy. Got be worth it, yeah? Keeps the money-man happy and keeps me happy too. He puts money away in stocks and shares and things for me, but that ain't much fun, is it? You can't look at them. That's why I keep buying pictures. Want to see more?'

'Yes, please. I do.' And I did, but in any case Clayton's enthusiasm was appealing. When he'd said he'd liked pictures I'd thought that he just bought them to be flash, but as he showed me round I realised I'd got him wrong. He might not be an expert, but he was an enthusiast and, as the man said, he knew what he liked.

'Look, this is one I bought when we were playing a European cup match in Italy. We had a day free and I went off by myself for a bit, found a little gallery and saw this painting and I had to have it.'

It was a cla.s.sical style painting, a view through an ancient arched window, ivy growing alongside. Through it you could see the glorious remains of a Roman building, but also a high Renaissance palace with huge door and crumbling paintwork and, just in the corner, a glimpse of a modern, gleaming, high-rise office block. In the shadows of them all were two people. You couldn't tell if they were a couple or not, or whether they were turning towards each other or walking away.

'It's like the more you look at it, the less you know-and it could be any time, couldn't it?'

I was intrigued not just by the painting, but the thought of Clayton in a foreign city, leaving his team-mates and wandering off by himself round backstreets and art galleries. I looked at him, thinking of all the different bits of Clayton Silver I knew from what he'd told me and what I read, and trying to put them together. It was a tricky jigsaw. I wonder if Kim Scarlett understood him.

Other paintings were starker, simpler, bolder-huge splashes of colour or intriguing subtle patterns of swirling colours. We went downstairs-the wood of the stairs was so expensive, so smooth, so beautiful, that it was a work of art in itself-where an inner hall was hung with some laddish paintings-Lewis Hamilton winning a grand prix, a horse race, a boxing match and, inevitably, one of Clayton scoring a goal, light gleaming on the taut muscles of his thigh as he was captured, leaping up about to kick the ball. 'That's meant to be the winning goal, but if I'd kicked that at the angle he painted it, it would have missed by miles,' he said.

The hall led into a games room with a full-size pool table, table football, yet another huge plasma TV and another well-stocked bar. And a cupboard full of trophies and medals.

'My playroom,' he smiled. 'Gym through there,' he said, pointing. 'I didn't have s.p.a.ce for a full-size swimming pool, but there's an infinity pool. And also a wine cellar, of course.

'Oh and I guess you'd better see this one...'

We were going back upstairs now, up another equally beautiful staircase, with windows along its length. It was, I realised, built into a sort of tower at the side of the house and I could see down the street and the row of houses with their high fences and designer gardens. We'd come out into what was obviously Clayton's dressing room-walk-in wardrobes, rows of very expensive shoes, leather boxes containing cufflinks. Through one door I could see a huge wet room, through another a glimpse of his bedroom-black and white patterned duvet, lots of mirrors...And on the wall a picture of a nude, long blonde hair tumbling down onto her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, flirtatious eyes, pouting mouth. Poor girl. She probably meant it as a great present, but really it made her look needy, desperate. I realised I recognised the girl.

'That's Sapphire O'Mara!' I said. A few years ago, Sapphire had won a reality TV show and now made a living being a celebrity, doing chat shows, quizzes, opening supermarkets and going out with footballers-famous on account of being well known.

'Yeah. We had a thing going for a while and she had that done for my birthday. Knowing Sapphire, she was probably having it off with the artist. Can't get rid of it: Seb Tarn's work's going for a fortune now. Sapphire always could pick rising talent. But it's not too tactful when I'm entertaining...'

He spread his hands wide and shrugged as if he were totally puzzled by the world and its ways.

Suddenly I realised I was standing virtually in his bedroom. Definitely not a good idea. Especially when he was looking at a painting like that. How daft could I be? Come upstairs to look at his paintings. Oh my G.o.d. Dim or what? I turned and almost ran back down the stairs and into the huge living room. Clayton laughed and loped slowly after me.

On the low table in front of one of the huge orange leather sofas was a tray with tea things, including a plate of small and delicious-looking pastries. Afternoon tea? Another surprise. But there was also a pitcher of disgusting-looking liquid.

Clayton smiled. 'Maria thought you looked like an afternoon tea lady. Must mean she likes you.' He poured some of the foul-looking liquid into a high gla.s.s and drank it down.