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with the gun, pulling and pushing it, trying to work it free from Dean’s ear. Our every effort was accompanied by loud groans, cries and a considerable number of swear words from Dean. Then, he sighed loudly, made a grab for the arm of the chair and collapsed in a heap.

      ‘Shit!’ I said, jumping back. ‘We’ve killed him!’

      ‘No we haven’t,’ said Sally, showing herself to be infinitely more capable in a crisis. ‘We just need to get the gun off his ear.’

      Around us stood all the clients in the salon, sipping their complimentary beverages and watching closely. Even Mrs Cooper had joined them, but she stood watching with one eye—the other covered by a makeshift patch, constructed from a wad of cotton wool and a vast amount of masking tape.

      Eventually, the gun came off and Sally and I both collapsed in a heap from the effort. Dean was still slumped exactly as he was before, but with a large hole in his earlobe where the gun had, until recently, resided.

      I lost my job that day, but I gained a boyfriend and then, two years later, a husband. It was the happiest day of my life when Dean proposed to me, just eight months after we met. I’ll never forget calling Mum and telling her:

      ‘I’ve met someone and he wants to marry me.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said, with very little interest, more than a little resentment, and some comment about how old this was all going to make her look.

      ‘His name’s Dean Martin,’ I said, and there was a silence on the end of the phone. Then:

      ‘Dean…Martin? The Dean Martin?’

      I was thrilled that Mum had heard about Arsenal’s new sensation from all the way over there in Los Angeles.

      ‘Yep, the Dean Martin,’ I said, feeling very proud. ‘The Dean Martin is now my Dean Martin.’

      ‘Where did you meet the great legend?’

      ‘He came into the salon to get a piercing.’

      ‘What? Was he with the other members of the Rat Pack?’

      ‘No—he was on his own. The others had gone to get chips.’

      ‘Chips? Two of the greatest swing singers in the history of Big Band music—gone to get chips?’

      ‘No, Dean’s mates…from Arsenal.’

      ‘Hang on. So, who is this Dean Martin you’re going to marry?’

      ‘He plays for Arsenal.’

      The line went dead. I asked a few people afterwards and they said that there was another Dean Martin in America who was seventy-odd at the time, and sang rubbish songs, so he must be the guy that Mum thought I was talking about. It turned out that the American Dean Martin died later that year…probably from a broken heart at being the wrong Dean Martin.

      Meanwhile, back in London, the hole in my Dean’s ear never properly healed (he wears three earrings in it now), but he says he forgives me. Sally left the salon at the same time as me. Last I heard, she’d retrained as a butcher, which seemed strangely appropriate.

      Mum ended up coming round to the idea of the wedding when she realised how much money footballers earn. In fact, she came straight back over to live in England, giving up her sun-soaked LA life and throwing herself into the coordination of my wedding. It was great to have Mum back, although quite alarming to see how young she’d become in her time away. It turns out that three facelifts and buckets full of Botox and collagen fillers had done the trick, but heavens, she looked good. She looked exactly like Barbie. Only slightly less natural-looking.

      Mum just adored Dean from the moment she met him. He really took a shine to her, too, giving her the money to buy a house and a car and some staff. She’d come round in tiny little shorts, poking her 32DD bra-less breasts at Dean, and he’d be like putty in her hands. Nothing’s changed there, really.

      ‘How’s it feeling now?’ I ask.

      ‘Fine,’ he says, still holding his head. ‘Hey, I’ve got something for you.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve just got to remember where I hid it.’

      Sock drawer, I think. Look in the sock drawer.

      ‘Gosh, I can’t remember.’

      ‘Well, put some socks on first, then try to remember,’ I say.

      ‘Don’t be silly. I want to find your present for you, not put socks on. Now let me think.’

      ‘I really think you’d be more comfortable with socks on,’ I insist.

      ‘No, I need to…’

      ‘Put socks on.’

      ‘But I…’

      ‘SOCKS!!’

      So off he goes, confused and agitated, still clinging on to his head. Off to put socks on because it’s easier to do that than to keep opposing my absurd but heartfelt request. Bless him.

      ‘Ah…’ he says all of a sudden, the joy in his voice discernible through the wall of the dressing room. ‘You won’t believe what I just found in the sock drawer…’

       Friday, 3 August

       7.30 p.m.

      ‘Deeeeeaaan…’ I lean into my man, fluttering my eyelashes at him adoringly and thrusting my breasts at him provocatively as I attempt to wrestle the remote control from his grip. He’s having none of it.

      ‘What is it, doll?’ he asks, expertly performing a quick manoeuvre to keep the remote firmly within his grasp. If only he were as adept at keeping the ball at his feet, he might have had a half-decent international career. As it is, he has a less than half-decent club career. If it weren’t for me constantly pestering him to go training, get fit, eat healthily and wear bigger, golder jewellery, he’d barely be a footballer at all.

      ‘I was just wondering,’ I say, pouting my new, and let’s be honest, terrifyingly plump lips at him to such an extent that he actually flinches in his seat and murmurs something about pink slugs. ‘Why don’t you contact David Beckham or Wayne Rooney or something? You know, make friends with them.’

      ‘Eh?’ he says, his eyes not leaving the television for the merest second, and his left hand not moving from between his legs, where he is attempting, by assuming some sort of absurd yoga pose, to adjust the crotch of his tight, shiny grey trousers that I bought him from Dolce & Gabbana. He lifts his pelvis right up into the air in an effort to disentangle himself further, and I notice how narrow his hips look in their BacoFoil-type coating. If I wore trousers like that I’d look the size of the QE2, whereas he looks as narrow as the ridiculous silver tiepin he was presented with by the club last year. Is that why he’s not been selected for England for eight bloody years? Maybe if he were built like Frank Lampard instead of Frank Skinner he’d have had the call. Mmmm…Maybe I should do something to fatten him up. I’ll buy loads of steak tomorrow, and chips and cakes and lard and stuff. I’ll feed him till he explodes. It can be my new mission: OBUD—Operation Build Up Dean.

      ‘You know—why don’t you at least try to make friends with some England footballers? Some of them don’t look too bright—I’m sure you could become their new best friend without them even noticing. Then once the coaches see you out on the town with them, you might get selected to play for England again.’

      ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he says. ‘It’s not like school. They don’t pick you because you’re friends with the other players.’

      ‘It can’t hurt,’ I try. I’d love him to play for England again. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder than I was when he

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