‘It’s him,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sure it’s him. I recognise the earrings.’
‘You can thank me later,’ she said as we neared the man in the Barca shirt.
‘Jérôme Dumas, I presume,’ I said, happily. ‘Scott Manson. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. In Paris, Antigua and now here in Guadeloupe. You’re a hard man to find, Jérôme.’
‘I guess so.’
There was a football on the lawn and seeing it, out of sheer exuberance that my mission now appeared to be over, I kicked it to him playfully.
‘Well, thank God for that, anyway,’ I said. ‘Although we do have a lot to talk about.’
‘If you say so.’
He trapped the football with his left foot, flicked it up, bounced it off his knee and onto his head, nodded it twice and then headed it back to me as if hoping to see what I was made of.
‘Your new employers are very anxious that you return with me to Barcelona as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘You’ve an important match coming up.’
I fielded the ball on my chest, and then up onto my head again, let it roll over my scalp, dropped it onto my knee and then my bare foot, and kept it up again a couple of times, before tapping it back to him. Between us it felt like a kind of language, a sporting Esperanto, and in a sense it is; where two or more men are kicking a football they’re in a dialogue.
‘Sure, and I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,’ he said, grinning sheepishly. ‘I know you’ve come a long way to find me, Mr Manson.’
Jérôme had the ball in the small of his back now. After a second he shrugged it off and onto his own head and let it bounce five, six, seven, eight times before catching it on his instep and playing it back to me again with perhaps a little more venom than was necessary.
‘Scott,’ I said, controlling the ball with my head. ‘Call me Scott. I’m glad to see you’ve been keeping up your skills.’
I could feel the sweat breaking out on my head and chest as I tried to match his abilities with the ball, which were considerable and much superior to my own; even fifteen years ago I’d have been struggling to keep up with this guy. Now at the age of forty-one I was almost out of breath. I tucked my hands back against my wrists and concentrated hard to keep the ball just an inch or two in the air above one foot. I almost didn’t notice when someone inside the house turned the music off.
‘You’re not so bad yourself, Scott. Not bad at all. For an old guy.’
‘Thanks. And less of the old, if you don’t mind, sunshine.’
‘You were at Arsenal once, weren’t you?’ he said. ‘Before you went into management?’
‘That’s right. I was a centre back.’
‘I eat them for breakfast,’ said Jérôme.
‘Funnily enough, I’ve heard that one before. I think it was Paul Raury, from West Bromwich Albion, who said something similar to me just before I broke his ankle.’
‘When you two are quite finished showing off...’ said Grace.
I flicked the ball to Jérôme who played it off his knee, caught it in his big hands and tucked it possessively under his arm.
‘This is Grace Doughty,’ I said. ‘She’s a lawyer from Antigua. She’s been helping me to find you. Although to be more accurate it’s me who’s been helping her, I think. Given that she seems to know the island and speaks Creole.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Dumas,’ said Grace. ‘Too much, really. He’s been obsessing that we were on a wild goose chase. I told him that you have to be patient with wild geese, but I don’t think he believed that until now.’
‘Can you blame me?’ I said.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Jérôme shook her hand and then mine. ‘Come inside and have something to drink. You’ve come a long way, I expect.’
‘Do you speak Creole?’ I asked Jérôme.
‘Yes. A bit. But when I answer the bell to the door on the beach I always speak French since it’s nearly always French people who are ringing it. Usually they want to know if there’s a toilet nearby. And I have to tell them, otherwise they piss on the wall.’
Inside, the air-conditioned house was very Architectural Digest — all open-plan with upper galleries of bookshelves and other rooms. A bank of white leather armchairs were arranged in front of a matching right-angle sofa, like so many sugar cubes. Lying by the sofa were several days-old copies of Antigua’s newspaper, the Daily Observer, and a copy of Guillem Balague’s excellent biography of Lionel Messi. On the wall was a big plasma television and on the screen was FIFA 15, with the sound turned down; Chelsea against Barcelona. In the middle of the room was a glass table and a couple of PS4 controllers, and everywhere there were vases of flowers and jugs of iced water, almost as if Jérôme had been expecting us. He poured us each a glass of water that was flavoured with elderflower cordial.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘I didn’t know it was possible to live as well as this on Guadeloupe.’
‘It belongs to a friend of mine,’ said Jérôme. ‘Gui-Jean-Baptiste Target.’
‘Why does that name ring a bell?’ I said.
‘He’s the centre forward for SM Caen. Used to play for AS Monaco.’
I nodded. ‘I remember. Wasn’t he involved in that match-fixing scandal involving Caen and Nîmes Olympique in November 2014?’
‘He was questioned, I think. But not really involved at all. No charges have been brought, anyway. He lets me borrow this place from time to time.’
‘Is he from Guadeloupe, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s quite a crowd of you,’ I said.
‘Not a crowd, my friend,’ said Jérôme. ‘A team. If only the French would remove their objections to our FIFA incorporation then we could compete in the World Cup. Perhaps not in Russia, but certainly in Qatar. And you know something else? We could win. Especially if we were playing France. In fact I think I could guarantee it.’
‘It’s the same in England. There’s nothing like sticking one to the mother country. Just ask the Scots, or the Irish. I think there’s no one they’d rather beat than England. I should know. I’m part Scots myself.’
Jérôme grinned. ‘Forgive me, but you don’t look much like a Scotsman.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides, people in Scotland have been saying that to me all my life. Which is one reason I live in England, I suppose. The English are a lot more tolerant of black people than the Scots. Anyone can look English, I think. But it takes a Scot to look like a Scot. And you know, whatever people say, the French aren’t so bad.’
‘I dunno. Some of them. Maybe.’
‘I saw your apartment in Paris. Met your ex-girlfriend. I’d say you’d enjoyed pretty much all that France has to offer. And then some. From what I’ve read in your file, you were making fifty thousand euros a week at Monaco when you were just sixteen.’
‘How is Bella?’
‘She’s well. Misses you, I think.’
‘I doubt that very much. I wasn’t very nice to her.’
‘Not too late to fix that, I’d have thought. If it was me I’d try to mend my fences with her. I’ve rarely seen a more beautiful girl.’