Miss Shields frowned.
‘You think I’m joking, don’t you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, flatly.
‘Well, I’m not.’
She nodded. ‘You know, I think it’s probably best that you leave all of the talking to me.’
‘I agree.’
They called us into a room and you could have cut the atmosphere with a pair of plastic scissors. The four-man hearing was actually three men and a woman. I guess the dog couldn’t make it. The chairperson was a man but it was the woman who did the talking and she seemed a little disappointed that I’d decided to plead guilty. The pencil she was holding in her tiny fist looked as if she’d sharpened it especially to stab my cock with it.
Miss Shields did her best but in spite of her eloquent arguments to the effect that most normal women wouldn’t take offence at the tweet I’d made, the FA still felt inclined to fine me twenty-five thousand quid. Which is a nice round sum and the same fine they gave Mario Balotelli for his infamous Instagram post about Super Mario and the Jews. It will probably keep them in expense-account lunches and dinners for about a month. FA independent regulatory commission hearings are like speed cameras; if you drive in London, you’re bound to get a fine and three points eventually. It’s the same with being in English football. The pain in the arse is the lecture you get, especially when it was obvious the chairman thought the whole thing had been whipped up by the media. But of course the FA is terrified of the media and is more likely to pay attention to some idiot’s tweets — and that includes me — than the fact that we can’t seem to win international matches against anyone who matters, when it matters most. Scoring goals and winning trophies used to be the proper province of the FA; now it’s all about adjudicating petty grievances on social media, or punishing managers who say what everyone in the game knows: that referees are making too many mistakes.
Ignoring the press who were waiting in the car park like a pack of scavenging dogs, I drove back to my flat in Chelsea and made a cup of Bonifieur coffee and watched my ugly mug on Sky Sports News. Always good for a laugh. There was a famous sportswoman in the studio who called me a dinosaur and said she hoped I would not be welcomed back into sports management any time soon. Which seemed to be a fairly safe expectation. To my relief she was cut short by the news that London City’s manager, Stepan Kolchak, had resigned with immediate effect, ahead of the big game with Arsenal. A minute later my landline started ringing. I was going to ignore it until I noticed that the number identified the caller as Viktor Sokolnikov. Momentarily unnerved by this call from the dead, I picked up the handset and found myself speaking to Viktor’s Russian-American daughter, Yevgeniya. I’d met her once before; ferociously smart, and famously beautiful, she was studying for an MBA at Harvard. Or so I had thought.
‘I was very sorry to hear about your father,’ I said. ‘In spite of all our differences I always liked him.’
‘Thank you, Scott.’
‘Is there any news about his killer?’
‘No. And there won’t be. But everyone knows who ordered his death. He wouldn’t pay the Kremlin the protection money they were demanding. And so they killed him. That’s how it works, these days. Since Berezovsky. Since Khodorkovsky. You pay up or you find yourself dead or in prison. This is something I’m going to have to get used to myself, since I inherited the bulk of my father’s fortune. Not to mention his football team.’
She sounded more American than Russian.
‘I take it that Stepan Kolchak’s resignation had something to do with you.’
‘That’s right. He was useless, of course. Couldn’t manage a team of painters and decorators. I asked him to resign. To give him a little dignity. But I was much more inclined to sack him.’
‘It sounds like you’re going to be taking an active role in the club, Yevgeniya.’
‘Very active. I’m given up Harvard and I’m back here permanently. To manage all my father’s affairs. Including London City. My father always liked you, Scott. Admired you very much. I believe that he would have asked you to come back to manage the club at the end of the season. Of course by then it will be too late. We’ll have been relegated and we can kiss goodbye to a hundred million pounds’ worth of television money.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure that he would have asked me back. And I’m not so sure I’d have wanted to go back to City.’
‘I’m not my father. So. Mr Dinosaur. Mr Sexist Pig. What do you say? I will pay you what Arsenal pay Arsène Wenger: £7.5 million a year, plus a five million pound bonus if you keep us up. A three-year contract. And here’s your chance to prove all those women wrong who were calling for your head today. I think it would actually do you good to have a woman boss. Come and work for me, Scott. Come and work for a woman. Only please, come soon. As I’m sure you know we have a very important game against Arsenal on Sunday. Perhaps the most important game in our season. So, just don’t keep me waiting, okay? I have the curse right now and I become very irritable when I don’t get what I want.’