Hold Me Close

b6

Walking as fast as I possibly can, I manage to make the train to Witton station with no more hassle than rendering myself slightly out of breath. Embarrassed at my apparent lack of athleticism, I pretend to be fine in the stuffy air of the second train for today. I've done this journey before, the last being in February during the Arnold Clark Cup. The penultimate was to visit Scarlett's parents – people I avoided when I strayed from the tournament a few months ago.

I get to the close she grew up in just past midday. It takes me an additional five minutes to navigate through the identical houses, each with neatly trimmed patches of grass at the front and many with England flags still decorating the front window, remnants from supporting their country through the World Cup.

Everyone here knew Scarlett, because a teenage version of her would knock on their doors every few weeks with the offer of a £5 car wash. They'd ask her what she was after now, and the answer would always be the same: a new pair of football boots. Scarlett was able to build a house with the amount of boots she accumulated over the years. She never threw them away, despite my insistence that they were taking up way too much space, and she could lay them out chronologically and tell stories about the goals she'd scored in each pair. Those boots were sent back to Birmingham in a cardboard box the day I moved to Barcelona.

The doorbell has changed since I last pressed it, but the sound is still the same. The two-minute laziness of her father, Tony, who has always been adamant about building suspense, still exists. His face does not know what to do when he sees me.

Sheepishly, I shift my weight from foot to foot. "Did Nicola not tell you that I was coming?"

"No, love, she didn't." He opens the door wider, stepping aside. "Come in, of course. Mind you don't get the new carpet dirty with your shoes. I see Barça's paying you well."

"Sponsors," I clarify, though he is not wrong. I toe off the new Dunks that Nike sent to me. I forgot to wear them at the World Cup, instead choosing to live a life of sliders and fluffy socks. "The carpet is nice."

"Nicola wanted a change." His words echo grief. There is a new photo of Scarlett hanging up in the hallway, joining the frames containing glimpses into her childhood. This one is from the Euros. Her medal is in a glass case on a side table beneath it.

He gestures to the living room, the TV playing highlights of Aston Villa's most recent match. I decline the offer of tea, choosing to have some water. "Have a cheeky nibble of some of Nic's cake," Tony says, bringing me a plate and a fork. "I know you have abs to keep and what-not, but try it."

Lemon drizzle was Scarlett's favourite type of cake. I pretend that it does not sour in my mouth.

We sit in silence while we wait for Nicola – he says that she has just 'popped to Tesco'. All this time in Spain made me forget how amusing English people are.

"Glad to have European football?" I ask as I discover that this channel is only for Villans, as they are called.

"Whole city was buzzing," he replies, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Soon enough, just after he has cracked open a can of beer, a shrill voice rings through the house. "What do you think you're doing?" Nicola calls out, smelling the drink from the door as she walks in with two shopping bags overflowing with food. Tony is quick to place his feet back on the floor. "Oh!" she squeals in surprise when she sees me, eyes briefly narrowing at her husband as she sets the bags down, moving swiftly to scoop me up in a hug.

When someone you love dies, people start hugging you a lot more.

"Tony, why didn't you ring me? You've been boring Fleur this whole time, making her watch men roll around on the ground."