How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(59)

‘It’s a Range Rover Evoque.’

‘That one?’

I nod and pass him my key fob, wobbling a bit as I cross the road for effect.

‘Come on then, you, let’s get you sobered up.’





51


RAPHE’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

It takes about ten minutes to get to Raphe’s building, which actually isn’t too far from mine. He parks the car in the underground car park and we head up the back steps to his flat.

‘I know it sounds bad but I just can’t be bothered making small talk with the concierges every single time.’ He does a funny little eyeroll at me because I know that exact feeling.

And so we walk all the way up to the penthouse – what else? I take the opportunity to look at him. I’m not sure if it’s the lighting but he looks much younger now than he did in the club and seems less sure of himself. He senses me looking and turns to me with a big smile. I notice he’s wearing a garish chain with a diamond-encrusted R on it.

Footballers.

No class. Zero.

‘This is where I live Monday to Friday, pretty much,’ Raphe tells me as I walk through a long corridor lined with signed pictures and football shirts in frames. ‘I’ve got a house down in Surrey, which is for weekends and holidays. And parties.’ He flashes me a smile. ‘Come through to the lounge, I want to show you something.’

I follow him through into a huge open-plan lounge area, which includes a bar and full-size pool table.

‘Do you play? Do you want a game?’ he asks.

‘Er … no. I’m okay thanks. Is that what you wanted to show me?’

He stares at me, blank for a couple of beats. ‘Oh. No. It’s this. Look.’ He walks over to the far wall and waves his hand in front of what looks like a hat in a frame. I move closer to get a better look and realise that it is, in fact, a hat in a frame. I look at Raphe. His grin is wilting a little. ‘It’s an England cap,’ he says.

‘It’s nice.’ I’m not sure what the correct response is here.

‘I got it when I made my England debut last season. Did you know I’d played for England?’

What is this? Why is this supposedly cool footballer, lauded up and down the country for his skills with the ladies as well-known as his skills on a pitch, acting like an awkward sixth former who’s alone with a girl for the first time?

‘Er … yes. I knew that. Well done. Very big achievement.’

He’s almost giddy with pride. ‘And look over here. This is my trophy cabinet.’ I trot after him as he leads me to a glass casing that displays a variety of trophies – young player of the year, blah blah blah.

‘Did you say something about a drink?’ I can feel my face giving away how bored I am.

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Where are my manners? Sure. Erm … wine? Something else? I’ve got Champagne. Lots and lots of Champagne. A whole fridge of it. Probably enough to bath in. I mean, not that I’m saying we should. Just that, we could.’

‘A bit sticky, I think. Wine is lovely.’ Why do I feel like I’m babysitting?

Raphe disappears into what I assume must be the kitchen and I take a chance to look around the rest of the room. There are lots of photos of Raphe. Raphe with some famous old guy who played football, I think. A teenage Raphe, holding up a team scarf. There’s a collection of guitars on one wall but that is basically the only thing that suggests there is any actual depth to this two-dimensional football cliché.

‘Sit down.’ Raphe comes back into the lounge carrying two glasses of white wine, almost filled to the brim.

I walk over and take one from him as it looks perilously close to spilling out onto the oversized rug, which is no doubt worth thousands. I then head to the sofa – a monstrosity of a silver crushed-velvet L-shaped thing – and sit down.

‘There’s a hot tub on the balcony,’ Raphe suddenly says, as if he’s only just remembered. Is he high?

‘I don’t have a swimming costume with me. Sorry.’

‘Oh. We could skinny dip? I bet you look hotter with nothing on anyway.’ He scoots across the sofa so he’s closer to me. I scoot further away and take a long swig of wine.

‘I think I’d rather stay clothed and dry.’

His face falls in disappointment and I have a weird sensation, like I’ve kicked a puppy in the face or something.

‘How about some music?’

‘Sure.’

He grabs one remote from a pile of about twenty and starts jabbing at the buttons. The TV comes on.

Loudly.

We both jump and Raphe laughs nervously as he stares at the remote in confusion.

‘Sorry!’ he shouts over Charlotte Crosby, who is shouting at another drunk Geordie. ‘I thought this was the stereo!’

‘It’s not!’

‘No! I can’t turn it down though.’ He looks back at the remote, perplexed. I guess footballers aren’t known for their brains.

‘Give it here.’ I snatch the remote from him and turn the TV off. ‘Jesus Christ. My ears. You really shouldn’t be listening to it that loud. It’s not good for you. You’ll get tinnitus or something.’

Raphe picks another remote from the collection and presses a couple of buttons. He’s hit the jackpot this time as the lights dim and some R&B music, which sounds like it’s probably from a playlist called Now That’s What I Call Date Rape, starts up softly. ‘There we go.’ He looks extremely pleased with himself. I guess this is what happens when people tell you you’re amazing and throw money at you. ‘Let me get you some Champagne. You’ll love it. It’s really good stuff.’