Page 4

‘I love a man who’s honest,’ she says.

Oh, yeah, we all love honesty, until it’s pointed in our direction.

‘Is he single?’ the dark-haired woman asks.

The blonde shrugs.

‘Probably not. Men like that never are,’ she replies.

Now I can’t control my smile at all, because I know that Ron isn’t single.

I know because he’s my boyfriend. And the only thing I have to smile about at the moment. Even if no one actually knows we’re together.

2

It’s hard to feel sad about losing my flat (not impossible, though, obviously) when I’m in Ron’s city-centre apartment. Boy, is it swanky.

It’s almost too swanky, to be honest with you, because whoever designed it thought more about how it would look than how it would function. Don’t get me wrong, I love all of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the fact that there are essentially no external walls, but it’s not the best for privacy, and there’s something weird about warming your knickers on the underfloor heating instead of the radiator.

It’s undeniably cool though, very bachelor chic, so high up in the sky – although Ron will insist, with faux modesty, that it isn’t the penthouse. It’s only a couple of floors lower though, so he’s definitely ‘up there’. Plus, his kitchen island is bigger than my flat’s bedroom was, so it’s hard to argue this is him being true to his working-class roots.

I’m sitting on the cream leather sofa, my legs tucked under me, watching TV, making myself at home.

I’m trying not to read too much into it, but that’s what Ron said: he told me to make myself at home, to consider this place mine. The plan is for me to stay here while I ‘figure things out’ – and I am trying to figure things out ASAP, but if the thing we eventually figure out together is me moving in here properly at some point, I can’t say I’ll be disappointed.

I know, I’m getting ahead of myself, it’s very early days, and while we might be ‘official’ we’re not ‘public’ yet – but Ron says that’s just because he’s on TV. It makes me laugh, because despite those girls perving over him in the bar, I wouldn’t call being a pundit for a sport that’s nowhere near as popular as something like football ‘being on TV’. He’s on CrashSports TV a couple of nights a week, no one is hounding him in the streets – but to be honest I’d hate it if they were. Imagine having all those eyes on you, never getting any privacy. I suppose he’s got it made, really; he has all the perks without the downside.

Still, a combination of years of playing and now talking angrily at the side of the pitch has bought him this place. There’s no playing that down.

It’s so him. So masculine. Dark wood floors, white walls, the massive cream sofa that makes me nervous every time I drink a cup of tea in the same room as it.

As for décor, he has framed black-and-white photos of Leeds landmarks on the few walls he does have – which I find hilarious, because, buddy, if you want to see them, you can look out of the windows and see them in real life. The rest of the décor – the ornaments, the knick-knacks – is all sports-based. All of it. He even has a lamp in the shape of a rugby ball that I can’t say I’m a fan of.

There are trophies too, although not many. Ron says he doesn’t like to show off, but he tells me that he was good when he played, even though his career was relatively short.

I glance over at the window and admire the city glowing against the night sky. Lights in other buildings, traffic, hotels, bars, cranes. Leeds always looks good from above.

Then I check my phone and see that it’s pushing midnight. Ron is always back late on the nights when there’s a game he’s working at. He’s been covering a game in Hull tonight. The match won’t have finished until after half nine, and then he has the usual post-match chat – the debrief, as he calls it.

Then, of course, he has to stop at Freddiez. Ron always stops at Freddiez. As burger chains go, I can’t say it’s my favourite, but it’s basically a post-game ritual for Ron. I suppose they’re always open late, and he’s always starving when he finishes work.

Sometimes I tease him about it, saying he wouldn’t even go to the games if they were at a stadium that didn’t have a Freddiez nearby. That, if he were still a player, they would definitely sponsor him.

It’s charming though, right? He doesn’t have to eat cheap burgers, but he loves them. Despite his swanky bachelor pad, there are no airs and graces about him; he knows what he likes, and he likes what he knows – like a real Yorkshireman.

On TV he’s polished, confident, smartly dressed, a nice watch on his wrist, talking confidently about something he loves. At home, with me, he’s just Ron.

I pull the blanket tighter around myself. It’s chilly tonight. I love the yo-yo weather of September though, it’s like autumn is soft-launching, easing you into it, with little pops of summer here and there. By the time the weather gets truly grim, well, all the lights and glitter of the festive season kick in, so that’s all good. Come January, I’ll be craving a holiday, though – she says, despite having no home and no job. Ha. It will be a long time before I’m sunning myself.

Oh, here I go, the little doom cloud I am. I’m so happy until I’m not. I should have gone to bed, rather than sit here stewing over things, but it’s nice to stay up and wait for Ron. Plus, I’ve got a lot to tell him this evening.

It’s a relief when I hear his keys in the door. Ron appears in the doorway, shrugging his navy coat off his broad shoulders.

He yawns dramatically – but converts it into a warm smile when he sees me.

‘Hey,’ he says, locking the door behind him. ‘I’ve told you, you don’t have to wait up, I’m a big boy.’

‘I know, but…’