down but didn't want to risk missing the flight back to London.
"I still don't understand what the big panic is." Rory's voice croaked from the punishment of the previous night's debauchery.
"You can't keep these people waiting, Rory. When a slot comes up in their schedule, you have to jump at it. Your book's in everybody's mind this week. Next week they'll have wrung it out."
"But I have commitments here."
"Nothing that can't be postponed. You've done the important ones, anyway. It's forgetting where you came from that's the cardinal sin. After the school visits the corporate events don't really matter."
"They were paying gigs, though."
"Oh, please, Rory. Peanuts compared to what this crowd can bring in for you."
"But you've always handled my sponsorship deals. Won't you be out of pocket if this thing goes through?"
"I still get a cut of what they make for you, and believe me; it'll be a lot more than I could ever pull in. No, unless you want to end up doing ads for crisps, this is the agency you want on your side. They've the contacts to land you your own clothing line."
Rory opened his window, hawked and spat a gob that got whipped away in the slipstream. "Fashion shows, though? Wouldn't that be a bit gay?"
Typical footballer bullshit. Lydia never met a client she didn't want to strangle at some point in their dealings.
"You'll not be expected to sit by the catwalk. It's just your name, Rory. Come on, is it fair that it's always the United boys that get these gigs? Think of the pride you'll bring to the City of Manchester when you top the biggest transfer deal in Premiership history with the biggest sponsorship deal. The fans will think the sun shines out your arse."
"They don't care about that shite. It's how many goals I score that'll matter."
"Football's not that simple anymore. Everything matters. And the more popular you get, on and off the pitch, the bigger the bargaining chip you arm me with next time your contract is up for renewal."
"I've only just signed this one."
"And you pay me to think of the next one."
Rory fiddled with the rear passenger air vent in the car's door pillar. To Lydia's relief, he'd asked enough questions and his interest was spent. He fished a can of Red Bull out of his hand luggage and cracked it open. His face crimped as he took his first sip.
"Ah, Jesus. This tastes like there's vodka in it."
"Must have been a heavy night."
"Ugh. I don't want to talk about it yet."
They made it to George Best Belfast City Airport in record time. The driver jumped out and snagged a luggage trolley. He trundled it back to them, his face blank and joyless as he went through the motions of a well polished routine. Rory stood at the side of the car with a wheelie case and a rucksack. Lydia had a light overnight bag slung over her shoulder. The driver offered them the trolley.
"I think we've got it covered," Lydia said. "Thanks anyway."
The driver grunted and left the trolley at the kerbside. Rory intercepted him on his way to the car.
"Hold up, mate." He rummaged in his hip pocket and pulled out a twenty pound note. "Here you go."
"Cheers."
"No worries, but put that trolley back where you got it, will you? I hate to see them lying about."
The driver made a face, looked at the crisp note in his hand and then shrugged. "Certainly, sir."
Rory snapped up his shirt cuff and checked the time on his chunky blinged-out timepiece. Mid-morning light glinted off platinum and ice. "We've twenty minutes to get checked in. Fancy a bit of breakfast?"
"After we get through security. It'll be more relaxing."
He crossed his eyes and smirked. "You're such a geek."
"No. I'm organised."
The early morning commute rush was over and the hangar-sized terminal building exuded an eerie calm. A handful of tardy business types rustled newspapers and periodically glanced at the flight schedule monitors dotted about the waiting areas. Lydia was overly aware of the echoed clip-clop from her heels as they marched