who continued to venture towards them, ignoring the sarcasm. She couldn’t meet anyone’s eye.
‘You getting the beers in?’ she asked. Her approach, she had decided, was to be bold – not laddish; she didn’t want to try and emulate the deputy editor – she just wanted to make it known that she too could drink beer and enjoy a game of football like the rest of them.
‘What’re you drinking?’ asked Derek, reluctantly. There was a spot of beer froth on the tip of his goatee.
‘Pint of Grolsch, please.’
Derek raised his eyebrows at the nearest team members, who responded with looks of amusement.
Alexa grabbed her lager and tried to retreat to the edge of the group, but Derek reached out and nudged her elbow with just enough force to spill her beer.
‘Have to say,’ he announced, competing with the TV for volume, ‘I didn’t think I’d see you here, Ms Long!’
Alexa turned to him, frowning. ‘Ms—’
‘Oi, Derek!’ Marcus yelled from the group nearest the screen. ‘You ain’t got Lewis!’
‘Don’t need ’im to beat a bunch a poofters like you!’
Alexa pretended to find the exchange amusing. In fact, she felt mildly repulsed by the way men turned into inarticulate, fist-waving tribesmen the moment a competitive game came on. She wondered whether Matt was the same when he got with his rugby mates.
‘Won’t ’ave ’im for a while, most likely,’ muttered Derek, wiping a bare arm across his mouth and removing the beer foam. ‘Be partying too bloody hard, after the boost we gave ’im.’ He laughed.
Alexa realised that in the din, she was probably the only person who could hear him. She wondered whether he might be making conversation.
‘Ricky Lewis?’ she clarified.
Derek looked at her. In an instant, Alexa realised that she had been mistaken. Derek’s face was a picture of contempt.
‘Yeah,’ he sneered. ‘You know? As in, the subject of a four-page spread in our magazine this week?’ He rolled his eyes and strutted off towards the front of the group, where Marcus and other disciples were standing, bellowing at the screen.
Alexa fought back the tears of humiliation. She knew that Derek felt threatened – that they all did. They thought she was after their jobs. The irony was that she was here to save their jobs, not to steal them, but she had no way of telling them this. They had no idea how close they had already come to losing their livelihoods. Alexa could see why Peterson had kept the Americans’ threats from the team; he knew as well as she did that fragile egos did not cope well under stress and that Banter would quickly collapse if news of the plans to fold leaked out. She couldn’t, therefore, expect everyone to understand why she was there. But still . . . couldn’t they see she was trying?
Having fought her way into the thick of the group, Alexa suddenly found herself standing by the bar, alone. One by one, her colleagues had pushed forward towards the screen, turning their backs on her. At first, Alexa had surged forward with them, but she couldn’t help feeling that the further she pushed, the further they pushed, so that she was always left at the back.
She pretended to watch the game, forcing her face into various expressions as a player on either team made a run for the goal, occasionally joining in with the cries of exasperation as the shot went wide or the keeper made a save. She gulped down her beer, taking refuge in its cold, bitter taste and its mildly numbing effect. It was only her sense of self-preservation that was stopping the tears from flowing.
Alexa stood, her eyes blindly following the movements on the pitch, too scared to blink in case a tear leaked out. What had she expected? That she could win them over by turning up to a football match and drinking pints? That Derek’s followers would suddenly start listening to a young female management consultant who had worked in magazines for all of two years? Alexa tipped back another slug of lager, slowly coming to the conclusion that there was no point in her being here. Expecting to command respect by coming over all laddish was no better than turning up in a low-cut top, Sienna-style, and joining in with the banter. Sienna wasn’t a respected member of the team and nor was she. As a woman, was it even possible to command respect in an environment like Banter’s? She drained her glass and took a step back, planning her exit. If she waited for half-time, Derek would almost certainly draw attention to her disappearance, but if she sloped off now then he’d do so behind her back, which was probably worse. Alexa stared at the referee, willing him to blow the whistle for half-time and wishing she were back at her flat, with Matt.
‘Who d’you support?’
She looked round, still wearing her vague, open-mouthed expression from some player’s attempt at goal. She shut her mouth and returned Riz’s smile. Then she opened it again, realising that in the whole time she had been staring at the screen, she hadn’t once thought to figure out who was playing.
‘Well . . .’ Alexa remembered her pledge to be bold and decided she had nothing to lose. ‘Do I look like a reds supporter?’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad you said that. I’m with Spurs, too. Way too many Arsenal fans in our office, if you ask me.’
Alexa laughed. She could have deduced one of the teams, she realised, from her conversation with Derek; Ricky Lewis played for Arsenal. She felt glad, somehow, that she and Derek were on different sides.
‘Get it all done?’
It took a couple of seconds for Alexa to understand the question.
‘Oh. Most of it,’ she said quickly. ‘I decided a game of football would help me think.’ She laughed unnecessarily, wishing she could learn to stop filling gaps in conversation with noise.
He nodded. ‘And the pint.’
Alexa smiled. They turned their attention back to the game – or rather, Riz did. Alexa’s eyes were focused on the screen, but her mind was still on her sports editor. She couldn’t work him out. Of all the young men in the office, Riz was the only one who spoke openly to her, like this. Neil, Jamie, Paddy and the rest – they spoke to her, but only in a professional capacity. Riz would just come up to her and ask how things were, seemingly oblivious to the sideways looks from the others. In fact, that was the strange thing: Riz’s reputation didn’t appear to be damaged by his conversations with the estranged MD. He wasn’t best buddies with Derek, but they got on well enough. Riz seemed to have a way of getting on with everybody. Alexa wished he could impart his secret to her.
‘Oh, shit.’
Alexa came to and followed Riz’s gaze. Beneath the big screen, the group of girls were finishing their drinks, putting on jackets and hugging one another. They were in blissful ignorance of the obstruction caused by their heads and limbs as they said their farewells.
Alexa watched, amused, as the expressions on the men’s faces around the bar became more and more irate. Then suddenly, a man lunged forward from the crowd.
‘Get the fuck out of the way!’ yelled the redhead, pointing at the screen with one hand and trying to force them aside with the other.
Riz groaned. Alexa closed her eyes, embarrassed and ashamed. The aggressive man was Marcus.
‘Jesus.’
