‘What?’
She looked embarrassed. ‘I thought for once I’d rather go with you than go with Guy.’ She smiled shyly at me. She ran her hands through her chestnut hair. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing.’ Then she smiled again. ‘But it feels right.’
‘I think it is right,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell him tomorrow.’
‘You haven’t told him yet?’
‘No. He left early. I only really decided on my way home. So I came here instead.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
We sat in silence, drinking our wine.
‘Some more?’ I asked her.
‘Sure.’ She held out her glass and I refilled it. ‘You know, I’m not sure Ninetyminutes ever could have worked.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Guy got pretty close to achieving his aim, didn’t he? A few more months of growth and Ninetyminutes will be the number-one soccer site in Europe. Most people know the brand name now. Lots of people want to buy the clothing and the merchandise.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is we haven’t got any cash and we aren’t likely to make any any time soon.’
‘Precisely,’ Ingrid said. ‘And that matters. Now. It didn’t seem to matter a year ago. A year ago the Internet was a gold rush, a land grab. Once you’d got the eyeballs gawping at your site, the money would roll in. Advertising, e-commerce, no one knew exactly how it would happen, they just knew it would happen. If Ninetyminutes had reached the stage we’re at now a year ago, we’d all be worth tens of millions.’
‘That’s true.’
‘But the world’s changed. It turns out the Internet is a lousy way to make money. People expect it to be free. People expect to buy goods over the Internet more cheaply than in the shops. Advertisers want tangible results and don’t have bottomless budgets for an unproven medium. There’s just not that much money in it. So Ninetyminutes is worth virtually nothing. That’s what Guy doesn’t understand.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying we did succeed in what we set out to do. It just didn’t make us the millions we thought it would. I suppose if we’d been really smart we’d have realized that at the time. What you’ve done is realize it now. But I think we should be proud of all we’ve achieved. All of us: you, me, Guy, Amy, Gaz, everybody. It’s not really our fault the numbers don’t stack up.’
I saw what she meant. Looked at her way, it hadn’t been a waste of time. It hadn’t been a disaster at all.
Ingrid picked up her glass. ‘To Ninetyminutes.’
‘To Ninetyminutes.’
We both drank.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Ingrid asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve got my savings in Ninetyminutes, So has my father. I really don’t want to see it all pissed away.’
‘It’s not just the money that worries you, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean Guy.’
‘You’re right. It is Guy.’ I tried to explain. ‘When Guy showed me his vision for Ninetyminutes he was showing me not just a good job or a good investment, but a new life. A life that I had always wanted but had been too scared to go for. He talked about creating something new and exciting, taking risks, breaking the rules, building the new economy. He inspired me. He made me believe I could become a new person. And then... and then he let me down.’
‘But we just said it wasn’t his fault that Ninetyminutes is going under.’
‘It’s not that. In fact, if Guy and I had led Ninetyminutes to a glorious end together, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Sure, I’d have lost some money, and it would have been a disaster for my father, but I would have felt I’d achieved something. Become a better person, a different person. As it is...’
‘As it is, what? I don’t understand.’
I looked at Ingrid. My promises to Guy meant nothing any more. ‘There’s some stuff about Guy you don’t know.’
I told her all about Owen and Dominique and Abdulatif and Guy’s efforts to cover everything up. And I told her that I still didn’t know whether Guy had murdered Tony.
She listened closely, at first with disbelief, then amazement, then anxiety.
‘So you see I have no idea who Guy is,’ I said at the end. ‘I know he’s a liar. I know his brother kills people. But I don’t know whether Guy kills people too. I don’t know whether the only reason Ninetyminutes has lasted this long is because Guy killed his father.’
Ingrid sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘You might be right about Owen, but Guy?’
‘I know. That’s what I thought. But he’s an actor. A good one. And when he’s in a tight spot over his brother or Ninetyminutes, who knows what he might do?’
‘God.’ Ingrid shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘I need to know. About Guy. What kind of person he is. Whether what I’ve been doing for the last year means anything.’
‘So what do we do? We can’t just walk away.’
‘You can,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’d recommend it.’
‘I’m not going to,’ Ingrid said. ‘We’ll sort this out together.’
My emotions had been in turmoil for weeks: hope, despair, anger, frustration. For weeks I had been at war with these feelings, trying to control them, trying to control Ninetyminutes. I had fought this war alone. I had thought I had lost, but now Ingrid was with me perhaps I could win after all. We gave each other comfort, strength and, in an as yet undefined way, hope.
We went out to a small Italian restaurant round the corner for dinner. We drank more wine. We discussed what we could do to rescue Ninetyminutes and find out about Guy once and for all. But as the evening wore on we talked about other things, about each other and about life outside Ninetyminutes.
As we left the restaurant, Ingrid linked her arm in mine. ‘Do you mind if I come back with you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d like that. I’d like that very much.’
37
I awoke to the sensation of a hand stroking my thigh. It was six thirty. Ingrid was lying next to me in my bed, and I didn’t have a job to go to.
I rolled over. The sunshine poured in through my bedroom’s puny curtains, painting stripes of pale gold on to Ingrid’s skin. She was definitely one of those women who looked better the morning after.
‘Good morning,’ she said, with a languid smile.
‘Good morning.’
Her hand moved upwards.
Half an hour later I went through to the kitchen to make some coffee. By this time I would usually be in the shower. But not today.
‘Are you going straight in to Ninetyminutes?’ I asked, carrying two mugs back to the bedroom.
‘There’s no hurry. Guy’s always late these days. And besides, I quite like it here.’ She took her mug and sat up in bed. She tasted the coffee and pulled a face. ‘Yuk! That’s disgusting. If I’m going to come here again, you’re going to have to get some decent coffee.’
‘What do you mean? It is decent coffee.’
‘It’s crap. I’m Brazilian. I know.’
‘I knew I should have made tea,’ I muttered.
Despite her grumbling, Ingrid took another sip. ‘What are you going to do today?’
What was I going to do? It was tempting to spend my first day of freedom from Ninetyminutes in bed with Ingrid. But I couldn’t.