Page 6 of One Summer Weekend
An unfortunate juxtaposition, as though – in his sordid little mind, at any rate – one thing would inevitably lead to the other. Deliberately done, of course, to undermine my professional approach. ‘Yes, the twenty-first of June is certainly a date according to my calendar. And no thanks, I’ll make my own hotel arrangements—’
He cutin with, ‘Is Thursday the twenty-first? How the hell—?’ A moment’s hesitation before he rushed on, his voice low and charged with anger, as if reprimanding himself. ‘I was going to have the day off and get Betsy to move the meeting to the following week … Serves me right for not checking … Too bloody late now!’
I tried to make sense of this sudden confession – and failed. ‘Is there a problemwith that date?’
A distinctly audible release of breath. ‘Only that it’s my father’s sixty-fifth birthday – at least, it would have been if he was still here. He should have been celebrating his retirement, but instead …’ He stopped, as if lost in his own thoughts.
‘Instead?’ I prompted. Nothing more than professional curiosity: if whatever had happened to his father was affectinghis work performance, we would need to deal with it.
‘Forget it,’ he said, brusquely.
I waited, but he obviously felt he’d shared enough. We ended the call with a tentative agreement to talk again – once he’d had a chance to look at the documents and fix up the customer visit. Then I sent him our standard email with the Leo Components files attached, and stored his number in my phonecontacts. Not because I envisaged dialling it frequently, if at all; more so that I could identify whenhewas ringingme– and let it go to voicemail. Here was a man who’d perfected point scoring to the level of an Olympic sport, and I’d need time to prepare for even the simplest conversation.
In fact, for our first session I decided I’d travel to Lancashire by train on the Wednesday andhave an extra night at High Stone Hall, the luxury hotel and spa I’d located. That way, I’d be physically and mentally fresh for whatever games he decided to play next.
As I walked to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, something from my earlier conversation with Stuart niggled. ‘You were gunning for the guy before you even met him.’
If that was true, I had my reasons. The broodinggood looks, the maverick style, the playboy reputation – Jack Smith could have been Troy RandallTravers’ younger brother.
Troy Randall Travers: a chapter of my life I thought I’d ripped out of the book and thrown away. But then … wasn’t this going to be a coaching journey for me, too?
