It was five past four in the afternoon. Lizzie and Grace were round at Lizzie’s mum’s in North End and the game had just started. Yesterday’s Premiership results had confirmed certain relegation for Pompey, but today’s semi-final in the Wembley sunshine gave them a chance to salvage a little pride from the wreckage of a disastrous season. It was Winter at the door. Suttle stared at him. This broke every rule in the book. ‘You’re out of your head coming round here.’ He hustled Winter inside. ‘I thought we had an agreement?’ ‘We did, son. You lot broke it.’ He followed Suttle through to the living room and made himself at home on the sofa. ‘You’re staying?’ ‘I’ve come for the match.’ Winter beamed. ‘And the company.’ ‘You want tea?’ ‘No, thanks.’ He nodded at the bottle of Stella beside Suttle’s chair. ‘One of those might be nice.’ Suttle left, returning in moments with another Stella. At Wembley the crowd were roaring on a Spurs attack.
