When they climbed into the car for the hotel, they laughed. Footprints in the snow looked like witnesses to a small massacre of love, sadness, rage, anguish, and joy all mixed together.

They lit the fireplace. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped in each other, they watched the fire dance. The flames purred. Heat spread through them and pulled them toward the suite. The fire burned low. Something felt off in the bed. They fell asleep.

“Good morning, my love.” Victoria woke him with breakfast on a tray. Today is the day, she thought.

They would spend the week together. They planned to welcome the new year on the River Thames. He had rented a private boat with some dressing-room friends.

“You do not need to lie to me. I am not interested in what you do. I will always be with you,” Victoria said, surprising him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“You did not go to Barcelona after the last game in London,” she said.

He stared ahead and said nothing.

“One of my friends saw you that night. She said you kissed a redhead and walked into a building holding her. They took photos. Why did you lie?” She paused. “It’s the same redhead from the funeral who bumped into you,” she added after a longer silence.

“I do not know what you mean, Victoria. You ask too many questions at once,” he said and thought, You’ll never know we are writing Ronald’s book.

“Then answer one by one,” she said. What the hell are you hiding from me!

“First: yes, I lied and I did not go to Barcelona. Second: I stayed in a building in central London, but I cannot say why. Third: a drunk redhead recognized me because my hood had fallen off. She kissed me. I helped her into the building where she lived. Fourth: it was not the same redhead from the funeral, only similar. Fifth: I spent the night in that building on another floor. I did not sleep with her. Any other questions?”

Victoria wanted to ask about the note with the kiss, but she held back.