At half-time, my friend Steve got talking to the couple sitting next to us. We four were sharing a table at the Laurent Perrier lounge at Wembley Stadium, a light-filled, open bar that feels like the parts of Heathrow Airport that get you hyped up to travel (Bloody Marys at Spuntino) rather than those that plunge you sordidly into a state of distress (any chaotic Spoons).
Both were impeccably dressed — estate agent chic, I’d say, though more Mayfair independent than Clapham Foxton’s — and fairly quiet, even after a few glasses of vintage Champagne. Clearly both were big football fans, especially her: this was the FA cup final just gone, United against City, and when the red side of Manchester scored two in the first half, she was ecstatic.
