It got loud by Sunday morning.
The first call came at half past eight. I was still in bed, Emma's arm across my chest, the room full of the soft grey light of a London June morning. Freedman's name appeared on my screen and I answered it before it buzzed a second time.
No hello, no preamble. Galatasaray were in for Cabaye, he said. They wanted him badly. He could get five million, maybe five-five if he played hardball. I told him five was fine and to get it done.
Emma stirred and asked who it was. I told her it was work. She pulled the pillow over her head. I lay there for a moment after the call ended, looking at the ceiling. I thought about Yohan Cabaye. Thirty-one years old, former PSG, former Newcastle, French international, nine goals last season. A good player. A professional.
