December 17, 2006
West Ham United faced Manchester United at home, and shockingly, United lost. The recurring issue of a sluggish midfield flared up again, and with Claire suspended, the problem was magnified endlessly by the media. Despite United still leading the Premier League, the loss stung.
Claire sat on his couch, skimming through fan letters while watching the match. United's midfield woes were nothing new, but after his last chat with Sir Alex Ferguson, it seemed likely they'd sign a strong midfielder in the winter transfer window. Ferguson, riding high on confidence, had his sights set on a third consecutive European title.
Reading fan mail wasn't just a whim for Claire—he genuinely wanted feedback on his music and football. "Live and learn," as they say. Plus, his agent, Costa Mayor, wouldn't stop nagging whenever Claire had a moment's peace.
"You're supposed to be managing Warner Records' UK division, and yet you're here, hovering around me all day!" Claire teased.
Costa rolled his eyes, unfazed. "The boss thinks you've got huge potential. They reassigned me to focus solely on your affairs."
Claire shrugged, amused but pleased. The royalties and licensing fees for The Nights had come through—£4.9 million after taxes. For just one song! He'd heard One Day could've earned even more, but he donated it instead. It wasn't about being noble—setting up a charitable foundation in Europe or the US meant tax exemptions. Entertainment copyright taxes were brutal: 40% in the US, 35% in the UK.
Flush with cash, Claire felt more confident talking to Ogmondu Ford. But when Ford quoted $3 million for a deal, with the buyer taking on $1.7 million in liabilities, Claire hesitated. It wasn't a huge debt, but he wanted to negotiate a better price. Still, the target—a website called Coupons.com—had impressive numbers, averaging 30,000 coupon redemptions daily. Thirty thousand potential customers a day? Claire was drooling.
Suddenly, Costa let out a gasp. "Claire! You've got to see this letter!"
Snapped out of his daydreams, Claire took the envelope Costa handed him. It was plain, clearly reused, with a Mona Lisa stamp that carried a sense of history. Inside was a photo and a letter written on what looked like product packaging paper.
---
Dear Sir,
Thank you so much for the support from the One Day Foundation. Without your £1,000 donation, I wouldn't be able to afford treatment for my son.
Please forgive the simplicity of this letter. I couldn't afford proper stationery. To keep my son alive, I've spent all my savings and sold our house. I work four jobs because my son was diagnosed with a terminal illness at one and a half years old. Your £1,000 gives him another month of life.
When I learned you're not only a singer but also a footballer, I was thrilled. In times like these, it means so much that someone is helping people like us. Thank you for everything you've done for my child.
Hardship won't break me. I'll keep fighting for my son and wife. I'm sorry I can't come to Manchester to cheer you on—it's too far.
Thank you.
---
The letter was simple, written on a pharmaceutical instruction sheet. Claire googled it and realized it was for a cancer-targeted drug. His heart sank. The uneven surface of the paper bore faint marks—tears, no doubt, from a father pouring his heart out. This father hadn't given up despite his son's cancer diagnosis. Instead, he worked tirelessly to keep him alive. The reused envelope, the paper, the pen—Claire suspected they were scavenged. The ink had faded toward the end, leaving only scratches from the pen tip.
"You should go see him," Costa said, appearing at Claire's side.
Claire's attention was fixed on the vague address on the envelope. It pointed to a London slum, but finding someone in the sprawling, crowded area would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
"Have Delia check it out. The One Day Foundation always reports its activities to her," Claire said.
"On it!" Costa replied, his efficiency kicking in. He not only contacted Delia but made several cryptic calls.
The search continued until 9 p.m. Just as Claire was dozing off, Costa shouted, "We found him! He's working as a temp at a Tesco warehouse in the suburbs!"
Claire, shaking off his drowsiness, stood up. "Let's go!"
Their driver, Welch, was a pro, getting them to the Tesco warehouse on London's outskirts in just an hour and a half. He even brought two buddies for backup, knowing the suburbs could be rough at night, especially dealing with someone from the slums.
As Claire surveyed the massive warehouse, Delia arrived with a few people in tow.
---