The pink-suited new Mrs Donohue led the way back round to the stadium, holding her bouquet aloft like a tour guide with an umbrella. The atmosphere was enormously amused. Cars kept slowing down to cheer and shout at them, and a lorry driver hauled on his horn with a great crowing laugh. Mrs Donohue Sr. needed to be supported by two of her sons, her face still shell-shocked.
“I don’t know how she didn’t realise that was going to happen,” Sue said a little prudishly, and Mike guffawed.
“I’d have been more shocked by a sodding wedding dress, personally.”
“Exactly!”
The stadium had given over the great conference rooms and boxes that looked down onto the empty pitch. By the time they gathered around circular dining tables, each named after a Sheffield Wednesday player, the grey clouds had
