THIRTY-FIVE‘No,’ Beauvoir screamed at the television. ‘Stop him. Defense, defense.’
‘Watch it, watch it.’ Beside him Robert Lemieux was twisting on the sofa, trying to check the New York Ranger who was racing down the ice at the New Forum.
‘He shoots!’ the announcer screamed. Beauvoir and Lemieux leaned forward, all but clasping hands, watching the tiny black dot on the screen shoot off the Ranger stick. Gabri was gripping his easy chair and Olivier’s hand was stopped halfway to the cheese plate.
‘He scores!’ the announcer shrieked.
‘Thomas. f*****g Thomas.’ Lemieux turned to Beauvoir. ‘They’re paying him what? Sixteen zillion a year and he can’t stop that.’ He gestured to the screen.
‘They’re only paying him about five million,’ said Gabri, his enormous fingers delicately spreading a
