His gaze locked onto mine like an electromagnet. I squirmed internally, and tried to push down a general feeling of inferiority caused by far too many instances in which he had beaten my team at football while looking prettier than me and earning more money. Breaking his eye contact was much harder than shaking his hands off me, but I did both, and walked away.
[...]
“I have more respect for Liverpool than that,” I said, and the words tasted dry and bitter in my mouth, as if I were talking through a mouthful of aspirin. “I wouldn’t leave before the end of my contract.”
[...]
I turned away quickly, reorganised my clothes to prevent hapless kitchen aides being traumatised by the sight of my backside