Monday
“Explain the problem,” I say to the emergency publicist, “in golf terms.”
“Seriously?” says the publicist.
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My wife rolls her eyes. That’s the only way I’ll understand, she explains. Apparently I’m good on golf, but easily confused on everything else. “Is that why,” says the publicist, “you are standing over him with that 9-iron? Which you are holding much like Conan the Barbarian held his sword?”
Partly, says my wife.
“Right,” he says, nervously licking his lips, as if noticing for the first time that the walls are covered in pennants, clubs and trophies, and that the carpet is green with a hole in the middle. And a flag.
He’s been sent over by my management, who are worried about my sponsorship. We haven’t met before. “Actually,” he says, eventually. “I’m not sure I can.”
Elin studies her nails. Perhaps, she suggests, coolly, he could start by pointing out that golfers can get into trouble if they can’t control their balls. And that somebody who aimed for the wrong hole should be thrown into the water hazard, pulled out, stamped on by somebody wearing spikes and then run over again and again and again by a buggy.
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“I’m kinda lost,” I say.
“Seriously?” says the publicist.
Tuesday
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Still under emergency domestic lockdown. I’m on the bunker-shaped sofa playing Tiger Woods™ PGA Tour on my Xbox. Not easy. It’s like, I’m Tiger, but the little dude up there is Tiger, too. It’s totally confusing.
My wife has been practising her own swing in the kitchen, using our wedding crockery instead of a ball. Once, she tells the publicist, I was interesting and clever. But for the past ten years, golf, golf, golf. I want new clothes? Nike makes me golf clothes. A new watch? Tag Heuer makes a golf watch.
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“A golf watch!” she shouts at me. “What does it even mean?”
Don’t knock the watch, I tell her, furiously. That watch weighs almost nothing. That watch has made me the player I am. Elin grabs it from my wrist, puts it on and storms off back into the kitchen. After another eight minutes of crashing, she says it doesn’t make any difference at all.
Wednesday
None of the sponsors has pulled out yet, but my management is still worried. One problem, explains the publicist, slowly, is that when Elin smashed the back window of my car the other night, she used a golf club. That means that, whenever people now see me with one, they’re going to be thinking of the wrong thing.
“Bummer,” I say, taking a swig from my Tiger Woods™ Gatorade. “Because I use a golf club all the time!��
“Jesus,” says the publicist, and goes for a lie-down. Elin isn’t around. Eventually I find her in the bedroom, investigating what sort of grip my Tiger Woods™ Nike Golf Spikes have on my suits. “I should go,” I say. “You just forget all about me for a few days.”
Elin looks at our Tiger Woods™ bedspread. And our Tiger Woods™ wallpaper. Then she falls silent, as we listen to the Tiger Woods™ Clock on the bedside table, which has club hands coming out of my nose. “That’s not going to work,” she says eventually.
“Even if you don’t watch the news?” I suggest.
Thursday
Still playing PGA Tour. Still not great at it. My wife has spent the morning seeing how resistant my golf watch is to a 9-iron and a marble kitchen top. Turns out not very. Personally, I’d try a wood.
“OK,” says the publicist. “So, it’s time to put out a statement. Regret, family, apologies, all that. Otherwise these claims will keep coming from all these women you met in clubs.”
“Golf clubs?” I say, looking up.
Elin stares at me. Nightclubs, she says. “Clubs you use at night?” I say.
Elin says we need to talk about our prenup.
Friday
“Great news!” says the publicist.
He made some calls last night. No sponsors are abandoning me and, better still, it turns out that Nike is actually really keen on the idea of Tiger Woods™ nightclubs. With lasers, maybe, or just a very strong bulb. Just as long as they mean you can hit whatever you are aiming at, even in limited light.
“Sounds good,” says Elin, and wonders how soon they can send over a prototype. Maybe this evening, she suggests. Around dusk.
*According to Hugo Rifkind