by Sam Anthony
“I can relate to that; white pubes in abundance. What about you, Serena?”
Serena winked. “What’s a pube?”
“God, I can see why everyone hates you. Tell us about Eric, then. Who does he hate?”
“I wouldn’t say he hates anyone specific, but he does get very annoyed by people who confuse ‘their’, ‘there’ and ‘they’re’, and people who keep red wine in the fridge.”
Mia raised her eyebrows. “That just sounds like intellectual snobbery to me. Does anyone hate him?”
“Five people that I’m aware of. Eric is reluctant to discuss his life before we met, but I’m pretty sure his ex-wife and three kids all hate him. I say kids, they must all be adults now, but in the ten years we’ve been together, there’s been no communication between them at all.”
“Not even at Christmas?”
“No, nothing. Who doesn’t get in touch with their family at Christmas?”
“How weird,” said Fiona. “I can’t imagine not spending Christmas day with Ava and my parents, even though my mum drives me up the wall.”
Ever the mathematician, Mia said, “That’s four people who hate Eric. Who’s the fifth?”
Serena leaned forward. “Five or six years ago, Eric was operating on a woman in her forties, like you guys.”
Fiona and Mia gave each other a look that said, ‘She has to rub it in, doesn’t she?’
“It was just a simple angioplasty, but the unfortunate woman had an allergic reaction to the anaesthesia and, despite Eric’s best efforts, she died on the table. Eric had made the mistake of assuring the woman’s husband beforehand that all would be fine, and it should have been, but the poor chap was devastated when he learned he’d lost his wife. He blamed Eric, even though it wasn’t his fault. The man sued the hospital and the whole thing was settled out of court, but Eric still gets letters every year on the woman’s birthday from the grieving widower. Nasty, threatening letters. It’s all very unpleasant.”
“That’s so sad,” said Fiona. “It makes me want to drown my sorrows in alcohol.” She held out her glass to Serena. “Still your round, I believe.”
“Can you get them, Fi? I’ll give you the money. I can’t face those perky breasts again. It’s too depressing. God, I hate her.”
Chapter 48
Sunday 9 November, 2003
McDougal living room, 8:55 a.m.
“Is everyone ready?”
They nodded.
“Are you all wearing your lucky underwear?”
Steve and Ollie nodded, Serena didn’t.
“Serena?”
“Mmm?”
“Have you got your lucky knickers on? The same ones you wore last week?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, this is important. Everything has got to be the same if our luck is to hold. This is the Quarter Finals. If we don’t beat Wales, we’re out.”
“He’s right, Serena,” said Steve.
“It’s true,” said Ollie, nodding again.
“I can’t believe we’re sitting here on a Sunday morning discussing my underwear. Please, can I just go back to bed?”
“No, we need you. Your country needs you. Now, answer the question.”
Serena sighed. “Yes. I’m wearing the same knickers.”
“Have you washed them?”
“No, as instructed.”
“Prove it,” said Ollie.
“What?”
“I’m kidding. We trust you, don’t we, guys?”
“I do,” said Steve.
Eric wasn’t so sure. “You realise how important this is, don’t you, babe?”
“I’m wearing the same fucking knickers, okay! Complete with urine stains and crusty vaginal discharge in the gusset.”
Ollie’s eyes widened.
Steve retched.
Eric’s jaw dropped, and he said, “Jesus, that’s way too much information!”
“Well, you brought it up. I really can’t understand how the contents of my knickers will affect Johnny Wilkinson’s kicking accuracy.”
“If you were a guy you’d understand, but it’s too complicated to explain to a woman, and it’s nearly time for kick-off. Everyone back into the same seats as last week. Ollie, cross your legs the other way. That’s it. Steve, take your shoes off and put them under the chair. Stumpy, sit. Good boy. Okay, I think we’re all ready.”
◆◆◆
As the whistle blew for half-time, it was greeted in the McDougal house by stunned silence.
Ollie was the first to recover the use of his tongue. “What are we doing wrong? How on earth can we be losing 10-3 at half-time. To Wales!” He paused. “Wales!”
“It’s simple,” said Steve with a frown. “They’ve scored two tries and we haven’t scored any.”
Eric was ashen. “Coffee, please, babe. Exactly the same as last week: white with two sugars for Steve, black no sugar for Ollie, and the usual for me.”
“Old usual or current usual? You’re off cream and sugar, remember? For your …” she nodded at his groin “… you know what.”
“However I had it last week,” Eric snapped. “And hurry up.”
“Please, my darling.”
“Please, my darling,” he echoed.
Steve, Eric and Ollie analysed the key flaws in the England game thus far: the lack of pace in attack, the failure to commit enough players to the breakdown, the inconsistency of the line-out. Anyone eavesdropping would think they had been coaching the sport professionally for decades, when in fact, none of them had even stepped foot on a rugby pitch since their schooldays.
“I’ll give Serena a hand in the kitchen,” said Ollie, leaving Steve and Eric to discuss the finer points of scrummaging.
◆◆◆
“Tonight? I’m gagging for it,” Ollie whispered as he handed Serena the Jaffa Cakes.
“Have you seen the weather forecast?”
“No, why?”
“There’s going to be a frost.”
“So?”
“So there’s no way I’m dropping my trousers tonight up on that hill. How would I explain frost bite on my perfectly toned buttocks?”
“Mutual masturbation, then? We can still get each other off with our clothes on. I need an orgasm.”
“Have you considered asking your wife?”
“It’s Sunday. Mia is always too stressed about school on Sundays. Please, Serena. You just need to unzip your trousers and I’ll do the rest.”
“Thanks for the offer, but your freezing fingers on a windy hill can’t compete with my vibrator in a warm, cosy bed.”
“Spoilsport!”
“Sorry, mate, but I’m perfectly satisfied in the orgasm department, it’s the rock-hard-cock-inside-me department where I’m lacking. If you can’t provide that, you’re useless to me.”
“But I’ve got one right here.” Ollie rearranged himself in his jeans. He looked crestfallen. Like a young boy who’s not allowed to watch Thomas the Tank Engine because it’s time for his tea.
Eventually Serena took pity on him. “I’ll tell you what; if we win the rugby, I’ll suck you off later. You can pay me back when the weather improves. How about that?”
Ollie’s face lit up. Like a young boy who’s allowed to have his tea in front of the telly.
“Really?”
“Yeah, why not? Just make sure you get it all in my mouth.”
“You are the best!”
“I know.”
As Serena picked up the tray, Ollie said, “Why is Stumpy looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“As if he disapproves of me.”
“He probably does. He’s a very wise dog is Stumpy.”
“I don’t like it. He’s making me feel guilty.”
“You should feel guilty. We both should.”
Exiting the kitchen, Ollie hissed, “What if we lose?”
“You’d better pray we don’t.”
◆◆◆
As the second half com
menced, three men sat on the edge of their seats, chewing fingernails, mopping foreheads.
“I don’t understand,” said Eric. “We’re doing everything the same as before. Why isn’t it working? Steve, how many Jaffa Cakes did you have?”
“Three, mate, the same as last time.”
“Serena, is this the same brand of coffee?”
“Yes, it’s the same as we always have.”
“It just doesn’t make sense.”
The minutes ticked on.
Eric tried sitting back in his chair. “This is shit! Sorry, Fi.”
“She’s not here.”
“Oh, yeah. This is fucking shit! We’re only thirty-seven minutes way from being knocked out of the World Cup by bloody Wales. Unless … go, Jase … go, Jase … go, Jase … Yessssss! Jason Robinson, you beauty.”
“That’s a bit gay, darling. Are you bewitched by his eyes too?”
“No, his twinkling feet. Did you see that? He must have covered sixty metres and run through almost the entire Welsh team. What an absolute legend! Now, nobody move.”
“Can I just pop to the loo?” said Serena.
“No!” replied three aggressive voices.
The minutes ticked on.
Gradually, Eric’s heart rate descended from 165 beats per minute to 113. “This is more like it. 19-10. We’re building a small lead thanks to the magic boots of Johnny Wilkinson.”
“I’m starting to worry about you, babe. It’s possible you may be suffering from podophilia.”
“What’s that?” said Steve.
“Foot fetishism. Why else would he be so engrossed with Jason Robinson’s twinkling feet and Johnny Wilkinson’s magic boots?”
“Is she right, mate? Have you got some kinky foot obsession?” said Ollie laughing.
“Not men’s feet. Men’s feet are disgusting.”
◆◆◆
Johnny Wilkinson sealed the 28-17 victory with a magnificent drop-goal, and the men roared in celebration.
“What a kick! That guy is going to win us the World Cup.”
“Yeah, but it’s easy when England have an unassailable lead. Can he do it under pressure?”
“Time will tell. Well done, everyone. You all did a great job,” said Eric. “You too, babe.”
“Thanks.” Serena yawned. “When’s the next game?”
“Next Sunday morning against France. It should be a cracker. The two top European teams going head-to-head. And then, in the evening, England are playing Denmark at football. What a day for English sport.”
Serena yawned again. “Can I go back to bed now?”
“Of course. Don’t forget to put your clothes somewhere safe ready for next week. Do not wash them.”
“Bloody hell!”
“It’s important. We’re only two games away from winning the whole World Cup.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
◆◆◆
That night, Serena returned from walking Stumpy in a particularly frisky mood.
Eric was reading in the bath. “Cold out there?”
“It’s bloody freezing. I’m glad I wore lots of layers.” She took off her coat.
“You’ve got something sticky on your scarf.”
“Shit!” She unwound it and thrust it under the sink tap.
“What is it, bird poo?”
“Yeah, probably.” She gave it a good rinse and hung it on the radiator. “Is there room in there for me? I can’t stop shivering.”
“I reckon I can probably squeeze you in.”
Serena stripped and stepped gingerly into the scalding water. “Fuck, that’s hot!”
“It certainly is. Wait, were you referring to the water or your gorgeous body?”
“Ahhh, you say the sweetest things.” She lowered herself into the water inch by inch until she was ensconced between Eric’s thighs, facing him. “As a reward for your generous compliment, I shall let you suck my toes. I know how much feet turn you on.” She giggled.
“Your wish is my command,” said Eric, sucking a perfectly pedicured big toe deep into his mouth. “Am I doing it right?”
Serena squirmed. “It tickles.”
“Should I stop?”
“No. Do the next toe. How is it for you?”
“Surprisingly pleasant. I’m beginning to realise why you ladies enjoy sucking things.”
“Things?”
“Cocks.”
“Kind of fun, isn’t it? Would you like me to suck yours?”
“You can try. I can’t promise I’ll get hard.”
Some manoeuvering and splashing ensued until Serena was in a suitable position, but her subsequent oral ministrations failed to produce the desired effect.
Eric couldn’t fault his wife for effort; she was really going for it. He was trying his best too; allowing his mind to roam freely through thoughts that had aroused him in the past. Dark, twisted, socially unacceptable thoughts he was ashamed of. It was no wonder he couldn’t relax.
Serena raised her head. “Would it help if I was to stick my finger up your arse, Daddy?”
Eric went rigid. Everywhere except where it mattered. “What did you call me?”
“Daddy.”
“Why the fuck would you call me that?”
“I thought you might like it. There’s no need to yell at me. Isn’t the whole reason we’re doing this so that we can have a baby, and you’ll be its daddy?”
Eric exhaled. “I’m so sorry. I misunderstood. For a second there I thought you were implying that I was your daddy. I thought it was some sort of bizarre roleplaying scenario.”
Serena disentangled herself from Eric and stood, water streaming down her magnificent body. “This isn’t working. I’m getting out.”
Eric swallowed. “Of our relationship?”
“No, dummy! Out of the bath.”
“Don’t do that. You stay. You need to warm up. I’ll get out.” He stood, stepped onto the bath mat, and began to towel himself dry. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A glass of wine?”
“We’re not drinking alcohol, remember; although I’m sorely tempted. A cup of tea would be nice, though.”
“Coming right up.”
“And can you bring my vibrator? The waterproof one.”
Eric felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, once again failing to satisfy his wife, but he complied.
◆◆◆
Twenty minutes later, as Eric lay in bed, trying and failing to fall asleep, he heard increasingly choppy bathwater in the adjoining room. He heard lusty moans rising in volume and frequency. And then he heard Serena cry out in ecstasy, “Go, Jase … go, Jase … go, Jase … Yessssss! Jason Robinson, you beauty.”
The water stilled and there was silence as Eric wiped a tear onto his pillow.
Chapter 49
Monday 10 November, 2003
O’Connor bedroom, 10:25 p.m.
Fiona was brushing her hair in front of the mirror. “Do you think Ava enjoyed herself today?”
“Of course.”
“It was such a shame to see her working so hard on her birthday. That school puts too much pressure on these kids. She’s only in year ten.”
“Yeah. It’s unfortunate that her coursework is due in tomorrow. Just bad timing, I guess. But it’s not like Ava to leave it to the last minute.”
“You know what she’s like. Everything has to be perfect.”
“That’s true.” Steve picked up his book. “You won again, by the way.”
“Won what?” said Fiona as she climbed into bed with all the elegance of a bull elephant seal (Mirounga leonina) surmounting a particularly slippery rock.
“The best birthday present competition.”
“Nonsense. Ava was over the moon with your gift. I wish someone had bought me the complete works of Agatha Christie when I turned fifteen. She’s going to get years of pleasure out of reading all those books.”
“I doubt that. She’s going to be too busy playing on her snazzy new mobile phone to do any read
ing. I thought you said she was too young to have a phone of her own. What changed your mind?”
“We couldn’t put it off any longer, Steve. All her friends have got them now. It wouldn’t be fair if she was the only girl in the school without one. And, besides, now she’ll be able to text me every half an hour when she goes to parties, so I know she’s okay.”
Steve sighed. “So this is just to help you spy on her?”
“No, it’s to help us keep in touch with her when she’s out.”
“I see.” Steve put down his book, picked up his phone, and tapped a few buttons. “Is hers better than this one?”
“It’s the same. A Nokia 1100. She can’t do much with it other than make calls, send text messages and play snake.”
“Good.”
Grinning slyly to himself, Steve tapped a few more buttons, and then stared at his phone as if expecting it to do something. Seconds later it did do something. It rang.
Doodle-oo-do, Doodle-oo-do, Doodle-oo-do-do.
“I’d better take this,” said Steve. “Hello?” He listened. “What! Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right there.”
He leapt out of bed like a gazelle (Eudorcas thomsonii) being chased by a cheetah (Acinonix jubatus) on the African savanna. He snatched up his clothes and sprinted down the stairs three at a time, responding belatedly to Fiona’s plaintive “Who was it?” with a distant “Don’t wait up.”
◆◆◆
Ava heard her father thump thump thump down the stairs. Minutes later she heard the front door slam. She was in bed, hiding entirely beneath the duvet in case her mother made another late night inspection and caught her with her new phone.
This was it: her first ever text message. Who should it be to?
Drew? No. Even if she was brave enough, which she wasn’t, she didn’t have his number.
Her father? No. He’d be driving his van, en route to the latest electrical emergency.
Jemima? Yes. Her best friend. Her best friend who, for some unknown reason, had been offish for the last few days. Inexplicably distant.