Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  “I did have something on. It wasn’t a lie.”

  “I see that now. You going to tell me?”

  I sigh. Then look back to Mum. She’s watching us over her shoulder, and I can tell from her face that she wants me to go.

  “It’s Dad’s birthday. We always come. Dad’s brother. Mum.”

  “I won’t stay. But call me later.”

  “Okay. Gotta go. She’s in a mood.”

  He turns. “Izzy. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It was years ago.” But my eyes are brimming with tears and I don’t ruddy know why. Probably the soft edge in Will’s voice. The fact that my ‘sex man’ has come here to my emotional no-man’s-land.

  He walks away and is gone in a matter of seconds. Shit! He followed me all the way here. He cared enough to check. I can tell by her expression that I’ve displeased Mother greatly as I head back. My dad would’ve been egging me on. I remember the way he’d cut in and put her straight. Guess the apple never falls far from the tree.

  The flowers are soon arranged and they’re a pretty display, given that I didn’t buy the priciest at the supermarket on my way over.

  We say a silent prayer then we’re heading back. Duty done.

  But I’m always struck by how far away from the real sense of Dad this place is. He was everything that was wonderful in my world. This horrible hole is a place, a dark crowded corner he’d never come to. His heart isn’t here. Nor is mine.

  “You at the game this week?” asks Cyril. “Get me a program, girl?”

  “Course,” I tell him. I always do. I’ve been bringing him programs for the last two years he’s been in the care home.

  His blue eyes are watery but still echo Dad’s ready blue gaze.

  “Go and see your aunty Doris,” he concludes. “She misses you. She’ll do you a roast, girl. You’re too thin.”

  It catches me off guard. Doris is in spirit and Alzheimer’s clouds his mind. Not knowing whether or not your loved one is dead or alive is surely the hardest curse of all.

  Then he blows me away. “Will Darby. Glad to see he’s coming around asking you for tips. Great finisher that boy. Always knew he had talent when I saw him play against us. His goals took skill and speed. You trying to get him to move to the Gunners, girl?”

  I stare at my uncle. Amid the confusion he’s right about Will, if wrong about the circumstances.

  “Will’s a friend,” I answer.

  And Uncle Cyril nods, winks and grabs my hand.

  “Good girl. Tell him to give up the women. Used to see him in the papers gallivanting with the girls. A player can go astray that way. You keep ‘im right, girl, keep ‘im right.”

  “I’ll try. And I’ll tell him you rated him as a player.”

  I’m lost in thoughts of both Will and Cyril for the rest of the way home.

  * * * *

  “Who was he, that man you were with?” Mother asks when I drop her and Cyril back at the home and we’ve settled him back in his room.

  “A guy from work. I left something when he gave me a lift.”

  I know she doesn’t believe me. But what’s the point? She wouldn’t be over-pleased with me fraternizing with ex-footballers, nor would she have a clue about his kudos, so I don’t try.

  I love her, I respect her. But I don’t connect. My mother doesn’t know me. Her heart put up a closed sign when I was four. She went to see Dad in the chapel of rest and her hugs somehow stopped feeling real. She helped me to grow. But kept her heart at a safe distance. And it’s a gap I cannot bridge.

  She’s not the only one who can play the calm outer shell game.

  “A man from work followed you all the way to the cemetery? Must be more than colleagues.”

  “Some people go the extra mile, Mum.” I turn to hold her stare and I keep my eyes on hers, even though it’s hard. Her face is firm and unflinching, her mouth the only thing that gives her away. The chink in her armor that reveals uncertainty and sometimes remorse. “If they know you need them, if they connect with what matters, people can be the saving of you. It’s about risking your heart and giving it a try.”

  I take her home.

  But she doesn’t say another word and nor do I.

  * * * *

  Will is at my front door.

  Will Darby Dark Stalker and Man Who Won’t Take A No.

  I take a deep breath in prep even though I know damn well who stands outside the frosted glass—he has a memorable head. In more ways than one. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I’ve had boyfriends with weirdly shaped heads before, so I’m a fit judge. He has two very respectable heads and I’ve had experience with both. Fortunately, the one between his legs is hidden from public view.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” His eyes dance and flicker. Inside me something ignites, but I squash it with a fire blanket of restraint.

  “I figured I’d play your card back at you.”

  “And what card is that? A big fat joker?” As you can probably tell, I’m not in jovial mood. Blame it on time spent with my mother. She often has the power to wring life out of me like a Chinese laundry tackling string vests. “I thought I was to ring you later. I haven’t had a chance.” I shrug. Shrugging is always a giveaway for acting like an arse but I’m too far gone to care.

  “No nice to see you, Will? No thanks for dropping in?” His tone is as bleak as the look he spears me with.

  “Let’s say it’s been a bad day. Come in,” I invite him but I’m already walking up the hallway.

  I don’t let him sit down and get comfy before I get right in there with the main thought that’s been on my mind. “Why did you follow me to the cemetery?”

  Will doesn’t answer. He takes off his overcoat—the same one from earlier—and carefully lays it along the back of the chair. Is he prepping an answer with such careful deliberation? I’ve never seen him act like a footman with OCD before?

  “You did.”

  “I’m not denying it. I thought you were blowing me out. When I asked to see you tonight, let’s say I got vibes and they weren’t good ones.”

  “Well, your vibes were wrong.”

  “Are you sure on that?” He sits down then stretches his long legs out. He reminds me of a movie actor—playing the teacher part in his waistcoat and shirt. But is that the real Will? Can he ever fit the teacher mold or is he football star indelibly marked? I find I’m not fit to say.

  “Since the party something’s been off with us.”

  Shit. I am so not in the mood for a Tessa talk. The Tessa talk. I still haven’t figured out how I feel about that one.

  But when I look at Will, his face has that grim cast he has when some bad shit is up and he’s trying ultra-hard inside to deal with it. Shit—that means he cares. This counts for him.

  I chew on my bottom lip, trying to work out how to proceed. But keeping quiet and working out my words in advance hasn’t done me so well so far, has it? Something inside me—gremlin revisiting the scene, most probably—makes me speak out.

  “I had a visitor. She had things to say about you. Colorful things. It’s been on my mind.”

  Will’s eyes go from pained to puzzled. There’s a healthy pinch of pique in the measure too. And pique—like paprika—is something that has impact and can’t be ignored.

  “Who, for fuck’s sake? You can’t lay that on me and not tell me who.”

  “She works for you.”

  Will ruminates. Then answers. “It can’t be Mrs. Mayer, my ironing lady, because you’ve never met her. And please don’t tell me it’s Tessa.”

  I turn my back on him and put the kettle on to boil. I’d make us toast to keep the avoidance technique up but number one, the toaster’s still fucked, and number two, I don’t think either of us is ready for egg and soldiers at present.

  Will’s behind me in a second. His fingers gently touch the tops of my arms.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “This is exactly my point. We go from totally at one
with the vibe to distance and don’t touch me. What’s Tessa fucking said and done?”

  I don’t want to have this out. I don’t want recriminations, accusations and lengthy debacle. I should never have said anything because, after time at the cemetery and Mum, I’m too raw for conflict. I’ll cry. And I hate to cry. I hate this combative state and I resent that Tessa ever came into our lives and fucked a good thing up. Twatty bitch that she is. And I don’t care that she’s a blonde princess—I care that she’s screwed up my little patch of wonderful.

  I turn around, into Will’s arms. “I don’t want to go through this or argue. Maybe you should ask her.”

  Will is staring, his green eyes hard as emerald chips in a dark mineshaft.

  He still stays mute.

  “And that’s all I get from you?”

  I nod.

  “I came,” he says, clearing his throat, and bingo but I can hear the raw, jagged slice of emotion there—the way his voice drags from his larynx tells me there’s cruelty in the mix and I might have caused that. “I came to ask if you wanted time together pre-mentoring. I know you’re worried about it and I know you hate Annie getting one up. I came to offer to tutor you in advance to save face. I want you to succeed.”

  Will turns. He walks to his coat. And picks it up roughly and devoid of the initial footman finesse.

  “But now that I’ve come here”—he walks up the hallway to the door and opens it—“I see I’ve wasted our time. As you were. Don’t let me intrude.”

  Bang goes the door. And my conscience.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s eleven and I’ve had a glass of wine on a school night—it’s not my usual style but I’m peeved and can’t settle to sleep so I log onto my computer instead.

  My bad mood prevails because I’ve ballsed up my love life, my mother hates me and it’s been a bitch of a day. Maybe a bit of gratuitous Facebook will soothe me? And I mean of the laughing at other people’s posts variety, not the airing of my dirty doings online. Only I don’t go for the big blue F. Something makes me head to Omazod and the e-book section. I gaze at my new Dibian-initiated author page and see my book in all its shiny majesty. I take a full minute staring at the arresting—if ballsy—cover and marvel that it’s mine.

  And that’s when my shock of the night dawns. “Oh my ruddy, giddy, delirious aunt.”

  My insides go on fast freeze—fright or flight making me rigid with total gobsmackedness.

  “I’ve sold frigging four thousand copies!” Bloody bat cocks. This is big.

  There are reviews. Double figures reviews. They’re top star rated.

  I pick up my phone and call Dibian. There’s no answer and I’m an impatient arse at times so I try again but still it’s on answerphone. So I leave her a message telling her the skinny then I get back to reading my reviews.

  One reader is asking when the sequel’s due. It’s been a day. What have we started? And how the hell am I going to write more now that Will Darby—the source of my every lust-fueled line of prose—has walked away and thinks I’m a total walking she-shit with bad balls on. Nice move Iz-bomb. Nice move.

  Dibian hasn’t called me back so I shut off the computer, then break a nail. I’d throw the laptop at the floor only that would totally kybosh my writing future. And right now that’s all I have left. Will’s gone, I’ve stuffed up. And even Dibian’s lost interest.

  * * * *

  I’ve tried to talk to Dibian all day but she hasn’t been in. I only find this out at lunchtime. I’m mildly curious about this, and wonder why she hasn’t called or texted, but I shrug it away. I’ve been busy with filming and Andy wouldn’t take a no about lunch.

  “C’mon, Iz. Don’t play hard to get with me, huh?” He smolders at me. His designer stubble is very Hugh Jackman, but sadly that’s as near to divine Hugh as he’s ever going to get. Maybe if he were closer, lunch would be a no brainer.

  “Tomorrow then?” His tone is verging on an order, which causes my ire to bristle but, I’ll be honest, I give in to get him to back off.

  “Okay. Tomorrow. Lunch.”

  “Great, babe!” Shit.

  I bump into Rogerson after I’ve left him.

  “Ah, Izzy. It’s about Dibian. She’s taking several weeks’ garden leave. She has an aunt who is unwell and it’s going to be a long recuperation plus she’s had to go to Stornoway.”

  “Where?”

  “Stornaway, Scotland. Her aunt lives in a lighthouse.”

  I’m dearly tempted to ask Rogerson if he has shit for brains, but I remember in good time that he’s my superior.

  “Ah,” I reply with deep certainty that Dibian’s fed him a nice healthy portion of baloney.

  Rogerson chucks me a total curveball, however. “I wonder if you’d act as acting head of department? This could be for several months, maybe even a term?”

  I falter as the news trickles in. This is news!

  “Me? Really?”

  “Yes. She expressly suggested you. She said she’ll be in touch very soon. Once she deals with the issue of her aunt’s iron lung. So, how does that sound as a plan?”

  I nod. Acting head. Me. Wowzer. I’m pretty darn chuffed. It’s not every week you publish your first novel—did I mention that this morning sales are at ten k?—and get made acting departmental head of English. I’m wondering if there might be a badge or at least a small buffet of celebration in my honor.

  “Of course I’m stuck on who else to ask. Abigail Montague would’ve been a contender but she’s going on maternity leave.”

  Bastard! As if sensing I’m getting above myself, even if it’s only in my head, Rogerson adds, “Only a temporary measure, mind. And a trial. No remuneration or change to your contract.”

  Aww. And just when I was enjoying my flight of fancy too. I’d settled in for the in-flight movie and opened a tin of gin and slimline tonic.

  “I’d be very happy to oblige,” I say, magnanimous voice fully employed.

  I’m not deterred from imagining good things. A promotion is a promotion. And for once in my life I’m going to tell myself, hey, Izzy Tennant, you’re doing well and life is good. You’re rated at work. Even if Will never shags you again.

  Because life is about positivity.

  And that’s when I remember Will all over again. And wonder what he’d say if I told him my news.

  Shit. Fuck. Balls. A seagull’s shat on my silver ruddy lining again. Where’s my shotgun? Where’s the pest controller? And make mine a double Jim Beam bourbon on the rocks.

  * * * *

  Next day, I do have a celebration of sorts. Andy Regis has brought me to the local hotel. If Miss Gaudy and Mr. Tasteless ever got together for a night of rampant passion, this hotel’s interior theme would be their lovechild. It’s so bad I need shades to get through the door. Heinously bad-taste statues and a thoroughly horrid shade of mauve, painted by somebody more accustomed to fairground decoration, are in stark evidence everywhere. Perhaps it’s My Big Fat Gypsy Hotel? I realize I’m being über-judgmental and I try to banish taste snobbery, so instead I focus on the fun of it all and hope the staff aren’t offended.

  “Look at the willy on that cherub,” I remark to Andy, but he’s staring at the gilt mermaid nymph’s GG bazoomas.

  “With breasts that big she won’t need the tail—she’ll float.”

  “Shall we get out of the car and go and see what delights are inside?” Andy invites.

  A man wants to wine and dine me, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in its dentures. A cocky cock Andy may be, but right now he wants me.

  “You okay, babe?” he asks, and puts his hand on my knee.

  Shit. “I’m good. I don’t have classes on this afternoon due to a fluke. So I’m good for three courses at least. Maybe even coffee with chocolates after, if you’re well behaved.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll be good for more than that, girl,” he says like a lecherous uncle at a wedding. His balls are too far away from me to stun gun so I grind my teeth
and ignore him.

  Andy drives a great car. It’s an Audi. A very Guy with the Silver Tie motor. He makes a fuss of showing me all the buttons and revving it a lot. Bless him, I fear he must have a very small penis and I try not to hold it against him. No personality and a mini dick are a curse indeed.

  “Shall we go in?” I chivvy him on. “Kinda hungry.”

  “Me too. But not for food.” He makes a lunge at me and I pretend to move away to admire the view.

  “Let’s eat then, babe. Don’t go making me chase you.”

  Normally I’d give him a smart mouth answer. With Will I’d have voiced my jagged thoughts with ease. Only I wouldn’t want to discourage Will, would I? The realization causes a leaden feeling inside me.

  I cover my disappointment by coming over all Famous Five and I put my hands together and say, “Let’s go dine!”

  I’m ever so slightly appalled when he grabs my hand. And I feel I have to stop him right there.

  “Andy, what happened to our friends understanding?”

  “Aren’t friends allowed to hold hands? Surely a bit of necking and a squeeze isn’t out of the park? I get you won’t let me tongue you but c’mon, Iz. Guy’s gotta have a payoff.”

  “Um. You touch me and I might stab you with my fish knife.”

  His eyes are those of a man dying on the battlefield. If I had a bayonet I’d send him to Valhalla sharpish. “Fuck, Izzy, you know I think you’re hot. Why hold out? You can even have lobster here if you want it. And champagne. They’ve put a room on hold and everything.”

  Wily. Fucking. Shit.

  I shake my hands at him in frustration. “Andy, this wasn’t what we agreed.”

  “I’m kidding, you daft goose,” he says and laughs like the bird he’s accused me of being.

  “Honk, ruddy, honk”.

  “Only pulling your leg. Your face was a picture. What a wind-up!”

  Hmmm. I’m feeling a Marge Simpson mood coming on, and my slapping hand is twitching to do something to his face.

  “Funny. Let’s eat.”