Playing the Field

by Foster, Zoe

  Mum had called a few hours earlier, and I had gushed about how much I liked Josh, and how wonderful he was, and how he was single-handedly ruining the stereotype of footballers being boozed-up pigs, sending salacious picture-messages to a groupie or buying cocaine with one hand while the other is stroking their girlfriend’s hair. I tried not to think of Patto and Scully’s behaviour at the ball the other night as I assured her of this.

  I was stuck on what to wear. This WAG business was proving to be on a par with advanced trigonometry. I wished I had Paola’s number so I could text her and ask what she’d be wearing to the game. I’d die if she wasn’t there; she was the only one I knew, besides Tess and her evil wenchmen. Surely Paola would be there – her husband was the captainy guy. She’d have to go, wouldn’t she?

  My ticket was for the Girlfriends’ Box, where only the Wives And Girlfriends and their genetically gifted progeny were allowed to sit. I’d asked Josh if I could bring Col, or maybe sit with Kerrie, but he couldn’t get any tickets for the members area, so it was either The Box or Ken the Irregular Armchair in our living room at home (the game was being televised). And I could tell Josh wanted me to come. So I would. Even though the thought of being in a confined area with all of the WAGs was only slightly less frightening than narrowly avoiding death by poison dart.

  I had seen the pictures of Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Cole in their girlfriends’ box, and distinctly remembered denim hotpants, hair extensions and five-inch heels. I screwed up my face and thought back to that first game I’d been to, trying to recall what the wives and girlfriends were wearing. All I remember seeing was slim, glamorous girls wearing very tight jeans, a brand of high heel more suited to a Saturday night than a Sunday afternoon, and hair. Lots of hair. Hair, I could do: I owned 23 kilometres of it, and right now, it was looking very … big. Col called it JBF hair – that is, Just Been Fucked. For me, this description suggested a style that looked like I’d just awoken and struggled to locate a utensil with which to separate large knotted sections of my hair; for Col, it suggested that I looked like I had just put out my post-coital cigarette and rearranged the pillows. She thought it was cool. Very Olsen twins. And as I couldn’t be bothered washing it, it would have to do. I would choose to think of it as ‘elegantly textured’.

  I put on my trusty dark blue jeans and a white top with amazing layered sleeves that risked looking a little bit hippie-pregnancy-having- a-fat-day, but it was new and very much in fashion and I wanted to wear it. I wore a nude push-up bra and tugged the neckline of the top a little to at least give my upper body some hint of shape. Shoes, as always, were the most difficult part of the outfit, especially when one knew one was going to be on exhibit as a new specimen in a very exclusive zoo. There was no question about heels; I didn’t want to show up there the only one in flat shoes, for everyone to look down on – literally – and snigger at. Plus, Tess had set very high standards for the role of Josh’s Girlfriend, and while I wasn’t competing (pitchforks were so hard to come by these days), I still wanted to show them all that I could hold my own. Even when nursing a beer in one hand and a pie in the other.

  I looked at my collection of heels. They all seemed inappropriate. Boring. Girly. Dull. To be honest, I was much happier in flats, despite wanting very much to be one of those sexy heel-wearing women you see in ads for shaving gels. I went and peered into Col’s much more suitable – and sizeable – collection … ZING! Boots! Boots were what you wear to the football. I zipped up her sexy little black ankle boots and checked the time. I had twenty-seven minutes to do makeup, leave the house, drive to a stadium twenty minutes away and then find this Girlfriends’ Box before kickoff. I’d never be accused of intelligence in a court of law.

  At 2.39, after horrific traffic, a parking spot located somewhere near Indonesia and a frantic sprint halfway around the stadium in high-heeled boots a size too big, I walked into the box slowly, quietly, with my head on a Princess Diana angle, hoping that if I couldn’t really see anyone, they couldn’t really see me.

  The box was actually a room. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was expecting, but it was something much, much smaller than the wide expanse of grey carpet before me. This was a function room, capable of housing several hundred people. And there was nowhere to hide. There were about fifteen women and 465 children in here with me, the former with wine glasses, the latter with juice bottles, and all (children aside) in some variation of boots or heels. Phew. The first person I could make out was Melinda. She was wearing a very tight long-sleeved violet top – actually, make that dress – over black thigh-high boots. Her hair was in a high ponytail, her fringe relaxing perfectly on her forehead. Wow. Because she weighed less than my handbag, an outfit that could’ve pushed the skankometer through the roof actually looked incredibly sexy, in a Cindy Crawford way.

  Morgan couldn’t be too far away. I scanned to the other side of the ‘box’, which was located exactly halfway down the field and featured enormous ceiling-high windows and a sheltered balcony filled with seats. I noticed that several of the girls looked very young – nineteen, twenty – and seemed quite at home in jeans and jackets, opting for warmth over fashion and competitive styling. This gave me hope.

  I scanned again: no Paola. Shit. Well, maybe she was just running late. She struck me as one of those people who perpetually run late. Okay, maybe Kate would be here; she was nice enough, and at least she’d remember me. Kate … Kate? There was no sign of her either.

  God-friggin’-dammit! I felt like it was my first day at a new school. Again! Every time I found myself in a WAG situation it felt equally torturous and new. I gripped tightly onto my bag and eyed the wine. Should I? After nothing but toast and two Tim Tams all day, that might not be so clever.

  ‘Hi there, you must be new. I’m Steph.’

  A pretty, green-eyed girl in her early twenties stood smiling at me. She had unnaturally blonde hair, neatly brushed into a high ponytail, and a long fringe swept expertly to one side to frame her face. Her lashes were laden with several kilos of mascara, her face bronzed and her skin peppered with heavily concealed spots and set with thick powder. Her lips, and a few millimetres of skin around them, dripped with gloss. She was wearing dark jeans, knee-high tan boots and a low, tight white top. She liked her shiny things, I noticed: there were several silver and diamond bracelets on both wrists and a small suburb of impressive rocks and stones on her freckled, tanned hands, all of which attempted to thieve the focus from the huge gold chain sparkling around her neck, which stood out on her tanned skin like scratches on a new car.

  ‘I go out with Mitch – Mitch Barry?’ Her eyebrows leaped up as if to assist me in remembering who he was. But I could offer nothing except a blank stare and a smile. I loved how she said this name as though I knew the man attached to it. Seemingly, when you dated a footballer, it was assumed you knew stuff about the team you’d found yourself part of. Like who played in it.

  ‘He’s the boofhead with the number eleven on his jersey. Who’s your guy?’

  ‘Oh, um, my guy? Um,’ I cleared my throat, ‘um, Josh.’

  ‘Oooh! Lucky girl!’ She turned and yelled out to a black-haired woman a few feet behind her. ‘Lou, come here and meet Josh’s new bird!’

  Ten women immediately snapped their heads to where we were standing. All I needed now was a glass box and my species name on a plaque. I managed a weak smile, while trying simultaneously to sink 156 centimetres into the ground.

  Lou came over straight away. She was petite, in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a black shirt, jeans and boots. Her skin was so tanned that her many freckles were barely visible, and her chest was in danger of being mistaken for expensive leather goods of some description. Her stunning hazel-yellow eyes were emphasised with black liner, and her lips were adorned with a bright pink lipstick that was as subtle as a nun in leather chaps.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lou, married to Nick Freer. So, Josh, huh? Lucky you! He’s an absolute gorge. Nice work getting a full-back,
too – they’re not as bunged up as our big guys, isn’t that right, Stephy?’

  ‘Too right!’

  The two women burst into laughter (they were obviously firm friends), Lou slapping me lightly on the shoulder as she enjoyed her joke.

  ‘I mean, lucky him too, of course. Look at this hair! Geez, wish I still had some when I see hair like yours.’ She ran her long red nails (acrylics, surely) through her short black crop.

  ‘Is this your first game? No offence, but you look like you could do with a drink, love. White or red?’

  Lou was already heading for the small bar, wine glass in hand.

  ‘Oh, um, white please. Thank you.’

  Shit. White wine. White wine got me rapidly, messily drunk even when I had eaten my body weight in pasta. Lou was back in a moment.

  ‘There you go, love. That’ll help. I know we must seem like a pretty mad bunch, but you’ll learn to love us. Well, most of us, anyway,’ and she winked.

  I took a sip of my wine; like a backpacker’s kombi, it was cheap, heavy and yellow. I smiled warmly. I liked Lou. I liked Steph. I could do this, I thought triumphantly; I could be A Girlfriend. The velocity at which I oscillated between wanting to stay in and run from this world was dizzying.

  ‘Game’s on!’ someone yelled. Immediately, everyone started grabbing coats, bags and children, and heading outside. Really? Outside? In this weather? Sensing my puzzlement, Steph spoke up.

  ‘Get a better view out there. You’re amongst the atmosphere, you see. Bit like watching it at home on the telly, in here.’ I wondered how that could be, considering we had possibly the best view of the whole field, but nodded all the same.

  To my relief, Melinda was already outside with Morgan. (How had I missed her coming in? She wore huge diamanté-speckled Dior sunglasses – it was cloudy and drizzling – and a puffy black jacket trimmed in fur. Her long blonde hair was attempting, unsuccessfully, to sit smoothly over the jacket’s huge coned hood.)

  To my further relief, Steph was at the table next to the bar, piling a plate high with sausage rolls and sandwiches. ‘Share plate,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘Quick, out we go! Come on … shit, what’s your name? Sorry, darl!’

  ‘Jean.’

  ‘Jean. Nice, hun! Okay, out we go.’

  I followed the two women and Lou’s flaxen-haired toddler out the balcony door and into the last row of seats, grateful I had some ‘friends’ to sit with. But the second Lou sat down, she bounced back to her feet, screaming, ‘Are you kidding me, ref? That was OUT!’

  Catching my surprised expression, Steph laughed. ‘Lou loves her footy. I love it too now. Nothing like sitting on the edge of your seat for a good match, and giving Mitch a big kiss after a win.’ She took a sip of her wine and carefully moved some fringe out of her eyes. She couldn’t be older than twenty-two, I decided.

  ‘What do you do, Jean?’

  ‘Oh, um, I just work in a boutique in town. You?’

  ‘Still at uni. Should be studying now, actually – got an exam on Thursday. Doing a business/law degree at UTS. Two years to go. It’s a real slut of a degree, pardon the language. I’m so over being a broke uni student …’

  Business law. The sound of several stereotypes smashing rang in my ears.

  Lou sat down, cursing and shaking her head. She looked at me, smiled and patted my thigh. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be the same way in a few games’ time.’

  But looking at the field, and at the players running into each other at high speed, to the accompaniment of sickening thuds, I just couldn’t see it.

  Tess was nowhere to be seen.

  It was forty-five minutes into the after-match presentation, and surely too late for her to show now, but still my eyes swept the room like I was some kind of rookie CIA agent.

  ‘Josh, great game.’

  A salt-and-pepper-haired man in his fifties had manifested between Josh and me. Josh had had a great game – even I could tell: two tries and a hand in two others. He was ‘on fire’, as Lou and Steph had said.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Clifton. Jean, this is Henry Clifton, the chairman of the board here at the Bulls.’

  I know exactly who you are, I thought, as I smiled politely and sweetly. Your sperm created Tess, and your genes and job allowed her to get her hands on Josh. Which has created much stress in my life. So thank you for that.

  ‘Do you think we need to rest Simon?’ Mr Clifton said in a serious tone to Josh.

  He had elected to pretend I didn’t exist. Fair enough.

  ‘Is his shoulder causing him pain on the field? He tells us he’s fine, but I think that’s horseshit. And if he’s not going to play to his full potential, I want him off. Tell me honestly.’

  Josh’s eyes were full of panic. What could he say to that, exactly? I knew Simon was a friend.

  ‘Um, well, he … he hasn’t said anything to us about it being sore. And I know th—’

  ‘His form, Josh, is not up to scratch. You know it. Do you think Edward is ready to play?’

  Henry Clifton was a terrifying man. Tall and handsome with olive skin, and a dashing figure in a made-to-measure grey suit, he knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, and evidently had no tolerance for people who didn’t speak and deal in emotionally void CEO shorthand. I wondered if he had always been like this with Josh, or if this was a post-Tess development.

  ‘Willie, um, he seems fit – certainly the fittest he’s been since the operation. But I’m not sure Simon will …’

  ‘Will what?’

  ‘Will give up his spot so readily, is all. I’m sure if Jimmy or Bones has words with him, he’ll shape up …’

  ‘Ultimately, it’s not his choice. But I see your point.’ Mr Clifton rocked on his feet and put his hands into his pockets before taking a step back. ‘Enjoy your evening.’ With a glance at me, and a nod at Josh, he was gone.

  Josh exhaled loudly.

  ‘Heavy.’

  ‘So heavy! Is he always so … scary?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of. But he’s been good to me. Very good. Would you like another drink?’

  I sensed the conversation was over.

  ‘Actually, I might head off.’

  ‘Really? You don’t want to stay for another drink?’

  No, silly! I’d rather go home and twist small fiddly pieces of silver into triangles and ovals. ‘I would … but I gotta get home and do some work.’

  ‘So disciplined. I’m impressed. I’m glad you came, Jeanie. I hope you had fun?’

  I did have fun. In fact, I’d been having a rollicking time with Steph and Lou before Josh had finally emerged from the change-rooms, smelling like leather and grass and spices and looking far more handsome than was legal in his team suit. I found it bizarre that after rolling around in the mud all afternoon the boys had to don three-piece suits. It was as though they were proving that, despite recent appearances, they were actually grown-ups with well-paid careers. I was curious as to whether their testosterone levels were as easily transformed as their uniforms. Was is possible to be playing an intensely violent and aggressive sport one hour, and then be suited and civil and small-talky the next?

  In any case, Josh – and, in fact, all of the players – looked very good. I found myself checking out Bones and another guy whose name I didn’t know; judging by the way he dumped his training bag at Melinda’s feet and gave her a quick kiss before going to drink with a congregation of suits, he must have been her boyfriend, Ryan.

  I had never understood the appeal of footballers. But I was beginning to see why people were so fascinated by men who, at a rudimentary level, ran into each other for a small ball. They’re alpha. Physically strong. Masculine. Rugged. Successful. Fit. Good-looking (for the most part). Some were famous and, I assumed, most fared well financially. And as I had witnessed, young boys wanted to be them, women wanted to be with them, and successful, grown men fell over themselves to befriend them. They were stars. At least in this city.

  I watched Melinda watch Ryan w
alk away and noticed a tinge of anger in her eyes. It was subtle, but spoke volumes. The blonde she was with didn’t seem to notice, holding her wine like it was an extension of her hand, waving it and spilling it freely as she spoke loudly at Melinda, who seemed to care very little about whatever it was she was saying, preferring instead to look over her shoulder at what her boyfriend was up to. I wondered where Morgan was; like a rap star walking into a club alone, Melinda seemed a little lost without her bitches.

  I was a bit miffed that Josh hadn’t asked me to go out with him and all the boys afterwards. Even though I wouldn’t have gone. Apparently, it wasn’t really a girlfriend-friendly zone, but Steph had explained that she always went out with the guys after the game because someone had to keep an eye on them. When I asked what she meant, she simply rolled her eyes and said, ‘You knooooow.’ After a bit more probing, I discovered she meant that if the boys were allowed to roam unfettered after a game – all wired up, plied with booze and hounded by groupies – trouble was inevitable. When I asked exactly what she meant by ‘trouble’, she was dismissive. ‘Oh, you know, playing up on their girls, fights, that kind of stuff.’

  Steph fancied herself as a kind of warden. She took great pride in being the girl who would put the drunk junior in a cab after he’d vomited all over the floor, or who reminded one of the boys that grabbing that blonde girl’s arse was probably not appropriate, considering he had a fiancée.

  I asked if Mitch minded her playing this role. She claimed he didn’t, and that he didn’t have a choice, because if she had to put up with his early starts and his being away all the time – which meant they could never drink during the week or watch 9 p.m. sessions at the movies – then post-game was the only chance they had to go out like a normal couple and be young and have fun. Plus, she liked to shoo away the ‘Maddies’, who, she explained, were groupies only worse, because they didn’t want to date a footballer, they just wanted the bragging rights that came with having slept with one. Which meant that they would offer blowjobs in toilets without so much as the bat of an eyelash. All of which I found very interesting. And utterly horrifying.