by Foster, Zoe
‘You’re an idiot. C’mon, what is it?’
‘Greg. His name is Greg. Stamp it onto your forehead, Fox. Greg–or–y,’ as he spelled out each letter in the air with his finger.
‘Ohmygod! It’s Josh Fox!’
‘And Luke Dunn!’
A group of nineteen-year-old girls stopped dead ten metres in front of us, and were doing the hand-over-mouth, bent at the waist, squealing thing most girls who recognised the boys seemed to do. I took in a deep breath, hoping to inhale some open-mindedness with the night air. There were five of them, each almost a clone of the others: long, expertly backcombed straight-ish hair, skinny jeans or tiny skirts and singlets, chunky open-toe heels and as much cleavage as could possibly be created and displayed without actually showing nipple. Apparently, Janome had a ‘tart’ setting.
‘Can I get a photo with you?’ The prettiest of the group, wearing an invisible ‘Ringleader’ nametag, approached us, looking Bones directly in the eye and holding out her phone.
‘Saddle up, baby.’ Bones pulled her in close, taking her phone and holding it up to get a picture of the two of them. Despite her excitement, she was very much in control when the shutter clicked. Her entire pose was engineered to ensure that the camera captured the perfect profile: head tilted down slightly and towards Bones, no teeth showing, commanding eyes. It almost looked as though he’d asked her for a photo and she’d reluctantly, finally, sexily relented. She’d score top marks at the Paris Hilton School of Photo Readiness.
As she reflected on how hot she looked in playback mode, Bones was swallowed up into a pool of the second-tier girls, who had slowly moved over to him, all giggling, their phones set to camera mode, lip gloss freshly applied, hair neatly flicked and a look of unbelievable expectancy twinkling in their eyes. Each of them seemed honestly to believe there was a chance Bones would decide that she was The One to drag him from the hell of being single, famous and wealthy into the splendour of a full-blown relationship. Their optimism was blinding.
Happy with how she looked, and thrilled she had a new Facebook profile picture – one that included Bones Dunn, no less – Skanky McSkank walked over to where Josh and I were standing, with Josh firmly in her sights. Her head was angled down, her enormous brown eyes coyly positioned to appear both innocent and promisingly promiscuous, and waves of hair framed her face.
‘And now one with you? You’re my favourite player, you know. Daddy reckons you’re so gonna be in the Australian team.’
Daddy? And did she just bat her eyelids? I think she just batted her eyelids! It was as though my boyfriend was the soup and she was holding a big shiny spoon.
‘Uh, sure.’
She didn’t do the apology look. I got no apology look! Usually when people annoyed Josh for a photo – especially women – they at least gave me a squinty-eyed, closed-lipped little look that said, ‘Sorry, I know this must happen a lot, I promise to be quick.’ But not this one. She was pretending I wasn’t even visible.
Josh gently untangled his arm from mine and shot me an expression that said: I really don’t want to do this. Sorry, babe. Hmph. At least he knew to give the apology look. I smiled and nodded, trying not to indicate that internally I was huffing and puffing like a certain wolf faced with a certain house made of bricks. Eight-year-olds with player cards who interrupted us while we were buying the papers on a Sunday morning, I could do. Thirty-five-year-old shop assistants who took a moment out of being mum/wife/worker to be a star-struck groupie by requesting a photo when we were midway through lunch, no problem. Boozy middle-aged men who’d always wanted to be Josh barging into our conversation with the subtlety of a jackhammer when we were having a quiet drink, I could tolerate. But the bolshy, pretty young pretty things got to me.
There was just so much … intention dripping off them. And right in front of me! At the after-match party they would elbow me to get to Josh; one even spilled her drink on my top in her haste. Steph told me about a girl who had offered Mitch a handjob while she was standing on the other side of him at a club, and that it wasn’t uncommon for groupies to work in tandem, playing off against each other to win over their prey – and then rewarding the player with a threesome anyway. Sickos.
And while I did trust Josh, I was pretty sure he didn’t stand in the corner with an ‘I Love Jean’ T-shirt when he and the boys hit the town for a post-game drink. He was only human, after all. And having these women drape themselves all over him, and purr about how great a player he was – with dreams of dollar signs and magazine spreads dancing behind their shining eyes – well, it would be hard for any person in possession of a penis to resist. I tried to push the ‘bad’ thoughts from my mind and reassure myself that Josh wasn’t like that.
I turned my head back to see how the photo shoot was going. In his intoxicated state Josh was, I felt, far too familiar with Skanky. His arm dangled dangerously close to her boob and her head was actually leaning on his shoulder. I suddenly felt violently territorial. Why did his job mean that I had to stand by and watch other women – younger, hotter women with roughly eighty-nine times more self-confidence – snuggle into his neck? My job held no such side effect for him.
As she posed and giggled and said ‘One more’ to my boyfriend, I shifted my focus onto Bones, who was now piggy-backing one of the second-tiers while another two book-ended him, for a group shot. The girls were in heaven, apparently unable to believe that they were being touched by Luke Dunn, hero of the paddock and The Times’ 2008 Hottest Man in Football.
‘Josh! Josh Fox!’ A trio of filthy drunk young men walking past had spied Josh and Skanky. ‘How hot’s his bird?’ said one, not at all discreetly, clearly impressed at her perky ’n’ pert cleavage/bum combination.
Skanky smiled wickedly at the compliment and planted a slow kiss on Josh’s cheek. Josh, embarrassed, made to move away. But it wasn’t true embarrassment, nor was it any indication that what she had done was a little inappropriate when his girlfriend was standing five steps away. By all means toot your horn a little, Josh, but do you have to lean on the fucking thing?
I’d had enough. I walked into the convenience store next to Bones’s fan sandwich to buy something – anything. I tried to rationalise: why was I so upset by this girl? I had never, ever been the jealous or territorial type, and I was hating myself for feeling this way. After all, she was just a fan; I was his girlfriend. She’d be gone in a minute, and he would be back with me. He wanted to be with me, not her. I repeated this mantra several times, until I heard Josh calling my name from the door.
I poked my head out so he could see me.
‘Over here,’ I said, with a large, fake smile.
He walked over. ‘Watcha doing, Jeanie?’
‘Just buying some … gum,’ I said, reaching for a pack off the shelf.
He cuddled me from behind and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Do I have bad breath?’
No, but the last time I saw you, you seemed to be suffering from a human-sized lesion.
‘Nope, just wanted to freshen up,’ I said, pulling away, walking to the counter.
‘Am I in trouble?’ I heard from behind. I stopped dead, composing myself quickly, actively trying to create a genuine smile. I turned to him; his face seemed reconciled, like he knew this scenario well, and was expecting a tirade of jealousy and aggression. I was a little taken aback at how quickly he had assumed I was pissed off at him. Even though I kind of was.
‘What? What for? No, of course not!’ I smiled harder, turned and kept on walking to the counter, praying my mood would lift and return to the high it had been on before Sergeant Skanky and her Skankettes ruined my night. I really didn’t want to be That Girl, that insecure, jealous girl who made a big deal out of a random groupie and then let it cause a fight and ruin the night. It was so far removed from the person I really was. I wasn’t a jealous person. I wasn’t insecure. Intellectually, I knew I had nothing to worry about; but emotionally, primitively, I was struggling. Of course, the a
lcohol didn’t help.
‘Ready?’ I smiled. He walked towards me, hand outstretched to take mine. I gave it to him and we walked out of the shop, and, in my mind, into a fresh start for the night. Everything would be fine from now onwards.
Or not.
Bones and the groupies were finally pulling apart, with much yelling and carrying on.
‘I’m texting you right now!’ said Skanky, blowing him a kiss. ‘Write back, okay?’ Really? Bones had given her his number?
‘Already have,’ said Bones, kissing his mobile.
She threw her head back and laughed, her cronies taking their cue and laughing too.
‘And we’ll be at Salon later. Come. We’ll have a fun time … ’ At this point, she winked at Josh. And I threw a javelin at her skull. And she fell to the ground, blood spilling into the drain.
‘Try and stop us,’ said Bones, watching as the girls finally turned a corner, a mass of hair and excited laughter and newly lit cigarettes.
‘Man, I would love to sexually disappoint her later tonight.’
That was it. I couldn’t stand by and listen any more.
‘You’re not really gonna call her, right?’
‘Why not? She’s hot, right, Josh?’
I looked at Josh, waiting for his response.
‘You kidding, mate? She’s loose as they come.’
Good answer.
‘And what, you thought I was looking for a wife?’ Bones laughed. ‘I’ll call her around two, if nothing better’s shown up.’
He came over and punched me lightly on the arm.
‘What’s happening Real Deal, where we off to?’
‘We’re going to that club, remember? To see Debbie, the Greek?’
It dawned on me that no one was going to say anything to me about the whole Skanky McSkank episode. It was just a given that that stuff would happen. I started walking. Josh’s arm crept around me protectively as we made our way down a narrow alley full of people lining up for small, seedy clubs.
‘Does that happen a lot, what happened with those girls just now?’
‘Couple of hundred times a day,’ said Bones, holding his phone out in front of him, doing the one-eyed Cyclops text because he was so drunk.
‘They’re pretty, um — I mean, kissing you like that and stuff …’
‘You got a kiss? You bastard!’ Bones punched Josh in the back from behind.
Josh laughed and said, over his shoulder, ‘Settle down, idiot. It was nothing.’ But he said it in that way women say, ‘Oh, this old thing?’ when someone comments on their brand-new $800 dress.
‘You’ve already got Jean, you don’t need her too,’ Bones said.
‘She’s all yours, Bones,’ Josh responded, laughing.
‘And if Josh wasn’t here, baby, you would be, too.’ Bones winked at me in an over-the-top manner and made a slimy face.
Suddenly we stopped out the front of a derelict-looking building. A queue snaked back from the doorway in the other direction as far as I could see.
‘This is it. Wonder where Greg i—’
‘Boyzzz!’ A voice belonging to a man with terrifying eyebrows and wet-looking slicked-back hair boomed from the doorway. ‘I thought you’d forgot where we were! We never see you any more!’
Greg weaved through bouncers and list bitches and door candy to where we stood, unclipping the rope for us as he did so.
‘Greggy!’ Bones vigorously shook his hand. ‘You lost weight, mate? Been pumping iron? You’re looking good. You wanna play for us next weekend?’
Greg liked that. He smiled and said modestly, ‘I’ve been training a little. Won’t ever be as buffed as you, though, will I, Bonesy?’
‘Few will, Greg, few will,’ Bones said, kissing each of his biceps in turn.
‘How you been, Greg?’ Josh shook his hand. ‘I want you to meet my girlfriend, Jean.’
‘G’day love, nice to meet you. Right, come through, you three. Take a balcony booth and order up – drinks are on Big G tonight.’
ROUND 27
The Rich vs The Hung-over
‘Forgot to tell you, pumpkin head, we’ve got lunch today.’
I opened one eye, slowly, carefully, in case it caused me to explode. To label what I was feeling a hangover seemed somehow insufficient. My mouth tasted like wet socks, my brain featured a thumping bass line, and my stomach felt like it was on a dinghy in the high seas, slipping and sliding over waves of pain and nausea. I didn’t have enough body to support all this hangover.
‘What?’
We were in Josh’s bed; I was facing the door, and he was behind me, spooning.
‘I said’ – he kissed my neck softly – ‘we have a lunch on today.’
I opened my other eye, mistakenly believing that seeing clearly would help me understand the concept I had been presented with.
‘Who … who with?’
‘Mark Scott.’
‘Mark who?’
He ran his fingers slowly up and down my thigh, clearly thinking about something other than the question.
‘Mark who?’
He laughed. ‘Mark Scott. He’s a car dealer. Owns every second car dealership in this city. He’s the one who upgraded me from a BMX to a BMW. Nice guy, worth gigabucks, but very normal and very generous. I think lunch is on his boat.’
I was blinking furiously, wondering how we were in this situation: we were to have lunch with a car dealer on a Sunday, on a boat, when we’d been out till 3.30 a.m., and it had never crossed Josh’s mind to tell me until now, at 10.49 a.m.
I sat up to lean on one elbow, gasping for breath like a geriatric faced with a long flight of stairs. ‘I don— How come on a Sunday? Why didn’t you mention it? What am I supposed to wear? Who’s going to be there? Do we need to dress up? Oh God, I can’t do this, not today … ’
In my vulnerable, dusty state, each of my insecurities came tumbling out of my mouth, holding up signs saying, ‘Oh, hai! We’d just like to announce that Jean is not perfect. In fact, she is just a scared little girl from the sticks who has been spending all of her salary on clothes and blow-dries in order to accommodate a lifestyle and mindset that does not come naturally to her!’
Josh tugged on my shoulder so that I half-rolled over to meet his gaze. Like waking up – or moving from this bed, ever – and showing him my grotty face was something I was remotely interested in. I resisted.
‘Dooooon’t, I’ve gotta clean myself up.’
I made a move to get out of bed and make the nudie dash to the bathroom, but his grip tightened and he forcefully, but playfully, rolled me right over. He was smiling, still looking perfect. Eyes clear, non-puffy. Not a hair out of place. It was hard to like him when he showed me up so badly. I furiously wiped under my eyes, trying to remove the remnants of a several-layered smoky eye and three kinds of liner.
‘Still look good to me, baby. Little bit Twitchy the Tramp, but I quite like that. I do like to stop by the occasional brothel, after all.’
I laughed, shaking my head.
‘Mark will love you, even if you wear Dad’s beekeeper’s outfit. It will just be a nice day out on the water. Easy. Wear whatever you like – just not those high heels.’ He pointed to the offending pair splayed messily on his floor. ‘You know, because I was going to ask if I could borrow them.’
I wasn’t really listening; I had my own dialogue screaming through my head.
‘It’s not even that, I … I just feel so sick, and now we’ve gotta go on this boat and talk to people and —’
‘It’s just his family, I think. And girlfriend. ’
‘I’ve gotta get home, get dressed …’
Again, I made a move to get up, but was pulled back by a clearly toey Josh, who was now kissing my neck and moving down towards my chest.
‘Relaaaax. I’ll drive you in a little while.’
‘So you’re from the Gold Coast, huh, Jean? Got a few dealerships up there. They love their luxury cars, don’t they?’
; I laughed. ‘If it’s not canary yellow, it doesn’t count.’
‘Or mid-life-crisis red, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Mark Scott was a small man, probably in his late fifties, with grey hair and some kind of allergy that made his skin look red and angry and like it was flaking off. It was very disconcerting. I didn’t know where to look.
His girlfriend, Chelsea, was Nordic blonde, pale-skinned, busty, doe-eyed and roughly the age of a foetus. Each time I tried to make conversation with her, she blocked me unintentionally – ‘Do you come out on the boat a lot?’ ‘Yup!’ – and seemed far more interested in looking after Mark’s children (from his previous marriage), who, in fairness, were much closer to her in age.
The three boys had been given a day with Dad, in order – I was guessing – to let their mum enjoy some uninterrupted rocking back and forth, and time to put away several bottles of Scotch. Despite there being two nannies and Chelsea to look after them, the boys still managed to cause complete chaos across the three levels of Mark’s floating mansion. All their screaming was pushing my throbbing headache up towards the ‘implode’ rating, and their ‘fun’ game of stealing things out of my handbag was making me reconsider ever using my fallopian tubes. There was a special place in hell reserved for these children.
To compound my state, the wait staff constantly tried to get me to drink some alcohol.
‘It’s Vintage Krug,’ they said, holding champagne up near my nose as I stood chatting to Mark.
‘It’s the perfect accompaniment to the lamb,’ they warned, pouring me a glass of shiraz without asking if I wanted it.
‘It’s just fucking rude not to drink all of this expensive wine,’ they said, silently, as they filled my water glass again.
‘We should get you two to the beach house,’ Mark said over a three-course banquet that, after no breakfast – and, in fact, just in general – was mind-blowing.
‘They could stay in the shack,’ offered Chelsea, feeding oysters to a dark-eyed four-year-old for whom they should have been marinated in Ritalin. I wondered whether she was trying to play mother to the boys, or just to be their ‘pal’. They didn’t seem to be buying either option.