by Foster, Zoe
‘The shack?’ Josh said, bemused.
Mark smiled. ‘It’s as much of a shack as this cruiser is a tinny.’
‘We just had it all fitted out. It’s beautiful,’ Chelsea said, mopping up the little angel’s deliberately tipped-over juice. We? Yes, I’m sure you put in a cool hundred thousand to see the new Italian kitchen installed.
‘We’d love to. That’s very kind of you both, thank you.’ Josh was looking at me with excited eyes.
‘Keys are yours whenever you two kids want a break. Just call Danielle, she’ll sort it out,’ Mark said, gnawing his meat off the bone, the juice dribbling down his chin. I had to look away; my stomach was in a dark enough place already.
I couldn’t help wondering whether Josh and I would be thrown the keys to the shack if he weren’t a star footballer. If we’d be on this boat. If we would’ve been picked up in a shiny black Merc with a driver called Kingsley who opened the door for us to get in and out. Somehow I didn’t think so.
I found it odd that rich, successful businessmen like Mark wanted to befriend Josh, to invite him to their houses and take him out for dinner. It was as if, despite everything they had achieved in their lives, deep down they just wanted to be sporting heroes; and, since they’d missed out, they wanted at least to enjoy the company of a hero, and to savour a voyeuristic insight into a life they wish they’d had.
What they didn’t realise was that Josh wanted to be in their position. He’d told me that with his ten-year career-expiry date, the potential for injuries and the general uncertainty about Life After Football, the business side of things was a lot more reliable in terms of setting yourself up.
All of this just made me feel even worse for not spending more time on my jewellery. Here I was surrounded by people who had played for their country, or created whole empires selling lurid sports cars, and I was working in a clothes shop.
The problem was time. With Josh, I had no spare time. If it wasn’t the game, it was dinner the night before the game, or the team barbecue the day after. If it wasn’t a football thing, it was lunch on a rich guy’s boat. I was staying at Josh’s place more and more, and my life was revolving around his (inflexible) schedule. I was changing shifts and appointments so that we could be free at the same time. We were either Football Widows or Football Slaves, us girls. I vowed I would no longer mock women who gave up their careers to follow their men around the world for their sports. It would be near impossible to continue your relationship if you didn’t.
I thought about the other girls. Steph was a part-time uni student. Lou was a full-time mum. Melinda and Morgan had their spray-tan business a couple of days a week. And Paola did the occasional modelling job. None of them were full-time career women, I realised. I sighed, sipping my coffee, bored with listening to Mark and Josh talk about shares, and desperately craving my bed and several hours of shhhhh. My mind drifted …
Maybe I should just enjoy the ride while I could; soak it up, and start off my jewellery business later. After all, it wasn’t like it would be making me millions. Even though I loved it and would like to make a career of it, it was basically a glorified hobby. Putting it off a bit longer wouldn’t hurt.
ROUND 28
Disclosure vs Hush-hush
Col put her hand on her hip and looked at me with that bored, pained expression she reserved for those times when I really annoyed her.
‘I told you, shithead, I’m not seeing anyone. Why do you even have this idea in your head?’
‘Um, maybe because you’re never home any more?’
‘And you are?’
‘It’s different. I have a boyfriend: Josh, remember him? I’m not hiding anything.’
‘So what if I stay over at my friends’ places? What’s the big fricken’ deal?’
‘I don’t know … I just don’t believe you.’
‘Whatever, Jean.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, maybe Holly came into the shop yesterday and we had a good little chat.’
Kapow. I’d shot the first bullet. No turning back now.
Colette bristled and folded her arms, taking her weight off the kitchen bench.
‘So?’
‘She said that she’s only seen you twice in the last couple of months. And yet, you claim to be staying at her place every weekend.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Uh, yeah, you do.’
‘What is this, the Spanish fuckin’ Inquisition? Who cares?’
‘Jesus, Col. Calm down. I’m just curious, because if you’ve got a new boyfriend, well, I guess I’m wondering why you’re not telling me about him —’
‘But that’s just it! I don’t have a new boyfriend!’
‘No.’ I took a huge breath, terrified of what might happen next. ‘Maybe it’s an old one that you’re revisiting instead …’
I held my breath, waiting for her to scream and throw the blender blade at my head. Nothing. Just her pupils moving wildly from one side of my face to the other in what appeared to be the initial stages of spontaneous combustion.
‘Col, I saw Eric’s T-shirt in your bedroom the other day. The one with the pony and the rabbit? The one he used to always wear?’
She looked at the floor, taking in a few deep breaths.
‘Col?’
‘What?’ she exploded suddenly.
‘Are you okay?’
She picked up her keys and put her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I’m going.’
‘But I was gonna give you a lift —’
‘I’ll get a cab.’
A furiously slammed door and she was gone.
I had my answer, but now wished I hadn’t bothered asking the question. I stood there in the kitchen, rooted to the spot, feeling like pond scum.
Why did I execute it like that? If she was seeing Eric again, of course it would be hard for her to tell me. I mean, we’d spent months verbally slaying him, writing him off, wishing him bad luck, broken limbs, credit-card fraud and a stolen car. I’d promised that if I ever saw him again, I would spit in his face. Twice.
I didn’t get it. She was so gutted and hurt by what he did to her that I couldn’t imagine why she would go back there. What could he have possibly done to win her back, aside from commandeering a time-travel machine and undoing his infidelity? I really, really didn’t get it. Cheating, in my eyes, was unforgivable.
At work, Ingrid was trawling through her own relationship woes. From what I could ascertain from a phone call she had with him, Justin was unnecessarily delaying his divorce, and she was a little bit upset about this, if by ‘little’ you mean ‘enormously’. As she huffed and puffed and yelled at me, I tried to remember that she wasn’t so much yelling at me as ranting and raving about Justin in code. It was obvious how much he frustrated her, and yet she stayed with him.
It baffled me that a successful, strong, sexy woman like Ingrid could allow herself to get into a romantic situation where she was settling not only for second-best, but a pretty shitty second-best at that. Justin was constantly cancelling on her at the last minute, or throwing her plans into chaos by inviting her away for the night with sixteen seconds notice, or just being generally the kind of rich, slick Playboy who makes me sick – and the kind that so many women fall for. Josh was smooth, but he was also genuine. I wouldn’t have been attracted to him if he were all flash and dash, which was, apparently, precisely what Ingrid found so appealing in Justin. Even though she could provide that flash for herself. Perhaps she was just victim of a self-imposed pattern: her last boyfriend had also been a successful businessman – maybe that was her ‘type’ and it was all she knew, and all she wanted. And then, of course, there were those screaming ovaries …
Considering Ingrid and Col’s relationships, I felt very lucky to have a boyfriend like Josh. Sure, there was the Tess stuff, and, well, the groupie stuff plagued me, if I was honest, but for the most part it was just easy and fun. He looked after me, made sure I was safe and happy, and even made up silly songs about my hair, or my eye
s, or my ‘moontan’. Whenever he called, I skipped a few breaths, whenever I knew I was going to see him at night, I looked forward to it all day. I even had him to thank for the fact that I finally had some friends down here. Paola was coming in to have lunch with me today; she needed a new dress, so she was going, she said, to ‘hit two stones’ and catch up with me as well.
‘You know about her, right?’ Paola looked at me over her sushi roll.
‘Um, no?’
The conversation had drifted to the other girlfriends, as it usually did after a mutual bitch about the boys’ crazy schedules, and how they went out too much, and how the club was retarded making them get up early for a recovery training session the morning after the game, when they should be allowed to sleep in, and then have a lazy weekend breakfast with their wives/girlfriends/kids. The WAGs deeply resented the post-game recovery session.
To the WAGs, the club represented The Enemy. I had only been around for three months, but I felt the fury. The club whored the boys out – especially Jimmy, Bones and Josh – to all kinds of events during their few precious moments off. They only gave them their weekly training schedule each Monday, so it was impossible to plan anything week to week because we never knew their availability until a few days before. Lou was having incredible difficulty planning her wedding because Nick was playing well and would probably get selected for the Australian team, meaning she would have to put off the wedding from October until January.
But right now, Paola wanted to talk about Melinda.
‘She’s been with half the team.’
My eyes, which I thought were already doing a pretty good job of being open, managed to find an extra fifty per cent.
‘What do you mean “been with”?’
‘Fucking them! What you think I mean?’
‘Noooo. Really? But doesn’t … I mean, wouldn’t Ryan be a bit funny about being with a girl —’
‘Half his team has fucked? You think so but he dossen care.’
I wanted to ask who she’d been with, but I was terrified Josh’s name would come up. Sensing my curiosity, Paola slapped me gently on the wrist.
‘Don’t choo worry, Jeanie, your man never did. He’s a good boy. I mean, he’s had some fun, but you got nothing to worry ’bout.’
I smiled with relief. Hang on … what does ‘had some fun’ mean?
‘But an even better rumours – and this one is crazy – is that Cassie’s baby’s daddy isn’t Camel.’
Cassie was one of the girls who hung out with Melinda and Morgan, and as a result of this was perennially tanned. For these girls, tanning was less a skin colour than a way of life. Cassie was intensely blonde and attractive, but had a harsh face; it was as though, having granted her such a tremendous body, the Genetics Allocation Society had decided to give her a beak-like nose, and to place her eyes slightly too close together, just to even things out – to give other women a fighting chance.
Camel was one of the most aggressive players at the club, and if you didn’t know this, his face – all beat up and scarred and bent out of shape – kindly offered this information free of charge. Cassie had been a finalist on Big Brother, which is how she’d met Camel – he was at the show’s finale party and had commented on her spread in FHM magazine, in which, clad in a see-through white and gold bikini, she’d professed to championing the Bulls.
‘Noooooooo! Get out! Who is it, then?’
‘Like I say, it’s just a rumours. But Jimmy, he knows I got a mouth, so he doesn’t usually tell me things that isn’t true. He told me not to tell anyone, of course. But he shoulda known better.’
She grinned and took a big sip of her miso as a full stop. I waited for the name of Cassie’s controversial sperm-donation bank.
Paola looked me dead in the eyes. ‘You can’t say anything. Not to nobody. Okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ryan.’
‘Ryan? Melinda’s Ryan?’
‘Mm-hmm. ’Paaaaarently they had this big affairs, but she was with Camel the whole time, and he was with Melinda, and then when she was pregnant, she jus’ played along and said it was Camel’s.’
‘Nooo!’
‘He looks like Ryan. Same eyes, same nose … She gonna get found out, choo know. Camel’s a dumbass, but he ain’t that stoopid.’
‘Does Ryan know?’
‘Yup.’
‘Melinda?’
‘Jesus, girl! You crazy? What choo think?’
‘So people really do that stuff? I thought that kind of scandal was reserved for TV shows about footballers, not Real Life.’
‘Of course it happens! These people get some money and some fames and they think they’re invisible!’
‘Invincible.’
‘They get cocky, Jeanie. Life is easy when you’re a big star with time and cash, so they play with fire. They have to make excitement ’cos their life is too easy. Anyways, if Camel ever finds out, he’ll kill Ryan. So don’t say nothin’, okay? News travels like the storm here, Jeanie.’
‘Like lightning?’
‘Why you gotta be like that? You know what I mean!’
I laughed. But inside I was trying to comprehend this world I’d found myself in. Where would Josh look for excitement if life with me became too boring?
ROUND 29
Secrets vs Solidarity
‘Bloody Paola. She holds on to secrets with grease-covered hands.’
Josh had known about the Cassie/Camel scandal but hadn’t told me. He found it highly amusing that Paola had spilled the beans, but failed to grasp my hysteria at the wickedness of the situation.
‘But what about Camel? Does he know? Surely he must, if we all do.’
‘Not necessarily. The club has this kind of … inbuilt protection mechanism. Scandals like this are usually kept private. You know, brothers protecting brothers.’
I imagined some kind of secret cult where the members all wore cloaks and masks and chanted, and nude women or fluffy lambs were brought in for sacrifice. I didn’t like it.
‘But, like, as a friend, don’t you think you should tell him? Wouldn’t you want to know if I was sexing your team-mate?’
‘I’d hope you’d at least aim for my boss.’
‘Okay then, your boss?’
Sweeping me up for a hug and a smothering kiss, he said, ‘Honey, don’t be silly. I would’ve been the one who set it up, for a pay rise.’
‘But wouldn’t you?’ I wiggled free, not in the mood for hugs or jokes or topic avoidance.
‘Jean, some things are better left unsaid. Jimmy’s an idiot for telling Paola. I mean, imagine how bad this looks for the club. Last time something like this happened, it was the coach, and he ran off with one of the cheergirls. He’s still with her – left his wife and kids for her. The media went ballistic, as you can imagine. The public thrive on scandal. Which is why that shot of us at the Enchantress made the front page. People love to tear us down once they’ve built us up.’
I shook my head, angry and disappointed at these stories. What was wrong with these men? Ruining their careers and families for some young thing with perky tits? Ryan had slept with his friend’s girlfriend and got her knocked up, and had not even been man enough to remove himself from the microcosm. And he must go through each day with the evidence of his actions right before his eyes. How can he do it?
‘Jean, baby, relax. Men will always be men. They’ll always do stupid things and they’ll always be found out. Don’t get down about it.’
I looked into his eyes and sighed. Maybe I was taking it all too personally. Maybe I was angry about Col taking back her cheating ex. Maybe I was just scared that Josh was too good-looking and too famous not to be tempted by the same kind of opportunity that caused someone to leave his wife and kids for a cheergirl. And maybe I was angry that I wasn’t nearly exciting or attractive enough to prevent him from giving in to such temptation.
‘Ooh, someone’s got a fat fly in their soup.’
Cameron walked bes
ide me on the busy footpath of Lloyd Street, head tipped back, trying to get the last of his milkshake. A simple white T-shirt, a V-neck striped vest and dark jeans: he looked cool and preppy and, to my surprise, kind of handsome. Had his hair grown a little since I’d seen him last? Did he have some colour? I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘Celebrity Footballer boyfriend causing you grief? Told you he would. You didn’t listen.’
All thoughts of Cam being attractive – gone.
‘If you’re gonna pick up that bone and drag it along with you, you can piss off.’
I walked into the bank, allowing the door to close behind me. I took a number and sat on the communal lounge the bank had installed to make waiting for a teller feel less like teeth-pulling. Through the window, I watched as Cam threw his milkshake carton in the bin. Then he followed me into the bank, his head cocked to the side, eyes squinted, one finger pointed towards me.
‘What have you done to your hair?’
My hand flew to my hair. I’d had $200 worth of caramel highlights put though, and was now sporting the kind of sun-kissed shade J. Lo herself would approve of.
‘Got some highlights.’
I’d decided my brown hair was dull, common. I’d needed something more glamorous; all the girls had colour in their hair. Most were blonde, and it always seemed to look more exciting than plain old brunette.
He frowned, shaking his head, taking a seat next to me.
‘You’re turning into one of them.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ My eyes were flashing, daring him to say what I already knew was coming, because maybe, on some level, I was terrified it was true.
‘A WAG, of course. Look at you. All tanned and bloody blonde.’
‘It’s just a few highlights, Jesus —’
‘And you’ve lost weight, you know. You look like a bloody stick with hair. Don’t know why you think that’s sexy. Look like a bloody broom.’