Playing the Field

by Foster, Zoe

  I laughed.

  ‘Not before she makes me some earrings; I asked first,’ Steph said.

  I couldn’t believe that Steph and Paola were fighting over buying some jewellery from me. I’d forgotten that women actually liked what I made; it had been so long since I’d sold anything and had that feedback from the buyer that inspires you to keep making more. I felt the rush of excitement that had initially stirred me to want to sell my pieces in the boutique.

  Paolo’s skin tone would look amazing with some dark woods and ivory and gold; and Steph, being a blonde, tanned, silver-wearing girl wanting to wear black, should be wearing silvers and turquoise and maybe a pop of orange to lift things and keep them from looking cheap and market-jewellery like.

  ‘So, are we on?’ Paola was unscrewing a fresh bottle of semillon.

  ‘Yes. Yes we are. Give me two weeks.’

  ‘For both of us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What you charge, Jeanie? ’Cos if it’s Cartier prices, we may have a problem. I don’t wanna have to go back to the pole to pay for my joyas …’

  I grinned. ‘Nothing. If you like them, and wear them, that’s enough payment for me.’

  Steph rolled her eyes – ‘No freakin’ way!’ – and Paola shook her head.

  ‘No, I’m serious. If you like them, and you want to buy more, well okay. But I don’t want the pressure of having to do it for money first time round.’

  They looked at each other. Paola shrugged. ‘Hokay. Choo mad, you know that? Don’t you know how much our boys earn?’

  Steph laughed uproariously, slapping her knee and holding her stomach. Lou, who had returned from the bathroom with freshly applied lipstick and far too much blush, sat down messily and immediately filled her glass with the chilled wine.

  ‘Wass so funny?’

  ROUND 35

  Fermented Grapes vs Coffee Dates

  As we strutted with purpose into the stadium, two wines off shit-faced, we saw a gaggle of girls our own age smoking against the small fence that formed the perimeter of the stadium complex. Each was wearing a Bulls scarf or jersey with tight jeans, and criminal amounts of makeup.

  These were the Bay Nine Girls: too knowledgeable about the game to be labelled groupies, too butch ever to be considered serious girlfriend material. They were forever velcro-ing onto the boys at pubs, the members’ post-match party, or anywhere else they could weasel themselves in. The WAGs didn’t view them as a threat, just an annoyance, like the pushy mums who demanded autographs when you were quietly eating poached eggs at a cafe, or the shopping-centre clowns who eyed off Josh from 100 metres, only to wait until we passed before yelling out, ‘Fox is a wanker!’

  The Bay Niners gave us squinty elevator stares as we walked past them through the VIP entrance, their beady kohl-rimmed eyes taking us in, hating us and who we were and that we were allowed to have sex with men who they knew so much more about – like how many rep games they’d played for Australia, and what the catastrophic result of that misjudged hospital pass in Round 6 was, and how many kilograms they bench-pressed at the gym.

  Paola spied them staring at us as we were having our tickets checked. ‘Oh, look,’ she said gaily, ‘it’s the Bay Niners! Wave, everyone!’

  Steph and Lou waved and smiled condescendingly, regally, but I couldn’t do it. I was too new to the game to start acting like I deserved to be in it.

  Being a Friday-night game, a clan of hardworking teenage babysitters had been employed across the city to give the girls a night off, and everyone had put a little more effort into their appearance in case they went out afterwards. Feeling bad for Col’s Eric situation, I’d asked if she’d like to come with me to the game, but she said she’d rather polish up our fridge magnets than spend an evening with a bunch of glorified cheerleaders, so I left it.

  In the Girlfriends’ Box, Melinda and Cassie were sitting side by side, slurping away on red wine, talking loudly and gesticulating with the passion of Italians. I wondered how Cassie did it without batting a guilty little eyelid. I was pretty sure that if Melinda found out about Cassie and Ryan, and little Ryan junior, she would be the type to throw punches. And vases. And lawsuits.

  Cassie had balls. Big, brazen, not-entirely-admirable balls. I wondered where Morgan was. Maybe she’d finally had enough of being talked down to by Melinda and had elected to watch the game with her family instead of the WAGs.

  The game, now almost over, seemed to me to have gone for around three minutes. The Bulls had had such a massive lead, from so early on, that none of the girls bothered to pay much attention, preferring instead to gossip and chat and drink litres of nasty riesling, which, for some reason – probably one involving us already being soaked in alcohol – didn’t taste half as bad as usual. Cassie was an exception: Ryan had made a couple of whopping errors, including somehow scoring a try for the other team, and she was as pissed off and self-flagellating as if she’d committed the errors herself. It fascinated me to watch how quickly and completely some of the girls clicked into the emotion appropriate to however their boy was playing. It was as though by knowing their boyfriend was going to be angry with himself for a bad game, and accommodating that by being sombre and empathetic when he came up from the change-rooms, they were indicating not only how connected they were to their man, and what a bond they had, and how much they ‘got’ him, but also that they very much understood the specific brand of theatre that was required of a WAG post-match. It was absolutely intentional, this public show of solidarity, especially in the company of groupies. I thought about how I behaved around Josh after a game and realised that I was guilty of this very conduct: beaming and full of praise when he’d played well, and quiet and serious when I knew he would be unhappy with his performance.

  Paola, of course, bucked this trend, preferring not to indulge Jimmy’s wallowing when he was down, and instead cheering him up and reminding him of the Bigger Picture. Her approach made sense to me intellectually, but I wasn’t nearly confident enough to risk Josh feeling like I wasn’t being supportive when he needed me. He might think it patronising if I were to dismiss his moods with frivolous talk about it being only one game or the fact that the team won and that’s what counts. It was confusing, because my natural instinct was always to try to cheer someone up if they were in a sulk, but in the football world it seemed you had to stand by your man, mimicking his mood and demonstrating a united stand.

  ‘We’ve wooon, let’s have some fuuun, we’ve woooon, now we can ruuuun!’ Steph was sitting in her seat, wiggling and dancing and trying to get us to go up to the members bar for drinks. Her theory was that as there were only eight minutes to go, and the Bulls were five tries in front, we had already won and should commence the next stage of drinking immediately. She was also desperate for a cigarette, as was Paola.

  But Lou tried to thwart us. ‘Are you lot for real? This is the last game before the semi-finals, and you know the Lions are famous for coming back strong at the end, and you want to just leave? Oh, I’m sure the boys would love to hear that …’

  ‘Oh, look!’ said Paola. ‘She’s got her dick on again.’

  Steph burst into laughter, gathering up our coats and bags to indicate that we were leaving. ‘Lou, we’re gonna go straight to the members’; there are TVs there. Why don’t you come with us?’

  I felt torn. I didn’t want to look like one of the girls who came just to chat and drink without paying any attention to the game – even though that’s generally what I did. And I did want to watch Josh, who, as far as my distracted, bleary eyes could tell, seemed to be playing well, although it all went so much faster and was so much harder to follow when you were drunk that if he asked me anything about the game, the best I would be able to offer was that they were definitely wearing blue this evening, and there was a lot of grass involved. Meh, they’d definitely win, all I would need to say was congrats. I decided to go with the girls.

  Lou waved us away without looking at us. So we got our s
tuff and, giggling while we tried to avoid the looks from the other girls, schlepped through the box and out to the lifts.

  ‘How can Lou see the football when she can’t even see where to use her lipstick?’ Paola asked.

  ‘We have to tell her to get rid of that colour – it’s so wrong,’ said Steph.

  ‘It’s her thing. She can wear what she likes,’ said Paola, flourishing her unlit cigarette. ‘We don’t tease you ’bout your love affair with the spray-tans gun.’

  I stifled a laugh.

  ‘Oh, says the bloody native,’ said Steph. ‘It’s all right for you, the skinny model with the permanent tan!’

  ‘Chiquita, don hate me cause I’m pretty and popular.’

  Paola winked at Steph and pushed open the door to the car park, where the two of them could finally suck on the little white sticks they had been dreaming of.

  An hour later, the members bar was heaving. As the Bulls had now secured a spot in the semi-finals, everyone was in a hyper-charged, alcohol-fuelled frenzy. Even Melinda was caught smiling occasionally.

  ‘Oh, look! It’s Petey Pissy Pants,’ said Steph, her eyes glazed and her cheeks flushed as she took in Josh, who was walking towards us carrying three vodkas.

  ‘WHO?’ yelled an especially jovial Josh over the noise of 150 drunk football fans, players and partners.

  ‘NEVER MIND. WHERE’S MITCH?’

  ‘ZAT THE BAR!’

  Steph performed a wobbly curtsy and turned to go and find her man, leaving Josh and me to kiss hello. As always, his enormous training bag was with him: carried on his shoulder and then dumped at his feet wherever he decided to halt. I felt compelled to offer a few generic comments, since this was all I could manage, on the game.

  ‘Baby, you played so well.’ (Guess and hope that he didn’t actually let in three tries.) ‘Congratulations on the win.’ (Foolproof.) ‘How exciting about the semi-finals!’ (Show I know what’s going on.) ‘Are you pumped?’ (Put it back on to him.)

  ‘Thanks, my li’l Jeanie …’ He had a bemused smile on his face. ‘You’ve had a bit to drink, haven’t you?’ He smiled at me lovingly – not reprimanding, just stating the obvious.

  ‘Ummmm … a little.’

  He wrapped his arms around me, looked me directly in the eyes and kissed me on the nose.

  ‘You’re even cuter when you’re drunk. Must remember to take advantage of you later on.’

  ‘How can you take advantage of me if I want to do it?’

  ‘Ah, but you don’t know what “it” is yet.’

  He smiled mischievously and, keeping his eyes locked on mine, removed Bones’s hand from his arse.

  ‘So I like to gently caress his buns. What of it?’ Bones complained. I laughed as he pecked me on the cheek.

  ‘Real Deal … looking good. You know that once you’re sick of Fox you can come my way, right? Don’t worry, I’ll forgive you for dating one of the rookies in the team before coming to see what it’s like to be with a real man.’

  I shook my head and smiled the teeth-free smile reserved specifically for the lame sexual innuendo Bones poured all over every conversation.

  ‘Look at her, Fox. She can’t even argue, because I just slapped her with what smart people like me call infallible logic.’

  I groaned. ‘I prefer my men to have had less than 900 sexual partners.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s millions of women out there who would love to be number 901,’ he said. ‘I just gotta make sure she’s drunk enough that she can’t see how much less attractive I am than Josh.’

  ‘See, what you don’t understand is that that stuff right there – that whole self-deprecation thing you just did? Way more attractive than talking yourself up.’

  He ignored me, clearly on a roll. ‘What about your sister? She’s hot. She single?’

  ‘Um, yeah, no, she’s, um, no …’

  ‘It’s all right, plenty more birds in the park. Oh! Almost forgot why I came over to talk to Barbie and Ken. The Tessticle is here.’

  ROUND 36

  Confrontation vs Inebriation

  Even through my haze of sickly-sweet wine and the covers band and the sound of the pokies and the excited buzz of what felt like 5000 people, Tess’s name stood out like the rumblings of diarrhoea when stuck in a traffic jam.

  Josh grabbed my hand immediately. ‘No biggie, we’ll just make sure we don’t bump into her.’ He looked at me for confirmation that this was okay. ‘You cool, Jeanie?’

  ‘Totally.’ I smiled at him, hoping it provided a mask adequate enough to hide the anxiety I felt knowing that she was in the room. Why? Why would she come here? She had no reason. Okay, so her dad was the boss and it was a huge game. But aside from that, no reason whatsoever.

  Josh kissed me quickly on the lips and looked towards the bar.

  ‘How about I get us a drink? Bones, can you try not to sexually harass my girlfriend for a few minutes?’

  ‘I can’t make any promises …’

  As Josh disappeared into the sea of people, Paola sidled up next to me.

  ‘Where you been hiding? Oh, you’re being slimed on by Bones. Thank Gods I’m here to save you.’

  ‘Do I have no other personality traits apart from sleaziness?’ Bones asked, shaking his head.

  ‘Of course you do, Bones. Una golfa.’ She grinned and poked him in the chest.

  ‘Don’t Spanish me! You know I hate that. What did you say?’

  ‘Paola, do you need to go to the ladies’?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, let’s. Bones, you wanna come touch up your makeup?’

  ‘What did you call me, Scarface?’

  ‘Ciao!’

  As we wove our way through the crowd, my eyes raked the sea of heads for Tess’s blonde hair. It shouldn’t be too hard to spot, what with the devil horns peeking out. I spotted Cassie laughing hysterically at something a handsome young guy with a shaved head was saying, and Steph talking very flirtatiously to a man who was not Mitch. Seems we were all as drunk and messy as each other.

  Just as we were about to reach the toilets, I heard a screech.

  ‘Paola!’

  ‘Janet! Get out! What you doin’ here? Oooh, we miss you, baby!’

  Paola was suddenly wrapped in the tanned arms of a toffee-blonde with huge brown eyes and an enormous Joker-style smile.

  ‘Janet, this here is Jeanie; Jeanie, Janet. Janet used to be the marketing girl for the club, but then she went and had some bebés.’

  ‘Hi, Janet. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’ She smiled at me and then quickly went back to Paola, elegantly pulling her out of the thoroughfare to engage her in a conversation about nappies and sleep deprivation. Sensing this might go on for a while, I excused myself and walked through to the toilets.

  And a queue.

  And a Tess.

  She was applying some glimmering pink Chanel lip gloss to her already reflective lips, and looking closely at herself in the mirror. She was wearing incredibly tight, faded jeans, tan ankle boots, a white singlet and what had to be a cashmere scarf. Her hair was huge, bouncy, positively weavetastical. She looked toned, tanned, slim and so TV-ready it made me want to vomit.

  ‘M’linda! You done or what?’ Tess shouted at one of the cubicles.

  A muffled voice emerged. ‘Nearly. Jesus, relax!’

  As Tess turned back to her reflection, she caught sight of me leaning against the back wall, head down, trying desperately to activate my camouflage button. She froze, mid-gloss. I looked to the door behind me, praying that I could either pass through it, Casper-style, or that Paola would sense my need for help and barge in. Then I looked to the two girls in front of me to see if they might be of any assistance, but they were so busy talking about their bikini waxer that I could’ve turned into a giant mango and they wouldn’t have noticed. There was no escape.

  ‘Jeeeeeean, how lovely to see you. How are you?’

  Tess’s tone was menacingly syrupy, tinged with condescension and saturated
in faux friendliness – not dissimilar to the tone used by Hollywood-movie serial killers as they stroked their victims’ necks with a large knife.

  ‘You must be so happy with how the Bulls played tonight, particularly Josh. I mean, what a game he had!’

  I nodded slowly, wondering where she was heading with this.

  ‘It’s fantastic that his ankle held out, isn’t it?’

  She smiled at me and started rifling through her bag for something. Most likely her phone, to tell Lucifer that she was on her way back down.

  What ankle? What was she on about?

  ‘Of course, he’s had niggling Achilles tendonitis for years but, I mean, what bad luck to have had a flare-up this week.’

  I crossed my arms. What flare-up? And how would she know, anyway?

  ‘Shame you couldn’t join us for coffee on Tuesday, but Josh said you were busy …’

  Shocked into speechlessness, I had no reply. And then someone came in to save the day! Only it was the wrong person. And she didn’t so much save as slaughter.

  ‘Oh, it’s Jean!’ said Melinda, strutting out of the cubicle to the sink. ‘I was wondering who you were talking to.’

  ‘I was just telling her what a great catch-up Josh and I had the other day.’

  ‘Oh, yeah’ – she cleared her throat – ‘that’s right.’

  Melinda wouldn’t look at me as she spoke, inferring the possibility that she wasn’t entirely malevolent, but I didn’t feel like sticking around to see more proof, or to hear what would fall from Tess’s mouth next. I turned around and pulled the door open. It didn’t move. I noticed the ‘Push’ sign and changed my tactic, already hearing in my head Melinda and Tess’s patronising laughter.

  I was back in the pulsing crowd, which included a boyfriend who was seeing his ex on the side, and was a world that, to my mind, was completely fucked up. My hatred for Tess was now on a subatomic level. My anger with Josh wasn’t far behind.