by Foster, Zoe
Josh had never opened up to this extent; I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I decided that my only job was listening. That, I could do.
‘Anyway, enough about that. Past-life stuff. Point is, I’m glad I’m out of all that shit, and being with such an honest, down-to-earth girl makes me realise just how glad.’
He took my hand and kissed it. He was so touchy-feely-kissy tonight! Maybe it was the fresh air – I needed to bottle some of it. And to wear this singlet more often.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re happy. And that you avoided a rock-star demise. It’s funny, I can’t imagine you being all flashy party guy —’
‘Jean, if you’d met me a few years back, you would’ve thought I was a complete tool. Mainly because I was. You wouldn’t have given me the time of day.’
‘Hmmm. Well, if you say so … Hey, any word on your contract stuff?’
On top of the semi-final, Josh’s head was full of decisions to make about his future, and I knew it was stressing him out. And despite having roughly as much clue about football as did a piece of furniture, I felt privileged to be able to let him bounce ideas off me. ’Though of course, whenever the conversation arose, it made me nervous and a little bit sick to think of him changing clubs, states or even countries. Now he sighed.
‘Well, yes and no. It’s all coming down to the length of the contracts being put up – there’ve been some good offers from local clubs, but they’re all two-year deals. We’ve even had a couple from the UK and France, which is pretty cool. As I said at Mike’s, the last thing you want is to be coming off contract at twenty-nine – that’s footballer suicide. No one wants to buy someone that old, and if they do it’s for fuck-all money. So that’s where we’re at: trying to push for a four-year deal, because I need the security. I’m happy to play the last couple of years by ear, but not now. I’ve got two mortgages to pay off plus, you know, I want to come out of football comfortable, set up, not needing to find a job straight away to support my family … or whatever.’
I tried not to think about being part of that family, instead concentrating on other aspects of what he’d just said.
‘A Real Life job – imagine that. What would you do, do you think?’
‘Well, I started an industrial engineering degree at uni before I began playing first-grade. I only have one-and-a-half semesters under my belt, but I think I’m going to try and finish it by correspondence. My uncle’s a partner in this big aviation engineering firm, and he’s going to let me come and do some work experience. He reckons I should chuck the degree and get on-the-job training, but I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the kind of field where you can dismiss all the science and theory, and I kind of like learning about all that stuff, anyway.’
‘You’re a nerd. You’re actually a complete nerd. And yet, you’ve got everyone fooled into thinking you’re some big jock …’
He dropped his head and smiled self-effacingly, all but scuffing the ground with his shoe.
‘Nahh, I just enjoy it, is all. Love all the puzzle-solving. I feel like since being a footy, I’ve been utilising about thirty per cent of my brain’s potential, and I can’t wait to get into it, to be honest.’
As Josh spoke of this pull he felt towards career #2, something swelled inside me. After all, it was explicitly clear in the football world that playing wasn’t for ever, and when one of the Bulls boys, Andy Nash, had suffered a horrific, career-ending neck injury a few games back, it had served as a bit of a wake-up call to everyone, Josh included.
Lou and Steph constantly ruminated over what Nick and Mitch could possibly do after football. Nick had done cabinet-making before he went into first-grade, but Lou didn’t think a bit of woodwork was going to be enough to support their family, especially in the comfortable lifestyle they currently enjoyed. Steph was convinced that Mitch would buy a pub somewhere semi-rural, like so many ex-footballers did, and expect her to move there with him while he acted as owner/manager/all-round nice guy. On her happiness scale, this situation would rate just below being told her brand-new Volkswagon Golf had been decimated by an out-of-control semitrailer. She was a city gal, and she wasn’t moving to ‘no shit-hick town to have ten kids while he drinks every night’. When I thought about it, the girls’ slant was undeniably negative – and not only when they were talking about the future, either. I guess it was a pretty intense life, being a WAG, and especially after a few years of it. I wondered if – when – I would become jaded. I could definitely see how it might happen.
I wasn’t sure whether I would be around when Josh finally gave up his football career and morphed into Mr Engineer, but as I looked at him sitting there – gorgeous, smart, insightful and, astonishingly, choosing to be with me when he could have any girl he wanted snuggling into his side, taking in this magnificent view – I couldn’t help hoping I would.
ROUND 43
Footballers’ Wives vs Family Matters
‘That is the most lushest shade. I want that one too …’
Steph was looking at the plum varnish dancing on my fingernails, her head tilted to one side, her extremely low and tight pink top overflowing with boob. She was wearing too much makeup, as usual, and I had to consciously stop my hand from blending in her blush, which had spread lazily over the entire side of her face.
We were sitting in Morgan’s lounge: tiled and neutral-toned to interior-decorator perfection, with an enormous flatscreen TV dominating one entire wall and weekly magazines fanned over the glass coffee table. It was the Semi-final Spa-palloza and all the girls were dressed as though they were about to walk into a bar, with tight jeans or skirts, low-cut tops (more breast on offer than Charcoal Charlie’s front window), four-inch heels and tanned, toned legs.
I’d gone with tight black pants that were pretending to be jeans, Col’s new black skyscraper heels and a sexy, J. Lo-y top in peach. I felt way cooler, taller and skinnier than ever before, thanks to the height of the shoes. Freshly highlighted, straightened hair with a sexy centre part, simple gold hoops, a touch of self-tanned cleavage and a whole lot of arse completed the look. I felt like Cheryl Cole – or her sister, at least. It was a good feeling.
We were having our nails done, sipping on champagne and peach nectar, and listening to sugary R’n’B. All around us the other WAGs were talking loudly, ducking outside for ciggies, gossiping, constantly toying with their hair, checking their phones, texting, and squealing with apparent excitement about the game. Melinda claimed that she was so anxious she hadn’t slept, while Cassie was talking up the benefits of Valium and bourbon to soothe the nerves the night before a big match.
I had slept fine. After my little moment with Cam the previous week, I’d vowed to get things back on track with Josh. And that was all going swimmingly now. Cam was a little arsehole and that would be the last time I allowed anything he had to say to get under my skin. He could take his Ava and shove it.
Happily, Josh had been incredibly receptive to the ‘old Jean’ resurfacing, and with our hike as the highlight, we’d had a great week – well, as much of it as we’d been able to spend together, given Josh’s schedule. He was in excellent spirits: excited but calm, optimistic about a win.
Paola was running late, and Lou’s babysitter had cancelled so she was not coming at all. Thank God for Steph – I felt slightly like I was at the wrong party, with Melinda, Morgan, Cassie and co. running the show. That said, Morgan was making a real effort to include me, playing the ultimate hostess, and constantly – tipsily – reminding us that we were all entitled to fifty per cent off their spray-tans. I couldn’t be sure, but I think she’d had another several kilos of hair attached to her head, as well as going for a triple spray-tan and managing to find the lowest jeans in Sydney. Her tanned, freckled chest was merely a backdrop to her enormous breasts, which sat cosily in a Wheels & Dollbaby black-and-pink bustier, waving merrily to all those who laid eyes on them.
I felt my phone buzz and tried to retrieve it from my handbag without jeopardising my still
-wet nails. When I finally answered, it was Col.
‘Are you still coming? Mum and I are waiting.’
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I looked at the time and was suddenly, sharply sober. I was meant to be meeting them at Patterson Avenue, forty-five minutes away, for our catch-up and shopping trip. Because I had left for the hairdresser’s at eight that morning, I hadn’t seen Mum or Col and had missed the vital reminder conversation. I stood up and walked out of the dining room for some quiet.
‘Um, well … Shit, Col, I —’
‘Tell me you’re not still with the cheerleaders?’ her voice was incredulous. I could hear Mum parroting her question in the background.
‘Yes, but I’m leaving right now —’
‘Have you been drinking?’
I mentally counted: three drinks. That qualified as a yes.
‘I’ll just jump in a cab – easy.’
‘Oh yeah, ’cos you’ve got fifty dollars to spare on a cab ride after pumping your entire salary into your hair. Tell me, how did you think you were going to get here?’
I had no answer. I listened to Col explain to Mum what was happening, feeling a deep, wide hole forming in my gut. ‘No, she’s still there … she’s been drinking so she can’t … wouldn’t be able to find it anyway, she can barely find her way home from work … No Mum, don’t worry about it …’ Then she was back in my ear.
‘You know what, Jay? You’ve really taken this WAG shit too far.’
‘What are you on about —’
‘I mean, you’d clearly rather hang out with a bunch of vacuous blow-up dolls, and talk about nails and hair and your totally awesome footballer boyfriends, than with your mum, so good one, sis. Hope it’s worth it. You fit better and better into that world every day.’
Click.
I closed my mouth, shocked, listening to the tone of being hung up on. I thought of Mum – all excited about spending the afternoon with her girls, who she hadn’t seen for months, shopping, and stopping for coffee and cake and gossip – and how I’d let her down. I sat on one of Cassie’s gold-and-white dining chairs, the guilt rolling over me in waves.
Hang on, maybe I would take a cab. Maybe I would surprise them and show up! I looked at the time on my mobile. It was already nearly 2.30; by the time I got there it’d be three, and with the game starting at five … I couldn’t do both. I had to choose.
Cassie walked in on her way to the bathroom and spotted me sitting there, fighting back tears.
‘Hun! Are you okay?’ She came over and kneeled next to me, her hand on her knee. ‘What’s happened?’
I shook my head, looking into her huge eyes framed with coat upon coat of mascara and black liner. I thought about her hiding her secret from Camel all these years, and the fear of him finding out and leaving her, and the guilt she must feel on a daily basis for that one mistake …
‘Nothing, Cassie. I’m fine. It’s just that, well, I was meant to meet my sister and Mum somewhere and I forgot, and they’re pissed at me.’
The look in her eyes softened.
‘Is that it? God, hun, I thought someone had carked it!’ She laughed hysterically. ‘They’ll get over it. Just make it up to them with some flowers – does the trick every time. I use Fantasia, they’re amazing.’ She winked and stood up. She was right, I thought. I had made a mistake and I was in trouble, but they would get over it.
‘What you need is a daiquiri!’ Cassie clapped her hands and looked at me for a nod of agreement and the unspoken sign that should I accept this frozen beverage, I would stop moping and move on and be fun again.
I managed a weak smile. ‘You’re right.’
She clapped her hands even faster and yipped, skipping off towards the kitchen. She stopped just before walking in and turned to me.
‘By the way, hun, love your hair blonde. Looks so much hotter.’
ROUND 44
Mad Monday vs Mobile Phone Lunacy
‘What are you looking at?’
I was propped on one elbow, staring at a just-waking-up Josh.
‘Just enjoying the view while I have it.’
‘Oh. Very funny.’ He smiled and closed his eyes again. ‘Why are you even up? It’s too early …’ He frowned and groaned, covering his head with the pillow.
‘Awww, we a little bit hung-over, mate? Hey? Little bit sick? Little bit dusty? Little bit under the weather?’ I prodded him annoyingly in the bum as I spoke.
‘Mmm. Someone must have slipped me a bad ice-cube.’
I laughed. ‘Come on, dirtboy, get up. It’s ten and you’ve got Bones’s party to get to.’
As the boys had lost last night’s semi-final, it was now Mad Monday, which meant they would drink and drink and drink for as many days as their bodies would allow them. The girls hated Mad Monday because their boys disappeared for several days, with no phone contact, no regard for personal hygiene and no desire for sobriety.
Steph was particularly opposed to it because Mitch was a horrendous drunk, and was often found passed out in a park or bus shelter. Last year he’d ended up at the bottom of a slippery slide with no ID, no shirt, no phone and no keys, asking for creaming soda. And none of the boys had even noticed he was missing! Lou was similarly disenchanted, as Nick had a penchant for taking copious amounts of whatever drug he could lay his hands on, and she worried he would end up at a brothel, or on a plane to Vegas, or dead in a gutter somewhere. And Cassie, somewhat ironically, hated Mad Monday because she said it was when the boys were most likely to play up with the swarm of faithful groupies who had followed them from bar to bar all season.
As it was my first Mad Monday, I didn’t know quite what to expect. But I couldn’t imagine Josh would simply not contact me for days, and I knew he didn’t do drugs, so I wasn’t too concerned. Josh said that in order to hide from the media and the public, they usually hung out at one of the boy’s places, or a filthy local pub that no one but a few dirty old barflies frequented.
‘Already? But we just went to bed …’
He was only millimetres from the truth; we’d all had a very, very big night commiserating that the Bulls wouldn’t be in the grand final. I’d never seen grown men become so emotional: some had cried and others had simply gone mute, but most had just drowned their sorrows in glass after glass of vodka.
Despite the loss, it had been a good night; I’d stayed out until an hour usually reserved for paperboys and tai chi types, and Josh had stumbled in at 8 a.m. Paola and Jimmy had come, even though Jimmy was in a foul mood for most of the night – partly because his team wouldn’t be playing in the grand final, and partly because his injury had proven to be even worse than first thought, and after two months of pain, he was in for another three. Paola’s way of dealing with this was to pull up her little black dress and flash her butt whenever she walked past him, and to throw ice-cubes at him when she was dancing.
After a lot of whingeing, and approximately 400 calls and texts from Bones and the others, Josh dragged himself into the shower, claiming he’d only be drinking lemonade today. I lay there wondering how they could start drinking again having finished only a few hours prior, if that. Bones clearly hadn’t slept; according to his last text, he was currently playing Wii in the nude, to the enjoyment of ten or so grown men.
When Josh emerged from the shower, it was clear that he was in awful shape, hung-over as hell and feeling sick in the gut. I’d give him till tonight, tops. Maybe we’d even be able to see a 9 p.m. movie, I thought happily.
By Tuesday afternoon I was flirting with madness. I had not seen or heard from Josh since dropping him at Bones’s yesterday. Steph had told me that even if you’re going nuts, the golden rule is not to call the boys on Mad Monday. She said that last year Bones had dropped Alistair McDoherty’s phone into a glass of beer because his girlfriend was calling him too much. Bones was a turd, I had decided. But I was obedient. I’d written a few texts, but saved them as drafts and sent none. I didn’t want to be The Girl Who Didn’t Know The Rules.
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br /> I looked at my phone for what felt like the third time in half an hour: still nothing. I put it on silent and left it out the back of the shop in the storeroom so that I wouldn’t be tempted to keep checking. After two solid hours of no looking, I rewarded myself with a peek, positive he would’ve made contact. But he hadn’t, and I went all psycho again and brought the phone back out to the counter. I hated this archaic, insipid game!
Have you heard from Mitch yet??
Maybe Steph had heard from her man – who would obviously be with my man – and then I would know he was still breathing and not nude, wrapped in packing tape and tied to a bus stop on Market Street with ‘Beware Fox – I will steal your chickens!’ written on his torso. With people like Bones and Camel around, I just couldn’t be sure, especially with thirty-six hours of drinking tucked messily under their belts.
No!!! u?? If i don’t hear frm hm soon i’m dumpin him! srsly, they r unblvble … let me now if u hr frm Josh xox
Fuckit. There was no point asking Paola, as Jimmy wasn’t drinking because of his injury, and Lou had only allowed Nick to go if he came home by the time she woke up, because now that they had kids, she was allowed to make excellent rules like that.
Being Tuesday, the shop was agonisingly slow. And of course Cam was a shithead, so I didn’t want to talk to him. And Col was still pissed at me from Sunday, even though I had totally made it up to Mum yesterday morning, so I had way too much time to think about my silent phone.
Driving home, my concern and worry for Josh started to liquefy into anger. It was now 6.30 and he still hadn’t called or texted. So much for ‘not being up for a big one’ and ‘getting older now’ and ‘can’t go too hard in case I get picked for the Australian team and have to go into camp’. What a load of bullshit! He was just like the rest of them: a little caveman who had to do whatever his equally Neanderthal companions were doing.
I thumped the radio button to off, to give my rage more room. I needed to think, to analyse, to wonder how I would play it when he finally did call. Probably, I decided, I would let it ring out for the first 600 times. Then, when I did answer, I would sound as though I were incredibly busy and hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t called, because it was entirely normal for your boyfriend not to call for several days, and I was having too fabulous a time to care about what he and the Great Apes were doing.