He Played for His Wife and Other Stories

by Anthony Holden

  The young runner handed out bits of paper with the values of all the poker hands on them. He talked about big blinds, little blinds, slow-playing, check-raising, family pots, heads up and going all in. Steph tried to work out the difference between a flush and a straight, but she was already starting to feel a bit tired. Clive the builder took it all very seriously. Carly and Denise larked about, trying to make everyone laugh. Steph suddenly became unbearably weary. She didn’t care about poker, and it felt like she was trying to learn the language of a country she had no interest in visiting.

  The tutorial ended at about nine o’clock, and they were all told to go to their rooms and freshen up. Cabs would arrive at midnight to take them from the hotel to the studio. Just as Steph was about to head off upstairs Martin, the snooker player, reappeared with a bottle of champagne. This she was happy to see, as she’d been holding back on the drinking until now. She wasn’t sure if everyone knew she’d just come out of rehab, but if they read the tabloids they would all be aware that she had been ‘battling her demons’. She realised it would look bad ordering a double vodka lime and soda but she got one anyway, to go with Martin’s champagne.

  Martin was so, so kind to her, she thought. He didn’t judge her at all. He told her how brave he thought she was for doing TV again so soon after the fiascos of Tonight’s The Night and Chinese Circus. He told her how nice she looked, and how much he’d enjoyed her novelty pop hit. He’d even bought Steph’s perfume for a young friend of his, and his friend really loved it, despite the nasty rash it caused. Steph was starting to think that Martin was the nicest guy she’d met in ages, so when he suggested that they go up to his room to carry on chatting, it felt like a good idea. Especially when he mentioned the bottle of port he had up there.

  As soon as they got into Martin’s room, he started kissing her and took off her dress. He pulled out a wrap of coke and started chopping out lines on the glass top of the writing desk.

  ‘I just got out of rehab, so . . .’ Steph confessed toothlessly.

  ‘Oh, of course, darling, no worries,’ Martin said. ‘Just do half a line then. I cut them pretty fat.’

  Handing Steph a rolled-up bank note, Martin poured her a glass of port while she snorted the half-line. Martin took his shirt off and stood in front of her, licking his lips and sucking in his stomach. Steph then snorted the rest before they went and lay down on the bed.

  Martin was quite a wet kisser, and quite stubbly. After a few minutes Steph’s face was damp and sore. He was very heavy when he lay on top of her, but Steph quite liked how reassuringly solid he was. She curled her legs around him and squeezed. Steph realised that she really needed to do a shit, so she rolled out from underneath him and went to the bathroom.

  She sat on the toilet for so long, she thought she might have fallen asleep for a bit. But when she came back out Martin was still wide awake. He clasped her to him very tightly. They were both sweaty. Steph’s mind was racing, but she felt heavy-limbed. She was wondering whether it was too late to get a train back to London tonight and meet her mates in Camden. Maybe she could get a cab? She couldn’t afford it, but if she called Ben he might offer to pay at the other end.

  Steph saw that Martin was staring at her very intently.

  ‘What’s up, baby?’ she said. Martin leapt off the bed and started pacing up and down the room. His face had gone really red, and sweat was dripping from his forehead down his nose.

  ‘Darling, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this before, you won’t think I’m stupid, will you? This is mad but . . . oh God, no, I can’t say it . . .’

  Idly, Steph found herself saying, ‘Go on, you can tell me. You can tell me anything, babe.’

  Martin came over and stood by the bed.

  He tilted her chin up towards him. ‘I just . . . oh God . . . I just . . . I just really want to buy a boat. A totally massive boat.’

  ‘Yeah, I went on a boat once, it was nice. It was a ferry to France . . .’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No, I don’t mean a ferry, I mean like a yacht . . . or a super-yacht, that’s what I want. I want an enormous one, a huge, gigantic one.’

  Steph suppressed a giggle, but Martin carried on.

  ‘It’s just so free. The ocean. You can go wherever you want. Not like on the roads, where you just have to go where they tell you. Like, say you’re on the A303 and you suddenly think you’d like to go to Axbridge, but you can’t, because that’s on the A371, but you’re on the A303 so you have to carry on until Axminster, you know?’

  Steph nodded vacantly and applied some lip balm. Martin was spitting as he spoke now.

  ‘At sea, no one could tell me where to go or what to do, I’d be free – finally free. Cannes, Monte Carlo, the Bahamas, that island Richard Branson owns in the Caribbean . . . I mean obviously I’d have to ask his permission to dock, but I reckon that would be OK because I met him once in a poker tournament. Anyway, I could go anywhere. And you could come with me. You’d look amazing on a super-yacht. You would, you know.’

  Steph nodded and lay back sleepily on the mound of white pillows. Martin waved the rolled-up bank note in her face, so she sat up on one elbow and snorted a massive line of coke off the bedside table.

  Martin hopped back onto the bed beside her, and slipped his trousers and pants off. Steph wasn’t bothered about having sex with him, but she was a bit surprised when he angled his bottom towards her and handed her the rolled-up bank note.

  ‘Listen, darling,’ he whispered, ‘could you just blow a little bit of the coke up my arse? I get more of a hit that way.’

  Confronted with Martin’s hairy bum hole, Steph was disgusted, yet intrigued. She’d never done this before. At first, she struggled with the mechanics of how, but her teachers at school had always said she was good at problem-solving. She sucked some coke into the rolled-up bank note, but stopped when she could taste it on her tongue. Then she inserted the tip of the note between Martin’s cheeks, closed her eyes, and blew out of her mouth as hard as she could. The bank note flew out of her mouth, lodging itself inside Martin. The coke must have hit the target, because Martin sighed with pleasure.

  Pulling the bank note out of his cheeks, Martin offered, ‘Do you want me to do the same for you?’

  Steph shook her head. He was obviously keen to do something for her in return. It was quite sweet, really. Men didn’t often consider her feelings.

  ‘I know,’ Martin said. ‘I’ll just rub a bit of coke in for you, down there.’ Steph looked on, slightly bewildered as he set about her nether regions with his coke-covered fingers. After a short while, Steph said, ‘Thanks very much, you can stop now.’

  Martin grinned at her. ‘Do you want to have sex, love? I mean, I find it a bit hard to come when I’ve done coke, but I’m happy to give it a go!’

  ‘No, you’re all right, thanks,’ Steph replied. ‘My fanny’s quite numb now, anyway. I might just head back to my room.’ The coke had had no effect on her brain and she was starting to feel bone-tired.

  Martin held Steph gently by the shoulders and put his face really close to hers.

  ‘Before you go, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’ Steph braced herself for more boat chat, but instead he started talking about the poker game.

  ‘It’s really important that I win this tournament tonight. The guys from Poker Blast really want to sponsor me, and if they see me win a high-profile telly game I reckon that will really seal the deal. So I need your help, sweetheart. It couldn’t be easier. If you just play tight to start with, let the others knock each other out, and then when we’re heads up, fold anything decent and play any old crap. It’ll be sweet as a nut.’

  Steph must have looked even more confused than she felt, because Martin started laughing.

  He ruffled her hair. ‘You don’t know a lot about poker, do you, angel?’ he said caringly. ‘All I’m saying is don’t play many hands until it’s just you and me, and then let me win. OK?’

  This sounded br
illiant. She basically had to do nothing, and then play badly.

  Martin went to the bathroom and got some pills out of his wash bag. He offered one to her.

  ‘I brought some downers. I might get an hour’s sleep now, it’ll help me be on form for the game. Do you want one?’

  Taking one of the pink capsules, she put her clothes back on and motioned to leave. Martin gave her a big hug, and she nearly fell asleep in his huge, comforting, sweaty arms. She managed to crawl down the corridor to her room and collapsed on the bed.

  She woke up and the phone in her room was ringing.

  The young runner said, ‘Hi, Steph, the taxi to take you to the studio is downstairs now.’

  Feeling surprisingly well-rested, she replied brightly, ‘Yeah, it’s all good, babe. I’m just doing my make-up now, yeah?’

  She put the phone down and looked in the mirror. Having slept soundly on her back for the last hour or so, her make-up still looked fine. She just added a bit more foundation to cover the stubble rash, and another coat of mascara.

  Carly, Denise, Martin and Clive were waiting with the runner in reception downstairs. Two taxis were outside, and Martin engineered it so they were alone in the second one. He reminded her of the plan he’d made earlier, and she promised him she would do exactly as he’d said. Martin held her hand and Steph enjoyed the way he gently stroked her fingers as they sat in silence. Cardiff looked so romantic in the moonlight, she thought. She’d never been to Wales before, and she wondered if she’d get a chance to look around in the morning.

  Once at the studio, they were rushed in to have their hair and make-up checked. There was a big green poker table in the centre of the room, with glass panels cut out of it and cameras underneath, so that the people at home could see what cards the players had. Other cameras were placed around the table to cover the players’ chat and reactions. The studio was cold, and Steph shivered when the sound man took her cardigan off as he was fitting her microphone.

  Carly and Denise, the comedians, were clearly very nervous.

  ‘We’ve never done anything on live TV before,’ said Carly.

  ‘I’ve done loads of live telly, babe, it’s no big deal!’ Steph said. She intended to be reassuring, but she was sure she heard Denise snort with laughter. Clive the Handyman had put on a ridiculous outfit. He had a sweatshirt with the hood up, some sunglasses and massive headphones.

  ‘He doesn’t want to give away anything about his play,’ said Denise, and she and Carly collapsed into hysterics. Martin the snooker player looked a bit purple in the face and was very sweaty, but he was chatty and happy, posing for photos with the camera crew.

  Steph was still feeling very sleepy. As they showed her to the poker table it felt like she was watching all this happen to somebody else. The young runner explained that they had to leave their cards on the table, because the cameras underneath would show the viewers what cards they had. The floor manager told everyone they were about to go live in five minutes. A dealer came to the table and did some funny business with a deck of cards to decide who would sit where. He was a handsome bloke of about twenty-five, and Steph flirted with him to relax.

  ‘Babe,’ she pouted, ‘you obviously know about all this shit, yeah? I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing. Look after me, will you?’

  He laughed and nodded, and told her that he was a big fan of her work. He explained to Steph that she was on the big blind, so she would be the last person he asked what she wanted to do when they started playing. The floor manager counted down to the live broadcast. The TV monitors in the studio played the theme tune and opening credits for Poker Nightz before turning blank again.

  Some pundits in a studio next door would be commentating on the game. Steph couldn’t see them, but the floor manager said they were doing a bit of a preamble and the game would start when they’d finished. Everything was deathly silent around the table, apart from the odd bit of giggling from Carly, or was it Denise? Steph had forgotten which one was which. Martin was fiddling with his poker chips and Clive the Handyman had his eyes closed and his hands in his lap like he was praying.

  Steph felt sleepy again and had nearly nodded off, when suddenly there was a kerfuffle in the studio, and all the cameras started moving around.

  The floor manager said, ‘OK, ladies and gents, we’re about to go live in three . . . two . . .’

  The Poker Nightz theme tune kicked in again and the cards were dealt. Steph looked down at hers – the five of hearts and the two of clubs. She was glad because she knew this was a rubbish hand, so she watched the others doing stuff with their cards and chips until the dealer raised his eyes at her, and she realised it was her turn. Steph tried to remember what she was supposed to do.

  ‘Erm . . . Fold?’

  The dealer said quietly, ‘You can just check.’

  ‘Check,’ Steph said decisively.

  The dealer laid three cards out in the middle of the table – a queen, a jack and a nine.

  Clive the Handyman sat bolt upright in his seat. One of the comedians put her hand over her mouth, and the other one started bouncing up and down. Martin didn’t do anything. Everyone started putting cards and chips in the middle of the table, until the dealer raised his eyes again in Steph’s direction.

  ‘Check?’ Steph said.

  To which the dealer replied, ‘Bet or fold?’

  ‘Fold?’

  The dealer motioned for her to put her cards in the middle of the table before laying down another card – a queen. More chips went in and Steph could see that Clive the Handyman was getting very excited indeed behind his sunglasses because his bushy eyebrows were raised.

  The dealer laid out another card. Another queen. Clive the Handyman put all his chips into the middle of the table, so did Carly . . . or was it Denise? The comedian and Clive both stood up and put their cards face up on the table. The comedian had a jack and an eight. Clive the Handyman had a king and a queen. The comedian had all her chips taken away, and they were given to Clive the Handyman. The comedian laughed and walked away from the table, shaking her head. Steph heard the Poker Nightz theme tune again and the floor manager came in to tell everyone that they had gone to an ad break.

  The camera crew disappeared, and Martin and the dealer commiserated with the comedian who’d just lost. They were all talking about potential straights and three of a kinds. Steph didn’t have a clue what they were on about. The make-up people came back in to put some powder on everyone – it was a very small studio and they were all getting a bit sweaty. The losing comedian was taken outside to do her ‘exit chat’, and the rest of them were offered a drink of water or the chance of a toilet break.

  Steph didn’t really need the toilet, but she wanted to get out of the tiny studio. She was taken down the corridor by the young runner, and went into the loo to splash some cold water on her wrists. She looked a little grey. Just as she was about to leave, Martin poked his head around the door. He handed her a wrap of coke and whispered, ‘Well played, love, just keep doing what you’re doing.’

  Steph went into a cubicle, scooped some coke out with her long fingernail and stuck it up her nose. She sauntered back into the studio just as the floor manager was ushering everyone into their seats.

  The next section of the show seemed to last an eternity. Steph folded whenever she could and checked when the dealer told her to. Everyone else moved their chips around, stood up, sat down, cried out in anguish, punched the air. Clive the Handyman had ripped off his headphones and taken off his shades, and was at loggerheads with the remaining comedian. Steph was the only one who kept completely calm, largely because she had no idea what was going on. Although Steph didn’t understand what was happening with the cards, she had seen enough drama to know that Clive and the comedian were locked in furious, personal combat and Martin was anxious about the outcome.

  Eventually, the other comedian lost all her chips to Clive the Handyman and left the table. Clive was exultant and Martin looked reliev
ed, if a bit pale.

  At the next ad break, Steph took the opportunity to revisit the toilet. Carly and Denise were in there smoking, giggling as she came in.

  ‘Ooh, looks like your boyfriend’s having a hard time,’ Denise said.

  ‘Martin’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Not Martin,’ Carly said. ‘Clive! I thought you must be shagging him because you folded that pair of kings and let him win the hand. He only had queen-three off-suit. I could see it all from the green room. You really screwed Denise over there.’

  Confused, Steph started to panic.

  ‘Oh, no, sorry,’ she said. ‘I really wasn’t trying to screw anyone over, babe?’

  The comedians laughed. ‘It’s fine, we’re really not bothered. We’re happy just to let the old blokes get on with it. They’re so competitive, it’s tragic. We’re only doing this because our agent made us.’

  Steph was so glad that they weren’t really angry with her. She laughed and said, ‘Me too. I just want to get on the shopping channel.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re trying to get a sitcom away with Channel 4,’ Denise said. ‘It’s nuts that we have to do this poker bullshit, isn’t it? But apparently it’s “raising our profile”. To be honest, we can’t really be arsed. We know we’re going to look like sneering dickheads, but we’re totally out of our comfort zone.’

  Steph felt bad for judging them earlier. Even though they did look like homeless men in their jeans and big jumpers, they were clearly on her side. She sat up on one of the sinks, taking the wrap of coke Martin had given her out of her handbag. She offered it to the comedians. They chopped out some lines for themselves and one for Steph. There wasn’t much left, so Steph told them to keep the rest. They had a group hug, before one of the comics produced a little plastic bag of pills.

  ‘Want one of these?’ she said. ‘It might get you through the cockfight between Martin and Clive.’

  *

  Back in the studio, the young runner asked them if they’d like anything to drink. Clive asked for a fizzy mineral water. Martin said he’d like a red wine, which made Steph feel bold enough to ask for a double vodka, lime and soda. The floor manager was trying to get them back into their seats, and as soon as they sat down the Poker Nightz theme played again and the dealer went into action.