by Lindy Dale
I nodded in assent. I could do that. If he could be smug, I could be sneaky.
“I have tickets to see Christina Aguilera,” she continued, brainstorming ideas on a napkin. “You could buy them off me.”
I looked at the napkin, puzzled. How could Christina Aguilera possibly help me?
“Everyone knows, Chica, that ninety-eight per cent of men on the planet hate Christina Aguilera and her poor-me-I-had-such-a-hard-childhood lyrics. Enzo nearly vomits when he hears her and Marco banned me from playing Candyman in the car. He reckons it does damage to his sub-woofers.”
“But what about the other two per cent?” There was, after all, a chance that Sam would fall into a minority group. I wouldn’t have put it past him.
She looked at me like I was a moron. “The other two per cent are gay.”
So, as we sat eating our dinner and watching the oldies from the darts club living it up, I contemplated the idea. It had a certain merit. Sam’s musical taste was limited to strict diet of Foo Fighters and Nirvana with a small amount of The Killers thrown in for variety. He went ballistic if I so much as mentioned playing Taylor Swift or any of that ‘damn chick music’ on his sound system. So an evening of Christina should, by rights, push him over the edge. He would be in awe of my skill as a manipulator forever. As a matter of fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realised it was the perfect way to teach him a lesson.
At that moment, Sam strolled in the door. I had no idea where he came from or what he was doing there when he was meant to be at the club but he was very distracting all the same.
“Hey, babe,” he grinned, pecking my cheek across the bar towel.
He looked so cute in training gear; I wanted to hug him to death. Maybe I’d got him wrong. It was possible that he was simply clueless to the ways of humanity. Sensing my sudden distraction, Alex jolted me back to the reality of the situation with a sharp kick to my ankle.
“Don’t even think about it,” she hissed. “You can’t change your mind because he smiled at you.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Where were we?”
Positioning himself in front of us, arms spread nonchalantly along the timber veneer of the bar, Sam leant over to peruse Alex’s napkin full of notes. “Making a list, Alex?” he enquired, casually.
“Mind your business, Sam.” She shoved the napkin into her pocket and out of his line of sight. “Go and do something. Go on, shoo.”
He didn’t move. He merely smiled lazily at Donna, who’d raced down the length of the bar towards us bearing a large glass of soda water for him. God, he was so smug, I wanted to slap him.
“Sam, what exactly is it that you do here?” I asked, curious. From the day we’d met I’d been uncertain about his job description. Serving customers clearly wasn’t part of it. No one else seemed to know what it was he did, either.
Sam grinned again, filled a glass of lemonade from the tap, handed it to Alex and leant sexily across the bar at me. His smile was devastating and it was difficult to concentrate, let alone plot and scheme against him, but I held my focus. “I mean, you never seem to be doing one specific job. You just float around eating chips and talking to people.”
He strolled over to the glass cleaner, taking out a rack of shiny clean glasses, and proceeded to stack them under the bar. He wasn’t even meant to be here, why was he working?
“Oh you know, babe, a bitta this and a bitta that.” His mouth tilted in that smartarse way.
No, I don’t know, I thought. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. I’d never met anyone who did nothing for a job and got paid hundreds a week.
“But what do you do?”
“I adore the ground you walk on.”
Alex snorted into her lemonade.
“Don’t be a smartarse, Sam,” I glared at him. “It was a simple question.”
“I give you the best sex you’ve ever had. Isn’t that enough?”
Donna went a shade of red I’ve never seen in cheeks before and ran to the toilet.
“You’re so annoying. Can you be sensible for once in your life?” I growled.
Ignoring me, Sam picked up his soda water and went to the other end of the bar. I watched his bum recede into the distance. I saw him stop to chat to a shrunken old lady who wanted a shandy, then make her day by asking her if her outfit was new. Her wrinkled face broke into a smile and she called him a naughty young lad. Chuckling to himself, Sam sauntered away.
“See what I mean.” I groaned to Alex. “He always has the last laugh.”
We sat in silence for a minute, both staring at Sam, both deep in thought. Then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I leant towards her. “What section are the tickets in?”
“Platinum Reserve.”
Top seats, but pricey. It’d make a huge dent in my savings but it’d be worth it to be one up on Sam for thirty minutes of my life.
Then I remembered Alex. “What about you? You adore Christina. I can’t take your tickets.” A pang of guilt grabbed at my stomach and I knew that even though it was mint of Alex to offer up her tickets in the name of payback, I could never take them from her. She’d been humming Christina since the day Genie in a Bottle was released. She even had Christina undies with little black bows on the sides.
“It’s no drama, Chica. My cousin Spiro is bonking the promoter’s assistant.” She snapped her fingers. “He got me tickets in the VIP section right at the front of the stage, so my original tickets are going begging. I was going to flog them on eBay but you can have them for the price I paid.”
“Cool,” I said. Now all I needed was a plan to go with those tickets.
*****
The following Saturday night Sam sat in the limmo next to me. High on his best player award and the close win over Harlequins, he was chatty as we drove through the tunnel towards Burswood Dome. Covering his muscled chest was an Alice Cooper t-shirt he’d dug up from God knows where. Thankfully, I thought as I winced at the absolute ugliness of it, thankfully he’d been taken in by my plan. He hadn’t thought it strange at all that I’d won a competition to see Alice Cooper, complete with limmo pickup and drop off. He hadn’t even realised Christina Aguilera was playing in the adjacent venue. Thank God.
“Babe, you are the absolute best,” he said, as the limmo pulled up at the door and a uniformed valet ushered us into the stadium. “I’ve always wanted to see Alice Cooper.”
I felt the tug of my eyeballs heavenward and I bit my tongue to stop the truth from blurting out onto the red carpet. It wasn’t my fault if he jumped to conclusions. It was nothing more than he’d done to me, after all.
We entered the stadium and three girls in very bad Christina look-a-like costumes ran screaming in front of us. Their hair, platinum blonde, was straightened to within an inch of life and they wore vinyl chaps and tiny bikini tops as if ready to spring to the call as backing dancers for Fighter if someone became ill. Nervously, I watched Sam’s face for any hint of recognition. He frowned.
“What are they doing here?”
“They must be lost. One of those dancing school concerts is on in the theatre, I think.” All but shoving him into the stadium and our front row seats, I scanned the crowd for any more snags, hoping I wouldn’t have to invent another on the spot explanation. I didn’t like lying but this was an exception.
Sam sat down beside me, perusing the scene, taking everything in, as he always did before he started on a litany of sarcasm. “There’s a lot of women here,” he remarked. “Not the crowd you’d expect to see at an Alice Cooper concert.”
Of course, he was correct but I wasn’t about to admit it. He had to think he was at the Alice Cooper concert or my plans would be foiled. I bit my lip and shuffled in my seat. “Yeah, but look at them. They’re as old as the hills, probably divorcees who loved him when they were teenagers. You know, thought they could hook up or something.”
Sam nodded, satisfied, and settled into his seat. “Bloody sad, if you ask me. Mutton dressed up as lamb. Thank God, I have y
ou.”
He reached across to place a peck upon my cheek and I almost gave in. Almost.
“Yes, thank God for that,” I answered, wondering if he’d feel that way in half an hour.
The auditorium lights went dim. The stage lights flickered on what could only be described as a very girlie, white gathered curtain. I sat fidgeting with my fingers, praying Sam wouldn’t be observant enough to notice there were no spiders or headless chickens decorating the stage. Then the familiar intro to Ain’t No Other Man blared through the stadium. The hum of the audience grew to an excited buzz as coloured spotlights danced over us. This was it. Almost bursting, I peeked at Sam from the corner of my eye. He was very still. Eerily so. His hand had crept across into my lap and was locked, vicelike, onto mine. He appeared to be trying to process what was going on before him. As one, the crowd united on their feet and began to scream uncontrollably when the curtain rose and standing, at the top of a silvery staircase, outfitted in a white vest and pants, was Miss Christina herself. Her voice rang out like an angel’s. Her platinum curls fell around her face in a halo. Her costume was so tight it was a wonder she could breathe and the heels! How the hell did she even walk?
Strutting her stuff, Christina strode down the stairs singing. Sam’s jaw dropped, the look on his face more priceless than a million Mastercard ads. Slowly, he turned to me, one eye on the stage. I smirked a little smirk of my own. I’d done it. He seemed to be in shock.
“This isn’t Alice Cooper.”
“No.” I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t going to laugh at his misery. Yet.
“I thought you won tickets to see Alice Cooper,” he said, his brow knitting in confusion.
“Did I say that?” I tried to look blank but a giggle was breaking out across my face. “Sorry. I thought you knew it was Christina.”
Sam ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. He looked at the stage again and then back to me. Silent, I waited for him to acknowledge I’d beaten him at his own game. I’d got on over on the biggest prankster of all. “I can’t believe it,” he screeched over the music. “How did you know?”
What? I stared at him in bewilderment.
“I, fucking, love Christina Aguilera, babe. She’s fucking awesome. This is the best surprise ever.” Excitedly, he wrapped me in his arms and swayed me to the music. “I was a bit worried when I thought it was Alice Cooper. He’s so old he can hardly stand. I don’t even like him but I was willing to go for you. I couldn’t even believe you liked him.”
I stared at him incredulously. “But what about the t-shirt?” I asked, gesturing at his seventies getup.
“What? This? I borrowed it from Simmo. Wouldn’t be seen dead wearing it any other time. I thought I should get into the spirit.”
The song came to an end. Sam sprang to his feet and cheered and whooped like a gay man on speed. Then, as the next tune began—horror of horrors—his hips began to wiggle. His hands rose above his head, clapping wildly, his mouth lip-syncing every lyric. This could not be happening. Sam did not dance. He’d openly admitted he hated dancing and it would take at least two bottles of red wine before he let loose on a dance floor. And then it’d be a miracle.
“But... but.” My eyes were goldfish bowls. Sick was rising in my mouth. It had to be some sort of mistake. Sam was dancing. He wouldn’t dance for me but, my God, he was bumping and grinding for Miss Christina. This was too much. I exhaled a deep heavy groan.
“You okay, babe?” he asked, giving my cheek a peck of sincere thanks.
“Just watch the concert.” He had beaten me again.
14
The one and only source of heat in the Hornets Clubrooms was a wood heater, circa 1982, and on unreasonably cold afternoons it was a popular place to be. The game had finished thirty minutes previous and now Kirby and crew were ensconced as close as possible, trying to warm their bums without singeing the backs of their coats. Being the new girl, I was relegated to the second hand heat that escaped from a crack between them as they switched places. I was freezing.
“Sam was truly on the stage with Christina Aguilera?” Sasha rubbed her hands together in the air above the heater. “Bloody hell. I thought he was taking the piss when he told me.”
“No, it’s true. He has the photo to prove it. I think he’s going to get it blown up to poster size. She called him ‘Big Boy’.” I rolled my eyes. I still couldn’t understand how my boyfriend had come to be on stage with Christina Aguilera but it seemed I wasn’t the only girl in Perth who was now smitten by him. His photo in the West Australian the morning after the concert and the barrage of mail that followed attested to that. The outside of his flat had morphed into a replica of a paparazzi chase on TMZ.
“Christ, his fucking head will be bigger than ever,” Mel snorted. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Tell me about it.” The situation was hopeless. Just when I thought I was getting a handle on his whole ego thing, this happened.
Kirby placed a hand on my forearm and tired to soothe me. Like all the Hornets girls, she’d been through it and come out the other side. “Don’t worry, Millie. You’ll, like, totally straighten him right out.”
I smiled at Kirby’s misguided belief. It would ever happen. I simply had to love Sam as he was and try to nullify the damage where I could.
“So, Simmo said we’re to have a Ball,” Sasha remarked, changing the subject. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke away from us. Nobody seemed to mind that she smoked in the clubrooms, though it was against the health and safety regulations. If they did, they had Simmo to contend with. “He came home after the club meeting last night and announced that those drunken louts who constitute the committee decided it’d be a good idea. I don’t know how they think they’re going to pull it off; it’s not a piss up after training. There’ll be women. In gowns.”
“Ohhhh, like, how totally awesome,” Kirby squealed. “I can’t remember the last time we got to frock up.”
“It was at the Gala and what the fuck do we need a Ball for?” groaned Melanie. “Jesus. We have enough trouble controlling their testosterone in every day situations but in penguin suits? They’ll be unbearable.”
I considered her for a moment. For a girl who wasn’t aligned with any of the males at the club, Mel had all their numbers and she bossed most of them around like an overbearing big sister. I was warming to her brusque ways but, seriously, what was her deal? It was as if these people were her family. She must have had a mother or a cousin somewhere.
“Apparently, it’s to make up for the nights we’ve spent watching the Rugby Championship,” Sasha replied, her eyes darting around the room in search of Simmo. “It’s a miracle they remembered we were there.”
That was true. When rugby was on TV, females of this world no longer existed. I could have danced in front of the screen naked when the Western Force were playing and the only comment would have been, ‘Get me another beer while you’re up, babe.’
Kirby sighed, happily ignorant. “But a Ball is like so totally thoughtful. I mean, what a sweet thing to do.”
“They’re only doing it so they can get us drunk and get into our pants,” Melanie scoffed.
The girls eyed each other ruefully, a quietness of true understanding descending over them. We knew that this gesture was supposed to be viewed as a sign of undying affection; that the boys thought we were naïve enough to gloss over their misbehaviour because of it. Most of the boys were well-respected professionals during the week, but what happened at the club on the weekend was another story. If they wanted rugby and women too they had to keep us on side. And so, begrudgingly, they would give in to the fantasies of their girls and produce nights filled with frocks and dancing. It was all to prove that they regarded their ladies— almost but not quite—with the same esteem as the stupendous Premiership team of 1975, the last time the gold and brown won the coveted first grade cup. They had realised that inside of the Hornets RUFC was no place for ladies an
d any girl who was brave enough to step beyond the glass doors had to be nurtured and treated like a princess because women like us only came along once in a blue moon. There weren’t that many women left in the world who’d willingly take on idiots like these. Let alone see enough good in the boys to want to try and change them. Sam had told me a dozen times at least that rugby girls had to have enough balls to not put up with their shit. And none of us did. Sure, we gave them long leashes, sometimes too long, but any rugby girl worth her weight could pull that leash tighter than a noose in a second to reign her man in.
The topic of the Ball invaded the conversation for most of the evening after that. At one point—after hearing Mel groan it was going to be a nightmare letting a hundred blokes in dinner suits loose on the general public and we’d never be able to control them, Simmo joined the conversation. “Come on girls,” he said. “Stop your whining now, think of the positives. You can get glammed up, we’ll get a band and caterers. We can hire limmos.”
His face held that glimmer of excitement exhibited by children on the eve of Christmas.
“Should we ring the hospital and warn them you’re going to be on the loose, en masse? Or get the security company to install GPS’s on all your phones?” Sasha asked, eyeing him up and down somewhat grimly.“Because you know what happened at the last club function and I, for one, will not be chasing you about the town in an Uber again. I’m dead-bolting the front door this time and you can sleep on the lawn.”
Since Simmo had disappeared a month before only to call her from a phone box on the Stirling Highway at 3am, Sasha’s obsession with his whereabouts had bordered on paranoia she found increasingly hard to ignore. To this day, Simmo feigned amnesia as to how he’d gotten there. And his absence of pants had only added fuel to the fire.
“It was networking, hon’. I have to talk to people. I’m club president.”
“At three in the morning? When you should be in bed with me?”