Chapter 4
THE rest of the day passed in a blur. My mind was definitely not focused on what I was being paid for. Nyssa remarked on my distraction a few times, but I barely heard her. I ended up calling Fran and cancelling lunch, because I knew she would ferret whatever she thought I was concealing out of me. Roger would then kill me if she knew before he did, because she would crow about it endlessly to him (and start another one of his longwinded rants about how friends are supposed to hate their friend’s spouse, not become their other best friend).
And Fran knew something was up. I had that certain tone of dorkiness in my voice. She said I sounded too happy.
I had to do laps of Federation Square at lunchtime to burn off the excess energy.
Nyssa said she watched me do the circumference of the building three times before she got dizzy and actually had to go back to work to recover.
On the tram ride home I smiled to myself like a loon and got the usual wide berth that the other passengers afforded to public transport crazies.
I fed Maggie before her yowling threatened a visit by the RSPCA, showered, changed, and drove to Roger and Fran’s house.
“It’s not Wednesday,” Roger said when he opened the door and saw me.
“No shit,” I said, and I pushed past him into the warmth beyond.
Fran walked in from the kitchen, and her eyes widened. “Hah! I knew it! Didn’t I tell you something was up with him, Rog?”
“Yes, honey,” Roger said patiently.
Fran ushered me into the lounge and sat me down—as if I were her child and needed to be lulled into a false sense of security to let slip what I had done wrong at school that day. I took a deep breath and began talking.
“Declan Tyler?” Roger repeated, the shocked look of all shocked looks upon his face.
I nodded.
“Declan Tyler?”
I exaggerated my nod.
“The Declan Tyler?”
I did tell you I was nodding, right?
Fran remained impassive, but her eyes were going to and fro between us like she was watching a game at the Melbourne Open.
“Declan Tyler, the winner of the Brownlow and Norm Smith Medal?”
“And the Leigh Matthews Trophy,” I reminded him.
Roger stared at me, dumbfounded. “And he’s going out with you?”
“Hey!” Fran and I protested in unison.
Roger seemed to collect himself for a moment, but then was back to dumbfounded and semi-offensive. “No offence, but I mean, you have seen the girls they can get!”
Fran frowned, probably envisioning the need to cut off his access to the next telecast of the Brownlow.
“He doesn’t like girls,” I said snottily.
“I know, but he could be going out with a gay supermodel—”
“We get the point!” I yelled, my snottiness turning into extreme prejudice with a license to kill.
“I think you’re pretty,” Fran said soothingly, leaning across and patting my hand.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Because pretty is usually what I go for, you know.”
So there they sat, my two best friends in the world, and I could have quite cheerfully wrapped them up in a burlap sack at that point and time, weighted it down with some good, heavy stones, and thrown them into the Yarra River to drown.
“Declan Tyler,” Roger whispered to himself.
“Is it so hard to believe?” I asked him.
“What, that he’s gay, or that he would date you?” Roger asked.
“You are such a prick,” I muttered.
“I’m just trying to wrap my head around it, that’s all!”
“Well, send me a telegram when you do.” I stood, but Fran pulled me back down.
“Simon, you know Roger’s an idiot. Don’t get pissed.”
I tried to stare Roger down, but he wouldn’t look at me. He knew he was in the wrong, but he was still in shock and incapable of social niceties. Then a thought crossed his mind.
“Do you think he’ll take you to the Brownlows?”
I wanted to burst out laughing. Ever since we were kids it had been our dream to go to Brownlow nights. We had gone a couple of times and stood in the audience for the blue carpet trying to get autographs, but we longed for the chance to get inside the actual ceremony and hobnob with the elite of the football world.
“We’re going for coffee, that’s it. I mean, it’s not like he’s out.”
This made Roger look up. “He isn’t?”
“Well, do you see him on the cover of DNA? Those dickheads on the footy show trying to cover up their arses whenever he comes near them on the panel?”
“Like I subscribe to DNA,” he scoffed. “But what does that mean? I mean, for you.”
I tried to ignore his question, as I had been avoiding the nagging little voice inside my head asking the exact same thing. “What do you mean, what does it mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Roger said.
“I don’t know what either of you mean,” Fran said, although of course she did.
“Well, if he’s not out, that means a lot of sneaking around. What’s in it for you?”
“It’s just coffee, Rog. I’m not thinking any further than that.”
“Well, maybe you should!”
This was getting too soap opera for me. Like Home and Away levels of bad. “I thought you guys were the ones who wanted me to see someone? And now that I have a date, you’re acting all pissy.”
Fran hesitated and then mustered up the courage to say, “We just want you to be careful.”
“You have a look,” Roger said.
“A look?” Now I was the one who was dumbfounded.
“Yeah, a look!”
“Describe this look.”
“I don’t know, look in a mirror!”
“Lately you haven’t cared about dating.” Fran was trying to choose her words carefully. “And now all of a sudden, you look… excited, but trying hard to hide it. You really want to do it.”
“And there’s something wrong with that?”
“It’s just… he’s a celebrity… well, as much of a celebrity as a sports player can be.” Spoken like someone who didn’t know one end of the field from the other. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“You got that right,” Roger mumbled.
I stared them down. “It’s just coffee.”
But I knew, and they knew, that I was lying. I was looking forward to it, too much. I had no more idea than they did about what could happen. All I knew was that I wanted to go and see how it went. I couldn’t really imagine any consequences; it was all too abstract.
I DIDN’T hear from either Roger or Declan the next couple of days. My good mood had all but vanished when I met Fran for lunch on Wednesday.
“He cares about you, you doofus,” Fran said over her chicken roll. “It’s just you two are guys, so you have stupid ways of showing it.”
“It’s my life,” I said childishly.
“And as your friend, he will always butt into it, awkwardly to be sure, and then back off instantly,” Fran replied.
“Do you think I shouldn’t go on this date?” I asked, half-scared of what her answer would be.
“Of course you should.” She fished a bit of scraggly looking shaved carrot out of her lunch and inspected it with disgust. “Just go into it with your eyes open.”
I think no matter which answer she had given, I would have been half-scared regardless.
“So what are you going to wear?”
I looked at her, wondering if she thought I had suddenly grown a vagina in the past five minutes. “Clothes.”
She sighed. “Men.”
THAT night I could barely sleep, and I cursed myself for being so stupid. I was awake at four thirty in the morning, and I pictured myself trying to be cool and debonair over coffee with Declan — and then falling comatose into my latte and drowning before him.
He was a footballer; he had quick reflexes. Hopefully his resuscitation skills would be just as good. I giggled dreamily while I remembered what his lips tasted like and thought that I had to stop such thoughts immediately or else I would never get through the day.
Even the unwashed denizens of the public transport system couldn’t stop me from beaming like Pollyanna as I rode the light rail into the city. Nyssa handed me my first cup of coffee of the morning suspiciously.
“Hello, Cheery McCheer.”
“Morning, Nyssa.”
She watched me closely. “Why are you so happy?”
“No reason.”
“There’s a reason! You’re never this happy! You’re surly even when you’re happy.”
I saw a light cross over her eyes as realisation dawned upon her. I took a step back, thinking she had cottoned onto me and my hypocritical ways.
“You’ve gotten another job!”
Okay, that stumped me. “What?”
She was now going into full hysterical mode, practically wringing her hands. “I knew it was too good to be true, that you’d stay here forever! You’ve been headhunted by some larger festival! Or maybe even a studio! I’m going to get a new boss who will be feral and probably make me sign up on a workplace contract, and there’ll be no more Bog-off-to-the-Pub Fridays!”
“Did you add Red Bull to your coffee again?” I couldn’t help but be amused.
“No!”
“I haven’t been headhunted. You know me, I’m too lazy. I would rather be the big fish in the small pond rather than the tiny fish that drowns or is eaten by sharks in the vast deep.”
Nyssa collected herself almost immediately, embarrassed at the display she had put on. “You promise?”
I held up my hand and spread my fingers. “Scout’s honour.”
“That’s the Vulcan salute.”
I stared at my fingers. “Oh, right. I always get those two confused.”
She leant in and glared at me. “Anyway, you’re not going anywhere without me, right?”
I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I have it written in my contract.”
As I made my way to my office, she yelled after me, “You doing that just makes me know something’s up!”
I could barely see out of my window because of the sheeting rain outside, but I wasn’t going to let anything affect my mood. Besides, I always look better in layers, which is one of the many reasons why I hate it when summer comes around.
As I was on my second cup of coffee, my mobile buzzed with an incoming message.
My plane arrives midday. I have an afternoon training session,
but I hope to be done by 4. See you at 6?
I bit my lip and texted back.
Where?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
I’ll pick you up.
That could prove difficult.
How do you know where I live?
I could almost see him shaking his head as he replied:
White Pages online, idiot.
Oh. Well, then.
See you at 6.
His final message made me smile, and I looked up quickly to make sure Nyssa wasn’t spying on me.
Looking forward to it.
But I didn’t text back. I had to get revenge somehow for the whole idiot thing.
I ONLY managed to make Nyssa even more paranoid when I left the office at four thirty and told her I was calling it a day and she could as well.
“You’re going to an interview, aren’t you?” she called after me as I ran out the door.
She was kind of right. But I left her hanging in anticipation.
Even leaving early was cutting it fine. I would probably only have forty-five minutes before Declan arrived, if he was punctual. I rushed through my front door, made sure to feed the cat, and jumped quickly into the shower.
I only managed to choose my boxer shorts and wriggle into them before I was stumped. Crap, Fran was right. I should have been thinking about what clothes to wear long before this.
I stood before my mirror and eyed myself critically. Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean in Casino Royale, I wasn’t. I was too pale, I had skinny arms but a slightly flabby and hairy tummy. My legs were even paler than my chest. I sat down (although fell down might be more honest) on the end of my bed, wondering if I was going to have a panic attack. Who the hell was I kidding? What made me think I could go out with somebody like Declan Tyler, a physical Adonis who was one of the favourites in the annual shirtless AFL stud farm calendars?
Oh crap, I was going to coffee with someone who was in a stud calendar. I clutched my head with both hands.
If it ever got to the point that we would take our clothes off in front of one another, I didn’t know if I could be naked in front of someone like him. I mean, with what he was used to seeing in the locker room at least—
My self-pity party was interrupted by my front doorbell being pushed impatiently. I shot to my feet, the panic attack in no way abated. I threw on a pair of trakkies and my faded Tori Amos T-shirt that read with all irony “I don’t mind a dirty girl” (my uniform for at-home slouching) and ran into the lounge room.
This wasn’t punctuality; this was early with extreme prejudice.
I threw open the door, only to find Roger and Fran standing on the stoop.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, not meaning to be rude but sounding so anyway.
“You are not going out dressed like that!” Fran said, her face rigid with complete horror.
Roger sized me up. “He rang up and cancelled, didn’t he?”
“No, and no,” I said emphatically.
“Well, what are you wearing?” Fran asked.
Before I could answer, Roger said, “Are you going to let us in?”
With as little grace as I could muster, I opened the door wider, and they slipped through.
“After your lack of detail over lunch yesterday, I figured you would need help getting dressed,” Fran said blithely as she headed straight for my bedroom.
“I can dress myself!” I protested weakly.
“You’re as hopeless as Roger.”
“I can dress myself,” Roger said snottily, sounding exactly like me only five seconds before.
“Oh, hon, you didn’t used to be able to,” Fran replied sorrowfully as she stood before my open wardrobe and peered hopefully within. “Simon, for a gay man, your wardrobe sucks.”
I glowered. “We’re not all fashionistas or gym bunnies.”
“You should be at least one of them.” Roger shrugged.
I stared at him. “You know her statement about you and dressing? She’s right about that.”
“Is that your best comeback?” Roger asked, obviously pitying my lameness on the subject. “Well, maybe your man will start choosing your outfits for you.”
“He’s not my man, Roger. He’s my… coffee companion.”
Roger and Fran could not subdue their fits of laughter. In fact, Fran almost fell head first into the wardrobe. She steadied herself and began pawing through my belongings. “Christ, Simon, do you have anything that wasn’t bought from an op-shop?”
“It’s my style,” was my weak defence.
“Your style says you’re cheap,” Roger told me.
“And not in the good way,” Fran added, sounding muffled from her head being buried as she moved further into the wardrobe.
“Will there be any action with this… coffee companion?” Roger asked, trying not to sound interested.
“I’m not a first date slut.”
Roger raised an eyebrow, a quirk I always wish I could master.
“Shut up,” I hissed. “Not all the time!”
“Not all the time because there’s not many a time,” Roger said maddeningly.
“You can talk! You and Fran—”
“And if you ever tell our kids that…,” Fran said menacingly.
I crossed my arms defensively over my chest. “Yeah, I’ll be sure not to tell your nonexistent children for fear of death.”
Fran poked her head out of the wardrobe to stare at me. “And tell me again, why does this guy want to date you?”
“I’ve been asking myself that all week,” I said grumpily. “I don’t need your help doubting myself.”
“Someone wants their ego pumped.” Fran moved back out of sight.
“I’m just being honest,” I said, even though I knew it sounded like I was begging to get my ego pampered. “I don’t get it either.”
Roger rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Fran continued rattling coat hangers.
I sighed to myself, now really sounding self-pitying.
Fran crawled out of the wardrobe, which was pretty awkward as the bottom of it was filled with crap I was forever chucking in there with an out-of-sight-out-of-mind mentality. She clutched in her hands some items of clothing that I didn’t even know I had.
“None of us know why we like the people we do,” she said, laying out the clothes on my bed. “I’m sure people look at Roger and wonder how he managed to snag me. But I love the doofus. So obviously this Declan guy sees something in you.”
“This Declan guy,” Roger mimicked, giving a derisive snort.
Fran glared at him. “So what if he can kick a bloody ball? He’s not a god, Roger!”
I tried to avoid their latest spat by examining what Fran had picked out for me. A pair of slightly above-average black pants (sadly, the best I owned), a black button-down shirt and a casual jacket.
“Jesus, Fran, he’s not going to a funeral.”
“When have you ever seen him wear a colour?” Fran berated him and then turned on me. “Like it or not, we’re going shopping one day. You need some colours.”
She had also picked out a leather wrist cuff that I didn’t even know I owned. I held it up questioningly.
“It’s just to give you that funky edge.”
“Or maybe he’ll think you’re into S and M.” Roger laughed.
I must have had a look on my face, because Fran ushered me into the bathroom. “Don’t listen to him.”
As the door shut behind me, I could hear them arguing again. I laughed softly to myself and changed as quickly as possible. When I walked out again, Fran had arranged three pairs of shoes in front of my bed.
“You look good,” she said approvingly. “Doesn’t he look good, Roger?”
“I can’t believe I’m not dating him myself,” Roger said obediently.
His wife rolled her eyes and gestured to the shoes. “You only own Cons or Docs. You need a pair of plain black shoes. I’ll add them to the must-have list when we go shopping.”
“Great. Looking forward to it.”
“Well, you’re not wearing the green Cons. They’re too ratty.”
“The red ones look too new!” I protested. “He’ll think that I’ve bought them especially or something.”
Roger gave me the once-over. “I don’t think so.”
“Simon, I love you,” Fran said. “But I have to agree with Roger on this one. Nobody would think that.”
I self-consciously picked at what was beginning to be a hole in the sleeve of my jacket.
“Docs it is, then,” Fran said, having made her decision and pushing the boots towards me.
As I struggled to pull them on, she looked at her watch. “It’s almost six. We should go.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but was cut off by Roger’s protestations. “I wanted to see him!”
“Why? So you could give him the father’s speech about looking after his little girl and having him back by midnight?”
“Uh, I’m not a girl, thanks,” I interjected.
Fran’s eyes narrowed. “You just want to spy on the footballer,” she accused her husband.
Roger shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Well, I was drunk last time I met him!”
“And you threatened him!”
“Maybe I want to apologize.”
“Or get his autograph,” Fran said suspiciously.
“No!” I cried. “No autographs!”
“See?” Fran asked Roger. “No autographs.”
Roger grumbled to himself. “If you were really my friend….”
“Get him out of here!” I told Fran.
Roger stood up and shuffled past me. “Is this all the thanks we get?”
I leant in to kiss Fran good-bye. “Thanks for the help.”
“Shopping this weekend!” she instructed.
Already desperate to get out of it, I made noises that were meant to pass for noncommittal, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“We have a game on Saturday,” Roger reminded her.
“We can shop beforehand.” Fran shrugged.
They were still bickering with each other as I shut the front door. I ran back into the bathroom and sprayed some cologne on. Hopefully not too much, I’m never good at judging the right amount. I could smell it on myself and wondered if I should slap some water on to dilute the effect.
The doorbell rang, and I assumed it was Fran and Roger having come back because they had forgotten something. I took my time, lacing my boots, and the buzzer became more impatient.
“I’m coming, shithead!” I yelled.
Yes, I should have known better. For, of course, it was not Roger or Fran.
I threw open the door to find Declan Tyler standing there, looking half-insulted and half-amused.
“Got a pet name for me already?” he asked.
I could only stare at him blankly. “I thought you were someone else.”
He looked puzzled. “You were expecting someone besides me?”
Wow, his eyes were really blue. You didn’t notice how blue until you were close to him. “Huh?”
He leaned in, and I caught a whiff of freshly washed skin and a faint layer of cologne that smelled far more expensive than my own. “You going to let me in?”
I nodded, my foot still firmly planted in my mouth and feeling heavy. He kicked his boots clean against the welcome mat and stepped into the house.