Chapter 6
TO THINK that I had been stupid enough to entertain the thought that I might have woken up in the morning with Declan Tyler beside me!
Instead, what I got was the cat staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes so she could begin her wailing for her breakfast.
“Morning, Maggie,” I mumbled.
Her plaintive cry was a shock to the system. I stumbled out into the kitchen and got tripped by her three times before we reached her bowl.
She was silenced by the food produced for her. If only people could be so easily pleased.
At least it was Friday. I would only have to stumble through one more day before the promise of the weekend would arrive. A game with Roger on Saturday—which reminded me, I had to try and get out of shopping with Fran. I wondered if she would accept the fact that this relationship was over before it began and that I was too depressed to go shopping for clothes I would now never wear? I had a vision of myself—a male, modern Miss Havisham, sitting in my lounge room in my mouldering second-date clothes. I kind of liked that image.
When I got into the office, Nyssa jumped on me immediately. “How was the interview?”
I wasn’t with it that morning. “Interview?”
“Don’t play dumb. For the new job!”
I sighed. “There’s no new job, Nyssa.”
“You say that now!”
“Uh-huh. I’ll say that later as well.”
I holed up in my office. I would like to say that I distracted myself by working like a demon, but I mainly stared out the window a lot and took the occasional phone call. I got messages from both Roger and Fran, asking how the date went, and I ignored them. I couldn’t talk to either of them about it yet, not when I didn’t even know what had happened!
I should have known I couldn’t escape them at work, though. At ten my phone rang, and when I picked it up Fran was on the other end.
“Oh, so you haven’t been murdered, and we don’t have to call the police.”
“Morning, Fran.”
“You could return a person’s phone call.”
“Technically, it was an SMS.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really.”
“Why didn’t you text me back, then?”
I hesitated, and it made a long enough pause for her to jump back in.
“Simon, what’s wrong? Didn’t you have a good time?”
I began to bite at my thumbnail. “At the start, yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t talk about it now.” I ripped the free edge off and winced as part of the cuticle came with it. “Can you make lunch?”
“I can at one, if you don’t mind a late lunch.”
“Yeah, I can do lunch at one.”
Her voice entered super-serious mode. “Simon, are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course, yeah. See you at one.”
Fran didn’t sound like she believed me, but at least she hung up. Probably to ring Roger to tell him something was up and she was going to sort it all out, so he was not to call me because he’d stuff it all up. For that I was grateful, because I didn’t want to have to talk about this twice; one of the benefits of being friends with Fran. It was hard enough having to do it once.
FRAN kissed me on the cheek before she sat down. “Okay, tell me everything.”
I sipped at my Coke and wished it was wine. But I couldn’t go back to the office with alcohol on my breath or Nyssa would assume it was a drink to celebrate my new job or whatever she thought it could be at this moment.
Reluctantly, I started giving her the details as we ordered. Fran had the linguini; I had a calzone. While waiting for the food to arrive, I got to the point where contact occurred in the car. I grew a little red as I tried to get away with the barest details. “Anyway, I was kissing him, and I… reached down—”
“Down where?” Fran asked innocently.
“Down.”
“Oh, down.”
I hated her right then. “It’s not like I managed to get it out… my hand was on his zipper… but he kind of freaked out and said he would take me home.”
“Huh,” Fran said thoughtfully, but not helpfully.
I looked to her for elaboration.
“Did you ask him why?”
I leaned back as the waiter arrived with our food. Once he was gone, I leaned back in. “No, not really.”
“No, or not really? Stop being so vague.”
I cut into my calzone savagely. “No.”
“And I suppose he didn’t volunteer any further information?”
“Just that it was too fast.”
“Men,” Fran sighed, not for the last time in her life. “It’s hard enough being a woman and dating a guy, I can’t imagine how much worse it would be when there are two guys in the equation not communicating with each other.”
I mumbled an incoherent reply.
“Maybe he’s more traditional than you. And by that, I mean less slutty.”
I almost choked on my food. I gulped at my Coke and tried to gain back some of my dignity. “I am not a man ho!” I don’t know where this reputation came from, seeing I had fewer relationships and hook ups than either Fran or Roger before they found each other and settled into coupled bliss.
“Maybe to him you are.”
“He’s a footballer! They’re supposedly all sluts.”
Fran grinned. “Apparently not all of them.”
“Can you think of any other reason he would fob me off like that?”
“You said you had kissed him a few times, right?”
The room seemed to grow warmer as memories of us in my lounge, against the tree at the party, and in the cab of his SUV swamped me. “Yeah, a couple. Why?”
Fran seemed lost in thought. And then it occurred to me.
“Oh, he was lying, wasn’t he? Maybe he just doesn’t find me attractive.”
Fran hastily hid behind her hand and giggled.
“He just gave me a mercy pash, thinking that would be enough.”
Still smiling, Fran began to dig into her food again. “Oh, Simon.”
“What?”
She paused with a forkful of linguini in midair. “Wasn’t it just the other day you said you hadn’t suddenly grown a vagina?”
I realised I was starting to sound like a maudlin chick flick character.
Fran nodded to emphasize her point and swallowed her pasta.
I stared disconsolately at the clichéd checkered tablecloth under my plate.
“Did he kiss you goodnight?” Fran asked.
“A very brief one.”
“On the lips?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It was on the lips.”
“That’s a good sign.”
I tried not to hope too much. “Is it?”
“If he didn’t kiss you, but said he’d call you, then you’d be in trouble.”
“Yeah, but I got a brief kiss and a promise to call later.”
“But yours was on the lips. That makes it different, Simon.”
“Unless he was just trying really hard to fool me so I wouldn’t ask any awkward questions.”
Fran wiped her hands on her napkin and stared at me. It was the stare she sent right through you, that made you squirm and made you know you couldn’t lie because she would catch you out and make you pay. “It sounds like you almost want it to be a kiss-off.”
I shrugged.
That only threw her into persistency mode. “Do you like him?”
I met her gaze and knew that resistance was futile. “Yes.” That one little word came out against my whole will. “What I know of him at the moment, anyway.”
“That’s a start.”
“So what do I do?”
She patted my hand and let hers rest above mine. “You just take it as it comes, hon. It sounds like it’s going to be hard enough with him being in the limelight. You can’t make it more difficult for yourselves by second-guessing everything.”
“So what you mean is I’m going to have to talk to him.”
“I know that’s a hard concept for you. The whole opening-up thing.”
“I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?”
Fran laughed. “Yeah. To the wrong person!”
She asked me to share sticky-date pudding with her. Feeling somewhat cheered, I had no trouble being convinced.
I CONSIDERED catching the tram the two stops back to the office, I felt so bloated with food. But I walked it off and was in a much better mood when I walked back in the door.
“Long lunch,” Nyssa commented.
“Lots of things to talk about,” I said vaguely.
I noticed the horrified look on her face, but decided not to reassure her again. Girl is too paranoid.
I wondered if Roger was going to call me regardless. I knew Fran would have called him as soon as she got back to work so they could swap notes. She probably would have told him to lay off me for the moment. Roger, if he did what he always did, would listen to her for a day, so I was expecting him to grill me once he had me cornered at the footy tomorrow.
Like I really wanted to discuss my love life when watching Richmond get thrashed once again. That’s just letting salt be poured into your open wound.
As I settled back into my chair, Declan crossed my mind again. To try and get him off it, a futile attempt I know, I busied myself by starting to go through some DVDs delivered that morning. They were potential entries for the festival, and there was a reek of desperation and hope about them. The desperate ones always got to me the most.
I knew how they felt.
Halfway through a heartfelt and achingly amateur documentary about schizophrenic teens forming a garage band, which managed to check every box for guaranteeing a hit among the liberal-minded audience that always attended our festival, my mobile buzzed with a message.
Far from being the cool, calm, and dispassionate person I hoped I would be, I almost did the Snoopy dance of suppertime joy when the screen informed me it was from Declan.
Hope things are okay between us.
Okay, so a flutter of hope sounded in my heart. Shut up.
I pondered over what to write back. This was the best I could do:
They’re fine. Good luck with the game tonight.
I tapped the mobile against my lower lip, staring out the window and watching the crowds scurry in and out of Flinders Street Station as I waited for his message.
A few moments later, it came.
I’m glad. And thanks.
I couldn’t help but be me, though.
I’m only wishing you luck because you’re not playing us.
His response was quick.
I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.
I laughed.
Wise move.
While waiting for his response, I entertained the possibilities that could arise from the first time our teams met each other on the field. When we couldn’t even figure out the sex thing, how would we tackle actual combat? Football was even more sacred than fucking.
Declan became serious in his next one.
I really want to talk to you. If I could, I would come and see you before
I leave, but our flight is immediately after the game.
I replied that I would definitely see him the next time he was in town.
His next message managed to make me feel more confident.
I’d like to talk to you before then.
I thought I would give him a glimmer of hope.
You know my number.
There was no hesitation.
I do. Talk soon.
So he wasn’t dumping me, but I still had no idea what was going on with him. I wondered where he was exactly at this point of time. At the locker room in the MCG? Sitting on the field watching his teammates train without him? Maybe they were noticing him texting a lot and teasing him about finally finding a girlfriend.
Even just the thought of that and of him playing along with it as natural cover made an irrepressible bitterness well up inside me. I pushed it down as much as I could, and tried to focus on the good, but came up empty-handed and had to distract myself with work instead.
Nyssa eventually returned to haunt my doorway about four in the afternoon. She looked at me expectantly, half-fearful as always that for some reason this would be the Friday that I would expect us to work all the way through to the normal quitting time. And that divine light in her eyes would go out, possibly forever.
“Yes, Nyssa?” I asked, as if the boss never thought of quitting early to go to the pub and must be reminded of these things even though he can think of nothing else.
“So, it’s Bog-off-to-the-Pub day, Simon.”
I closed my diary with a resounding thump. “So it is! Get your coat!”
Nyssa clapped her hands excitedly like she was six years old again. Slightly disturbing to think of her as a six-year-old girl getting excited over the prospect of beer.
I checked my mobile for the fifth time that hour to see if Declan had texted me. He hadn’t. That was fair enough, I mean, it was getting closer and closer to kick off time. Already, crowds were starting to make their way down to the G, last-minute ticket sales would be going fast, and beer and chips would be selling like… well, beer and chips.
We hopped the tram to take the short ride into Fitzroy and headed for The Napier.
Fran was already there, Roger was on his way, and the usual crowd was assembling. We pushed tables together out into the mosaic-tiled back room and ordered the first round of drinks. As the patrons got rowdier and the music got louder, Fran leaned in to me. “I can tell something’s happened,” she said, her voice low and warm in my ear.
“He texted me,” I muttered back.
“In a good way?”
“I think so,” I replied.
Fran leaned back into her seat, studying me. “You have that look again.”
“I’m not getting my hopes up,” I assured her.
I don’t think she believed me. I’m not sure I believed me.
Luckily, Nyssa blundered into the conversation as she sat back down with roughly eight packets of chips crushed against her chest. “Are you talking about his interview?”
“Not again, Nyss,” I groaned.
“Interview?” Fran asked, immediately beginning to open the chips.
“Nyssa’s paranoid,” I said quickly.
“I am not!” Nyssa objected, shoving a salt and vinegar chip into her mouth. “Just because I suspect things a lot doesn’t make me paranoid.”
“You’re not seriously leaving the Triple F?” Fran asked.
“No!” I yelled, partly because I was frustrated and partly because the music had gotten louder.
“Bit defensive,” Fran said.
“I told you,” Nyssa replied. “He’s being secretive about something.”
“He’s a smitten kitten,” Fran teased, and then she screamed when I kicked her under the table. “What are you, five?”
“What are you, the town crier?” I shot back.
Nyssa stared me down. “That’s it,” she said slowly. “I thought you were planning to leave. But the phone calls, the lunch rendezvouses—”
“That isn’t a word,” I interrupted her.
“What is the plural of rendezvous?” Fran asked. I’m sure she was really interested.
“Rendezvous is both singular and plural,” I said, trying not to sound like Grammar Boy.
“Those French are so smart,” Fran mused, rubbing her ankle. “Two for the price of one.”
“Anyway, Nyssa, those calls and rendezvous? Are mainly with her.” And I pointed at Fran.
“You’re fooling around with my wife?”
Roger had finally appeared. He whacked me over the head as he manoeuvred around the table to sit with the woman in question.
“Only on Thursdays, hon,” Fran said, kissing him hello.
“And Mondays,” Nyssa said. “Oh, and Wednesday as well.”
“I told you, you were a manwhore,” Roger said to me.
“Ha ha.” I frowned, trying to shake it off. After all, it’s not like he knew what had happened yet.
Roger yelped when Fran kicked him under the table.
“What was that for?” he cried.
“Because it’s your shout,” she said grimly.
“Alright, alright.” He knew when he was beaten, even though he wasn’t sure why his shin was suddenly bruising. “Come and help me, homewrecker.”
I got to my feet and followed him back out into the main bar.
“You know,” Roger said, leaning against the counter, waiting to be served. “I wish for once you would tell me something before you tell Fran. You’ve known me longer, remember?”
“I can’t help it if you don’t work in the city a few offices away from me,” I said, placating him. “It’s really easy to catch up with her.”
“Yeah, and I live so far away from you,” he pointed out.
“I do want to tell you things, she just gets to you in the meantime. Besides, you’re not a fag hag.” The word rankled on my tongue; I had never liked it. “Female companion. Gossip girl. Something.”
“Whatever.” Roger was approached by the barman, and he placed his order.
“Do you really want me to tell you everything?” I asked, leaning in closer to him and lowering my voice. “You want all the details? Of how I tried to blow him, and he wouldn’t let me?”
Roger jumped as if he’d been scalded. “You couldn’t be a little less vulgar?” he asked primly. He was acting like he had just escaped from a BBC classic drama, with Elizabeth Bennett waiting beneath a weeping willow for his return.
“See? You can’t hack it.”
“I can so,” he said petulantly. “Just try me.”
I hadn’t wanted to be vulgar. It’s really not me. But it was fun to test Roger. Like most guys, he’s easy to gross out when you describe any guy-on-guy action to them. It’s my opinion they usually act so grossed out because they’re too scared to think about if it actually happened to them, they might enjoy it. I’m not saying everyone’s a latent queer, but when the juices start flowing sometimes you might not care about who’s on the other end of your dick. But I wasn’t even sure if I truly believed that either.
“Okay. To put it simply, I tried to go down on him, he acted like you are at the moment, and then he drove me home.”
Roger frowned. “Maybe he’s not really gay.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Maybe he’s… confused.”
Bloody Roger. Now he was helping to plant the seeds of doubt in me, something I could do very well on my own. Maybe it was true! This kind of thing happened all the time, although usually to kids in first-year Bachelor of Arts courses. They turned bisexual for a few months and then quite as happily slid back into heteronormativity when selection for second-year units came around and thus causing true bisexuals to be lumped in the same category with unicorns and other mythical creatures.
“Or maybe he’s just never done it with a guy,” Roger suggested helpfully.
I think that was even more unbelievable. Declan Tyler, one of the current gods of the AFL, unable to get a date?
“You’re making me feel worse,” I told him.
“Sorry,” he said cheerfully.
“This is why I like talking to Fran.”
Roger scratched at the end of his nose. “What kind of guy turns down a blowjob?” he asked, just as the barman returned with our drinks.
Not realising it was a rhetorical question, the barman answered, “No guy would.”
“You got to have standards, though. You wouldn’t just take one from anyone, right?” Roger asked him, completely forgetting he was discussing sex with a total stranger.
“Dude, I would take a blowjob from Mr. Squiggle, if it was going free.”
I shook my head. “That’s just sick.”
“Calling it as I see it.”
As we made our way back to the table, Roger giggled like a schoolgirl. “Even I thought that was going a bit too far.”
I could only shake my head, too dumbfounded and too grossed out to even formulate words.
“You took your sweet time.” Fran frowned as we sat with them again.
“We just found out the barman would take a blowjob from Mr. Squiggle if he could.”
“That’s disgusting!” Fran and Nyssa said in unison.
“But would he take it from the blackboard?” Nyssa asked thoughtfully, chewing on the lemon from her gin and tonic.
Fran just shook her head and found solace in her beer.
Roger nudged me and pointed at the television set up in the corner. It was hard to hear what was being said above the music and the general hubbub of the pub, but it displayed a familiar face.
Declan. In the locker room at the MCG. He was sitting in a blue suit with a Tassie Devils tie closely knotted at his throat. He didn’t look too happy.
Fran had now noticed as well and was showing interest that had nothing to do with the game.
“…Tyler,” I could hear the reporter say, “once again benched due to injury but supporting his team in the best way he can. So, Declan, when do you think we can see you out on the field again?”
“I’m not sure,” Declan said evenly, not really looking at either the camera or the reporter. “We’re really just taking it one week at a time and hoping that I won’t have to go in for another surgery.”
“Because that just means more time out of the game, right?” the reporter asked.
“Exactly,” Declan replied.
The camera swung away from him again to focus on the reporter. Fran, Roger, and I exchanged looks. Luckily Nyssa had been distracted by someone she knew coming over and asking her if she wanted to play pool.
“The man looks good in a suit,” Fran said, finally.
He did, but I kept my mouth shut.
“I look good in a suit,” Roger huffed.
Anybody could look good in a suit. Even I could.
“Biggest waste of fucking money,” came a voice not far from us.
We turned around. One of the local oldies was leaning up against the wall, his stubbie in his hand. He drank from it with disgust, although apparently it was with what was on the television rather than the taste of the beer.
“What’s a waste of money?” Fran asked politely.
“Fran,” Roger hissed, “don’t engage the crazy man.”
Too late.
“That Declan Tyler,” the man said, as viciously as if he was invoking the name of Beelzebub himself.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked defensively, finding myself now brought into the fray.
“All the money they forked out for him to get him released into the draft so the Devils could pick him up, and he’s been benched ever since!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Fran got in there before me. “Are you a Devils supporter?”
The old man laughed derisively. “No way! I haven’t forgiven the AFL for selling Fitzroy up the river!”
“Me too!” Roger declared, happy to find a like-minded individual and totally forgetting he had earlier dismissed him as crazy.
“Is that why you went to Hawthorn so quickly afterwards?” I asked him.
“Shut up!” he snapped back.
The man was still staring at the telly. “That Tyler’s a sham. Makes me think that all his awards were just a fluke. Maybe he did himself in deliberately so he wouldn’t eventually be found out. Best thing for his career.”
“Hey!” I said. “Anyone who wins all the awards he did, plus the respect of players and umpires alike, is no sham! He’s just been cursed by injury, and given time, he’ll probably be back to form soon enough!”
Fran and Roger stared at me, openmouthed, surprised by my impassioned delivery.
The old man sized me up. “You his manager?”
“No,” I said coolly. “I just believe in credit where credit is due. Everyone bitches about Tyler, but they all wish he was on their team.”
That made Fran and Roger lose it, and I shook my head slightly for my unheralded double entendre.
“The only team I would want him on is Fitzroy,” the man said. He leaned in to Roger. “You’re a disgrace to the memory of your team!”
Roger sat up fully. “Hey, wait a minute!”
But the man disappeared into the main bar.
“They’ve been gone for almost twenty years!” Roger called out. “You have to let go sometime!”
Fran dug at me with her finger. “And you! What was that all about?”
“What?”
“Flying your flag for Declan Tyler!”
“Credit where credit’s due, remember?”
“I’m not a traitor,” Roger mumbled to himself.
Fran grinned smugly at me. “You are a smitten kitten.”
“Shut up,” I said. “It’s your shout.”