Frances
‘You alright?’
Tony sat on the floor next to Frances, in that uncomfortable way men sat on the ground at picnics, as if they were looking for somewhere to stow their legs.
‘I’m okay,’ said Frances. She pressed the damp towel to her forehead as the wave of heat continued to engulf her. She felt strangely sanguine, even though she was locked in a room with strangers and having a hot flush. ‘Thanks for the towel.’
She studied him. His face was pale and there were beads of sweat across his forehead too. ‘Are you okay?’
He patted his forehead. ‘Just a bit claustrophobic.’
‘You mean like properly claustrophobic? Not just I really want to get out of here claustrophobic?’ Frances let the towel drop to her lap.
Tony tried to bend his knees up towards his chest, gave up, and stretched them out again. ‘I’m mildly claustrophobic. It’s not that big a deal. I didn’t like being down here even before we were locked in.’
‘Right then, I need to distract you,’ said Frances. ‘Take your mind off it.’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Tony. He smiled a half-version of his full-on smile.
‘So . . .’ said Frances. She thought about what Napoleon had said yesterday before their smoothies had their full effect. ‘Did you suffer from that “post-sports depression” when you gave up football?’
‘That’s a really sparkling topic of conversation to hit off with,’ said Tony.
‘Sorry,’ said Frances. ‘I’m not at my best. Also, I’m interested. My career might be kind of ending right now.’
Tony grimaced. ‘Well. They say that a sports star dies twice. The first time is when they retire.’
‘And was it like a death?’ asked Frances. It would feel like a death if she had to stop writing.
‘Well, yeah, kind of.’ He picked up a half-melted candle and pulled off a chunk of wax. ‘Not to be dramatic about it, but the game was all I knew for all those years, it’s who I was. I was a kid straight out of school when I started playing professionally. My ex-wife would say I was still a kid when I finished. She used to say it stunted me. She had this phrase she’d picked up somewhere: professional sportsperson, amateur human being.’ He put the candle back on the floor and flicked away the piece of wax with his fingertips. ‘She used to repeat it every time I . . . demonstrated my amateur approach to life.’
There was a hurt look in his eyes that belied his light humorous tone. Frances decided his ex-wife was a witch.
‘Also, I wasn’t ready to finish up. I thought I had one season left in me, but my right knee thought otherwise.’ He pulled up one leg and pointed at the offending knee.
‘Stupid right knee,’ said Frances.
‘Yeah, I was pissed off with it.’ Tony massaged his knee. ‘A sports doctor friend told me that retiring is like coming off cocaine; your body is used to all those feel-good chemicals: serotonin, dopamine, and – bam – suddenly they’re gone and your body has to readjust.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever experienced those feel-good chemicals doing exercise,’ admitted Frances. She picked up the candle he’d discarded and dug her thumbnail into the soft wax near the wick.
‘You probably have,’ said Tony. ‘Doing certain types of exercise.’ He paused.
She blinked. Wait. Was that innuendo?
He continued talking. Maybe she’d got it wrong.
‘You probably find this laughable but there were some games where we were all where we were meant to be and we all did what we were meant to do, and it all just came together, like a piece of music or poetry or . . . I don’t know . . .’ He met her eyes and winced, as if preparing himself for derision. ‘Sometimes it felt transcendent. Like drugs. It really did.’
‘That’s not laughable,’ said Frances. ‘That makes me want to take up AFL.’
He gave a deep appreciative chuckle.
‘My ex-wife used to say that all I ever thought about was the game. It probably wasn’t much fun being married to me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it was,’ said Frances without thinking, and caught herself staring at his massive shoulders. She changed the subject hurriedly. ‘So what did you do after you stopped playing? How did you re-create yourself?’
‘I set up a sports marketing consultancy,’ said Tony. ‘It’s done well – you know, for a business run by an amateur human being. I thought I was doing better than a lot of my teammates. Some of them really fucked up – I mean . . . stuffed up their lives.’
‘I feel like fucked up is the correct phrase to use there,’ said Frances.
He gave her his full ‘Smiley’ grin. It really was the funniest smile.
‘You’re kind of annihilating that candle,’ he said.
She looked guiltily at the mess of wax in her lap. ‘You started it.’ She brushed the wax onto the floor. ‘Go on. So you set up this consultancy.’
‘I had one friend who said to me, “Don’t you hate the way that everyone only wants to talk about who you used to be?” but I honestly never minded that. I liked it when people recognised me; I never mind talking about the man I used to be. But anyway . . . late last year I started to get these symptoms, this incredible fatigue, I just felt something was wrong, even before I got on Dr Google.’
Frances felt herself go cold. She was at an age where people in her circle didn’t imagine serious illnesses, they got them. ‘And . . .?’
‘So, I took myself off to my GP, and he ran a lot of tests, and I could tell he was taking it seriously, and I said, “Are you thinking pancreatic cancer?” Because that’s what I was thinking – that’s how I lost my dad, and I know it runs in families. And the GP just gave me this look – I’ve known him for years – and he said, “I’m covering all bases.”’
Oh, damn it to hell.
‘It was just before Christmas, and he called me in to give me the results. He pulled out the file and, afterwards, I realised I had these words in my head, and I was saying them to myself, and it just . . . shocked the life out of me that I would think that.’
‘What words?’ asked Frances.
‘I was thinking, Let it be terminal.’
Frances blanched. ‘And . . . but . . . is it?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Tony. ‘Nothing wrong with me, except that I obviously don’t have a healthy lifestyle.’
Frances exhaled. She hoped not excessively. ‘Well, thank goodness.’
‘But it shook me up – that I would think that, that I would hope for a terminal diagnosis. I thought, Mate, how fucked up is your head?’
‘Yeah, that’s bad,’ said Frances. She felt energised in that bossy female way that she knew drove men crazy, but there was really nothing you could do about it once you felt that sense of righteousness surge through you, because they were such idiots. ‘So, right, you’ve got to get this fixed. You need –’
He held up his hand. ‘I’ve got it under control.’
‘It’s really very bad that you thought that!’
‘I know it is. That’s why I’m here.’
‘So you probably need –’
He put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh.’
‘Therapy!’ she got in quickly.
‘Shhh.’
‘And –’
‘Zip it.’
Frances zipped it. She held the wet towel to her face to hide her smile. At least he wasn’t thinking about his claustrophobia now.
‘Tell me about this bastard who scammed you,’ said Tony. ‘And then tell me where he lives.’