MARCUS
The second I return home from dropping the kids to school, my phone rings.
‘Arthur. How are things?’ Stepping into the kitchen, I fling the car keys onto the island and turn on the coffee machine.
‘Ok, Marcus. I’m calling to give you an update. It’s not good news, I’m afraid. The biography’s been scrapped, for now at least.’ He sounds tired. No wonder. He’s probably tired of not being able to find any work for me.
I clear my throat and slip a coffee pod into the machine. ‘Any idea why?’
‘Honestly, no. Though there is some whispering speculation that the book’s ending may be different if it’s left until this time next year.’ He sounds almost apologetic.
‘What are you talking about, mate?’ We’ve known each other long enough not to be dancing around with niceties.
‘It’s that show Shelly’s doing. The publisher thinks the outcome of the show might add to the story down the line. They want to wait until early in the new year to sign a formal publishing deal.’
Great. That fucking show again. ‘Fine, Arthur. Thanks for letting me know.’ What else can I say? I hang up and bang my fist on the island in frustration.
The house feels too big, too quiet and too lonely all of a sudden. Drinking my coffee, I flick through theIrish Newsapp on my phone. There’s an entire section dedicated to the commencement ofSexy Come Dancing. Backing out of it, I throw the phone down, before hitting my own private gym. At least my wife will reap the benefits of the torture I’m inflicting on my body to ease my current mental state.
When the sweat is pumping from me and my body is about ready to collapse, I leap into our twenty-five metre pool in the basement. Unlike our villa in Vilamoura, we simply don’t get the weather in Ireland to make enough use of an outdoor one.
Thirty lengths and half an hour in the sauna does little to settle the lost feeling inside. I’m struggling to find my place in the world of retirement. The feeling of being surplus to requirements is overwhelming. Rattling around trying to think of something productive to do is exhausting.
To pass the time before I collect the girls, I drive the streets of Dublin, taking a trip down memory lane. It’s been a long time since I visited my roots, the old rugby club where it all started for me, and for Ben. Later, Nathan and Eddie passed through the same club.
Something about having Ben back in our lives has me reminiscing about the old days. The days where I had nothing, not even Shelly. I’m drawn back to Bluebell. Perhaps it’s Arthur’s knock-back and the complete lack of direction in my life urging me to go back to the beginning. To remind myself how far I’ve come.
Either way, I find myself parked outside the place where it all began. The old club. It’s in a sorry state. The clubhouse windows are smashed, glass litters the ground below my feet. The front door’s boarded up with now-rotting planks of wood and the pitch is an overgrown muddy mess littered with weeds and discarded rubbish.
How did this even happen? Who could let this place get in such a state? And how come I never checked? If it wasn’t for this place, and the dedication of the amateur coaches, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Gazing at the sorry scene around me only serves to depress me further. Not only am I a has-been, but so is the very place my career started.
As I head back towards the car, a sign nailed to an electricity pole flaps in the breeze. The sign says ‘Under Offer.’ A private planning notice proposing another new block of flats is taped below it. A sadness hovers before settling in my stomach. The end of an era. A bit like me. I drive to the school in silence, troubled, unsettled thoughts swirling through my brain.
At the school, I arrive with fifteen minutes to spare and a supply of snacks for them to munch on the way to Emily’s football training. The car park is quiet, for now. Winding my window down for some fresh air, I sit back in my chair and wait. A baseball cap and sunglasses offer me a shred of disguise should I need it, but no one round here bats an eyelid anyway. I’m small fry compared to some of the parents doing pick-ups. The president’s granddaughters attend this very school. As do two of the daughters of Ireland’s hottest boyband.
After a few minutes, I glimpse the white Nissan pulling into the space next to me. Seems like we both made an effort to get here early after yesterday.
The Nissan’s passenger window slides down and the blonde smirks at me. ‘Great minds think alike.’ She flashes me a smile that exposes perfect pearlescent teeth that would give even Callum Connolly a run for his money. I can’t help notice she’s wearing running gear again. She’s undoubtably some sort of athlete herself.
‘Cut it a little too tight yesterday, sorry about that again.’ I avert my eyes forward, and gaze out of my windscreen towards the school. Shelly would cut my dick off if she even thought for a second I was eyeing up one of the mammys, which I’m not by the way. Although, something about her demands my attention. She looks familiar or something, yet I know without a doubt we didn’t meet until this week. I’d have remembered. Perhaps she reminds me of a younger Shelly? Their features are wildly different but perhaps it’s the hair and the luminous Lycra.
‘I’m Madison, by the way,’ she says, ‘but my friends call me Maddy.’
A hot flush creeps up my neck as I try to work out if I’m supposed to call her Madison, or if she deems me one of her friends that can call her Maddy.
‘I’m Marcus,’ is all I utter.
‘You have two girls?’ It’s not really a question. She blatantly saw me with them yesterday.
‘Yes. Erin is six, Emily is eight.’ It’s the briefest of answers, to be polite more than anything, but Madison doesn’t need much encouragement.
‘My Zoe is six, too. She’s a total diva already. Wants to be an actress when she grows up. I don’t have the heart to tell her, “Honey, you already are!” Every day I get a different version of her. Sometimes she’s a sweet Disney princess, other days she could throw a tantrum that would give Cruella a run for her money! And Jesus, if she gets hangry she’s like a demon.’ Madison shakes her head and rolls her eyes, her hands raised in awhat can you do?gesture.
Despite my best efforts, a deep belly laugh rumbles out from my chest. She hit the nail on the head. She could have been describing Erin.
‘I’m dreading the teenage years,’ she continues. ‘And worse for you, you’ve got double trouble by the look of it!’
‘Oh, don’t! I’m hoping to lock them in their bedrooms until the convent will take them.’ I’m joking of course, but it’s a thought that’s passed through my head on numerous occasions, especially when the lads have been explicitly describing their conquests in the changing rooms. Outwardly, I’m all talk with the rest of them. Inwardly, I’m painfully aware that they’re discussing someone’s daughter.
