MARCUS
I’m a dick. A totally useless limp fucking dick. My head is splitting so hard, even two paracetamol, two ibuprofen and a mug of strong coffee can’t take the edge off.
What’s worse than the headache though is the feeling of total and utter self-loathing. I’m so used to Shelly taking care of the girls that driving them to school this morning had slipped my mind when I ended up drinking with Callum and James until the early hours of the morning in one of Temple Bar’s most exclusive establishments.
All of my good intentions of going for a run, or doing anything productive at all have gone out the window. Thank god for Nadine. I only hope James is in better shape than me. Searching the fridge for something to take the edge off my hangover, I notice Shelly has stocked the fridge and freezer with supplies. She really is amazing.
Only now do I realise how much I’ve unintentionally taken her for granted. She’s a fantastic mother, a fantastic wife. She’s supported my career for years without complaint. Taken care of the girls, the house, and always had a delicious dinner and an even more delectable smile to accompany it. She deserves a break, if for nothing else but to allow us all to appreciate her.
Dragging myself to the basement, I take two litres of water into the sauna and sweat out as many toxins from my body as I can.
I overreacted last night. Even though I knew I was doing it, I couldn’t help myself. Ben’s smug, smarmy grip on my wife, the only woman I’ve ever loved, snapped something in me. If it were Callum, James, Nathan, or any other of my former teammates, it wouldn’t bother me even a fraction. It’s justhim. Because he always wanted her. And when she did become my wife, that challenge of taking her only became more alluring.
He used to watch alongside me as she waited at the bus stop, glaring at us both with a steely determination in her eye. Her college was adjacent to the rugby club I visited earlier in the week. Bluebell was rough even then, but the club was lucky enough to have people like mine and Ben’s mothers on the club committee championing the importance for underage facilities, especially in deprived areas of the city to help prevent an increase in crime. They procured a huge amount of government funding, hence the lads that it attracted went on to mature to men that played professionally.
Three or four times a week, I’d linger at the pitch long after training finished, knowing school would be out for the day at three-thirty, hoping to glimpse my blonde beauty. Even back then, I wanted her to be mine. Something sharp in her eyes, something about the way she held herself, showed an unwavering strength. Her sheer disinterest was almost as attractive as her silky fair hair and her endless legs in that school uniform. It took weeks before I managed to get her to crack a smile. A year older than Shelly, I had only just graduated. But I knew even then I had a lot left to learn.
Ben began to hang around too, making excuses about having nothing to rush home to. His parents were always so disapproving of his interest in rugby. They were involved in the charity side of things, but felt actually playing it was below them and their son. They probably would have preferred him to play cricket and ponce around with the other ‘sportsmen’, picking at neatly cut, crustless cucumber sandwiches and half-time tea and madeira cake.
After watching her for weeks, I finally got the nerve to go over and speak to her. She told me in no uncertain terms to piss off.
The following week I tried again and got the same response.
The third week she asked me if I liked rejection, because I kept coming back for more.
The fourth week was Valentine’s and I had flowers and chocolates in the boot of my car for her, which she point blank refused to accept. Her cheeks flushed with mortification, but it was that day I glimpsed the first crack of a smile, the first thawing of ice.
By the seventh week she’d begun to wave back and routinely smile at me, but it was still a further five weeks before I managed to persuade her to agree to have a drink with me.
When I actually got to have that drink with her, she asked me if dating her was some sort of stupid bet, because Ben had asked her out already. It was the first indication he’d shit on any of us to get what he wanted.
It was months before Shelly opened up to me fully.
She had huge trust issues, having been let down so many times as a child, she’d come to expect disappointment. I swore to her I’d never let her down, yet that’s exactly what I’m doing now.
Despite how far we’ve come over the years, somewhere inside of her is still that young girl looking for support. She deserves mine and I’m going to give it to her. Even if it kills me inside. I need to find a way to separate reality from reality TV. She’s my wife. Ben is her dance partner. That is all.
Downing the remaining water, I dive into the pool, swim fifty lengths and focus on how to show more support, how to keep our marriage on track and how to fill the ever-growing void in my life stemming from my early retirement.
* * *
When the girls are home, safe, fed and settled, I take out my phone and text Shelly.
I’m sorry for being an utter dick.
Half an hour later I get a response, just not the one I’d been hoping for.
It’s ok. I’ll be late home. Ben and I are being interviewed on RTE this evening ahead of the shows.
Later when I’m doing the bedtime routine, Erin asks, ‘When is Mammy coming home?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but I’ll send her up to kiss you goodnight the second she gets in.’
I only hope I’m getting a kiss goodnight too. I badly need it. And so does our marriage.
I need to confess the book deal’s been pulled, for now at least. Though I won’t tell her why. It’s not her fault. I’d hate her to feel bad about it. Bad enough carrying my own disappointment round.
Downstairs, I refuse to switch the television on. It takes all my willpower, but seeing Ben Battle draped all over my wife will not help me tonight. Sitting patiently in the armchair, I wait, tired from the night before.
As I wait in the silence, my thoughts return to the old club, no matter how much I try and put it out of my head. Seeing the ruins of my first ever success story is like looking at the mirror image of myself. That building, once fresh and full of promise, now worn, old and surplus to requirements is a stark representation of exactly how I feel.
I know I have more pressing family commitments right now, but if I could find a way to salvage that building and restore it to its former glory, perhaps there might be a role for me there afterwards? I have the means, and the reputation to be taken seriously. It could be exactly what I need – a distraction. Helping to restore the club would allow me give something back.
If I put an offer in, Shelly will likely go mental. During the 2008 downturn, we lost a lot of money on property. I swore I’d never dabble again.
This is different though, it’s for a good cause. Perhaps if I explain, she’ll understand. Restored, it could be used by the entire community again. God knows Bluebell needs to have something going for it.
Despite my best intentions, this controversial idea is one that follows me into a deep slumber.
