MARCUS
I know the plan was to show unwavering moral support but it’s easier said than done when that slimy bastard is goading me in front of the entire nation. It’s too hard. It’s too much. Ben pressed up against her, her wide smile.
She looks fifteen years younger, her skin flush with unparalleled joy. Has he done that for her? Or is it simply the make-up and the ability to break free? Either way, I’ve never been more aware that he’s a super successful entrepreneur and I’m a fucking has-been.
Striding out of the RTE studio, I realise I now have a free evening. Understanding how much Shelly and I needed some time together, James arranged for Nadine to collect the girls from school and bring them to their house for a sleepover, allowing me to come here with the intention of taking my wife for a romantic dinner afterwards. So much for that idea.
If I was a better man, a bigger man, I could rise above it. If I was more secure in myself. I’d rather play the role of the arsehole than admit the truth – insecurity’s eating me alive.
First the forced early retirement, then the failure to secure a slot on aA League of Their Own, throw in the book deal being whipped from under my nose; it’s too much.
And worryingly, my career is not the biggest thing I stand to lose.
Flashbacks of Shelly’s glittering smile extending from ear to ear, while Ben’s grubby fingers stroke her spine haunt me. While he bragged about how much fun they’re having, I’m struggling to get through one day at a time at the moment.
My new insecurities are turning me into a complete dick, and even though I’m aware of it, I’m powerless to stop it. I’m so fucking lost. So lonely. Lonely for my wife, lonely for my teammates, lonely for my old life – the one that was structured around each game, each tournament or championship.
If there’s such a thing as rock bottom, I think I’ve hit it. I’m like a lost sheep. The herd has moved on and I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself. I know what I’d like to do. The need to get back into some sort of rugby role is the only thing that appeals to me. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known, and without it, I’m lost.
Friday afternoon traffic is heavy and slow and I drive automatically towards the old streets of Bluebell, once again drawn back to the old club. Back to where it began. It only depresses me further.
Abandoning the car on a narrow side street near our first flat, the flat that Ben stayed with us in all those years ago, I grab a baseball cap and saunter down the familiar streets to my old local. Afternoon drinking isn’t going to solve my problems, but it might help me forget for a while. The need to wash away the hurt inside is overwhelming.
The pub is called The Irishman. The familiar stench of yeast from the on-site brewery assaults my nostrils as I push open the heavy dark-wood door. Inside, the paint-peeled walls are a depressing shade of deep green. Three men sit at the worn bar, nursing pints and probably their sorrows. Hesitating briefly, I wonder if the baseball cap is enough to disguise me. Laughter catches in my own throat at the absurdity. I’m a fucking has-been at this stage, so who cares either way.
The barmaid has her back to me, preoccupied unloading a variety of glasses. Through the steam in front of her, she squints down, inspecting each glass, probably for remaining lipstick, though I can’t imagine there’s too many women frequenting this place. It leaves a lot to be desired if you’re looking to impress a lady. Shelly used to like it though, back in the day. She’s never been one for airs or graces. She used to love sitting at the bar with a pint, jibing the lads after a match.
As I stroll across the room, the three patrons turn practically simultaneously to assess the new arrival. Nodding in acknowledgement, I head to where the bar wraps round a corner and locate a stool. When the barmaid finally does glance up, I do a double take, almost not recognising her. Cherry-coloured lips widen to expose her magnificent all-American smile.
‘Madison?’ What the hell is she doing working somewhere like this?
‘I told you, my friends call me Maddy.’ She bounces over with four agile steps, as graceful as a gazelle, dropping one hand over the Guinness pump in anticipation. She looks different today. Far from the usual running gear she sports for the school run, she’s dressed in navy jeans and a gold top that brings out the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
Swallowing down my awkwardness, I flash her the biggest grin I can manage, it’s probably little more than a grimace. I point to the row of liquor on the top shelf. ‘Maddy, sorry. I’ll have a Jack Daniels, please. Better make it a double.’
‘Bad day at the office, huh?’ she asks in her deep drawl.
‘You could say that.’ The last thing I want to do is get into it with her, or anyone for that matter. She places the glass in front of me and I had over a twenty euro note. ‘Get yourself one too.’
Oh fuck, it was out before I thought about it. I hope she doesn’t think I’m trying to chat her up, when actually it’s the last thing on my mind.
‘I don’t drink when I’m working, but thanks.’
I’m really not in the mood for mindless conversation but as she pours my drink, curiosity gets the better of me. ‘What are you doing working somewhere like this?’ Glancing round the bar, I note the tables and chairs are all scuffed and the carpet worn so much in places it’s almost bald.
She returns from the till with my change. ‘I think the real question is, what are you doing drinking somewhere like this? At least I’m getting paid to be here. Not a lot, mind you.’ A gentle laugh streams from her open mouth.
Could she be any more happy-go-lucky if she tried? And the poor woman is here working for probably barely more than a pittance.
‘It’s a long story.’ She must know about Shelly andSexy Come Dancing. It’s been all over the newspapers, not to mention prime time television. If by some mad chance she doesn’t know, I’m certainly not about to start bragging about it.
‘You know barmaids make the best listeners.’ Using a jiffy cloth, she begins wiping the bar counter, focussing on what she’s doing instead of scrutinising me. If it’s an attempt to encourage me to open up, it won’t work.
‘Seriously though, what are you doing working here? If your little girl attends St Judith’s, I can’t imagine you’re here for the money.’ I take a sip of the liquor and the burn scorches my insides, temporarily distracting me from the scorching pain in my deflated heart.
Maddy bites her lower lip and brushes her blonde hair behind her ears. God I’m so fucking insensitive. I can’t believe I actually said that out loud.
I raise my hand in apology and look to floor, avoiding all possible eye contact. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’
