MARCUS
‘You can’t be serious, Shelly?’ She hands me an open bottle of Heineken with shaky hands and I take a swig so as not to openly stare at her with the incredulity that swells in my chest.
‘I only said I’d think about it.’ Her bright-blue eyes fall to the floor.
‘That show is pure trash. Nobody cares about the dancing. The public watch it purely for the celebrity scandal.’ I can’t comprehend why she would even consider it.
‘I disagree. Besides, it could be fun.’ Sneaking a glance in my direction, she raises her eyes to meet mine. ‘I love dancing, you know I do.’
Of course I know she loves dancing. She used to teach Irish dancing until we got married almost ten years ago. Hell, she’s so agile she could turn her toes to any type of dance; she’d probably even win the damn thing, but that’s not the point. The show is notoriously shocking.
‘I thought you were happy at home.’ My nail slides under the label of the beer bottle, lifting it irreparably from its secure position stuck with glue, a bit like how I feel myself. ‘I didn’t realise you’d even consider something like this.’
‘I am happy at home – most of the time.’ She shrugs and flops into the sunlounger across from me.
‘Most of the time? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Biting the inside of my cheek, I swallow down my surprise.
‘I’m happy with you, Marcus. And the girls, of course. I love you all so much. But sometimes, just sometimes, I think I’d like to do something for myself now and again. I know you laugh at my Instagram but it gives me a chance to express myself. It’s a way of being someone other than just a wife and a mother. This opportunity… it’s once in a lifetime. It would allow me to do the same. It’s only for a few weeks.’
Shaking my head, I rack my brain for the right words to get through to her. ‘Shelly, you’ve seen the show. Hell, we watch it because it’s so bad, it’s good. All that skin on display, and shimmying up to other guys for entertainment. It’s not what I envisioned for my wife.’
Her head snaps round at me as fast as a whippet. ‘Is our marriage that frail that you couldn’t take watching me dance with another man?’
I close the distance between us, crouching beside her. Taking her hand, I rub my thumb over the back of her hot skin. ‘Our marriage isn’t frail, but is five minutes of fame worth risking everything we have?’
‘I don’t understand why it’s a risk, unless we’re weak. I’ve lived in your shadow for years, and happily, by the way. Women have been throwing themselves at you and your teammates since I’ve known you. It didn’t stop you from pursuing your dreams. You didn’t hear me saying “you better not go on tour for six weeks because you might get hit on.” It boils down to trust, Marcus.’ She twists the diamond-encrusted platinum band around the fourth finger on her left hand.
A sigh whooshes from my chest. She’s right, I know she is. But it still doesn’t sit easy with me.
‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ Her head whips round to inspect my face.
Things have been quieter for me since I retired than I’d like, but I’d never stoop to appearing on a television show as trashy as that. ‘Jealous? You must be fucking joking. No amount of love or money would ever get me on the stupid show! Apart from the fact I have two left feet, I do havesomepride. No way. I couldn’t think of anything worse.’
Emily and Erin come running out of the back door towards us, each clutching cola ice pops, arguing over whose is bigger.
‘They’re both the same, girls,’ Shelly tells them. In a low hushed tone she says to me, ‘We’ll continue this conversation later.’
I only hope she comes to her senses before then.
After dinner we go to the equestrian centre, like Shelly wanted. I’d give that woman anything her heart desires. I’ve proved it time and time again over the years, so why am I struggling so hard to get my head around this latest request? Not that it’s a request exactly, but we have an unspoken agreement; we are a team. We make the decisions that affect both of us, and our family, together. We always have.
If I ask her not to do the damned show I know she’ll respect my wishes, but I also know part of her will resent me for it. And that’s something I can’t live with. So I just need to pray now that she makes the decision herself not to commit.
Following a tour of the stables, I hand over my credit card to the owner and agree to as many horse riding lessons as Emily and Erin can manage in the next week. Having already spent three weeks here, we’re due to fly back to Dublin in eight days. A prospect I was previously looking forward to. There’s only so many happy hours and cheesy holiday excursions one man can take. But now, I’m not sure.
Swapping daily training with my teammates for daily disputes with my tweenagers has been a huge adjustment. I adore my girls; they’re the light of my life, but the recent months at home have been a massive change. Adjusting to retirement isn’t as easy as I’d hoped. Suddenly, life seems lacking in purpose, which is ridiculous because keeping my daughters and my wife healthy and happy should be enough for any man. So what’s with the persistent sense of restlessness hovering over me? It’s not like we need the money.
There’s been the usual PR stuff, radio and television interviews. I’m not fit for the commentator box, like some of my other retired colleagues, I’m too brash for that, apparently. They’d have to censor every other word from my mouth. My agent put my name forward for a few opportunities – one of which I’m silently optimistic about, a regular place onA League of Their Own.
There’s also a book deal on the table, a biography. Someone else will have to write it, of course. Writing isn’t really my thing. But seriously, what is? Without rugby, I have no idea.
Will I wake one day and relax into this new retired lifestyle? Or do I go out there and look for something to occupy myself, thereby admitting my family is not enough for me? And is that what Shelly is admitting now by wanting to do this stupid show? How can I begrudge her, when I can’t cope with a few months at home? She’s been doing it for years.
‘Marcus? Are you listening?’ Shelly tugs my arm, a frown pinching at her pretty face. Slight lines indent the corners of her eyes and on her forehead, yet she’s still ageing a million times better than me. Taking my hand, she leads me out into the warm twilight sky. The temperatures have decreased with the setting sun, but the humidity remains.
‘Sorry, I was daydreaming.’ I lead them back to the Jeep. It’s a Wrangler. Perfect for the beach and all the other holiday activities that are fun filled, and often messy.
‘We noticed, Dad.’ Emily nudges me and attempts a wink. It’s clumsy and strained but it makes me laugh anyway.
