Shelly sticks the television on for the girls as they devour the waffles she promised. I head for the coffee machine. Last night ended up being a late one, not that I’m complaining.
Roaming hands snake behind my waist as I fill two cups with a strong aromatic smelling blend. ‘Maybe you could invite Maddy over? I’d like to meet her again, if she really is a friend. I probably owe her an apology.’
‘You know, I think you’d really like her. She’s very easy company. You two could become great friends. I don’t know a lot about her, but from what I do know, she’s had a hard life. Single mother, struggling to make ends meet. Her daughter won a scholarship to St Judith’s, and Maddy is struggling with even the uniform and the extracurricular activity costs. Maybe there’s some way we can help her?’
Shelly pinches my arse through my jeans. ‘Marcus Williams, charity founder and general do-gooder champion of the people. What’s got into you? I’m all for it, but I just didn’t see it coming.’
She’s right. I’ve gone from only ever pursuing my own ambitions, on and off the pitch, to needing to feel my short life has some sort of higher purpose. Validation. I’ve discovered giving something back is the only way to meet that need.
‘I keep thinking how lucky we are. And that’s all it is, Shelly, luck.’ Pressing the cup into her hand, I lean back against the counter and sip from my own.
‘You worked hard for everything we have, Marcus. Don’t forget it. You don’t owe the universe anything. It’s great that you want to do something positive and productive for yourself in the process, but don’t forget how hard you worked to be in a position to be able to.’
She’s right, but she’s forgetting one thing. ‘I was only able to work hard because my mother and father gave me that chance in life. If they hadn’t adopted me, who knows where I’d be. So really, it’s a combination of luck and hard work.’
‘You were lucky in that sense, but Bernie and Ronnie were lucky too. Imagine, after a lifetime of trying, they finally got their own little boy.’
‘Less of the little.’ I wink at her. ‘You’d give a man a complex.’
‘No complaints in that department, thank god.’ She grabs my crotch through my jeans and leers as my jeans instantly become distinctly tighter.
‘Behave, Mrs Williams. Until tonight at least.’ I plan on spending every single night making up for the break we’ve had from worshipping each other’s bodies.
The girls screech excitedly from the sitting room, their words indistinguishable as their mouths are filled with waffles. From the bouncing up and down and fingers pointing towards the television, I assume it’s footage of their mother dancing. Inhaling a deep lungful of air, I blow it slowly through my nose and remind myself Ben is not a threat. Shelly certainly demonstrated that last night. And this morning.
We strut towards them, without the same level of enthusiasm. My jaw almost hits the floor when I see the multicoloured sixty-five inch image isn’t of Shelly and Ben, but of me and Maddy in the playground yesterday. The photo depicts my fingers brushing her cheek, and in that split second the affectionate smile that crinkles in the corner of her eyes could be mistaken for one of love instead of friendship. Fuck. Those dirty bastard paparazzi must have snuck into the playground.
Shelly’s head spins towards me, a look of pure horror pinched on her even features. ‘What the fuck, Marcus?’ Her tone is loaded with accusation once again. For once, I can’t even blame her. It doesn’t look good, but it was the camera angle.
The female presenter is Ava Armstrong, a notorious gossip fiend, who thrives on creating trouble within celebrity relationships – because it’s not like it’s hard enough to maintain a marriage when you’re in the limelight. Her judgemental tone cuts in and the picture reverts to her sitting on her couch in the RTE studio, the incriminating photo enhanced on a large screen behind her. ‘Marcus Williams seems to be hedging his bets with theSexy Come Dancingkissing curse, if yesterday’s events are anything to go by. He was spotted cosying up to a younger woman in a Dublin playground, while their children shared a playdate.’
Shelly eyes widen to the point where they look as though they’re in real danger of popping from her head. Emily and Erin are still chewing, muttering through their mouthfuls.
‘Shelly, it’s not what it looks like. She brought a picnic to the park. She had sugar on her face and I wiped it off.’ Grabbing Shelly’s hand, I plead with her to believe me, but she swipes it away as though she’s been burned. Which I suppose she has.
‘I cannot believe this,’ she hisses, then turns her back and heads for the door.
My eyes scan the room, desperately searching for the remote before this daft bitch can do any more damage, but I’m not quick enough. Ava Armstrong stokes the fire even further. ‘And what the country really want to know, is who is the third child in this photo?’ Another photo appears on the screen, one of Emily, Erin and Zoe sitting together on Maddy’s picnic blanket, blissfully happy with the ‘candy’ Maddy shared between them. Oh fuck…
Shelly swivels back round to face the television while Emily and Erin jump up and down on the couch, having finally swallowed what they were chewing. ‘It’s us! Look, Mam, we’re as famous as you now!’
I flinch from my head to my toes as a painful wince crosses my wife’s face. Unfortunately, the damage is nowhere near over yet.
‘The Williams have two daughters, of which Shelly regularly shares images on her popular Instagram site. The third child photographed with them is believed to be the daughter of Marcus Williams’ – ahem – “female friend”. Coincidently, she bears a striking resemblance to his youngest daughter. Some might even say they could pass as sisters.’ The presenter raises her eyebrows and pauses for dramatic effect.
An exceptionally clear photo of me exiting the lingerie shop replaces the picture of the girls. The conflicting emotion captured on my face has nothing to do with me doing something untoward, and everything to do with the owner brazenly coming on to me in broad daylight, but it does not look good. At all.
Ava’s voice cuts over. ‘Who is Marcus buying lingerie for? And why does he look so troubled about it? Perhaps Shelly Williams may be able to shed some clarity on the matter on this week’s semi-final ofSexy Come Dancing.’
The screen switches again to a video recording of what must be Shelly’s dressing room because she can clearly be seen sitting at the vanity table applying lipstick. The angle widens to show Ben hovering behind her.
Adrenaline swirls like a tsunami. ‘You ever heard the name Maddy before?’ What is that prick doing in my wife’s dressing room? But the fact that she’s confiding in him is my real undoing.
The camera zooms in on Ava Armstrong again, and her raised eyebrows, pointed nose and judgemental eyes. ‘Tune in to Saturday night’s semi-final to find out.’
Having finally found the remote twenty seconds too late, I switch off the television. The silence is deafening. Even the girls don’t know what to say, glancing between both of us, then to each other.
‘Daddy, what did the lady mean?’ Emily’s innocence rips through my heart. I want to shield her from the world we live in, the one that is intrusive and has no respect for privacy, boundaries or tearing families apart.
‘Nothing, sweetheart. Go get your coat and shoes and meet me by the front door.’ For once the girls go without complaint.
Shelly’s fingers fly to the necklace nestled on her chest. ‘Is that what you were apologising for?’ She nods to the television; her tone is hushed, but her hurt is audible.
Rushing to her, I pull her into me, but she shrugs me off again. ‘We brought the girls for a playdate. I wiped sugar from her face, the same way I’d do with my own daughters. There was nothing in it.’
‘I’m struggling to believe a word that comes out of your mouth right now, Marcus. I knew I wasn’t going crazy. That child is the fucking image of you. And now it’s all over the media for the world to see. Ask Maddy for a DNA test, or I swear to god, this is the end for us.’ When she stalks out without so much as a goodbye to the girls, I know I’m fucked.
