MARCUS
The arrival gate at Dublin airport is heaving, even more so than usual. It’s almost teatime. I’m looking forward to a decent dinner and an early night in my own bed – if we ever manage to emerge through the ridiculous throng of people milling around us. What they’re loitering for, I don’t know. They could be waiting for the fucking Kardashians for all I care, so long as they stop pointlessly clogging the way to the exit where my good friend Callum Connolly should be waiting for us. I wanted to book a private hire, but Callum insisted. He’s been keeping an eye on the house while we’ve been gone.
Callum and I go way back. We were teammates for years. We’ve become closer again lately, primarily because we can relate to each other even more now I’ve retired. It’s not easy transitioning from a high-profile position in the limelight, surrounded and supported by your teammates and fans alike. Normal life, civilian life, is unknown territory, but one that Callum successfully forged his way through a couple of years ago.
Dragging two big suitcases behind me, I glance back checking Shelly is still at my heels with a firm grip on both of our daughters. If this is my wife’s idea of travelling light, I’d hate to see what she views as heavy.
The crowd suddenly parts in front of us like the dividing of the Red Sea. Noisy incoherent babble switches to shrieks of recognition. Hundreds of shrill, high-pitched female fans are calling out to us, surrounding us, demanding our attention. But it’s not my name they’re screaming – it’s Shelly’s.
‘Shelly! I love you! I’ve been following you for years!’ One crazy-eyed woman is almost up in my face. I halt to a standstill, protectively sheltering my wife and daughters.
Another girl, barely more than a teenager, swoops in from the side, far too close for my liking, to shout, ‘Shelly, I can’t wait to see you onSexy Come Dancing!’
Shelly’s bombarded with questions from every direction as more and more women surround us.
‘Who are you hoping to be paired up with?’
‘What about your previous experience as a dancer?’
‘Will you share all the backstage gossip on your Instagram?’
I abandon the suitcases and pull Shelly and the girls into my chest as phones are thrust in our faces, strangers desperate to capture a picture that might be worth something. Placing my fingers between my lips, I let out a piercing wolf whistle, loud enough to make most of them take a step backwards and to attract the attention of airport security.
Within minutes the crowd is dispersed and we’re ushered out of a private side entrance where Callum is waiting.
‘That was bedlam.’ Shelly looks pale despite her tan, her azure eyes wide with shock.
‘I thought you were used to fame.’ I open the back door of Callum’s Jeep and usher the girls in, barely greeting him apart from a quick thank you.
‘Normally it’s you they’re dragging at,’ Shelly says. ‘I actually felt frightened for a second there.’
‘You’re the one that signed up for this.’ It comes out sharper than I intended. Callum hops out to greet us before I can apologise. Meeting us at the boot of his brand spanking new Land Rover Discovery, he lifts a suitcase in while I lift the other. ‘Welcome home, guys.’ He shakes my hand and offers Shelly a quick peck on the cheek.
‘What a fucking welcome it was.’ I shake my head at him, still a little taken aback myself.
Callum shrugs and offers a megawatt grin, displaying perfect straight teeth which are a shade too bright to be natural. That fucker has more sponsorship deals now he’s retired than he ever got when he actually played. The latest deal’s advertising a new Irish toothpaste. They can feck off if they think anyone will seriously believe a toothpaste can have that effect. I bet he’s smothering his gnashers in bleach nightly.
‘You have seen today’s papers, right?’ Callum asks, opening the front passenger door for Shelly as I hop in the back with the girls.
‘No. We’ve only just landed,’ Shelly says.
‘The front pages are plastered with the confirmed contestants forSexy Come Dancing, and you, Shelly Williams, got your own double-page spread. It seems you’ve divided the public – some are viewing you as one of the favourites with your previous dancing experience, others are calling you the underdog.’ He winces for a split second before continuing. ‘There was a whole piece on how you used to teach dancing before you guys got married. Seemingly there was uproar about it from some of the other contestants. That girl band member, Gemma Sloane was complaining that if you were able to teach dancing then you’re practically a professional.’
‘Irish dancing is anything but sexy…’ Shelly flicks her hair from her face, the same gesture she always makes when she’s brushing something off.
‘I know,’ Callum continues as he navigates the Jeep out of the airport grounds. At least the windows are tinted.
‘Gemma Sloane probably had loads of private choreography lessons as part of that girl group, so if that’s the case, she could be called practically professional as well.’ Shelly’s tone is sharp, loaded with menace.
Callum lets out a burst of laughter and slaps the steering wheel. ‘The catfighting has started already and not a single dance step has been taken. That’s why this show is so addictive!’
‘What show, Daddy?’ Emily asks from her position next to me. Shelly twists her head round from her position at the front of the car. Her eyes meet mine and she shrugs.
‘Mammy’s going on a television show to do some dancing.’ I deliberately don’t mention the name of it for fear of being asked what “sexy” means. No dad should have to explain that to their daughter.
‘OMG that is so cool!’ Erin shrieks, as big a fan girl as any of the women congregated in the airport.
‘Will you be gone long?’ Emily asks, biting her lower lip.
