CALLUM
‘How’d you do it, man?’ Eddie poses next to me, his chest puffed like a pigeon for the benefit of the camera. We’d been summoned for an annual photoshoot for promotional purposes and next year’s official merchandise.
‘I just talked to her.’ I play it down with a shrug. They’re all keen to discuss Abby. Unsurprising, given the circumstances.
Standing around in front of the camera is so boring. No wonder most of the models I’ve slept with were too. It wasn’t their fault they had nothing to talk about – literally nothing happened all day.
‘Turn to the left, Callum. Cross your arms, Edward,’ the photographer orders. His patience is wearing thin, probably accustomed to taking pictures of attractive, obliging women in various states of undress. The quicker we escape, the better, for all of our sakes.
‘I googled her, she’s eternally single, hasn’t been seen with a man in years, not since her childhood sweetheart,’ James adds from the row behind us.
The photographer positioned the biggest at the back, so James stands shoulder to shoulder with Marcus, Ollie, Nathan and John – our two locks, and Gareth our eighthman.
‘Stop talking, keep your mouths still,’ the photographer shouts in frustration. He’s one of those artistic types, with ratty facial hair that begs to be shaved and the temper of a teething toddler.
It didn’t occur to me to google her, though I’d been preoccupied with Dad’s condition. As the only one of my brothers remaining in Dublin, it’s down to me to sort out his care. His sister, Linda, does a lot for him, but she needs help. The consultant warned us he’d deteriorate. I just didn’t anticipate it happening so rapidly.
I find it tough visiting the house where I grew up, that’s probably why I don’t do it nearly as much as I should. It’s been soulless since Mam left. Though it’s been over twenty years, I’m unable to escape her absence. Neither is Dad for that matter. There’s an unspoken hollowness emanating from the walls that no amount of Colourtrend paint will mask. Each time I pass the stairs, the same appalling image haunts me.
‘That’s a wrap.’ The photographer places his camera on the floor in relief. Sweat drips from his shiny balding head. He’d be no good to us on the pitch if that’s the height of his stamina.
‘Sneaky beer?’ Eddie suggests as we head out into the twilight.
‘Why not?’ I’ve nothing to rush back to the apartment
for.
As we bid the rest of the team goodbye, Marcus reminds me about Friday afternoon. As if I could forget. The whole team’s involved in a fundraiser for Pieta House, a charity providing therapeutic help to those with mental health issues, a charity close to my heart.
‘Ask Abby. Excuse the pun,’ Marcus bellows, chuckling at his own wit. ‘Shelly would love to meet her. So would I for that matter. I need to check she’s recovered from the roofie you slipped into her drink the other night.’
‘Bet that’s not the only thing he slipped into the other night, hey?’ James teases.
If only.
‘Guys, guys, have a little respect for my girlfriend will you?’ I emphasise the word slowly to make my point. ‘This could be the future Mrs Connolly your talking about.’
Even I have to laugh at that remark.
‘Girlfriend – fuck off, you’ve only met her once.’ Marcus says.
‘How do you know?’ I lie through my teeth.
‘Ring her now and put her on speakerphone,’ Marcus insists, towering over me.
‘He probably doesn’t even have her number,’ James says with a snigger. The remaining members of the team laugh with him, reminding me precisely how I got dragged into this situation in the first place. Who needs enemies when you’re stuck with these fuckers for the best part of each year?
Hesitantly, I pull the phone out of my pocket in the car park outside the studio on the outskirts of Ballsbridge, scroll through my contacts and send up a silent prayer that Abby’s phone will either ring out or go straight to voicemail, preferably a voicemail that says ‘This is Abby, leave a message.’ That should be enough to get them off my back, for now at least.
The shrill dial tone pierces the otherwise silent car park. The boys circle like starving birds of prey. Things are bad when my love life’s the height of their interest. Just as I’m about to hang up, the call connects.
‘Callum?’
‘Swit swooo,’ Marcus catcalls. ‘So she is real.’
‘High five man.’ Eddie, at least, is impressed.
Ollie claps me on the back and gives a silent thumbs-up before getting into his car to go home. I only wish the others would take the hint.
