Antidote to Infidelity (33 page)

“Look Bi,” I sigh, “They’ve had
a thrashing. Trust me, the buffet’s closed. Don’t give me that look, it’s not
my fault, okay?”

Snatching up her red
clutch-bag, she purses her lips.

“Oooh, fine. But it’s not
fair
,
Sally. Next weekend
I’m
calling the shots, which means we’re all getting
hammered and
I’m
getting laid. A lot.”

About turning with a diva-style
click of the fingers, Bi sticks her perfect nose job in the air and struts off,
shepherding Amy and Liselle down the steps like a lewd, bossy Lassie.

Alone and unsettled, I shove a
chewed biro behind my ear, take a deep breath and trudge into the basement of
the Ice House. I’m off to check on Jenson, quiz Mike . . . and come face to
face - for the first time in ten years - with the lecherous, beady-eyed bastard
who stole my virginity.

“
Hey you. Fat guy. Yeah, you.
Wanna haul that heavy ass upstairs and find my tooth? Now, pork pie, or I
’
m gonna
’
lose it big time, get me? I
said
do you fuckin
’
GET ME, four eyes?
”

Gruesome, gappy and
gobby as ever, a blood-splattered, ripped-shirted Wade Wallace plonks himself
directly opposite me on the press suite
’
s splintering bench.
Hawking up a ball of phlegm, he snorts and fidgets with his balls before
swinging his stinking feet onto the table.

And they say charm
never falters. They’ve obviously never been in an ice hockey press conference.

Flapping like a
scared canary, Fraser Jones, the Strikers
’
tubby equipment
guy, stammers,
“
sure thing, Wade
”
and shoots off like a ferret in
search of his lordship
’
s missing bits and
pieces.

I know, I know, I
’
m mean. I could save
him a job and confess it
’
s safely tucked in
my trouser pocket. But no. Oooh no. Finders keepers, losers . . . toothless.

Watching the contemptuous
prick barking out orders and snarling like a pit bull, I sigh, open my note
book and make a snap decision - play dumb, Sally. Just sit back and keep
schdum.

My dentist once told
me that having a false tooth fitted is
a lot
more painful than simply
having the original shoved back in, so stuff him. Wanker Wade, that is, not my
poor dentist, who
’
s actually quite a
sweetie.

Pile on the agony!
Roll out the drill! Root canals all the way, that
’
s
what I say.

Not that I
’
m bitter and twisted or
anything, I
’
m not. I
’
m
highly
compassionate.
Except with beer-swilling bullies who think
‘
no,
stop
’
really means
‘
pin me down and pummel me
’
.

Yeah, yeah, I know.
Ten years is a long time. Water under the bridge and all that. I shouldn
’
t still be holding a grudge. But
I am. And Wade Wallace, with his evil green eyes and brick shithouse bulk, is a
big, scary bee in my bonnet.

Feeling the blood
rush to my ears as my heart gathers pace, I try to breathe evenly, watching
Wade watching me as he yanks his scruffy blonde hair into a ponytail, cogs
ticking.

 As his forked
tongue darts over his upper lip, I know he
’
s trying to place me
and wilt behind my programme, willing him to draw a blank. Or better still,
drop dead.

Leave me alone,
bully boy. I just want to do my job, get some juicy quotes and get the hell
out, not whip open a huge can of worms and dig up the dead and buried.

***

At the time of my
memorable
‘
Wade experience
’
I
’
d just started covering the
Strikers as part of a Media Studies course. I was young, naïve and impressionable.
Mouth almighty here was the Strikers
’
smooth-talking top
scorer in more ways than one.

After downing
way
too many shots in the players
’
bar one night, I
fell
foul of his lethal charms and
against my better judgment, wound up back at Wade
’
s
place.
Big
mistake. He was drunk, I was scared, and the result was an
unwilling sexual awakening that tipped the back end of my teens upside down.

I only ever told two
people, Rowan and Jenson, the whole grisly truth. Jenson, a French-Canadian
import who frequently invaded our house for tea, immediately offered to defend
my honour by
‘
doing the bastard
over
’
. Rowan raved for
weeks on end about chopping off his nuts and bringing in the cops.

Rightly or wrongly,
I refused both offers, preferring to label it
‘
intoxicated
seduction
’
. It sounded less
serious. Made it easier to accept. The whole unsavoury episode, however,
knocked my confidence for six. I backed into my shell for a while, shelving my
reporting until Wade disappeared overseas six months later in search of fame,
fortune and sex-on-tap, no doubt.

A decade down the
line, European expedition over, Bluto is back - bad tempered, tattooed and
horrible as ever. I feel like Olive Oyl, anxious and out on a limb whilst
Popeye lies pissed up at home.

***

 “
Here you go, Sally me luv. It
’
s a biggie - four hundred and
sixty-eight minutes. Phew, there
’
s some hefty fines
to
’
ad amongst that lot
- it
’
s a record!
”

Scuttling over from
his corner perch in tight brown cords, rainbow braces and a tweed jacket,
Gordon the Gofer (sorry,
goal judge
) takes my mind off Wade momentarily,
handing me the penalty stats for my column.

“
Cheers, Gord. Any news on
Jenson? The treatment room
’
s locked and I didn
’
t like to knock.
”

As Gordon shrugs his
shoulders, I shuffle across the bench, whistling at the figures and patting the
worm-ridden wood.

“
Want to take a pew for the
fireworks?
”

I need a companion.
Anyone will do. The crumbling press room, however, with its chipped green
plaster and salmon-smelling carpet, needs a demolition ball.

Over-grown goatee
caked in stray flakes of Cornish pasty, Gordon rolls his eyes, leans in close
and, when he
’
s certain Wade isn
’
t watching, bravely gives him
the middle peg.

“
Can
’
t. Stalin
’
s spat the dummy out. Gotta get
on my hands and knees and go scouring the ice for shrapnel.
”

I pat his hand
sympathetically as he shoots off, the slam of the door kicking up a cloud of
dust bunnies. I
almost
follow him but my legs won
’
t let me.

Finders keepers. I
want this tooth. I need it.

It
’
s almost as if the tiny bone
’
s a symbol of security. Warding
off evil. Protecting me from Wade. Quit-pro-quo, I figure. Fair
’
s fair. An eye for an eye, a
cherry for a tooth. It would be much
fairer
, though, if I got to
straddle him, pin him to the table and rip out his molars, one by one, with a
rusty pair of pliers. Oooh, Quentin Tarantino eat your heart out . . .

***

Absentmindedly
adding horns to Wade
’
s smug face on the
front of
Score!
-
the glossy match night programme - I
turn to my left where Jake Morse, sports editor of the Medway Morning Star,
sits tapping his foot, phoning through his copy, pretending not to notice my
face.

My thoughts are just
wandering to Mike, his
wholly
inappropriate gallivanting with Will and
his
conveniently
close-to-me new job, when coach Kingsway bursts through
the adjoining dressing room door in a smart navy pinstripe. He
’
s obviously made a rare effort
for Sky Sports 3, whose hippy cameraman is busy flicking switches at the back
of the room. Usually it
’
s ripped jeans,
Yankees cap and trackie top. Nodding to Jake, he sits down next to Wade, slaps
his back and tosses him a beer.

Being a macho moron,
the overgrown gargoyle tries to open it with his teeth, but catches the fleshy
gap, roars in agony and slams it down on the table.

As I shy away,
Kingsway says in his dry, Canadian drawl,
“
Sally, go easy on
the gore will ya, doll? This is supposed to be family stuff. And cancel
tomorrow
’
s team shoot, they
all look like crap.
”

Aaagh. Noooo. Oh,
yes. Damn it! Rumbled.

Wade
’
s eyes awaken with a wolf-like
sparkle. He swings down his legs, sits forward and stares me out across the
table, cracking his knuckles.

He wins. Easily.

“
Sally!
Yeah,
that’s
it!” he
leers. “Well I’ll . . . be . . .
damned
.”

Trying desperately
not to blush, or
faint
, I nod my head on auto-Churchill.

With any luck, you
bastard
.

To my dismay,
everyone around us has stopped what they
’
re doing and started
gawping.

Is that a crack down
there on the floor? Maybe if I poke it, it
’
ll open up and swallow me.

I give it a quick
try. It doesn
’
t. Uh-oh.

“
Mmm I remember
you
,
”
Wade says cockily.
“
Little Sally what’s-her-name.
No so little now, eh sugar?
”

He shoots me a
filthy, toothless grin and attempts a wink, but his punched-up eye won
’
t quite close as he touches his
dick, drooling,
“
Didn
’
t we once fuck, darlin
’
?
”

Oh!
Big-fat-lecherous-loud-mouthed-son-of-a-bitch!

Gasping, I feel like he’s
launched a cannonball and landed it right in my lap. Every tiny piece of the
professional image I’ve worked so hard to establish explodes before my eyes.

Didn
’
t we once fuck,
darlin
’
? Didn
’
t we once . . . oh,
God!

Five
stupid
words and
I’ve gone from reporter to glorified groupie, from which, of course, there’s no
going back.

Ever.

How can there be? Gaby Logan
doesn’t sophisticatedly present Match of the Day then shag Shearer in the wings
the second the cameras stop rolling, now does she? Of course she doesn’t.

Well, I’m
assuming
she
doesn’t.

How can I expect anyone to take
me seriously
now
? I’ve been ruthlessly exposed. I might as well toss in
the towel.

Amused and sniggering, the
alpha-male pack close in, awaiting a response, but my gobsmacked reaction has
already given the game away. Pride slaughtered, all washed up in no-woman’s
land, I spring up . . . and lose it.

“
Fuck?
Huh! That’s not
what I’d call it!”

Whipping the tooth out of my
pocket, I vengefully wave it under Wade’s busted nose before tossing it onto
the floor and jumping up and down on it in a puce-faced frenzy.
Way
past
caring what anyone thinks, I don’t stop until my steel-heeled boots have
crushed it into Coffee Mate and, despite a roar of fury from gappy, I don’t
stick around for the consequences.

Fleeing into the corridor in a
daze, I bolt off in the direction of the treatment room, planning to take a
quick look at Jenson
before heading home and handing in my notice, so as
not to give Gerald the gloating satisfaction of firing me.