The Reluctant Wag (8 page)

She could feel her lip curl, but hoped he couldn’t read in her face the contempt she felt for his awful gossip rag. It was the lowest form of journalism – a parasitic publication that fed off the mistakes and misery of any Australian celebrity unfortunate enough to set a foot wrong or be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d rather serve second-rate coffee for the rest of her life than work for that magazine.

Just then Bedford was hailed by his colleagues, who were leaving the restaurant. He excused himself and left, placing his business card on the table in front of Merise. She’d torn it up before he disappeared along Southbank.

‘Rat!’ she said, almost grinding her teeth.

‘Yeah,’ Erica agreed, rolling her eyes. ‘Didn’t think you’d be too keen on that offer.’

Merise tried to smile and shrug off the encounter, but somehow all the fun had gone out of the day.

She passed a miserable, sleepless night, but by the next morning she knew what she had to do. The approach from that horrible Bedford man had been the last straw. To her, a job offer from
Celebrity Watch
was tantamount to an insult – it confirmed that she was being categorised as a mindless airhead with nothing to offer but gossip and celebrity connections. She felt humiliated. Well, it was time to redeem her future career in journalism, if it wasn’t already too late.

Of course it would mean she’d never see Cal again. They lived in very different worlds, and they’d be unlikely to run into one another. So he would be out of her life for good. Part of her knew that that would be the best thing: in the world he inhabited, he was like the sun, and she was just one of the many satellites that revolved around him. She knew she’d never really matter to him. At the same time, she already felt a devastating sense of loss, and an awareness that he was the one man she could never replace.

She felt herself trembling as she picked up the phone and rang Bev, but she steeled herself. There was no other way. She had to finish it now.

‘I’m sorry, Bev. I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I want out. I’m withdrawing from the Yarraside campaign. Actually I’m withdrawing from modelling altogether.’

She heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone, followed by a pause. Then Bev said, ‘But why, Merise? I don’t understand it. You’ve been a runaway success. You were born to do this. I’ve never known anyone to capture the public imagination so effectively or so quickly. And Yarraside and SMO are thrilled with your work.’

‘It’s nice of you to say that, Bev, but I’ve made up my mind. This isn’t turning out the way I wanted. I seem to be developing an identity as a WAG. I never anticipated that and I don’t want it. I want to be a serious journalist, but no one will ever take me seriously if I’m just known as the Number One Yarraside camp follower, or just another of Cal McCoy’s many squeezes.’

‘Listen, don’t decide anything now, Merise. Give it a few days. Maybe I can even get SMO to bump up your fees.’

‘It’s not that. I’ve been well paid. It’s not about the money any longer.’ That was true. She’d already made enough money from modelling to cover all her uni fees and even to pay her living expenses for the next two years.

‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, Bev, and I know it’s been a fabulous opportunity, but this is just not what I want to do with my life.’

‘I understand that, but it’s a huge decision. You know, Merise, you only ever get a few chances in life, and this is one of yours. You won’t see it that way because you’re so young. At your age, life seems full of possibilities. But you know, the twenties is a decade of disillusionment, as your dreams shut down on you, one by one. Do you really think I wanted to do this for a living? I can tell you I didn’t. I wanted to be a writer, too, Merise, but it didn’t work out for me. Now I just gather crumbs at the tables of the great.’ Bev sighed, and Merise realised she’d never heard the older woman speak in that way before; she was always so positive and energised.

‘Tell you what,’ said Bev after a pause, ‘I have to go over to Perth for the weekend. Why not think about it while I’m away? If you feel the same way next week, I won’t pressure you; we’ll part friends.’

That seemed reasonable, and Bev had been so good to her. Merise agreed. ‘Okay, though I can tell you now, nothing’s going to change my mind.’

But something did.

She was making notes on media law the following evening when she heard her doorbell ring. She opened it to Cal McCoy. Her mouth just about dropped open, and she stood there for a few seconds, staring up at him.

‘Can we talk for a few minutes?’ he asked. He seemed uncharacteristically agitated, not at all his usual steely cool self.

‘Um . . . yes, of course,’ she squeaked. ‘Do you, ah, want to come in?’ she added, confused.

‘Ideally,’ he said with the shadow of a smile.

‘Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Please come in. I was just a bit surprised to see you.’

She led him into her living area. The furniture was strictly op-shop acquisitions, but she’d covered the sofa and chairs in lengths of bright cloth and had decorated with piles of cushions, lots of small pots, art prints and scented candles. She’d lined the walls with bookshelves fashioned from rows of bricks topped with old planks.

‘Very resourceful,’ Cal said, nodding at the makeshift book cases. ‘This is a good room. And I know how hard it is to make these micro-units liveable.’

‘Thanks. Did you live in one yourself?’ she asked wryly.

‘No, it’s just that I’m into property.’

‘Oh, yes, I think someone said something about that,’ she said distractedly. ‘Please, sit down. Can I make you a drink? Tea or coffee?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

They sat down at the old round table in the centre of the room. Merise had sandpapered and limed it herself and placed a bowl of dried native flowers in the centre. Cal looked around the room, taking in everything.

‘Are you happy here?’

It was an odd question, but she answered promptly, ‘Yes, I love it. It’s tiny but it’s bright and clean compared to most student digs around here, and it’s close to uni. Wanting to stay here was one of the main reasons for starting the modelling work. I couldn’t have afforded to stay otherwise. The rent’s just soared this year.’

‘And now you’re regretting it – the modelling?’

She looked guardedly at him, but saw only openness in his eyes. Those hot, hazel eyes that seemed to see inside her head. She looked away quickly.

‘Yes. It was a mistake. I should never have got involved in the first place.’

‘You think it’s compromised your chances of making it as a serious journalist?’

‘Yes. Did Bev tell you that?’

‘No, she just said you were pulling out to concentrate on your studies. She’s a diplomat. She wasn’t going to tell me you didn’t want to be associated with a bunch of meathead footballers.’

‘But I didn’t . . .’ she began to protest, but saw that he was smiling. He was teasing her.

‘It wasn’t hard to guess what the problem was, Merise, especially after all that speculation in the papers. But you know, that’s what life is like in the public eye. It’s tough and it’s unpleasant – not just for you, but for your family and friends. People can say or print anything they like about you and there’s very little you can do about it.’

‘But it’s not right! People are entitled to some privacy.’

‘In theory, yeah. But in the real world, or rather the phony world of celebrity, that’s not how it works. If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel. It used to really get to me – photographers following my car, waiting outside my house. And I can’t even smile at a woman without some gossip columnist announcing to the world that we’re engaged or at least having an affair.’

She felt herself blush, but he only smiled easily. ‘If I’d been involved with all the women my name has been linked to, I wouldn’t have been fit to play a single game in the past seven years.’

She smiled too. ‘I suppose it is that ridiculous, and it’s good that you can joke about it. I must admit, I do find it all very upsetting. I’m clearly not cut out for this sort of thing.’

‘No one’s cut out for the rubbish aspect; you just learn how to deal with it, eventually. But you’re seriously good at what you do. I know, because I’ve had massive feedback from our supporters. The fans all ask me about you. They love you. You’ve given our barrackers a new image – young, vibrant, classy. You’re the face of the Yarraside faithful now, and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘But . . .’

‘Please, just listen to me for a moment. I know how hard it is to handle all this stuff. I almost gave up and went home in my first year at Yarraside.’

‘Really?’ She couldn’t imagine him giving up on anything.

‘Yeah. I’m just a country boy, don’t forget. But I stuck it out, and I gradually learnt to take it in my stride. Now, I know modelling isn’t your passion, as footy was mine, but if you really want a future in media, you won’t get another chance like this. You’re getting exposure, and that means everything. As you said yourself – well-known meatheads get all the good gigs.’

‘Don’t remind me, please. That was so arrogant, so stupid.’

‘Yeah, but it was also partly true. Listen, Merise, I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I’ve come to ask you to do just one more project for the Wolves.’

She looked at him, and then quickly looked away. There was something unbearable in his intensity. She wanted to reach out, put her arms around his neck and feel his hard cheek against her soft one. She took a deep breath, tried to master herself.

‘What is this project?’

‘The opening game of the season is always a big deal, and this year it has to be bigger than ever. I know this is our year to win the flag. I just know it. I want us to kick it off right. I want to get the momentum up and keep it going all year. The team is fit, fired-up and ready; we just need to get the barrackers a hundred per cent behind us, and that’s where you can help.’

She was watching him carefully, drinking in the ardour in his eyes. They blazed when he talked about his beloved club, about footy. If only she could elicit such a response from him.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked quietly.

‘I just want you to be there, at the opening game. SMO wants your face flashed up on the screen when we score, and when we win. It’s the face of hope for our barrackers, and sends out a very positive message. Once we get the season underway, the boys and I will take it from there. And I promise that there won’t be any of those shots at the race or in the changing rooms. It’ll be just you in the crowd.’

‘And you scoring goals?’

He flashed that arrogant grin. ‘Depend on it. What do you say, Merise?’

What could she say? Especially when he said her name in that voice. As if she could refuse him anything! ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

His face lit up. ‘Thanks, this means a great deal to me.’

She knew it did, because the Wolves meant everything to him.

‘In fact,’ he added, ‘I’ll drive you to the game myself, provided you don’t mind turning up hours early?

‘I’ll have to anyway; it takes Jay forever to fluff and primp and gel me into shape.’

‘Fine. I’ll give you a ring.’ He turned to go, then stopped en route to the door. ‘Look, can I buy you dinner? To seal the deal?’

Merise experienced a sudden rush of happiness. ‘Ah . . .’

‘You liked La Cocina del Diablo, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘La Cocina it is then. Come on. I’m starving.’

They sat for almost three hours over a dish of paella followed by great slices of tarta helada and several cups of coffee, and talked the whole time. Cal told her all about growing up in the shadow of his famous father and his life as a so-called sports ‘superstar’. Merise told him about the farm back home, about her life at uni and her dreams of being a feature writer specialising in the arts and the environment.

Things had been so easy between them and Merise felt elated. When at eleven-thirty they realised they were the only people left in the restaurant, Cal called for the bill. ‘Better let them close up,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Merise agreed, ‘they probably should have thrown us out an hour ago. They must think a lot of you.’

‘Because I eat like a horse.’

She laughed. ‘Well, yes, I couldn’t help wondering where you put it all. I suppose you need a lot of fuel.’

As they strolled to his car together through the balmy night, she thought how wonderful it would be to always be with him like this. Just the two of them. No cameras, no reporters, no barrackers, no marketing machine. Just her and Cal. The relaxed feeling between them was still there as they drove back to her flat, soft flamenco music playing on the car stereo. She listened to the beautiful music and felt the strength and warmth of Cal beside her, and she felt wildly happy. She knew it couldn’t last because Cal was too focused on footy to get seriously involved with her, but while this quiet, easy intimacy existed between them, she would revel in it. She was struck by the irony of the situation. Just when she had resolved to take a step back, she’d never felt closer to him, and she sensed that he was beginning to like her, too – just not enough.

It was still pleasantly warm when they reached her flat. There was a comfortable silence between them as Cal walked her up the path. When they reached the front door, he turned and gazed down at her with such an intense look that Merise’s heart jumped. She stared back into his eyes. Suddenly they were very close, almost touching. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the heat coming off his body. A second later, he leant down, cupped her cheek in his big hand and kissed her lightly on the lips. She gasped. He drew back, saw a light in her eye that answered the fire in his own, grabbed her and pulled her to him. Then he really kissed her.

His lips, firm and sweet, massaged hers with searing urgency as his hands explored the curves of her back. She felt her body mould to his – the steel cage of his chest, the muscular embrace of his strong arms. She felt herself sink into his kiss, her consciousness focused only on this moment, this thrilling sensation of his body pressed against hers. It was as if she’d left the ground, was floating on the power of his touch . . .