Torquere Press Sips and Shots

by Anthology

  “Don’t be ridiculous, ref -- how was he not interfering with play? He was standing directly in front of the goalie!”

  I twisted ‘round to look for the source of the voice. Sexual equality be buggered, it wasn’t often I met a girl who knew her Arsene from her Wenger. (Results, obviously. Arsene when we were winning, Wenger when things weren’t so good.) Though to be fair, blokes who do are quite thin on the ground, too. They always think they know it all, but start going into the details of the fifty match unbeaten run a few years back and they start to mumble and shuffle off. So, in the circs, it wasn’t exactly surprising that I immediately started looking about for this fount of football knowledge. Didn’t take long to spot her, if you’ll excuse the understatement of the year. She was a couple of tables behind me, and she was wearing a very long, bright pink (and I mean bright pink) satin skirt, a sparkly purple top, and earrings about the size of her head, which, by the way, was covered in long, curly blonde hair. Bloody hell, I hadn’t expected to find a footballing brain in the shape of Barbie. I looked again and clocked the wheelchair. Weirder and weirder. Barbie goes to hospital.

  The half time whistle blew, and shrugging, I decided to give Barbie the benefit of the doubt. There was a stampede for the bar, more reminiscent of one of those TV animal shows -- you know, when everything heads for the watering hole. Which, to be fair, was a pretty accurate description of what was going on. As I made my way in the same general direction, I stopped by Barbie’s table. The guy she’d been sitting with -- presumably her boyfriend -- had joined the rush (auditioning for a part as elephant number five?), so she was alone for a second.

  “Hey. Fellow Arsenal fan?”

  She smiled up at me, a little sheepishly. She had the sort of smile you usually only see on models and dolls, too. “Just a bit. Does it show? Matt’s been teasing me about my habit of yelling at the television -- usually I watch matches at home, where it doesn’t matter how loudly I complain. I kind of forgot I was in public. Polly, by the way.”

  Polly? Short for Pollyanna? Next, she was going to start telling me to look on the bright side, it had been near the end of the first half that Albion had scored, rather than just before the end of the match. She was probably in the wheelchair thanks to saving a friend from a terrible accident.

  “Leigh,” I said.

  “I said to Matt,” (did she have to keep bringing the boyfriend into the conversation? Not that I was intending to date Pollyanna, but it would’ve been nice to feel I had a chance) “that Fabregas would just have to score a hat-trick in the second half. Don’t you think he’s been playing an awful lot better this season? The captaincy’s done him so much good.”

  Geez, I hadn’t been too far wrong with the Pollyanna nickname. “Mind if I sit down a mo?” I asked, gesturing at the boyfriend’s chair.

  “Be my guest. Mind if I don’t stand up?” she said laughingly, gesturing at her own.

  “Temporary or permanent? The wheelchair situation, I mean,” I asked, before I could stop myself. Tact never was my strong point.

  “Oh, permanent,” she said decisively. “You don’t think I’d have a chair as nice as this if it was just a temporary thing? Do you know how much the damn things cost?” She stopped, and looked over at me ruefully. “Well, I expect you don’t. Sorry. I’ll save the rant for another day.”

  “Serves me right for asking a stupid question. I guess you get that a lot?”

  “Not at all.” Polly smiled. “Most people don’t like to mention it: the chair’s like the elephant in the room -- except a lot more useful.” I grinned, and didn’t tell her I’d been comparing the boyfriend to an elephant not that much time ago. “It’s easier to get through the door, fortunately, too. Want a drink?”

  “Yeah, I was just going to the bar.” I half-stood.

  “Matt’s already there. What are you drinking?”

  “Half of Heinekken, if poss.”

  “Lightweight,” she teased. Then she raised her voice. She had proved nicely earlier that she could manage quite a bellow when she wanted. “Matt! Half of Heinekken as well, okay?” The boyfriend, still a way away from getting served (the elephants had beaten him to it, which figured), gave her the thumbs up, and she turned back to me. “What do you think of the match so far, then? Other than the goal, that is. Not,” she added, apparently unable to stop herself, “that it was a goal.”

  “Oh, how unfair was that?” I agreed. “I was with you all the way. Wasn’t it Bill Shankley who said ‘if he’s not interfering with play, what’s he doing on the pitch?’ Seriously, though, we ought to be stuffing this lot. It’s not like they’re Barcelona or something, they’re the Boing Boing Baggies.”

  “I always think,” Polly said regretfully, “that they ought to play in pink and white stripes.”

  I gave her a bit of a look. I’d thought she was sound on football, but if she was going to sit around commenting on the strips and no doubt having a list of her top ten best looking footballers, I was out of here. She was probably only watching because the boyfriend liked it. “Yeah?”

  “It always makes me think of Bagpuss. A bouncing Bagpuss, of course.”

  Okay, this was getting surreal. A Barbie girl in a wheelchair who knew her football and thought West Brom were like a kids’ TV character. Mind you, it was quite an image. I had a feeling that whenever I saw the Baggies in action in the future, I would have the bouncing Bagpuss in my mind.

  “Thanks for that,” I said dryly. “By the way, does your boyfriend mind being ordered to get people drinks like that?”

  “Who?” Polly looked confused. “What, do you mean Matt? He’s my brother -- younger brother, so I’ve been ordering him about since the day he was born,” she said with a grin.

  “Not your boyfriend?” Stupid question, when I thought about it, but it was out by then.

  “Definitely not. Why, are you interested?”

  “No other boyfriend?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “No boyfriend,” she confirmed.

  “Straight, though?” She shook her head. “Gay?”

  Polly shook her head again, mischievously. “Bi.” She must have seen the withdrawal in my expression, because she continued, “No, not bi-curious. Bi. I go for guys or girls.” She paused. “Um, but not my brother. I don’t do incest.”

  I laughed. She sat there, looking so demure, and then came out with lines like that. I was beginning to like Pollyanna. And, actually, to notice that she had a bloody gorgeous figure. It was difficult to gauge her height when she was sitting down, but the purple top did nothing to conceal the absolutely stunning breasts she had. And I was certain it was natural, not ‘assisted,’ if you get me. She really did have tits to bury your face into. Which, of course, I was not going to do in the middle of a pub, tempted or not. Well, probably I wasn’t...

  I got another glimpse into her strange world when Matt came back carrying a pint and a half of lager and a glass of lemonade. He dumped them in the middle of the table.

  “Ta,” I said, reaching out for the half.

  “Thanks,” said Polly.

  Okay, I admit it. I’d assumed (yeah, yeah, ass of u and me, I know) that she’d be the lemonade and he’d be the pint. I should’ve had her measure by now, ‘cause of course she took up the pint glass. Matt picked up the final drink and leaned against the wall with his lemonade in hand.

  “Oh, God, sorry,” I said, belatedly realizing I’d nicked his seat, and getting up hastily. “And how much do I owe you for the half?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said cheerfully. “And don’t go away. Polly has been berating me for my lack of interest in the beautiful game -- if you can swap tips of ‘a hundred and one things you didn’t know about Arsenal’ you’ll be doing me a favor. Poll, mind if I go and talk to Lily? She’s about as thrilled by the whole thing as I am, but Rick will insist on trying to educate her, and the poor girl doesn’t know how to say she doesn’t give a toss. Of course,” he added provocatively, “she’s only a
girl after all.”

  “Be gone!” Polly said dramatically, flinging an arm out and nearly taking her pint out with it. “Oops. Yes, be gone and never darken these doors, etcetera, etcetera, Matt. You’re a hopeless case, you know.”

  “I know.” He gave her a grin, and I suddenly saw the similarity between the two of them. “Thankfully, so do you. For goodness sake, never date someone who isn’t as in love with Arsenal as you are. Lil’s had so many facts and figures poured into her that they’re coming out of her ears. And she never gets them the right way round, anyway -- do tell, Sis; was it Nicholas Anelka who was sold for the biggest profit by Wenger, or was it Fabregas?”

  I winced.

  “Cesc Fabregas’s been playing for us in this game, you idiot,” said Polly, and as Matt disappeared, she added, “He knows perfectly well, you know, but he can’t resist teasing.”

  “More a case of ‘a hundred and one things you didn’t want to know about Arsenal’?”

  “Well, he did offer to bring me,” Polly said. “Not that I need ‘bringing,’ obviously, though a bit of company is appreciated, even when it is my brother. But I think it’s more that he’s got a crush on Kate behind the bar, to be honest. Mind you, so have I.”

  So had I, too. Kate was considerably more my style than Pollyanna -- big combat boots, dreadlocks, and a leaping dolphin tattoo had it every time over pretty, fluffy femmes. At least, they always had done in the past. Not that I was particularly butch myself. Sure, shortish hair and jeans, but that’s standard in most women these days. You start categorizing people as butch lesbos on the strength of that, the straight world would disintegrate.

  “Yeah,” I said absently, wondering why I was more interested in looking at Polly than at Kate despite everything.

  “Have I shocked you?” Polly asked, her gaze suddenly very direct on my face. “I’m in a wheelchair, so I shouldn’t have sexual fantasies?”

  While I quite wanted to hear about the nature of her sexual fantasies about Kate (hey, we could compare notes, right?), there was one thing I needed to put straight first. “Hey, Pollyanna, I’m the girl who reckoned Matt was your boyfriend, remember? And, no, I didn’t anticipate it was limited to hand holding under the table.”

  She laughed. “What did you just call me?”

  Oh, shit. Fell into that one, then. “Um... Oops?”

  She gave me a little poke. “Did Pollyanna drink pints?” she asked. “Now that’s something I didn’t see in the Disney version. You’ll be telling me she smoked pot and had it off with guys in the bushes next!”

  She was outrageous. I liked it. “I wouldn’t shatter your illusions that much, Pollyanna. Though,” I added, unable to resist, “apparently she had fantasies about barmaids...”

  Her smile was wicked. “Why, want to hear about them?”

  “Wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course,” she said provocatively, “I could also tell you the ones I’m having about a dark-haired lass wearing an extremely nicely-fitting pair of black jeans.”

  Our eyes met. I knew precisely what Polly was suggesting, and she knew I did. I felt the smile curve the corners of my lips.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Well,” she drawled, lowering her voice a little so that she didn’t broadcast to the entire pub, “let’s see.” She looked me up and down. “That hair cut -- you know, it just leaves bits of your neck visible. I think I might have a vampire complex, because I think I’d rather like to have my mouth by your neck -- kissing, certainly, but I’m thinking a bit of nibbling, and maybe even biting might go on.” She smiled sidelong at me. “Do you like being bitten, Leigh?”

  “Depends who’s doing it,” I said, but the throbbing between my legs told me that I wouldn’t mind at all if Pollyanna went through with her suggestions. In fact, I suspected I’d do all I could to encourage her.

  “You know,” Polly added, “it’s seeing the tail of Kate’s dolphin disappear behind the sleeve of her top that does it for me.” (Kate was wearing a short sleeved corset-like top, and looked hotter than hell, which made me wonder why it was Pollyanna whom I was longing to snog.) Polly looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you have any tatts, Leigh?”

  As it happened, I did. But the star on my right shoulder was something I kept very private. It had a special meaning for me, my only memory of my family. My mother, telling me I was her star-in-the-night. My dad, one dark winter night, pointing out Orion to a fat-legged toddler who had grown into football-loving Leigh. Orion would’ve been tops at football. I know it.

  “Just one,” I said, and had a weird vision of Polly slipping my top off my shoulder and pressing her mouth against the five pointed star. I’d never liked it when girlfriends of the past had done it, yet now -- suddenly -- I found I wanted to share it with Pollyanna. “Here,” I said, shrugging my top aside so that the star was visible.

  Polly was silent. Absolutely silent. Then, very gently, she ran one finger along the points of the star.

  “That’s different,” she murmured, and there was this strange note in her voice which shivered through me, somehow.

  “Different?”

  “Special,” she said. Then she gave me a flirty glance, deliberately changing the mood. “The football’s about to start again, and I think you’ve lost your original seat. Matt’ll want his back, but you know the thing about this wheelchair?” She looked expectantly at me, but I shook my head. “It’s quite amazing, you know,” she said softly, “but when it’s the right person, it’s just big enough for two.”

  She looked delicate, Pollyanna, and I reckoned if I lumped my whole weight on her she’d break. But she read my mind. Putting one arm around my neck and pulling me towards her, she snogged me fair, full and firm. By the time she’d finished, I’d probably’ve done anything she asked. But what she asked wasn’t much.

  “Try me,” she said, patting her lap invitingly.

  I tried her. It worked. I might not have got my head buried in her breasts, but I sure as hell made sure my hands had a good old feel. And Polly didn’t complain -- anything but. Her head fell back and she practically purred with encouragement. If her brother hadn’t been somewhere around, I might’ve taken her there and then, but there’s something about an audience that isn’t my thing. Turned out we were copping more glances than the football, so we turned our attention back to that and waited for a more private moment.

  Oh, and by the way? Arsenal won, 3:1. A hat-trick from Fabregas.

  * * *

  I’d never really anticipated dating someone in a wheelchair. It’s not that I’d written it off on a list of “NOs” -- no guys, no smokers, no wheelchairs -- just that, well, most of the people you meet in the world don’t come complete with their own set of personal wheels. And it takes some getting used to. I mean, when I leaned over to kiss someone, I wasn’t used to having the arm of a wheelchair poke me in the stomach. When Pollyanna and I walked down the street... well, ‘we’ didn’t walk, I did, and Polly wheeled herself beside me, about a yard beneath my eye level. We couldn’t hold hands, because Polly needed both hands to maneuver her wheelchair. Occasionally, I’d push her chair, and I immediately became Nice Person Number One -- the sort who got asked the time, or to exchange two fifties for a pound coin. I was out with a girl in a wheelchair: I must be trustable. Or at the very least, easy to impose upon.

  “Haven’t you ever had the urge to rob a bank or something?” I asked her. “Doesn’t it drive you absolutely nuts being The Disabled Person?”

  Polly tilted to her head to one side for a few seconds as if considering the matter. “Well...” she said. “Yes, of course it does, you idiot. I’m used to it, because I can’t remember anything else, whereas for you it’s new and weird, but I think I could fairly say that it drives me absolutely nuts.”

  Polly had a habit of using my exact words in her own, very posh, tones. I knew perfectly well that she meant it as a piss take -- or, as Pollyanna would have it, “to sound completely ridiculous.” In saying th
at she “couldn’t remember” anything else, she was also telling the exact truth. Her left leg had been paralyzed after she got polio -- which, frankly, I didn’t hadn’t even known still existed these days -- as a baby. Apparently she’d managed an amazing run of bad luck involving being too ill to have the vaccine at the appropriate time, followed by catching polio (or whatever you did with it) before they’d had time to re-schedule the jab. Even then, Polly said, most cases didn’t end up with paralysis. “I was just particularly lucky,” she said ironically.

  The first time she showed me her leg, it was a bit of a shock. I don’t know, somehow I’d expected it to look okay, even if she couldn’t use it. Especially with Polly being so damn gorgeous everywhere else. But it wasn’t. It was kind of... withered, I guess. Shrunken. It didn’t seem to go with the rest of her. She saw my expression and smiled.

  “You see? There’s good reason for my long skirts!”

  That was as near as she got to regret for all she’d been through. In a way, I felt she did deserve the Pollyanna tag: I regularly got angry that she was treated as if she had a mental as well as a physical disability, and when she told me about the circs surrounding her getting ill, I felt furious with the unfairness. Polly, however, just shrugged.

  “It’s one of those things, isn’t it?” she said. “I could sit here and grump about it, or I could get on with life. I mean, I could be dead and I’m not. Lucky me.”

  “Pollyanna!” I retorted, and she laughed.

  I wondered, at first, what it would be like going to bed with her, whether the paralyzed leg would make a big difference. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to think that, but I bet everyone does, just a little. I wasn’t bothered, but I was a bit hesitant. I knew that Polly was, too; when I taxed her with it, she blushed.