The Reluctant Wag

by Mary Costello

  She was so stunned that she remained standing on the pavement when the limo turned the corner at the top of the street.

  She lay awake for a long time afterwards, upset and confused at the way he’d brushed her off. She had a right to be angry with him – to hate him even. But did she? Or did she . . . the word ‘love’ came into her head. She dismissed it. No – that was too silly. It was just something physical between them – some energy that sparked when they were together; there was no denying it. So many times tonight she’d wanted to reach out and touch his hand, or to feel his arm around her again. That dance – she’d wished it could go on forever, and at the same time, she thought it would never end, because she wanted something more from him, and he knew it. She knew what that kiss meant – that he could have her if he wanted. He’d been cruel to tease her, draw her in.

  But that was just her body’s reaction, she told herself firmly. The rest of her – her brain, her common sense – told her to stay well clear of this man. She’d felt as if she belonged in the crook of his arm tonight, and she’d possessed him, if only for a brief moment. She wanted exclusive access to his heart, but Cal McCoy didn’t do exclusive. She would mean nothing to him. He had dozens of women fawning over him, women who just satisfied a temporary need.

  He probably saw her as just another ambitious nobody, looking to hitch a ride on the coattails of his fame. She hated to think that’d he misjudged her so badly. She mustn’t let it upset her. It was hurtful, but she could handle it. Just one or two more shoots, Bev had said, and that would be that. She’d never have to see Cal McCoy again, ever. Yet somehow that thought made her feel so much worse.

  Chapter 7

  She only half expected to make the papers the next day. There had been so many well-known people at the launch, and probably thousands of photos taken. But there, on the front cover of the Tribune, was a photo of Merise laughing into Cal’s face while he looked down at her with such intensity that she felt herself blush. There was no doubt about it, they looked like a couple besotted with one another.

  She pushed the paper aside and lifted the Times. They were on page three, under the byline ‘Bringing Classy Back’ – Merise obligingly showing off the dress, as requested, while Cal stood to one side watching her with undisguised admiration. He played his part well, she thought bitterly. If only people knew. Although she was grateful that the photo didn’t tell the story of her very raw humiliation.

  Her mobile buzzed. It was Erica.

  ‘Have you seen the photos?’ she practically squealed down the phone.

  ‘Yes. I’m going to die of embarrassment.’

  ‘Oh come on! You’ve got to be kidding, Mer! You look like a . . . a film star. It says here, “Merise Merrick is the hottest new star in the Melbourne modelling firmament. Her outstanding looks and the way she handled herself on the red carpet last night captivated all present. Wolves star Cal McCoy was clearly besotted. And who could blame him? This woman is all class.”’

  ‘What?’ Merise cried. ‘Where does it say that?’

  ‘Back of the Tribune sports section.’

  Merise groaned. Two mentions in one paper!

  ‘What’s up? You did really well. You should get a bonus. It’s fabulous publicity for you and the club. And so romantic! He looking at you the way he looks at a footy when he’s lining up for goal . . . you know, all intense.’

  Merise didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘You don’t understand, Erica – Cal and I don’t get on. He thinks I’m a dill. He won’t be happy when he sees these shots.’

  ‘Then he’s a great, stupid oaf and he doesn’t deserve you,’ retorted Erica hotly.

  Merise had just put down the phone when Bev rang to congratulate her. SMO were also very happy and planned to capitalise by following up with a TV ad. It would feature Merise in the gym with the entire Yarraside team. She was dreading it. How could she look Cal in the eye with all the things that were being said about them, and after the way he’d spurned her? Would he think she’d be panting to see him again? One thing was certain – he’d be furious about the innuendo. He liked the focus to stay on the football, not on his personal life, even if it was all just speculation. Yes, she was certainly dreading seeing him again, but another part of her couldn’t wait.

  Cal had played and replayed the newsreel of their grand entrance and their interview at the casino. It was thrilling and troubling at the same time. They looked good together, as if they were made for each other. He remembered the feeling of her in his arms. It had taken a superhuman effort to quench the quiver of desire that had flared in him. He’d almost gone too far last night. He could have had her – she’d been willing. What had stopped him? There was a real chemistry between them, but there was also a chasm that it’d be better not to breach, because he was beginning to think that whatever it was about Merise Merrick, she wasn’t just another woman.

  The Yarraside gym was a great cavernous space, its walls lined with state-of-the-art equipment and hung with on-field shots of the club’s champions in action. Merise reluctantly followed Jay, Simon the photographer and Tim Kearns from SMO as they moved to the centre of the gym for the shoot.

  All around them players were furiously working on their fitness as high-energy music pumped through the room. She could see players lifting weights, working on treadmills and bikes and stretching on floor mats. Through the glass wall on one side she had a view of the pools and the massage area. This entire space was a temple to the male body. And such bodies!

  Merise tried hard not to look at the sculpted, bare torsos all around her as Jay fussed with her hair and Simon set up his lights and tripods. She managed quite well until he came in. She sensed him before she saw him, and she felt her body respond instinctively to his presence. There was a momentary pause in activity when Cal entered the gym, as team members registered his presence and greeted him. She deliberately didn’t look his way; instead she became suddenly concerned that she’d smudged her eye make-up and turned to Jay for help.

  ‘No, you’re right, darling,’ said Jay airily. ‘You’re just gorgeous,’ then lowered his voice, ‘but not half as gorgeous as Captain, my captain. Don’t look now – he’s just come in, looking absolutely divine. Be still my heart!’

  Merise couldn’t help but laugh, which somehow eased the tension inside. She felt she was ready to look at Cal – but she was wrong. He was talking to one of the trainers, his hands on his hips, wearing only his shorts. He looked like a statue of a Greek god, only more muscular. She gulped and took a deep breath.

  ‘Best not to look,’ whispered Jay. ‘If you get any more heated I’m going to have to redo your foundation.’

  ‘Jay!’ she hissed, and developed an intense interest in Simon’s lighting umbrellas.

  A few minutes later Simon was ready to begin the shoot and Tim went off to get Cal. Merise could feel her heart battering her chest as he walked towards them.

  ‘Hi,’ he said and she responded with what she hoped seemed like a distracted ‘hello’.

  But then she couldn’t help it – she looked at him, he smiled, and something melted within her. It was at that very second, in that great space smelling of sweat and liniment, that she realised that she’d fallen utterly, hopelessly in love with Cal McCoy. It wasn’t just physical after all, it was the whole emotional deal. She craved his very presence. She wanted to please him, she wanted to care for him, and for him to care for her. That realisation came as a shock, and was even more upsetting than his being so close. It was something she’d sensed at a visceral level, but had never allowed to form into a conscious thought, until now, and it rattled her to the core. She suddenly understood just how deep her feelings were for this man, however different they might be as people. It was a sad realisation, because she was sure that any feelings he had for her were pretty superficial. And she only had herself to blame. She’d scorned his world, made it clear she’d wanted no part of footy or the fame that went with it. If he had been attracted to her at t
he start, he was probably over that now. He wasn’t the kind of man who had to beg for a woman’s attention. He’d have moved on. She barely heard Simon as he talked about the set-up, and woodenly followed his directions.

  ‘Okay, Merise, standing right there – between Cal, Troy and Ryan.’

  She positioned herself between the three players – Cal pumping a small dumbbell in each hand, Troy bouncing on a mini-trampoline and Ryan pedalling on an exercise bike. But all she could think of was that she had to cover up the way she felt about Cal. Wasn’t it written all over her? She felt utterly exposed there with the camera continually flashing at her. Surely it would tell the truth.

  ‘Right, Merise, turn and look admiringly at one of the boys,’ Simon instructed, and she deliberately turned her back on Cal. Her eye fell on Ryan – a player who had only joined Yarraside that year. He was a handsome twenty-year-old, already the darling of the team’s teenage female fans. Merise had an idea. She fixed her gaze on Ryan and gave him the biggest, most adoring smile she could muster. Her face lit up as he smiled back and Simon snapped, ‘Yes! That’s it – good girl. Move closer now. Keep smiling, Ryan.’

  ‘No worries, mate,’ said Ryan obligingly as Merise moved towards him and draped herself seductively over the bars of his bike. What was she doing? Part of her was standing back, scrutinising her antics in a kind of horrified disbelief; another part was driving her on, shaken by the thought that Cal could see what she felt for him, and desperate to show him that he was mistaken.

  She didn’t look his way for the rest of the shoot, flirting wildly with Ryan and even a little with Troy. By the time Simon was satisfied, the two young men were high on the exercise and apparent adulation. While Simon was packing up his camera gear, Ryan approached Merise.

  ‘Hey, you wanna go down to the café and get a Coke or something?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said impulsively, ‘that’d be great.’ But out of the corner of her eye she was watching Cal striding out of the gym.

  It wasn’t quite noon and the café was almost empty when she followed Ryan to the counter. They got their drinks and sat down at the window overlooking the river. Ryan was quite a talker. He rattled on about his time at Yarraside, about the games he’d played and the things he’d done in Melbourne since moving there from a country town in Tasmania. She tried to pay attention, to nod and smile at appropriate times and to ask the occasional question. But her whole mind was fixed on Cal.

  When had this happened? When had she fallen so completely for him? Was it the first time she saw him play? Was it while she watched him by candle light at the Spanish restaurant? Was it that night when he’d kissed her so ruthlessly? Or was it actually that very first day when he walked into Paige’s office and straight into her heart?

  She felt totally miserable now as she sat there, pretending to listen to Ryan’s ramblings. What was she doing, leading this boy on? He was only a year younger than she was herself, but he was a lifetime younger than Cal McCoy, and that was what counted. How could she ever really look at another man after Cal? No one could ever compare to him, she thought despairingly.

  And yet, she could never have him, because she was nothing to him. She was a pretty face – one of dozens who moved around him like dazzling satellites – but that was all she’d ever be to him, because he only had one thing on his mind, and that was football.

  The café was beginning to fill up and as the door opened again she looked up. It was Cal. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her, then he was immediately approached by a group of young boys clamouring for his autograph. She expected him to refuse, instead he smiled warmly at them and spent the next few minutes signing their caps and jumpers, answering their questions and laughing with them.

  As they finally went off, delighted with their idol, Cal walked towards the counter and immediately spotted Merise and Ryan. His face fell. She felt somehow ashamed and lowered her eyes to the table. At the same moment, an old lady at the table next to hers called to Cal, ‘Hello, my darling. How are you going?’

  Cal drew his eyes away from Merise and turned to the woman with one of his killer smiles. Merise felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run up to him, throw her arms around his neck and cling to him. How could she possibly bear not having him love her for the rest of her life?

  He was talking to the old woman, bending down and holding her hand in such a gentle way. This was a side of Cal she’d never seen before. Was he really only doing it because the woman was a Wolves supporter? That was why he tolerated Merise, because she happened to strike a chord with the public and because she was good for the team’s image. Well, she’d made him think she fancied Ryan. Let him. That was a good thing. That way he would never guess where her heart truly lay. He must never know. He would think her foolish; he might even pity her, and she could never bear that. Better to have him feel indifferently towards her, and remember her as a great asset to the club’s marketing strategy, and nothing else.

  And the sooner she could get out of this arrangement with Yarraside and never see him again, the better it would be for her sanity.

  It was Erica’s birthday and Merise had offered to buy her lunch at a stylish Southbank restaurant. It was a sultry day and the girls sat on the terrace, overlooking the promenade beside the river, watching the passers-by.

  ‘This is great,’ said Erica. ‘The food’s beautiful and the view’s superb. Look – there’s Mia Guerrero – that new actress from Neighbours,’ she hissed.

  ‘Is it? I don’t know her, but I recognised Angela Zouzoulas and Dinny Rankin from Breakfast the minute we came in.’

  ‘Yeah, so many celebrities come to this place. I’ve always wanted to eat here.’

  ‘Me too. But I can only afford it thanks to Yarraside Wolves,’ Merise said with a wry smile.

  ‘And just think – you’ll always be able to afford this sort of thing. You’ll be able to have a great lifestyle if you keep modelling.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want to do,’ said Merise, suddenly serious. ‘I’ve actually been thinking of giving it up now that I’ve almost got enough money to see me through uni.’

  ‘But, Merise, you could set yourself up for life if you just keep doing it on a part-time basis for the next couple of years.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t think I could —’ At that moment a shadow fell across their table. Merise looked up to see a rumpled, middle-aged man beaming down at her. He smelt of cigarettes and hair oil and Merise found herself recoiling.

  ‘Excuse me barging in, ladies,’ he said slickly. Then he leant towards Merise. ‘You’re Merise Merrick, aren’t you – the famous Miss Yarraside Wolves? I’d recognise that bone structure anywhere.’ He laughed loudly at his own remark.

  She disliked him at once, and Erica pulled a face behind his broad back.

  ‘Er, yes,’ she said reluctantly, ‘I’m Merise Merrick.’

  He held out a sweaty hand. ‘I’m Greg Bedford, editor of Celebrity Watch. Delighted to meet you.’

  Merise had no choice except to shake his hand, but inside she was panicking. What did he want? An interview? A photo? The last thing she wanted was to be connected with the grubby rag that notoriously stalked the rich and famous. She stared coldly up at him. Erica was looking appalled.

  ‘I’ve heard something fascinating about you; I’ve heard you’re a journalism student,’ Bedford said.

  ‘Yes,’ Merise replied warily. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to be seen with him. She didn’t want to be anywhere near this greasy shock-horror merchant.

  ‘Glad to hear that, because if you’re ever looking for work, there’s a desk for you at Celebrity Watch – guaranteed. You have a very bright future, young lady, and we’d just love to be part of it.’

  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 en
ough 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.’