The Reluctant Wag

by Mary Costello

  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 . . .

  The next second he had broken away and she had to reach out to steady herself against the wall.

  ‘Sorry,’ he rasped in a husky voice, ‘that was a mistake, a bad mistake. I know you don’t want this. It won’t happen again.’

  Disappointment shot through her. No! It was no mistake – it had been a moment of utter delight, a moment she’d been hoping for all her life but never thought she’d experience – the moment when she’d found her true home, in another’s arms. It wasn’t like that first time he’d kissed her; this was tender and passionate all at the same time. Surely this was something more than just body contact? Her heart was still thumping, but she breathed quickly, deeply, fighting to regain her composure. She wanted to tell him not to be sorry, but something in the troubled expression on his face stopped her. He was angry at himself. It was clear that he felt he’d gone too far, that he didn’t want to get involved. And it was clear that however much that single, life-changing kiss had meant to Merise, it meant nothing to him, other than an undisciplined breach, a momentary lapse of focus.

  She swallowed hard, tried to speak in a level voice. ‘Yes, it was a mistake.’ Then, more coolly, ‘But no harm done. We’re both adults. We both know what we’re doing and we’ve both got the good sense to know we shouldn’t be doing this.’

  He seemed to search her face for second, then said, ‘Right. I guess it’s good night then.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled and scrabbled in her bag for her keys. ‘See you, Cal.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He walked down the path, turned and watched until she was safely inside, then drove away. Inside the little flat, her back to the door, slow, stinging tears ran down Merise’s face.

  As she lay awake yet again, part of a favourite old poem was playing in her head.

  Despite the distance, she felt always near.

  Ever aware of her, he lived distracted.

  ‘Ever aware’ – that was how she felt about him – that he was here, in this city, near her. The poem was meant for a woman, but Cal was beautiful to her – a manly beauty that embodied his strength, his power, his passion. And she felt his being pervade this whole city. In her mind, she passed the MCG and imagined him running up the field towards the goals; glimpsed the roof of the Hartley Centre and imagined him beneath it, swimming laps or pumping weights; walked up Johnson Street and thought of him by candlelight at La Cocina del Diablo; strolled along Southbank and remembered that night when he saved her from Murdoch. Melbourne was his city. She could never escape from him while she was here, and yet this was where she had to be, for another year at least. How would she ever bear it?

  Chapter 8

  Cal’s teammates were staying out of his way the next day. He was in a mood, and he’d been ruthless all morning during training – driving them harder and harder, not satisfied until he’d driven them all to exhaustion. They didn’t resent it, because they knew that what he asked of them was nothing compared to what he asked of himself. As they relaxed in the pool or lay stretched out on the massage table they could see him still working the treadmill in the altitude room.

  Cal stopped, panting for breath, and took a swig of water. This was stupid and he knew it. He was angry at himself and he needed to be active. The last thing he wanted to do was think. Think of how stupid he’d been last night. He’d meant to steer clear of Merise because the temptation was just too great to resist. And he hadn’t been able to resist, not after spending the whole evening so close to her. She was far too much of a distraction. He couldn’t leave himself open to that again.

  It wasn’t until he’d showered and was leaving the building that he remembered that he’d promised to pick her up and drive her to the game next week. He cur
sed inwardly. He thought briefly of cancelling, of making some excuse, but that might make it too big a deal. Better to just go through with it as casually as possible, then stay out of her way after that. For the rest of his playing career, if need be.

  He’d stopped at the florist to send his mother a bunch of flowers, as he did every week, when he noticed the bonsai display in the window. There was one little tree in particular that caught his eye. It was gnarled but delicate and stately at the same time. He asked the florist about it.

  ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘That’s a particularly fine Japanese maple. It’s considered the most beautiful of all the bonsai. That’s quite an old tree, and I’m afraid it’s very expensive.’

  ‘Fine,’ he heard himself say. ‘I’ll take it. I’d like you to have it delivered today.’

  As the florist prepared the tree for delivery, he addressed a gift card to Merise.

  I saw this and thought it would be just right for your miniature apartment. Just to say thanks for agreeing to stay on board. Cal.

  Polite. Impersonal. That would tie things up neatly, he told himself as he left the shop, but even so, he wondered what the hell he was doing.

  Bev was delighted that Merise had agreed to be there for the Wolves’ opening game.

  ‘Fantastic news!’ she crowed. ‘We’ve got a meeting with Tim tomorrow to organise everything. When you’ve done this, SMO will have enough material to run with until the finals – if the Wolves make the finals, that is.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt they’ll make it,’ Merise said with feeling.

  Bev laughed. ‘You’ve been watching too many Yarraside ads,’ she quipped.

  Perhaps she had, Merise thought, or perhaps she’d been drawn in by Cal’s fervent belief that his team could take on all comers. Either way, she wouldn’t be there in September.