Winning the Game

by Leesa Bow

  “I’d be happy if I could stop crying.” I swipe my eyes. “Seriously.”

  “Are you crying because you’re trying to let go, when your heart is telling you it’s not ready?” I frown at my father. “Because if you are, then the tears are not going to stop for a while. Perhaps it’s your subconscious telling you something. Only you can work it out, sweetheart, but you have to listen to your body to do it. They don’t call it lovesick for no reason.”

  “Do you have your own talk show, like seriously?” I joke. “I mean, it’s weird my father is talking to me about this.”

  “Your mum wanted me to. She’s not good at it, but she’ll help you in other ways.”

  “Like shopping sprees for mental health benefits.” I roll my eyes. “I could have used a bit of those things after the Bahamas …” my voice trails away.

  “Your mother wanted you to be strong and independent, and not make the same mistakes as her. When you told her you were pregnant she believed she failed you. She was angry at herself, and put up a wall in self-preservation. It’s taken this to happen for her to wake up. And no matter what either of us said, she had to see her wrongdoings through her own eyes. She loves you, sweetheart.” He kisses my forehead. “And she means well. Now, go wash your face. Our coffee will be cold, and we don’t want to upset your mother if she’s gone to the trouble of making it.”

  I consider Christmas in Melbourne as Australia’s version of Christmas in New York. Only it’s summer and the nights are warm. A ten-storey Christmas tree, and a giant, silver, sculptured light bulb make me smile every year I visit the mall. The streets sparkle with fairy lights. Even the town hall is alight with a rainbow of colour. More importantly, being here—being home—warms my heart. It’s my favourite time of the year, because I adore the pretty streets. I’ve always loved Christmas. Every year my parents spoil me with gifts. It’s a tradition they continue, even though I thought it a compensation for the guilt of leaving me at home as a child while they went on their annual holiday. But at least now I understand why they did it. I wish I had been enlightened earlier. It may have helped with my own issues, and I might not have been so reckless in the Bahamas.

  Who am I kidding? Tait was irresistible, like Rhett. And I can get over Rhett, like I did Tait. It will take time. Time I’ll have, for when the show concludes he’ll be with Lucy in Bali for four weeks. A romantic resort, cocktails by the pool, and relaxation massages on the beach … I draw in a deep breath.

  Four. Long. Weeks.

  Of course, they will be “together.”

  Then a couple of weeks of committed commercial interviews for Contest, so it boosts next season’s ratings, making seven weeks of no contact with Rhett. Long enough to understand we both need to move on and focus on our own lives. He’ll be back training with his football team, and I will hopefully be in Queensland liaising with the other coordinators of AniMate.

  Selling off Rhett sealed my promotion and my role as number-one assistant producer on AniMate. He’ll hate me when he learns the truth. And it hurts, because I didn’t sleep with him that night for the reason Ingrid and Grant believe. It wasn’t manipulation. Like an addict, I needed one more night with him.

  Selfish, maybe, but I did it with good intentions. Ingrid promised to weave his charitable foundations into the show. Viewers will be encouraged to donate to his charities: Apple Tree for blind children, and his latest bushfire appeal for his hometown. Everyone who watches Contest will now see Rhett for the gentleman he is. He would never have agreed to pick Lucy if I hadn’t made him promise. And to make it work I had no choice but to eliminate myself from the show, and his life. I couldn’t risk getting caught with Rhett by the public after the show. Because I know Rhett will try to see me before he flies out to Bali. At the very least try to call or text me. So, by doing this I’m giving him a chance to do the right thing.

  “Darling, look.” I turn towards Mum’s voice. She’s staring at the Myer window dressing, admiring its Christmas beauty.

  “It’s beautiful,” I admit. “It really is my favourite time of year.”

  “Mine too.” She smiles. “Honey, why don’t you and Tori find a table in the café and order me a latte. I won’t be long.”

  “Sure.” Dad wraps his arm around my waist and we head into the cool air of the nearest café. I assume Mum is purchasing another tree decoration for me. It’s something she does every year, and I act like it’s a surprise.

  Dad and I find a table and he wanders off to order at the counter. After sending Mum a text of our location, I use the time to continue updating my work colleagues on my new iPhone, with a new number.

  “You’re not reading reviews about the show are you?” Dad asks when he returns.

  I place my phone on the table. “No, I’m updating my contact list and notifying people of my new number.”

  “I’m guessing the new list excludes Rhett.”

  “Correct.” I take my coffee and lift it to my lips. “Hence the new number.”

  Dad sits opposite me. “So you’ve made a decision?” I nod. “And the ball will remain in your court?”

  “What do you have there?” I’m eyeing the plate of French macaroons in Christmas colours.

  Dad shoots me a telling look. He’s aware of my diversion. “Got your favourite.” He smiles and sets the plate in front of me.

  With the first bite my mind is back on Rhett, and why I changed my number. I’m serious about him forming a relationship with Lucy. Before the switch, I sent a long text to his phone, which he’ll see when the show is over. Hopefully, he’ll understand my reasons, and realise it’s the best solution for both of us.

  “That was quick,” Dad says, jolting me back.

  Mum slides behind the table and sits beside me. She places a small Myer bag on the chair beside her. “Christmas macaroons,” she says in delight. “Thanks for leaving me the raspberry one.”

  It so happens Mum likes raspberry, Dad likes pistachio, and I love salted caramel.

  For the next two days my parents remember everything I enjoy about Christmas and keep me busy seeing the sights, as though they’re afraid to let me slow down, and dwell.

  I appreciate their effort, and it works during the day. The night, not so much. My dad has an answer for that as well: drink enough cocktails until it makes me sleepy.

  Sunday afternoon Mum and I are walking back to the carpark, hands full of shopping bags, when she says, “How about you come to the set with me tomorrow?”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  She stops and turns. “Excuse me?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need babysitting. Seriously. I’m fine.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It wasn’t a babysitting offer. You love the set. And everyone would love to see you.”

  “And talk about the show …” My shoulders slump. “Not yet, Mum. I’m not ready. Give me some time. For now, I’m happy hanging with Dad and you.” Hell, I was always happy hanging with my parents and not with friends. Maybe it’s why Mum forced my hand after the Bahamas and insisted I apply for the position in Adelaide. She wasn’t sending me away; she was helping me build my own life.

  “Give me a week,” I say, and give her a small smile. “I would like to see everyone, only not yet.”

  “I’ve taken next week off,” she announces. “I’ve changed my holidays so I can be with you before we go away.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but unnecessary.”

  “I want to.” She grins like I’ve missed something. “I brought my appointments forward so you can come along with me.”

  “Appointments?”

  Her Audi beeps as she unlocks the door, and before she ducks inside she says, “Hair, nails. You know … we’ll have complete makeovers.”

  The boot opens for me to stack our shopping bags. I close it harder than necessary before I join her inside the car. “You think those things will make me happy?”

  Mum tilts her head at me. Immediately I regret the words, because she is trying.
“I’m always rejuvenated after a bit of pampering.”

  I dip my chin. “Sorry. I could do with some downtime. It’s been years since I indulged myself.”

  TORI

  Drinking champagne before lunch is highly unusual for me except on special occasions. So yesterday, when the hairdresser filled my crystal flute for the second time, I agreed to her every proposal to style a new me. Sitting opposite my mother, I felt a little jealous. She managed to look glamorous with a plastic cape tied around her neck. I, however, sported an unsophisticated look, with foil strips angling out in all directions. Still, it was fun, and I’m really happy with the result.

  Today Mum is treating me to a pedicure, one to match my manicured fingernails—painted shades of violet—by Mum’s favourite shellac artist. Relaxed, and slipping into the pampering lifestyle Mum leads, I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Moments later I jerk when a sharp pain sears my side. It’s the same stabbing pain I felt yesterday at the hairdresser salon. I had blamed alcohol in the morning, and thought nothing more of it until now.

  “Did I hurt you?” The tiny lady eases her grip on my foot.

  “Not at all.” I lean to the opposite side, stretching muscles to ease the pain. “I have some discomfort.” Her gaze falls to where my fingers dig into my hip.

  To my right Mum lifts her head from the headrest. “What’s wrong, Victoria?”

  “I’m okay,” I insist. “It’s a niggling pain in my side.”

  Mum nods, then takes her relaxed position once more. I try to do the same, but the pain travels up near my ribs. I concentrate on blocking it out, along with some deep breathing. By the time the technician is finished I’m keen to get out of the salon, especially with the strong ethyl aroma turning my stomach.

  We arrive home and, after taking paracetamol, I head upstairs to my room, explaining to Mum I need to lie down a while. Some time later there’s a knock, and I respond in a sleepy tone. Dad walks in and sits on the bed. I jerk away and grab my side with a yelp. Dad rises to his feet just as quickly. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” I say, yet my eyes are filling with tears. I gasp for air, trying to get the pain under control. “I’m not sure what this pain is.”

  “I was going to mention your dinner is cold, but I don’t think you should eat. I’m going to call Dr Lambert.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “We’ll wait and see what he says before you eat anything else. Maybe you have food poisoning?”

  “I’ll be fine. Seriously. I don’t want a doctor. I’m sure it will be gone by morning,” I whisper.

  Dad ignores me and turns his back to give details to a receptionist over the phone. When he ends the call he turns back to me. “He should be here within the hour.” I groan at him. “I really hope it’s not your mother’s cooking. She’s been trying hard, and I’ve enjoyed the break.” He winks at me. I attempt to laugh and stop. Instead, I gasp and grab at my side. “It’s a good thing he’ll be here soon,” he says, trying to reassure me.

  Dr Lambert arrives and, after palpating my stomach, I call out when his fingers pull away from the lower right side of my abdomen. “I suggest you go straight to A and E,” he advises. “I’ll call through and talk to the consulting doctor. I’ll write a referral letter. I suspect you have acute appendicitis.”

  “Will I be admitted?”

  “I assume so and, since you have a fever, more than likely you’ll need surgery. But I’ll get them to check you out.” He turns to my mother. “Pack Victoria an overnight bag to be safe. And for you”—he’s talking to me again—“no food or liquids until we know more.”

  Mum and Dad leave the room so the doctor can ask more questions. I have no allergies, and no prior medical history to be concerned about, but when he poses if there’s a chance I could be pregnant, my stomach tightens for reasons other than the clinical one. “I’ve recently had sex, but I’m on the pill.”

  “We won’t take any risks in case you are, so mention it before you take any tests,” he suggests. He scribbles on a pad, and then calls the hospital on his mobile phone. Mum returns with a small bag, and Dad answers the doctor’s questions.

  Thanks to the drugs they give me, the rest of the night is a blur. Before the night is over, I’m being wheeled into surgery for an appendectomy. The consultant thinks my excessive consumption of nuts and seeds over the past week—while drinking cocktails—may have contributed to the inflamed organ. I’m in so much pain I’ll agree to anything for it to go away.

  It’s my first surgical procedure, and it’s a whole other world in the theatre suite of the hospital. A mask hides the anaesthetist’s mouth, so I’m staring into his eyes, mesmerised with every detail. When the lines surrounding his green eyes deepen I assume he’s smiling, and then I’m imagining what his smile is like. I’m sure the pre-op drugs have made me delusional, but there’s something about theatre staff concealing their faces, and leaving only their eyes to focus on.

  “Victoria.” His eyes are talking to me. “You’ll be back in the ward soon.”

  The day after my surgery I remain tired, but at least I’m able to eat and drink. Bland food only, but it’s something. After lunch I scroll through emails on my phone, only opening one from Grant that catches my eye. The content confirms my sick leave. Not one word asking how I am. Annoyed, I toss my phone aside and flick through the channels on the television while waiting for my parents to visit. An add flashes across the screen for Contest. It’s a spoiler for the intruder.

  Me.

  At this point, I’m thankful to my mother for my hair makeover. My shoulder-length hair, with heavy caramel highlights, has given me a new look. Glancing down at my nails I notice the natural appearance, and I remember the staff removing my nail colour before I was wheeled away for surgery.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make another appointment next week for them to be redone,” my mother says from the doorway.

  I glance up and pout. “I’m sorry. I really did like them.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. It gives us an excuse to go out again.” She leans over and kisses me. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Dad hands me a bunch of peonies. “For you, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you.” I smile. “I’ll get the nurse to put them in a vase.” The television then captures their attention and they both shoot looks of concern.

  “I’ll get a vase now,” Mum says and leaves the room.

  Dad places a hand over mine and uses the remote to switch off the screen. “We want you to come to Hawaii with us next week.”

  “No,” I say calmly, and rest my head back on the pillows. “I’ll be okay. I’m not going to watch the show, and with my new hairstyle I don’t intend to remain hidden in my apartment.”

  “Which brings me to my next suggestion. If you won’t come away with us, why don’t you stay here in Melbourne until after Christmas? Spend Christmas Day with Aunt Camilla. She would love to have you.”

  I didn’t answer right away. “You know, I might. There’s no need for me to rush back to Adelaide. And I haven’t seen Camilla in years.”

  Dad rubs my arm. “She would love to have you, honey. I’ll call her today and—”

  “Dad.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re thinking about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door opens and my mother enters the room, followed by a nurse and three doctors. They hover around the end of the bed while Mum fills the vase and arranges the flowers on the table beside me. “We’ll pop out for a while, sweetie.”

  When my parents vacate the room, the gastroenterologist opens a discussion about my surgery, explaining how I’m lucky my appendix didn’t burst. He continues to say “something else” was noticed on the scans. My heartbeat picks up a notch. “I would like you to see a gynaecologist. You have a large ovarian cyst on your right ovary. I can arrange for someone to visit while you’re here.”

  “How big is the cyst?” I croak.

  “Large enough to require surger
y.”

  My gaze lifts to the white ceiling. After a few seconds, I manage to respond. “I’d appreciate that. And I’d like you not to mention it to my parents.”

  RHETT

  Filming of Contest ended two days ago. On leaving the set, I drove to the farm to see Mum, and assess the devastation caused by the fire. Fucking almost killed me to witness years of hard work burnt to the ground, but not as much as when Mum wanted to discuss Tori. I didn’t even want to hear her name, because she’s made it near impossible to contact her. No point keeping her in my contact list since she changed her number, and Tori’s text made it clear she thought it best for us to not see each other. More to the damn point, she doesn’t want to see me.

  After driving back to the city this morning I tried her apartment, knowing she probably wouldn’t answer her door. When her neighbour said she was staying in Melbourne, indefinitely, my heart turned rock heavy in my chest. She’s gone to extreme lengths to avoid me.

  Within an hour of leaving her apartment, and feeling as though I’ve had my gut kicked in, I’m sitting in the Blackbirds’ president’s office beside my manager Ian, waiting for my coach. From reality television to real life. I’m brought back to earth with a heavy thud.

  Bill pours himself a drink. I shake my head when he offers me one. “A good sign, son,” he says in his deep voice. “I’m hearing you’ve done what’s been asked of you on this show and displayed a real commitment. Even trained every morning at the crack of dawn.”

  “I did.” I lean back and fold my arms. After Tori left the show I trained even earlier, from around four. It was all I could do not to let anger bubble to the surface, and the only way to get any sleep was to run myself into the ground every day so I’d fall into bed exhausted at night. “I did what was necessary. But I’m looking forward to getting back and training with the lads.”