Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  “I know. But I don’t know how to help him anymore.”

  “You are helping him, Anna,” Trish replied quickly. “I know it might not feel like it, but you are. He just needs time. Don’t give up on him.”

  “Never!” Anna bit out.

  Trish gave a gentle laugh.

  “I know, luv. I know you won’t give up on him. Just hang on in there.”

  Anna sighed.

  “Okay, but if you hear from him…”

  “I’ll tell him to get his arse home.”

  Anna ended the call and stared unseeingly in front of her. Gradually, her gaze came into focus again, and she stood, determination in her expression. She’d had her wallow of self-pity, now she needed to do something.

  She grabbed the dirty coffee cups from the side table and took them into the kitchen, dumping them in the sink. Then she strode into Nick’s office, collecting two more cups. He seemed to leave a trail of them around the house. He drank far too many cups a day and…

  Anna paused, staring at Nick’s newly decorated office that had, until recently, been a spare bedroom. It had been one of the projects that they’d worked on together after he’d quit playing professional rugby.

  The soft blue and pink wallpaper had been stripped away, and the old floral carpet had been torn up and thrown out. Now the walls were clean and fresh and white, and the double-bed had been replaced with simple, black, masculine office furniture. One wall held a set of framed photographs of Nick in action—his trophy wall, Anna called it. There were photographs of him meeting Princes William and Harry, and lifting the World Cup in front of eighty-two thousand fans at Twickenham. There were pictures of him flying through the air, scoring a try; photos of him leaping high, his hands outstretched, his beautiful, lean body sculpted and hard, his expression focussed, determined.

  He’s missing rugby…

  With a sudden certainty, Anna knew exactly where she’d find Nick. Well, she could think of two places he’d go, but Jason said he hadn’t seen him so that narrowed it down.

  Anna grabbed the car keys from the dish by the front door and hurried out. The sky was growing dark with angry purple clouds scudding across the sky, and the afternoon breeze had grown to a stiff wind that sliced through her thin clothes.

  She shivered, but didn’t take the extra minute to go and find a jacket. Instead, she jumped into Nick’s Range Rover Sport, a vehicle far too big for most of the roads around London, in Anna’s opinion, but a car that Nick loved. And besides, his sponsors had given it to him for free as a retirement gift.

  She reversed carefully down the short driveway, even after all these years of living in the UK reminding herself to drive on the left.

  In the distance, she could see the wide open space of Hampstead Heath, which was the main reason they’d bought this house. It was one of the more expensive parts of London, and they could have gotten a bigger place if they’d moved further out, but they’d both loved being close to the ancient 800 acre park, with its vast expanse and the thousand years of recorded history that went with it. At least it didn’t have highwaymen lurking there anymore, demanding that unwary travellers ‘stand and deliver!’ their pocket watches and gold rings.

  Each day, without fail, rain or shine, Nick went there for his morning run. And Anna loved it because she imagined picnics in the summer, two or maybe three children playing under those sprawling oak trees…

  Forcing herself to focus on the road, she headed southwest across the city, cursing the heavy traffic which was the daily price of living in London.

  It took nearly 40 minutes to drive 15 miles and Anna grit her teeth for at least 39 of those minutes.

  Twickenham stadium loomed ahead, a dark monolith, absorbing the last, lingering light from the sky. Anna was used to seeing it on a game day, brightly lit, with cars thronging the roads around it and lines of people all heading inside.

  But today the turnstiles were silent, and only a few security lights flared in the twilight.

  Anna parked in the players parking lot and headed for the private entrance at the side, but it was locked and she couldn’t see anyone on duty. Frustrated and feeling very alone in the gathering darkness, she made her way around the outside of the massive building toward the main entrance.

  “Oi, who’s out there!”

  A scarily big security guard shone a flashlight into her face, making her blink.

  “Mrs. Renshaw?”

  Anna didn’t bother to correct him about her marital status.

  “Yes!”

  “Sorry about that, luv,” the guard said, lowering the bright beam of light. “We’ve had a bit of trouble with vandals lately. You looking for Nick?”

  Anna’s heart gave a gratified leap.

  “Yes! Is he here?”

  The guard gave her a strange look.

  “Yeah, I let him in two hours ago. He’s sitting in L33 in the South Stand. Is he alright?”

  Anna gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Oh yes! Just soaking up the memories, you know!”

  The guard scratched his chin.

  “Right-o, well, I s’pose you know your way around inside. I’ll tell Bodie and Doyle to keep an eye out for you,” and he tapped the radio mic attached to his uniform.

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully.

  Anna’s footsteps echoed loudly as she walked briskly along the empty corridor. She’d never been here by herself before; she’d always been with other people, always excited and nervous about a game or a presentation. Even Nick’s amazing testimonial had been played here. But now the darkness and silence unnerved her, and the display of past players’ photographs seemed to stare down at her, watching, judging. Seeing it like this, empty, haunted by memories, it was creepy. She found herself tiptoeing, as if she wasn’t supposed to be there. And maybe she wasn’t.

  NICK WANTED TO be alone.

  He sat in Twickenham’s South Stand, the ground empty, flood lights dimmed. He closed his eyes, remembering being here as a young kid, watching his heroes play, dreaming of doing what they did, playing for England. He rubbed his tired eyes, despair weighing him down. It was all so long ago. But fast forward in time and here he was again, sitting in the same place.

  He’d achieved what he set out to do—there should be no regrets. But it was so damn hard to let go, so hard to unplug.

  Rugby lads were tough men, and Nick felt frustrated by his inability to suck it up and get a grip.

  Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw! Ren-shaw!

  He could still hear the fans cheer and sing. He could hear the studs from thirty pairs of boots echo through the tunnel as the players walked out to the field, the coach giving his pre-game speech, the victory song being sung after and drums thundering as the team celebrated.

  All memories he’d never forget.

  I’ll never replace this. Rugby is under my skin, it’s in my blood, it flows through my soul.

  A place like Twickenham brought back so many emotions. He knew that every player went through the transition, wondering what was next, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  The underlying question had to be answered in his own mind: if I’m not Nick Renshaw the Rugby star anymore, who am I? What’s my purpose?

  If he was honest, not knowing who or what he was, it scared him.

  I can’t let Anna see me like this.

  But Nick was too late.

  Anna didn’t know what she’d find. She didn’t know if Nick would want her there.

  Making her way toward the South Stand, she saw him.

  He was sitting in the shadows, elbows on his knees, staring out at the empty stadium, staring out at the silent turf. His gaze was distant, lost in the past, and Anna wondered what he was seeing, what he was hearing. Did the echoes of long gone games ring in his ears? Was the roar of a long lost crowd making his heart pound with ghostly reminders of past greatness? Was he seeing the moment that he stole the ball from the air and ran half the length of the field to score his most famous try? Was he re
living the moment when 82,000 fans leapt in the air, chanting his name?

  For a moment, she studied his profile: the nose that had been broken twice, but still retained its fine outline; the strong chin, covered now with a neat beard; moonlight casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones.

  His stillness frightened her and he seemed so lost, so very far away.

  She walked toward him, her nerves jumping, and sat by him, stiff and silent. He knew she was there, she could tell by the gentle tilt of his head.

  And then, without looking at her, he held out his hand toward her, and she took it, gratitude and relief filling her eyes with tears.

  His skin was cool, as if he’d been sitting here in the dark for a very long time.

  They continued in silence for several more minutes, simply sitting, their hands joined.

  She waited for him to speak. And waited, and waited, her heart sinking a little more with each second that passed.

  “I missed you,” she said, at last.

  Not just today. I’ve missed you so much for so long.

  He squeezed her fingers gently, but still didn’t speak.

  His hair was longer than when he’d been playing, a mass of crazy curls that would have coiled untamed around his head if not for the woolen hat he wore, pulled down low. A single curl had escaped, drooping over his forehead. That small vulnerability, that softness on his hard face and harder body, it damn near broke her heart.

  “Are you ready to go home?”

  He turned his head toward her, his honey-coloured eyes full of shadows.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

  THE DRIVE HOME was quiet. Anna stole quick glances at Nick who was gazing out of the window.

  “Should we stop to pick up a takeaway?” she asked, even though she felt too tense to eat.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, great! What would you like? Thai or Indian? Or what about that French deli in the High Street? They do great salads.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “No, whatever you’d like.”

  “Okay,” she said flatly. “Great.”

  It wasn’t that he was ignoring her, but he wasn’t with her either.

  She didn’t care about the damn food. She cared about him.

  Frustrated, she zipped through Hampstead High Street without stopping, and drove to the empty expanse of the Heath instead.

  Nick glanced at her curiously but didn’t speak.

  “Come on,” she said, jumping out of the car. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “What? In the dark?”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently. “Now.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue. She wished he would. She wished he’d be animated by something. This shadowy version of Nick was hard to take.

  Anna’s anger and fear drove her up the steep side of the Heath, until she reached the top and stood panting, with London in all its night time glory glowing beneath her. The sky was filled with stars and she shivered.

  “Anna, what’s going on?”

  Nick wasn’t even out of breath as he stared at her, his forehead creasing with concern.

  “Yes, that’s what I want to know!” she gasped. “What’s going on? I spoke to Jason today…”

  She didn’t have to finish her sentence—Nick knew exactly where she was going with that comment.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, Nick! Oh! You’ve been telling me that you’ve been going to see the Phoenixes play and all this time you’ve been lying to me! So what’s going on?!”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” he said gruffly, his arms folding defensively across his chest. “I didn’t.”

  Anna simply waited.

  “I did watch them play,” Nick said again. “I just didn’t go to Hangar Lane. I never said I did … you just assumed.”

  Anna gaped at him.

  “Of course I assumed that you were going to the stadium. You played there for over four years—where else would you go to see them play a home-game?”

  Nick grimaced and looked away.

  “I found a pub that was showing the games and watched from there.”

  Anna blinked.

  “But … why?”

  Nick sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “I didn’t want to see the guys.”

  Awareness began to dawn inside Anna. She’d imagined a hundred different scenarios since Jason had told her he hadn’t seen Nick, but this wasn’t one of them. And yet, somehow she wasn’t surprised either.

  “Why didn’t you want to see your friends?” she asked, her voice soft.

  “It’s going to sound stupid,” he muttered.

  “I just want to know.”

  “I’m not part of the team anymore,” he spat out, his voice bitter with frustration. “I’m on the outside. I always used to hate people coming into the locker room before a game, retired players, sponsors, well-wishers. I wished they’d just fuck off because I needed to focus on my game-plan.”

  He ran his hands through his hair helplessly.

  “I don’t want to be one of those guys, harking after the glory days when there are other people still doing it, still out there, playing. I don’t want to watch rugby if I can’t play it.” His frown deepened. “So I went to a pub I’d never been to before, wore my beanie and didn’t speak to anyone. I didn’t really want to see the game, but I couldn’t not watch either.” He glanced at her quickly. “And I knew you’d ask me about it.”

  Anna released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Oh, Nick! I understand, I do. I just … I wish you’d told me.” It hurts that you didn’t tell me.

  “Because it’s pathetic!” he cried out, his voice full of resentment. “God, I know it’s pathetic! I’ve got everything, everything I’ve ever wanted, and I can’t help feeling like … like … like I have nothing.”

  Anna’s heart shuddered as she felt the wounding weight of his words. She was crushed. Am I nothing? Is what we have nothing? Then she gave herself a mental shake: this isn’t about me. I just have to put on my psychologist hat and stop taking things so personally. Which was easier said than done. She understood—hell, she’d written the book on it. But it still hurt.

  She stayed silent, unwilling to speak, and Nick, now unburdened, couldn’t stop.

  “If I tried to say anything, I’d sound like an ungrateful prick. I’ve got a house that’s damn near paid off, a brand new Range Rover Sport, a watch that costs more than my first flat, money in the bank, two investment properties in Lewisham, and a pension. A fucking pension! I’m 33, not 63! What am I supposed to do? Can you tell me, because I just don’t know how to do nothing!”

  “You have me,” Anna said softly.

  “What?”

  “You have me, you have us.”

  Nick’s face fell.

  “Oh shit, Anna, luv! No, I didn’t mean it like that! You, you’re everything!”

  But Anna had heard the words he’d said from his heart. He felt like he had nothing, but knew that wanting more sounded petulant, greedy. But she also knew a man like him needed a reason to get up in the morning—his own self-worth demanded it. She couldn’t give him that.

  She couldn’t give him what he needed.

  He wrapped his arms around her, those strong, muscled arms, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, her hands slipping around his waist naturally, the way they always did.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his lips pressing against her hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I just wish you could have told me sooner.”

  He shrugged guiltily.

  “I’m sorry.”

  So was Anna.

  They drove home in silence, not touching, stopping only to pick up a salmon salad takeaway, although neither of them had much appetite.

  Anna couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched her, the last time his hand
s had reached for her in the solemn silence of the night.

  NICK KNEW HE’D fucked up the second he’d sensed Anna next to him in the Stands at Twickenham. He felt even worse when he saw the seven missed calls, three unanswered texts, and two voicemails on his phone.

  If you could call it ‘feeling’.

  Inside, he was empty, emotionless, as if the high water mark of his testimonial had seeped away when he wasn’t paying attention. Nothing roused much interest from him: not working out, not going for nice meals, not being able to eat whatever he wanted, not even sex with Anna. Everything was muted. He knew the emotions were there, but they couldn’t quite reach him—everything was at a distance. He was stranded in the ocean, and even though he could see the beach, he didn’t know if he had the energy to swim back to shore. And he didn’t know if he wanted to.

  Depression settled over him like a blanket, thick and heavy and suffocating. He had no reason to feel this way. He had a beautiful fiancée; financial stability; adulation, too, if he wanted it.

  “You’re just bored, mate,” Jason had said, last time they’d spoken, over a month ago.

  He was still playing, but likely to retire at the end of the season. He planned to stay with rugby and had lined up a position as one of three assistant coaches at Bath RFU.

  Jason was right—Nick was bored, but it was more than that.

  At 33, Nick had already achieved everything. So what would the next 50 years of his life be?

  But the question rolled around inside him, turbulent and painful: What am I, who am I, now I no longer have rugby?

  Anna had every right to yell at him for being a selfish prick, but it was much worse that she sat at the kitchen table, picking at her takeaway without interest.

  Nick chewed his food but didn’t taste it, trying to think of something to say that would put a smile on her face. Something, anything other than this strained silence.

  “I got an email from some photographer bloke yesterday,” he began.

  “Oh?” she said, glancing up and forcing a half-smile.

  Seeing her work so hard to smile made him feel like a worm. He blundered on, hardly aware of what he was saying.

  “Yeah. He said he wants to do a calendar with pictures of me and sell it for charity. Nudes! Ha ha, me, in the buff! I reckon one of the lads from the Phoenixes put him up to it.”