Those Other Women

by Nicola Moriarty

  For Annalise, it was the opposite. She was way off her game, and the more mistakes she made the angrier she got. Elle took her off at half-time and didn’t sub her back on for the rest of the game. Poppy saw Elle trying to talk to her every now and then, but it looked like Annalise wasn’t in the chatting mood. Meanwhile, Poppy scored one goal and set up another. Jen shook off her nerves and once again did brilliantly in goals. They finished up winning 3–1.

  When the whistle blew and they were shaking hands with the other team, Poppy looked over just in time to see Annalise’s back disappearing over the hill.

  As Poppy was packing up her gear, Jen tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Hey, is this yours?’ she asked. She held up a slightly tattered red notebook and Poppy instantly recognised it.

  ‘It’s Annalise’s,’ she said. ‘Must have fallen out of her bag. I’ll give it to her at work.’

  Jen handed it over and Poppy stared down at it, filled with the desire to read it. Annalise might have said she just kept work notes in there, but Poppy could tell it was much too important to her to be simply a few scribbled warehouse orders or anything like that. She figured the only reason Annalise had even managed to drop it tonight was because she’d stormed off so quickly. Poppy resisted the urge to open it, however, and instead stashed it in her own bag.

  She looked over at the field next to theirs where another game was being played. It was a men’s game – Parramatta vs Guildford. She stood watching for a minute, to see how Parra was going. She told herself it had nothing to do with Jack, but she couldn’t help scanning the players’ faces, checking to see if it was his team. If she did spot him, it would only be to let him know she’d tried out one of his suggested moves in the game tonight and it had gone okay for her. That was all.

  He didn’t seem to be there. It must have been a different side. She started to head off and had reached the end of the field when she heard a voice call her name. She looked around and realised it was Parra’s goalie shouting at her. She squinted and saw that it was Jack. She hadn’t realised he was a goalie.

  He gave her a wave. ‘Wait,’ he called out. ‘Two minutes!’

  He turned his attention back to the game as someone from Guildford broke through the back line and started bolting towards him with the ball. The Guildford player had beaten the last defender and it was down to striker and goalie. Poppy watched to see how Jack would do. So far, he was holding his ground. If it were her, she would have come out a bit, cut down on the angle.

  The Guildford player took his shot. Jack dove. It was a great dive – he put his body fully on the line – it was just in the wrong direction. The ball went in. A minute later, the whistle blew for the end of the game.

  Jack jogged over to her.

  ‘That one was completely on you,’ he said as he reached her. But there was an embarrassed look on his face; she could tell he didn’t like missing that save right in front of her.

  ‘On me, was it?’ she said. ‘I have to say, it was a very dramatic dive.’

  ‘Yeah, shut up. I made my move too early. You saw him feint with the left foot though, didn’t you?’

  ‘Must have missed it.’

  ‘Must have had your attention fixed on someone else.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. And anyway, how was that my fault? You were the one calling out to me.’

  ‘Yes, well, you walked by very distractingly. I like your new hair by the way, it suits you.’

  Poppy couldn’t help smiling at the compliment before shifting the focus back onto Jack. ‘I didn’t know you were a goalie.’

  ‘Didn’t think it would be fair of me to tell you.’

  ‘Fair?’

  ‘Yeah. Makes girls weak at the knees when I tell them I’m a goalie. It’s an unfair advantage. The goalie’s the star of the team.’

  Poppy raised her eyebrows. ‘Is he though?’

  ‘Unequivocally. Your team did well tonight.’

  ‘You were watching?’

  ‘Glanced over when I could. Saw you put one away.’

  Poppy couldn’t avoid feeling pleased he’d seen her score. ‘Hey, tell me something,’ she said, unable to help her curiosity. ‘How come you coach kids’ soccer? You have a son in the team or something?’

  ‘God no, I don’t have kids. No, no, it’s my community service after I got out of jail for murder.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Kidding! You really think they’d put a convicted murderer with a bunch of kids? I have a nephew on the team and my sister asked me to help out because she knows I’m such an incredible player.’ He grinned at her, paused and added, ‘Hey, why don’t you come for a drink? A few of us are heading up the pub now.’ He paused. ‘Where’s your friend, the one you were with . . .’

  He trailed off and Poppy finished for him, ‘The one I was with when you first met me – the one you don’t like?’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like her. I don’t even know her.’

  ‘She’s already gone. Rough game for her tonight.’

  ‘Well, I can keep you company. Coming?’

  Poppy hesitated, considering his offer. But if she went, what then? Maybe things would progress, maybe they’d start dating. At some point, there would have to be a conversation. Do you want kids one day? Because I don’t. Maybe he doesn’t either. He did look horrified when she asked him if he had kids. But who knew what that really meant? And maybe if she fast-forwarded a couple years, she’d be going through exactly the same pain she’d just suffered after Garret’s betrayal.

  Nope. She opened her mouth ready to decline, but before she had the chance Jack said, ‘Fantastic,’ as though she’d just agreed.

  ‘Huh?’ she began, but he cut her off.

  ‘I’ll see you up there in ten. Or do you need a lift?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ve got my car but —’

  He was already backing away from her. ‘Just grabbing my gear, see you soon.’ He turned and jogged away.

  Poppy wandered slowly towards her car, wondering what she was going to do. Turn up and meet him as he was apparently expecting? Or just stand him up?

  Five minutes later she entered the pub, once again wishing she was dressed in something other than her soccer uniform. She slipped into the bathroom before seeking out Jack and his team mates, and at least ran her hands through her hair in front of the mirror and tried her best to fix it up a bit.

  Eventually she decided she wasn’t going to look any better and headed back out to find Jack. It took her several minutes to spot him and when she did, she realised the reason she’d had so much trouble was because he was sitting alone in a booth.

  ‘I thought you were going to be here with a group,’ she said as she approached the table and slid into the booth opposite him.

  ‘They all bailed on me,’ he said, shrugging. ‘So I guess I’m lucky you didn’t stand me up too.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘I ordered one while I was looking for you. Bartender’s bringing it over.’

  ‘All right, but the next one’s on me. I did kind of coerce you into turning up.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you did actually. I was planning on saying no.’

  ‘I know you were. I could see it on your lips. That’s why I didn’t give you the chance.’

  Poppy felt an involuntary tingle at the thought of Jack watching her lips and immediately tried to shake it off. Take it easy.

  ‘And why were you so keen to get me here?’ she asked, unable to stop a flirtatious tone from creeping into her voice. So much for taking it easy.

  ‘Because I wanted your advice about something.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy felt the tingle vanish.

  ‘What about?’ she said, nodding her thanks to the bartender who had just delivered her beer. ‘About goalkeeping, of course. You saw my abysmal dive tonight. I need tips, woman!’

  The tingle returned and Poppy found herself laug
hing again. ‘Oh really?’ she said. ‘And I thought your stuff-up tonight was supposed to have been all my fault for distracting you.’

  ‘Well, yes, there was that. But a guy can always use a few more tips.’ Jack picked up his own drink and raised it to Poppy, and she clinked her glass against it.

  They fell into easy conversation about each of their games that night, about how their teams were doing in the competition and how long they’d played soccer. Then they shifted seamlessly to other topics, but not the usual ‘What do you do?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ Instead they talked about politics (first Australia and then they moved on to the current state of America), where to find the best coffee (Jack argued that an Italian restaurant across the road from his apartment building held that title, Poppy claimed it was the one near her work), and their favourite teachers from primary school (Mr Bamford for Poppy, Mrs Walsh for Jack).

  When Jack offered to buy the second round, Poppy switched to a Coke. She wanted to keep a clear head. She was enjoying chatting with Jack and she didn’t need alcohol to keep the conversation flowing.

  Later, when the pub was starting to empty out, Poppy wondered if Jack would expect her to head home with him, as he’d seen her do with Will. But instead, he kissed her on the cheek, checked that she was right to drive home (‘I’ve only had one beer!’) and said good night.

  She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed he hadn’t tried it on, or charmed that he was so much more of a gentleman than Will. She was walking to her car when she heard her name being called and she turned around to see Jack heading towards her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I just realised I don’t have your number, which means I might not be able to track you down again – and it was your turn to buy the next round when we finished up.’

  ‘You’re really going to keep score?’

  ‘Nope, I’m not. But I needed an excuse to see you again. How about dinner next Saturday night at the Italian place I was telling you about? My shout?’

  Poppy smiled. She reached for his phone and typed her number into it. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said.

  * * *

  Later that night, once Poppy was home, she was unpacking her sweaty soccer socks and shin pads when she came across Annalise’s notebook. What she really ought to do was head straight downstairs, knock on Annalise’s door and return it to her. She might already be wondering where it was. But what if the contents of this notebook could give her answers? Answers about why Annalise had told all those lies about her past.

  What if she just took a peek?

  What if she just read a few pages?

  She sat cross-legged on her bed, opened it up and began to read.

  17 March

  It’s funny that people don’t have a clue what I’m really like. I wonder if you would have known . . . had you been given the chance. Most of the time I feel like I’m cut off from reality. Trapped inside my own head. Buried beneath a thick layer of insulation. Muffled. Muzzled. Sometimes I’ll find myself examining my own actions, my own words, with the curiosity of a polite but concerned stranger, while still behaving as though there is absolutely nothing wrong. I make jokes with strangers. Maybe the girl behind the counter as she froths the milk for my cappuccino. Maybe the bartender at the local pub. I can make them laugh with genuine delight in their eyes, even while inside I’m aching.

  I shouldn’t complain to you. I have no right. But who else is there for me to tell?

  Do you want to know something I find strange? I find it strange how memories work. The fact that I can forget something that happened just the other day, or what I ate for breakfast this morning, and yet I can still have a memory from my childhood of the inside of a walnut-brown cot, of a voice singing quietly, ‘It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring . . .’

  That memory was from before it all changed. It’s the only one I have of the life that could have been. The life that should have been, had he not come along and ripped the two of us out of that world.

  People don’t realise it when they meet me. They don’t know about the constant narrating bitch inside my head. Judging my every move, every decision. Speaking over the sound of my own voice. Re-examining conversations. Telling me I’d done it wrong. Telling me I’d misinterpreted.

  Sometimes I can silence that voice. The meds helped, even the psychologist for a little while. But it didn’t last. She kept probing. She wanted to know about my childhood. I suppose she could sense that something was there, but I didn’t want to talk about that. I saw no need. Digging all of that up would just make it worse. Plus, she wanted me to do things like ‘practise my mindfulness, challenge my negative thought patterns. Perform some self-love’. I spat out my water when she first said that one. I thought she was talking about the kind of self-love I’d normally do in the shower. Apparently not.

  It was all bullshit. It didn’t help.

  Poppy did though. Poppy is my distraction. My outlet. Fixing her, fixes me. You know what I mean? Even if, technically speaking, I’m betraying her – every day I betray her. But I don’t mean to.

  Poppy looked up from the pages. Every day she’s betraying me? What the hell did that mean? Since that first moment when the idea of Annalise as the imposter had crossed her mind, she’d dismissed it. It simply didn’t make any sense. But now she had to consider it again, didn’t she? Because what else could she mean by ‘betrayal’? Then again, there was a lot more to take in here within these pages. The memories, the negative self-talk. There was so much more beneath the surface with Annalise than Poppy had ever realised. She read on.

  26 March

  I keep hearing the Tardis everywhere. It’s this blue police telephone box from Doctor Who. Bigger on the inside. The Tardis has this very specific sound when the Doctor starts it up. A sort of woob-woob-woob-woob. I hear it underneath the sound of a trolley being pushed through the supermarket. Inside the vacuum cleaner. Behind the coffee machine at the cafe. Underneath the water in the ocean.

  It was my favourite show when I was a kid. Watched it with a cushion on my lap. When it got scary, I’d hold the cushion up in front of my face and hide behind it till everything was all right again. The sound of those Daleks’ voices still makes my skin crawl. Not that we were supposed to watch TV. Weren’t even supposed to have a TV actually. But there was one – in his private quarters.

  Sometimes, when he came back, he would run the palm of his hand across the screen to check for static electricity so he could tell whether or not we’d been watching. But Tiana always knew to wipe the static away with tin foil when we were done. Tiana was the eldest, so she was the one who decided what we watched when the opportunity came up – and Doctor Who was her favourite, so Doctor Who was what we watched.

  What the hell does it mean? The fact that I keep hearing the Tardis everywhere. Is it the obvious – a metaphor for escape? I don’t think so. I think it just means that these days I watch too much TV. Doctor Who is available on Netflix now, so I’ve been watching it again. I have this weird love–hate relationship with the show. You see, I love it, but it takes me back to the worst time of my life. It takes me back to hell.

  I watch it now and I think, why am I torturing myself? But it’s tinged with happiness, isn’t it? So I watch.

  24 April

  Once I helped this little old man onto an escalator. He was so tiny! His wife was flustered, she’d stepped on and then looked back and realised he was having trouble. I often forget that old people were once young. I see them as characters in a story. Sometimes they’re there for comic relief. Sometimes for a moment of tenderness, of fragility.

  I took his arm and helped him on and you could tell he was embarrassed but grateful. When we reached the top, the two of them wanted to chat. The problem was, the more we spoke, the more I fell in love with the two of them.

  Why couldn’t you be my nan and pop? Why couldn’t you adopt me as your own?

  But eventually they started to get uncomfortable. You see, they might h
ave wanted to chat at first, but even they had their limitations when it came to talking to a complete stranger. And every time they tried to leave, I’d engage them in conversation once again. I wanted them to stay. I wanted them to sit down and have a cup of tea and some raisin toast with me. I wanted to make plans.

  I took it too far, I know that. I shouldn’t have tried to take her by the arm. It was different when I was helping him onto the escalator, the physical contact was justified. But the look in her eyes. She was afraid of me. She was confused. And that’s when their granddaughter turned up.

  Where the fuck were you when your pop was trying to step onto the escalator? You weren’t here. You weren’t here for them.

  You could see her eyes darting between the three of us, weighing it up. Trying to figure out who the hell I was. She was twitchy. She was reaching out for me, she was about to take hold of my arm and pull me off her grandmother. And I guess that’s when I knew my grip on her arm was too tight.

  I probably left her with bruises. Purple grey on withered skin.

  That’s not what was supposed to happen. They were supposed to fall in love with me too. Because it’s not fair, is it? Why shouldn’t I have a family? Why shouldn’t I have a nan and pop who love me unconditionally? Why couldn’t I have had that all my life?

  You must hate me.

  26 April

  He bought me a sundae.

  9 May

  There’s this scene in an old 80s cult movie called The Lost Boys that I like to think about sometimes. A gang of vampires take the lead character, Michael, to a railway bridge and one by one they jump off the edge. Michael looks down to see that they’re all hanging by their hands off the railings below. He climbs down and hangs with them, and then he realises a train is coming.

  When the train goes overhead, the bars they’re holding onto start rattling and they all shake violently until the vibrations force them to let go and fall into the mist below.