A Reluctant Cinderella

by Alison Bond

  ‘Hello, Layla dear. Cup of tea?’

  They both sipped cups of steaming tea while listening to golf on the radio. Golf! Was she as bored as he was?

  ‘This is stupid,’ he said.

  ‘You want to come over to mine and we can check on the internet? They might tell you what time it’ll be announced.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He had never been in Layla’s bedroom before. It was warm and smelt like all kinds of soft things, perfume, suntan lotion, that orange shampoo that she used. It was grown up, decorated in shades of plum and grey with a double bed (made), and it made him think poorly of his own bedroom next door – pretty much unchanged since he was seven years old albeit with a poster of Jennifer Biel added to the football heroes on the wall. Layla had a black-and-white print of New York City on her wall, and a cork board filled with photographs of her and her friends. He wandered over to it as she fiddled with the Apple Mac on the big white desk. His eye was drawn masochistically to Layla and a boy he could only assume was Daniel. Their arms were wrapped around each other and he was laughing and looking at the camera while she gazed up at him with the kind of adoring expression that she directed at Joe in his dreams.

  ‘Is this him?’ he said. ‘Is this Daniel?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ she confirmed.

  He was in a couple of other photos too. He had a skin problem and bad taste in baseball caps, but other than that he looked like a nice enough guy. Joe hated him on sight.

  At the corner of the notice board was her ticket to the UEFA Cup match. She had kept it. She had pinned it up with these special things. That had to mean something, right?

  ‘I’m on the BBC website,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t say. Here, have a look.’

  She moved over just a bit, perching on the edge of the broad chair so that he could squeeze in next to her, his sharp bony hip pressed into the soft yielding flesh of her perfect figure. He concentrated on the computer screen even though at first what was written there could have been in Japanese. Just as her proximity was becoming unbearable she leapt up and went over to the little speaker set she had for her iPod and some American hip-hop he didn’t recognize filled the room.

  ‘We’ll check again later,’ she said, and fell back onto her bed. He noticed a canary yellow bra peeking out from underneath it.

  How much longer was it going to last, this stupid crush on the girl next door? He didn’t know how much more he could take. It was starting to get so he could hardly even look at her any more. The twist in his gut was no longer recognizable as pleasure or pain. He would avoid her if he thought he was strong enough, but the idea of never seeing her again was frightening.

  Just tell her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, patting the bed next to her, ‘tell me how many goals you’re going to score on your England debut.’

  Reluctantly, yet at the same time as quick as he could, he lay down next to her on her bed. His entire body was tense. He was on a bed with Layla. Holy shit. She gave off a hot energy like some kind of force field. What was it she just said? Goals. Football. Right.

  Focus, Joe.

  ‘I think probably just one,’ he said. ‘But I’ll make sure it’s a good one.’

  ‘How good?’ she said.

  ‘Proper dead good,’ he said, enjoying the game because it took his mind off the way her breasts fell together when she turned to face him and how easy it would be for his lips to travel the short (yet impassable) distance to her lips. ‘It’d be so good they’d show it especially on Match of the Day and Alan Hansen would say “world class” and Ian Wright would nod like a maniac and get all excited and insist that they showed it again.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then every time I walked down the street there’d be people pointing and saying, there’s that kid that scored that amazing goal against Paraguay.’

  ‘Is that who you’re playing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Over there? In Paraguay?’

  ‘No, here, at Wembley.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said, ‘I’ll be able to come.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Course,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss that amazing world-class goal, would I?’ She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Are you nervous?’

  Funnily enough he wasn’t. He was relaxed now. More relaxed than he could remember being for a long time. The warm energy from her body had infiltrated his willing flesh and unwound him. It felt so good lying here with her; it felt so right. He stared at her bedroom ceiling and thought about how many nights she would have lain here, the dreams she might have had.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good.’

  Her hand reached across the bed and found his.

  Oh God. He was going to tell her. A shard of clarity cut through his fear. This was it, this was the moment. ‘Layla?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  Out with it, like a splinter. Now it was really here it wasn’t as hard as he’d always thought it would be. ‘I love you, you know.’

  ‘I love you too, babe.’

  Huh? What did that mean? He sat upright. ‘But … no …’

  A shout from downstairs. Next door. His nan. ‘Joe? Joe! It’s on. It’s on the radio.’

  Layla pinged up from the bed. Layla who had finally told him exactly what he wanted to hear, that she loved him too, though he seemed as far away from being with her as ever. She refreshed the page on the internet and there they were. ‘Here!’ she said. The sixteen names that would face Paraguay next month in the Under-21s World Cup qualifier.

  Sixteen names.

  None of them Joe’s.

  Samantha stared at Sky Sports News in disbelief, her silly little espresso frozen halfway to her mouth, which fell open in shock. Joe was a better player than at least three of the five forwards that had been selected. No question. They had made an enormous mistake. But there was nothing she could do about it.

  Bugger. Her strategy for Joe’s career relied heavily on some sort of international recognition. Without that nobody would care about some teenage striker playing in Poland’s second city for a team that were struggling to stay in the top half of the domestic league. She had been so sure that he would be selected. She had delayed her return to Poland so that she’d be around for all the press an England Under-21s call-up would attract. Now she was stuck in England with nothing to do. The chaps from the FA had made all the right noises, the tapes she had sent had been well received from what little feedback she’d been able to gather and she had been confidently waiting for the nod. And now what? Now nothing.

  It was a serious setback. For both of them.

  Later the senior England squad would be announced and there was an infinitesimal glimmer that Gabe might be named in the team, but it was no more than that. Unlike the youngsters’, the senior squad’s match was a must-win fixture thanks to some lacklustre performances up to this point, and so it was not the time to be trying out new faces to see how they fitted. No, Gabe had next to no chance, which meant that Samantha Sharp’s client list wouldn’t contain a single well-known name, merely a few players from Eastern and Central Europe, the best kid nobody had ever heard of and a guy that once scored a hat-trick in an FA Cup tie. It was not the stuff of legends.

  The transfer window loomed large in front of her. Trying to kick down doors she had hoped would be opened wide. She wasn’t even sure she had the energy to try.

  But no matter how bad she felt she knew there would be one person who would be worse. What a kick in the gut.

  Poor Joe. He would be feeling dreadful.

  *

  Gabe didn’t even notice that his good friend Joe had failed to make the squad. It was Christine who pointed it out to him. Gabe hardly ever watched the news from back home any more, but his wife was addicted to the satellite television in their hotel suite. So much so that he was prepared to use it as a bargaining chip if she started going on about buying a house again.

  ‘Have you spoken
to him?’ she said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom and watching Gabe apply gel to his hair in an effort to drag it forward over his thinning temples. ‘He must be gutted.’

  ‘I think he’s back in the UK,’ said Gabe. ‘He’ll be fine. Come on, I’m starving.’

  Downstairs, in the less formal of the two hotel restaurants Christine was greeted by name. ‘Ms Muswell,’ said a young waiter, ‘lovely to see you again. Come with me, the window table is free.’

  Gabe stopped and stared.

  ‘What?’ said Christine. ‘You’re out all day. I come here a lot, get coffee or whatever, read a newspaper, a book.’

  ‘In Polish?’

  ‘There’s a shop on the square that sells plenty of English papers, books too.’

  ‘And what’s this “Ms” crap? It’s Mrs Muswell, Mrs. Why didn’t you correct him?’

  ‘I think it’s just the way he pronounces it, Gabe.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Gabe grumbled. The waiter was far too good-looking to be chatting up his wife. Under his crisp white shirt his arms bulged with muscles and he could see the faint shadow of a tattoo. Funny, he’d never really noticed that the waiters in this place were as good-looking as the waitresses.

  They settled at their table, a fine table with views onto the pretty courtyard garden, shaded and still dusty with frost. When the waiter came back to take their order Christine made a point of introducing her husband. And the bastard sneered at him. At him! Gabe Muswell, White Stars star. Then he turned his back on Gabe to talk to Christine and started asking her about some Japanese museum he’d recommended, and she wittered on about the art like Gabe wasn’t even there.

  He took her out for lunch and this was the thanks he got?

  ‘I’ll have the hamburger,’ interrupted Gabe.

  Christine broke off mid-sentence, darted a look at her husband and glanced down at her menu. ‘The pierogi,’ she said, ‘w boleta.’

  Great, now not only was his wife talking to another man, she was talking in a language he couldn’t even understand. He was relieved when the waiter left them alone.

  ‘You two seem pretty pally,’ he said.

  ‘I told you, I come here a lot.’

  ‘Well, I wanted a special lunch, just the two of us, so lay off the locals for a while, okay?’

  ‘If you wanted it to be special,’ she said, ‘you should have brought me somewhere else.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know this was your local?’

  ‘We live upstairs, Gabe! This is the hotel restaurant. How much more local can you get?’

  ‘Point taken.’ He grinned. He didn’t want them to bicker. Apart from Joe he hadn’t made a single friend, and while Christine was discovering the museums and the city of Krakow he was stuck out at the stadium either training or winding down in the bar. He had a day off today and so he wanted this lunch to be special. Even if she did know the waiting staff by name.

  His hamburger came, and her anaemic-looking dumplings in a thick grey sauce.

  ‘Can I try one?’ he said, and made a crap joke about Polish delicacies being grey and leaden.

  She didn’t laugh.

  He had a couple of drinks with lunch and so when she wanted to take a walk around the city park he cried off. He’d much rather wait in their hotel room and watch the news for a while.

  ‘When do they announce the senior England squad?’ she asked.

  ‘A few hours,’ he said. ‘But I’m not getting called up, no way. Don’t get your hopes up, will you?’

  He couldn’t possibly be that lucky. More to the point, he didn’t deserve it. He’d had a chance, just a tiny one, but somehow he’d blown it. Again.

  Gabe had long been proud of his easy-going nature. Only now, as he approached middle age like a runaway bus, did he realize that his lassitude might be his downfall.

  Later, lying there listening to the voice of BBC News as it bounced around the hotel room that they had never quite managed to move out of, a last flicker of hope teased him … One big surprise in the squad …

  His heart raced as he thought maybe, just maybe …

  The one they’ll all be talking about …

  Gabe Muswell?

  Was the inclusion of little-known newcomer …

  Say it.

  Seventeen-year-old Josef Wandrowszcki …

  A barrage of emotions assaulted him. Disappointment, regret and a modicum of pride, all of them swiftly burnt away by searing and overwhelming jealousy.

  Joe was living the life that should have been his.

  Samantha was stunned, utterly stunned, when she heard Joe’s name on the news. Not for a moment had she contemplated that Joe might leapfrog his way into the senior England squad.

  She froze, and yelped aloud.

  Joe?

  She had been listening for a miracle, for a call-up for Gabe, a call-up that many would say was unwise.

  But Joe?

  It happened sometimes. Young players were too good for the Under-21 squad and ready for the enormous challenge of the bigger stage. Players, it would seem, like Joe. It was an affirmation of what she’d thought the very first moment that she saw him. That one day he would play in front of the entire world.

  Everything changed starting now. She braced herself for the phone to ring. This was exactly what she needed to claw her way back to the big boys’ table. She would be Sam Sharp: Superagent once again because she had the hottest name in the game. She, and she alone, was representing the player that would be on every football fan’s lips, on every back page and on every manager’s wish list. Joe who?

  … Seventeen-year-old Josef Wandrowszcki has been enjoying a superb season as one of the top goalscorers in the Polish domestic league and scored both goals for the Krakow White Stars in last month’s UEFA Cup group stage. Eligible for England duty by virtue of his English father …

  The newscast cascaded over her groundswell of professional pride.

  ‘Ohmigoodness, ohmigoodness, ohmigoodness!’ Layla barrelled through the back of the house next door like a wild thing.

  ‘Layla, dear, whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Jooooooooe?!’

  He came thundering down the stairs and for once didn’t give a moment’s thought to what it meant if he held her. He threw himself at Layla, lifted her clean off her feet and spun her round in the middle of his nan’s kitchen.

  ‘Ohmigoodness!’ she said.

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Will someone tell me what in heaven’s name is going on?’ said his nan, impatient and excluded.

  ‘En-ger-land!’ sang Joe. ‘En-ger-land! En-ger-land, la la!’

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ said Layla, and she kissed him, full on the mouth, a smacker. Closed mouth, not at all sexy.

  Their first kiss.

  He would have preferred that it wasn’t in front of his nan.

  He hoped that the way he stopped mid-twirl and froze like an imbecile wasn’t too obvious. He avoided her eyes and lowered her to the floor and twirled his nan rather more sedately. ‘I made the England squad, Nan, not the Under-21s, the proper one.’

  ‘With David Beckham?’

  He laughed. ‘With David Beckham, yeah.’

  ‘I knew there must have been some kind of mistake yesterday,’ she said, nodding with understated satisfaction. ‘Well done, love.’

  ‘Joe!’ said Layla, who was now jumping from foot to foot and clapping her hands like a seal. ‘Ohmigoodness, Joe!’ She was incapable of saying much more.

  He stood in the middle of the room and threw his arms in the air, flung his head back and let this marvellous moment wash over him, breathing the deep soulful breaths of the truly happy.

  He thought of his mum back in Poland, and he thought of his dad. ‘That’s my son,’ he could say now, and would too. The thought of making his dad proud brought the first tears to his eyes and they filled up as he stared at the ceiling above him.

  Ohmigoodness seemed about the right word for it.

  Headfuck would b
e another.

  ‘I want to call Dad,’ he said.

  Samantha’s fingers flew happily over a hasty press release like a pianist in the throes of exaltation. She knew enough about Joe to draft something to keep the press at bay for the time being. What was the name of that pretty blonde girl that he had brought to the party? Layla. That’s right. Should she mention Layla? No, best not, these teenage romances had a tendency to flare and fade. Who knows? Joe might want to keep his options open. As of now he was officially a stud.

  Word was already out that she was the point person for the new boy. She fielded calls as she worked, loving every minute of the matchless high that being this busy gave her. For the first time in several days she forgot about the look on Liam’s face the last time she’d seen him.

  ‘Yes, there’s a press release on the way to you. No, no interviews. He’s in Poland right now … well, because that’s where he lives.’

  She knew she was misdirecting them, but it didn’t really matter and she hadn’t yet been able to speak to Joe. He was in England as far as she knew, but the number she had for him in West Sussex was engaged every time she tried to call. Hardly surprising – he would probably be inundated with congratulations. This was the first of many great days to come. Why ruin it with a press siege? The last thing anyone needed was a gaggle of reporters descending on the kid out there. Because he was a kid. He might be about to play for England, but he was a kid nonetheless.

  Over in Poland she made sure that Leanne was toeing the party line. ‘Just send them the release and tell them he’s not doing any press for the time being.’

  ‘You think that will stall them?’ asked Leanne. ‘What if they all jump on the next easyJet?’

  ‘Tell them he’ll be doing a press conference back in England, back home.’

  ‘Back home, like it.’

  ‘Thanks. Other than that you’ll just have to say no comment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll pretend my English is a bit ropey,’ said Leanne. ‘That’ll stop them asking too many questions. Ja, ja, mi scusi, that kind of thing.’ It was half German, half Italian, not at all Polish and it would probably work quite well.