Dirty Bad Strangers (23 page)

This was for the best. The sensible option. End on a high, right?

But this was no high. This was the fucking pits.

I scrolled to his name on my phone, desperate to hear his voice one last time.

No. That would be crazy.

I pressed delete instead. Temptation removed. Forever.

***

Jason

“Come on, Redfern! He strolled straight fucking past you!” Trevor shook his head, shot me one of his looks. “Keep your eye on the fucking ball, lad.”

The weather befitted my mood. Grey as fuck. Cold and pissing drizzly. I couldn’t even pretend to care about this training shit. We’d been here since bastard dawn, practicing for the next shitty game against Newcastle. Two days without my dirty girl and life was fucking sour. I’d tried to forget about her, struggling to lose the itch with an overdose of porn and chatline girls. None of it had worked. The itch ran way too fucking deep for that. She’d squirmed all the way inside and left a bitter fucking ache in my gut.

The ball headed in my direction and I booted it wide, sailing it past Winstanley’s head to bounce off the side rail.

“Pissing hell, Redfern. Did you wake up on the wrong side of April this morning, you clumsy shit?”

Lunch couldn’t come soon enough. I checked my phone, heart stuttering to see a load of missed calls. Numbers I didn’t recognise.

I checked my answerphone, hoping to hell it would be my dirty girl’s voice waiting for me.

It wasn’t. It was so much worse.

It was Caroline Vaughan from Gables PR.

Jason, please call me. I’ve had the Daily Times on the phone seeking comment on an article that went to press this morning. About a chatline girl? Call me, urgently.

Another one. April.

Oh my fucking God, Jason, you fucking asshole! You absolute cunt! It’s all over the fucking news. I’m a fucking laughing stock. Don’t even bother coming home, you worthless piece of shit.

My blood turned to ice as I checked the third voicemail.

Mr Redfern, it’s Gareth here at the Daily Times. We’d really like to know your side of the story about your relationship with Gemma Taylor. Please call, the number is...

I hung up. Pulse loud in my ears. Not as loud as the baying laughter from the canteen. I turned the corner to find the whole squad crushed around a table. A mass of faces grinned at me as I made my way over, until Fernandez picked up a paper and held it open for me.

My Gemma’s beautiful green eyes looked out at me, an old photo most likely. Her hair was wild and messy, her freckles dark against her skin. Another one behind it, an unflattering snap of her bending over to blow out birthday candles.

Chatline chubster in Premier League scandal.

Winstanley waved another tabloid piece of shit, showing just the front page.
Redfern scores... BIG!

My dirty girl on the cover, another shot of her from a bad angle, and me. Walking through her yard, oblivious to the camera, a bunch of fucking roses in my hand.

I already knew what was coming when they held up the third paper. That blonde bitch, Chelsea, looking all fucking sad in her Singers scarf.
I thought he wanted me, but he was after my fat friend the whole time.

My blood fucking boiled. I’d been watched. Of course I’d been watched. How could I have been so fucking stupid?

“Didn’t know you were a chubby chaser, Redfern.” Fernandez had a stupid grin on his face. “I bet she oinked like a fucking piggy.
Do my fat pussy and call me lardy, oh yeah, baby, fuck me. My chubby cunt’s all hungry for you, baby.
”

There was a roar of laughter until I tore him from his feet. He was flat to the wall in a heartbeat, eyes big and wild as he flailed around.

“Don’t you ever,
ever
fucking speak about her like that again. Understand? I’ll tear your fucking spleen out.”

Hands pulled me away. Lots of hands.

Calm down, Jase, it’s only a bit of banter.

Chill the fuck out, mate.

Leave it, Redfern, calm the fuck down, man.

He’s only joking. It’s just a fucking laugh.

I shrugged them off, muscles wired and ready to fight. That fucking bitch. That nasty, devious, spiteful fucking bitch. I thought of my poor Gemma. Did she know? Was she hiding under the covers as chaos broke all around her?

I daren’t call. Who knows who she’d be with, she’d probably hate the sound of my name, hate that she’d ever met me. The ache in my stomach got worse, so much worse.

Fuck knows how I got through the afternoon, but the gates were teeming with press as I left the ground. They followed me all the way home, pulling up at the bottom of the drive and aiming their fucking lenses at the house.

April was waiting. She threw a vase at my head the moment I stepped over the threshold, screaming blue murder as it smashed in the doorframe. She was going for another as I reached her, pinning her arms at her sides as she hissed obscenities in my face.

“You stupid prick, Jason, you stupid, selfish fucking prick!”

“You knew,” I snapped. “You knew I’d met someone.”

“Not some fat fucking slag! Some hideous fucking troll straight out of a fucking fat-o-gram catalogue!”

“She’s not a fat slag and she’s no fucking troll, either. She’s beautiful, funny,
real
. Everything you’re not. Everything I’ve never fucking had.”

Her eyes flew wide. “You stupid wanker! She’s laughing at you, laughing at us! I bet she can’t believe her fucking luck.”

“I doubt that, April. I’ve ruined her fucking life.” I let go of April’s arms. Pacing. Hands in my hair. Thinking. Thinking.

“You’ll tell those reporters out there that it’s a load of shit. You’ll laugh and tell them she’s a joke. You’ll tell them you’d never consider fucking a fat girl like that, and you’ll make them believe you. PR will take care of the rest. We’ll make the world believe us. I mean, it’s impossible. As if you’d ever cheat on me with a woman like that.”

“I’ll never say those things, April, never. The few weeks I spent with Gemma were better than a whole fucking lifetime with a nasty bitch like you.”

“You will say those things, Jason. You’ll say them or it’s over. I’ll throw you to the fucking wolves, and you can say goodbye to your sponsorships, and your big career comeback at thirty fucking three. You can say goodbye to the house as well, you’ll be fucked. Dragging my name through the mud like this, any fool’s going to award me what’s mine.”

I went through to the dining room, poured myself a big old shot of whisky as she trailed behind. “Gemma’s done nothing wrong. This is that bitch friend of hers again, Chelsea.”

“Who gives a fuck whose fault this is?! It needs sorting out. Us or them!”

I fixed her in the darkest stare. “I’m not going to say a word against Gemma, not for the sponsorship deals, not for the sake of my career, and certainly not for you.”

I think her stare was even darker than mine.

“Then it’s war, Jason Redfern, you dumb fucking shit. I’ll take you for everything you’ve fucking got, I fucking promise you that.”

***

Gemma

I kept away from the windows, counting my breaths. In for seven out for eleven. Don’t fucking lose it, Gemma Taylor, keep your fucking nerve.

I’d already switched the intercom off, turned my phone to silent and disabled my social media profiles. I’d amassed hundreds of messages, reams of venom in mere hours. A nightmare brought to life. My frantic parents on the phone, full of questions I could hardly bear to answer.

Yes, it’s true. Yes, I met Jason Redfern. And I liked him, I really liked him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all this.

And they’d sighed, and cursed Chelsea and said she’d always been the same. And then they’d told the journalists outside to get the fuck away from their house in no uncertain terms.

I’d fired off just one text before abandoning my phone. Chelsea.

Why? How could you??? I have no words!

I wondered if she felt guilty. Sobbing into her fucking cash, maybe. Lining up the topless shoots, no doubt.

Tessa was white as a sheet by the time she made it inside at the end of college. She stood with her mouth open, gathering her breath before grabbing me for a hug.

“Fucking hell, Gem. I didn’t think she’d stoop so low. Are you ok? It’s like a circus out there.”

And I cried, fuck how I cried, blowing out snot bubbles and past even caring. “How could she? Why?”

“Thirty grand is why. She graced me with a text. Only the one, though. I’m so sorry, Gemma. I didn’t know. She said she was going home to get some space, said she’d be ok on her own. I didn’t even think.”

“It’s not your fault. How could you know?”

“She’s Chelsea Rawlings. Jealousy makes her insane.” Tessa pulled me onto the sofa and stroked my hair. “Remember when you won that summer dance competition? I thought she was actually going to stab you with her twirly stick. If she could have sold you out then for thirty grand it would have happened a lot sooner.”

I snort-laughed through the tears. “She didn’t speak to me for three weeks straight.”

“She’ll come crawling for forgiveness this time, too.”

“She won’t get any. I’m fucking done with her.” My eyes streamed. “The world hates me, Tessa. The whole fucking world.”

“Not the whole world, Gem, just a load of idiots with nothing better to do. It will blow over. I doubt he’ll fuel the fire, he won’t want this to get any worse than it is already. Chelsea’s blabbed what she can, but it’s all her word besides that one cruddy photo, and let’s face it, her word doesn’t count for much.”

“I sent him away, because of this. I let him leave because I was scared, because I didn’t want this, because I didn’t want the world to know my name.”

“I know. I know.” She held me tight but it was no use, nothing could make it stop.

“It happened anyway. All of it.”

“It’s no good thinking about that now, Gemma. One day Jason Redfern will be a distant memory. I promise.”

But I didn’t want him to be a distant memory.

That was the very last thing I wanted.

***

I pulled myself into some kind of vague shape for work that evening, but I needn’t have bothered.

RS442 Gemma Taylor: Access disabled. Please contact your supervisor.

Sheena asked me to call her via messenger. Not a good sign.

“I’m sorry, Gemma, but you can’t work. Not now. The lines are ringing off the hook with idiots trying to find you, and we have to conduct an investigation. The papers say you met him through chat. You didn’t, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.”

My silence spoke volumes.

Suspended without pay, effective immediately.

The nightmare was getting a whole lot worse.

I wondered if the same was true for Jason.

***

Jason

April sat down on the sofa opposite, far out of the lamplight. I poured myself another whisky. Even in anger she had perfect features.

“Don’t start again,” I said. “I’ve had enough.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I’m tired of shouting, Jason. You never fucking listen anyway.”

“What do you want?”

Her face was drawn, like a pale sheet of paper. “Why her?”

“Why not her?”

“I’m being serious. I’ve seen the pictures, I just don’t get it.”

“You never will.”

“Try me.” She crossed her legs, tapping one foot in mid-air, over and over. “Is she a pervert, like you? Is that it? You need an ugly girl to play your sick games?”

“She’s not an ugly girl. Not even close.”

A thin smile crept across her lips. “If you say so.”

I sighed. “I met her on chatline...”

“That figures.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Do you want to know or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “Go on.”

“Gemma is funny, and sexy and vivacious. She’s natural, and she’s real. She doesn’t have any bullshit expectations, or stupid ideals. She’s just her. I find her beautiful.”

“And she’s a pervert? She must be.”

“That’s none of your business.”

She groaned. “I can’t believe your twisted needs landed us here again, I thought you were done with all that.”

“She’s different.”

“Yes, she is. I’ll give you that.” She checked her nail polish. “I was angry earlier. You know as well as I do this can’t be over. We’ve too much invested. Another decent season at the club could set us both up, I’ve got the Cherry Electric reunion tour brewing, you’ve got your sponsorships,
if
we manage to keep them. We need another twelve months.”

My heart fell through the floor. “We don’t need another twelve months. We both need out. The sooner the better.”

“You still aren’t going to sign the house over, though, are you? I don’t want to drag this through court, Jason. The humiliation is bad enough already.”

I could feel my jaw tensing. “What are you angling for, April?”

“I’m angling for an agreement to ride this shit out for twelve more months. I’ll set up a meeting with PR tomorrow.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m not saying a word against Gemma. Not one word.”

“You won’t have to. PR will say it all for you. We just ride it out, scoff about the rumours, claim you were visiting some poor fan who’d been ill or some crap.”

I smiled at the absurdity. “Nobody would believe that.”

“Everyone will believe that. Nobody wants to believe Jason Redfern, national superstar, had a seedy affair with some chatline girl. Fat girls having sex makes people uncomfortable. They’ll laugh about it, but they won’t believe it, not really. She’ll be a storm in a teacup, and it’ll be the best thing you can do for her.”

I didn’t want to believe her, but the fucking bitch was right. Shallow-arsed fucking losers and their online trolling. The sooner this scandal crap could blow over the sooner Gemma could get her life back. Hell, I wanted that. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve spent years surrounded by women who only want me because of who I am. How ironic that the one girl who really means anything is the one who finds the celebrity a deal breaker.”

April’s laugh was loud in the room. “
She
ditched
you
?”

“Yes. That’s the kind of girl she is.”

“She sounds a real catch,” she scoffed. “Do we have a fucking deal or not?”

***

Gemma

I holed up tight in the apartment, relying on Tessa for packets of noodles and junk food. The reporters were still outside, but they were thinning out as the days went on. Soon they’d grow tired, just like everyone else. Or so I hoped.

The abuse raged on online. Jason’s Twitter and Facebook feeds were filled with the usual football news, but the comments underneath continued to spout venom. So many times I thought about sending a message, but figured it was almost certainly a publicity company behind his profiles. I just wanted to hear his voice, see how he was doing.

They weren’t all bad guys. The threads would be peppered with friendlier voices, kind souls offering a well-meaning balance to the venom. Sometimes they would make me cry, heartfelt pleas to see beyond the smoke and mirrors, beyond Photoshop and designer clothes and to judge a person for what’s inside.

Underneath my die hard realism, I harboured secret fantasies that Jason Redfern would charge into the virtual cesspit and leap to my defence. Those fantasies were ridiculous, of course. He maintained radio silence, and I didn’t blame him. I was doing the same.

The offers flooded in, of course, obscene sums for a no-holds-barred kiss and tell. I gave them short shrift. I’d be on the streets long before that ever happened, and I had a fair way to go before that point, even if chatline permanently terminated my contract.

I wasn’t prepared at all when the call came in. A number I didn’t recognise, ringing repeatedly over and over without leaving a voicemail. I answered gingerly, hoping against hope that it was one of the chatline bosses trying to get hold of me, but fully prepared to cancel the call in a heartbeat should it be one of the tabloid vultures. It was neither.

My heart was in my mouth as I heard his voice.

“Don’t hang up. Please.”

“Jason...”

“I wanted to call sooner, but I’ve had people all over me like a rash. How are you holding up? Please tell me you’re ok.”

I wasn’t ok, tears already welling up, but I wasn’t going to burden him with that shit. “I’m ok.”

He sighed in relief. “Good. I tried your chatline number. Disconnected.”

“I’ve been suspended. Breach of contract.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” His voice was so sad. “Do you need money?”

The offer smarted, although it was well meaning. “I’m fine. It’s temporary, I hope.”

“I’m so sorry about all this, Gemma. I didn’t mean any of this to happen.”

I couldn’t resist laughing, a horrible resigned laugh. “It’s not your fault I have a horrible, selfish bitch of a friend, Jason. I should be apologising to you.”

“Please don’t.” I could feel him smile. “I miss you. Please don’t let any of that shit in the papers get to you, it’s all bullshit.”

The lump in my throat made my words crackly. “You should go. You must be busy. I watched the game on Saturday, on the TV.”

“I wish you’d have watched a better one, I played like shit.”

“You looked amazing.”

“I don’t feel amazing.”

Neither do I.
I kept quiet. “I see April’s putting on the face, I hope you manage to keep it together. You know, for the house and everything.”

“I don’t give a shit about the house, Gemma.” I heard him scrape his fingers through his hair. “I have to go, we’re training hard. Seems all the big games spring up at once.”

“Thanks for calling.”

“Thanks for answering.”

So much I wanted to say, but I said none of it. The call end tone hit like a sucker punch, twisting my stomach to shit.

Cara and Raven ventured out my end of town, calling in with a couple of bottles of wine and armfuls of sympathy.

“Motherfuckers, those journalists, all of them,” Raven spat. “I hate the sons of bitches. Never a good word to say about anyone, not until they’re dead or part of their backhanded political agenda.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “But they’re pretty nasty. They seem to love April Redfern, at least.”

“Only because she’s their victim,” Cara said. “They love a good sob story.”

“Maybe.” The wine went down a treat. “He called me.”

Two pairs of eyebrows shot up. “He did?”

“Just to see how I was.”

Cara practically pounced on me. “Did you tell him you missed him? Please tell me you did.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t say much. Wish I’d said more.”

“Call him back!”

“Maybe one day soon. He might be with her, or with his teammates, I don’t want to cause him any problems.”

“So text him.”

A niggle in my stomach, the same one I’d had for says. “I dunno.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Cara said. “You miss him, don’t you?”

I smiled my sad smile again. “All the time.”

I wished I could tell them, tell them how scared I was, how scared of the rejection, and the embarrassment and all the crap the papers had printed. Scared that he’d see me like they did, one day if not today. Scared he’d already moved on, onto another chatline girl, someone thinner this time, someone prettier. Someone who wasn’t plastered all over the papers.

Cara seemed to sense the need for a conversation change. I was grateful. “When are you coming back to dance?”

I shrugged. “This year, next year, sometime never.”

“We can keep those assholes out.”

“Not all the way through London.”

“Get a taxi.”

I didn’t want to tell her I was saving money. Didn’t want to tell her how many weeks I had left before I was flat out broke. “I’ll think about it.”

She smiled. “You can’t hole yourself up in here forever, Figi. You’re much too precious for that.” She stared at Raven for long seconds. “We could bring a pole, one of the portable ones... we could practice here.”

Raven nodded. “That could work.”

I felt myself blush. “You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s our big night in three weeks. We definitely do,” Cara smiled.

I stared in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” she grinned. “Even if I have to drag you. You need this, Figi, trust me. You need to get out there again. Don’t think we can’t see how badly this shit has shaken you up.”

“Come on,” Raven said. “Don’t let those assholes get you beat.”

It felt a little late for the advice, but I smiled anyway. Maybe a practice or two wouldn’t be too horrible.

I’d rain check on burlesque night, though. Most definitely.

***

Jason

I was drinking too much and sleeping too little, listening to April’s PR master plan every time she could get me in earshot without so much as an iota of enthusiasm.
Call your rep, set up a meeting, they can co-ordinate with mine, Jason. For fuck’s sake, pull your fucking finger out, will you?

Life on the pitch wasn’t much better. Newcastle had hammered us five nil. Trevor was losing patience, snapping at my lacklustre footwork, my lack of drive.

“Get with it or get off the fucking pitch!”

I gritted my teeth and carried on, but still I played like shit. He cursed as I sent another ball wide, throwing his clipboard to the ground and ordering me off pitch.

“One more screw up, lad, one more and I’ll be pulling you from the Birmingham game on Saturday. I fucking mean it. We’ve got good players on the bench desperate for a shot, and you can’t even pretend to be fucking interested.”

“Life’s a bit fucking tough right now, Trev. Cut me some slack, will you? I’ll be good for the fucking game.”

“Best had be.” He eyeballed me. “Away game, Jase, tough fucking crowd. You up to it? Can you keep your head? I heard what happened with Fernandez in the canteen last week. Can’t have a 90s replay of some footballer going loopy and dropkicking a gobshite over the barrier, even if they ask for it.”

I managed a smile. “I’ll keep my head.”

“Hope so. You’ve had a great run second half of this season, lad, enough to get a contract proposal to the board for approval. It’s up in the air, but it’s on the table. Show me you’re worth it.”

I wished I cared more, hoping my thankful pat on the arm conveyed more than my dour expression. “Thanks, Trev.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Redfern. Just get out there on Saturday and show those blue fucking assholes how to play football, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I hoped I wasn’t lying.

I sat at the front of the tour bus while the team chanted and bayed behind me. A handful of games left to secure my next season and I couldn’t find even a scrap of enthusiasm. I pictured my dad in the stands, egging me on, and felt like a twat as the grief caught me off guard. So many games he hadn’t been around to see, this was only one of many. No better, no worse. All these years I’d been doing this for him, playing harder, playing faster, playing better. For what? To end up in the football hall of fame as a defender that was good once upon a time? Maybe they could put a plaque at the house when I was long gone. Jason Redfern lived here, and he was thoroughly fucking miserable for it. God rest his merry soul.

I hoped Gemma’s family were around for her. I’d seen them in my Facebook feed, only fleetingly while her dad gave an almighty bollocking to some loser reporter for Morning Wake Up Live, but enough to clock that he looked formidable. Probably hated me and the rain of shit I’d brought down on her. I don’t know why the thought hurt so bad, but it sure didn’t help my mood any. I was stormy as thunder by the time we reached the game, more so as I saw the fucking WAG-mobile turn up and unload all the fucking hangers on. April waved across the car park, stupid trendy shades covering half her face. I didn’t wave back.