Dirty Bad Strangers (24 page)

We talked strategy in the dressing room, but I only had half an ear open. A half-decent smile for my kid mascot and I was on the pitch to the team anthem, taking up position and doing my best not to spy April in the fucking VIP box.

I waited for the whistle.

Time to get this shit on the road.

***

Gemma

I sat down to the game with a cushion clutched to my chest and a big old packet of popcorn at my side. I was still in my PJs on a Saturday afternoon, hair so curly I couldn’t even run my fingers through it. The lack of routine was becoming too familiar. Too easy.

“That him?” Tessa asked, grabbing the popcorn.

I pointed to the figure in red and white just as the camera zoomed in on him. “That’s him.”

“Nice,” she said. “Go Singers!”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Tess. I know you took the day off.”

“Nah, I didn’t. It was just how the rota fell.” She was a crappy liar. “You’ll have to explain how the game works, I have no fucking clue.”

I laughed, and it felt good. “Me neither. Where’s Chelsea where you need her, hey? Oh wait, she’s down the newspaper office selling me out for a quick buck.”

“The bitch sent me a text the other day. Says she feels bad. She was hurt, she said, and desperate for the money. Claims she didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t give a shit,” I said. “We’re done. Forever. Over.”

“Forever?”

“Definitely forever.” I passed her the popcorn. “This PJ monster look is all her fault. That’s not the kind of shit you can forget easily.”

Tessa shot me a smile, and it was a warm one. “It’s nice to hear you sounding like you again. You had me worried awhile there, thought you were all goofed up.”

“Only so many times you can hear you’re a fat, ugly, useless, bed-wrecking demon before you toughen up.”

“Only three reporters outside this morning. I think you’ve broken them.”

The game interrupted our conversation, Birmingham were charging down the pitch, straight for Jason. He reached their striker in a few long paces, barging him off the ball before he had chance to shoot. The ref didn’t look happy, granting a free kick. The camera zoomed in and Jason was scowling, jaw tight. His eyes were sunken and dark, his hair wild. My heart thumped in my ribcage. I’d read the news, I knew how important these next few games were. Make or break, they said, next year’s contract or retirement.

“He doesn’t look full of the joys of spring,” Tess remarked. “He could probably do with a PJ party, too.”

The crowd went wild as Birmingham scored from the free kick, and the cameras tailed Jason as he skulked around the pitch with his hands in his hair, shaking his head. His manager looked livid, other players, too. My breath hitched as the camera cut to a serene looking April in the stands. Her expression gave nothing away, not even a hint of frustration.

“I guess that was bad,” Tess said. “He gave them that goal, didn’t he?”

“Looked that way.” I bounced in my seat. “Come on, Jason!”

By half time I was watching the game through my fingers. He was an angry bear on the pitch, leaping this way and that with jagged paces. Even I could see he was going in heavy, charging after the ball without a care for who was in front of it. He got a yellow card before the whistle blew and he didn’t even argue it, stomping back to position with a scowl.
Come on, Jason!

I thought he’d pulled his shit together as the team regrouped, but the Birmingham fans started up with their chanting and the camera cut to Jason to find his face like death. That’s when I made out the words.

Chubby, chubby chaser, Redfern, Redfern! Chubby chubby, likes them blubby. Chubby, chubby chaser Redfern, Redfern.

My cheeks were scorching, and I died inside, cringing for him. He reacted aggressively, gritting his jaw as Birmingham came in for another attempt on goal. Even I could see the tackle was going to go bad, he was going too fast, his leg outstretched and muscles taut as he collided with the Birmingham striker. The guy hit the deck hard, rolling in agony as Jason’s studs crashed into his knee.

An accident.

A bad accident.

I held my breath as Jason got to his feet. He was fine. The other guy not so much, he writhed around the floor as the stretcher came for him. His leg looked fucked up, bent at a funny angle as they took him away.

The crowd went crazy with their boos, hissing and screaming as Jason walked the pitch.

I waited for it, breath loud in my ears as the crowd bayed for blood. The ref deliberated, but not for long, unveiling the inevitable as even Tessa let out a gasp.

Red card.

Oh fucking shit.

***

Gemma

The papers ate Jason alive, like they needed any more ammunition to tear him down. Pictures of Mulrooney’s battered leg showed its ugly face across the internet, and oh how the haters cried for blood. Jason’s club were surprisingly supportive, spouting the official line that it was a tackle gone bad, with no ill intent.
These things happen.
It was true enough, as well. These things did happen, I was sure of it. It didn’t stop them going after him, though.

I tried to call him, but his new number went straight to voicemail. The papers had largely given me up to the ghosts, enough that I answered another strange number as it came through.

Another familiar voice, but this time it wasn’t Jason.

“Gemma? Sorry, this is gonna sound all fucking freaky like, but it’s Steve. Jason’s mate. He’d throw a fucking fit if he knew I was calling you.”

I smiled as though he was a long lost cousin. “Hi, Steve.”

“Has he called you?”

“Once, a little while back. I tried his number, but couldn’t reach him.”

“Yeah, me neither. He’s gone right off the radar this time. Got a text as he left the game yesterday, then nothing. This red card shit’s got him real good, thinks he’s trashed that kid’s career.”

“Has he?”

I heard him sigh. “I dunno. Weren’t his fault, like. Shit like this happens. But it’s his dad, you know? Takes this stuff hard.”

I chanced my arm. “What happened with his dad?”

“He didn’t tell you?” I heard the reservation in his voice.

“Not all that much conversation you can have when you’re blindfolded with a stranger...”

“Yeah, I guess.” I heard him take a drag on a cigarette. “His dad was his biggest supporter, mad for the game, like. Pretty much raised Jase to be a die-hard fan, you know? Pushed him, got him decent coaching, eventually got him signed for Tottenham Youth. Old man bloody loved it.”

“He must have been really proud.”

“Aye, he was, yeah. Only then that dickhead manager came in and dropped Jase from the squad. His old man was fucking gutted. Tried to hide it, like, but he took it real hard. Weren’t quite the same after that. Nobody got any warning about the heart attack. Ron was tough as old boots, smoker and drinker, but no more than a lot of them. Took him straight out when he was watching the Singers on TV. Right in front of Jase, his mum, too. Singers were always his team, see.”

I could hardly breathe. “That’s awful.”

“Aye, it was, yeah. Jase picked himself up, like, made it his mission to make his dad proud. Worked like a crazy animal, making his way up those lower divisions. When the Singers took him he was happy as a pig in shit, only by then it was never good enough. Playing for the England squad pleased him for a while, then making captain. Marrying April did it for a while, then buying that big old fucking mansion and stocking up his garages. Dunno when it all stopped working, but he ain’t been right since. Never seen him so happy as he was around you. You did something to him, see. Made him feel alive again, dirty bastard.”

It ached, hard, right in the pit of me. “What can I do, Steve? I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know what I can say. I don’t even know what I can offer him. I’m just an overweight redhead, who’s now unemployed as well.”

He stewed awhile on the line. I let him think. “Gemma, can you get to Cobham?”

“I guess, by train.”

“The training ground is on Wycombe Road. Past the main entrance there’s the player’s car park. It’s all fenced off, but there’s gaps, enough for fans to get autographs. There’s often a crowd of them hanging around, waiting. Get there early, seven in the morning or thereabouts. Talk to him. Tomorrow if poss, he’ll be in for a meeting, definitely.”

“Reporters will be swarming the place.”

“Take a disguise, I dunno, a hat or something. A big jumper and an autograph pad, that should do it. Do it soon, though, he’s got a two-game suspension but he’ll still be training, unless they drop him, that is.”

“Surely they won’t?”

I heard him stub his cigarette out. “I hope not.”

I checked my laptop for train times while he was on the line. Nothing ideal. Too early. “He might not even want to see me.”

“He’ll want to see you. He just might not know it yet.”

I smiled. “Why are you doing this, Steve? He might kick your ass for interfering.”

“Maybe,” he laughed. “I’m his mate, always have been. Do what’s best for your mates, don’t you?”

Guess he’d never had a friend like Chelsea.

Lucky him.

***

The pole was a wobbly, creaky mess in my living room, even though Cara assured me it was perfectly safe. I took her word for it, and with a bit of grumbling it stayed upright long enough for me to practice. I had to admit it felt good to be dancing again, even if it was in a cramped room on a fluffy cream carpet.

We ran through our little performance over and over, highlighting a spin here, a twirl there. Cara slowed it right down, suggesting more of a sultry feel. Sexier, hotter. I finished up with a decent burn in my limbs, my cheeks a healthy shade of pink.

“You were great!” she said. “Fantastic.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, flopping onto the sofa to catch my breath.

She sat down with a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “You’re either super good at keeping a poker face, or you haven’t been on Facebook. Which is it? Christ, I’m bursting over here!”

I shook my head. “No poker face for me. I haven’t been on Facebook since all hell broke loose. Don’t have the stomach for it.”

“I think it’s time you went back online.” There was a sparkle in her eye, the same mischievous sparkle that gave me shivers.

“Why?” I asked. “You’re weirding me out.”

“The world’s not full of assholes, Gemma, it just takes the nicer ones longer to amass a voice. They’re finding their voice now, finally. The Daily Times went all-out on the fat-hating last week, you read that, right?”

“Scanned it.” It was a cursory scan as well. The thing had turned my stomach. They’d called that Casey Hopkins bitch in for a guest column, and she’d ranted about plus size like it was a war crime or something. They’d picked on Jason more than me, in fairness, but it was a pretty brutal attack on both of us.

“The bitch asked the world a question.
Should we introduce an eyeball bleach tax for those fatties who can’t stop scoffing, and the men who convince them fat is sexy? Who are worse? Chubby eaters or chubby chasers?
”

I flinched. “Yeah, I saw that bit. Horrible cow.” They’d stuck mine and Jason’s faces over the poll options, and mine let out an oink whenever someone selected chubby eaters. I’d nearly cried over it, but I didn’t want to give the stuck-up cow the satisfaction.

“Well, the people have spoken. Turns out another poll sprung up.
Who are worse? Chubby eaters, chubby chasers, or spiteful bitches who can’t help but fat-shame?
She came in at 98% of the vote. Her next article
Why hot men should never date ugly women
got annihilated in the comments, it was a full-on freak-out, everyone and their mother posted.”

I smiled. “I haven’t seen that one.”

“What about the Twitter trend?”

I shook my head. “Last thing I saw trending was
#chubbychaser
, it was all over Jason’s feed.”

“Not anymore. There’s a new hashtag kicking off.
#loveyourcurves
. It was trending worldwide last night!”

I bloomed, happy. “That’s amazing.”

“Not as amazing as the latest variation this morning.” Cara grinned. “
#SupportGemma
.”

I laughed. “Surely not, that’s crazy. Ridiculous.”

She pulled out her phone to demonstrate, and sure enough the hashtags were trending. It felt so weird to see my name there, and weirder still to read all the positive comments. Not everyone hated. Not everyone judged. It welled me up, and Cara put an arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Figi, you’re famous, in a good way this time! This is awesome!”

“I thought everyone hated me.”

“Only the idiots ready to gore anyone who doesn’t fit the mould. It seems April Redfern isn’t so clean cut as it first appeared, apparently there are rumours of her fucking her stylist, her agent, too. Apparently there’s a sex tape buried somewhere online.”

My eyes must have been like saucers. “Are you for real?”

She nodded. “Too right I’m for real.”

I gripped my knees, steadying myself as I thought it all out. “Jason’s in a bad way, his friend Steve called me earlier.”

Her expression darkened. “I saw Jason’s face when they sent him off, it’s been playing on all the shitty news channels. Bad day for him, hey?”

“Shit day for him.” I chewed on my thumbnail. “This is a nightmare. I sent him away because I was scared of all this happening, only it happened anyway.”

“I thought you were dead set on never being a footballer’s wife?”

The idea turned my brain to mush. “I am. I
was
.”

“And now?” Chocolate pools searched for answers. “What do you want now, Figi?”

Tears again, stupid fucking tears. “I miss him so much, Cara. Ridiculous, I know.”

“Not ridiculous.” She smiled. “
Real
. It’s ok to be real, Gemma, it’s why people are rallying for you.”

I checked out the Twitter feed again and it was all so obvious, so fucking obvious. “I have to go to him. Cobham, tomorrow, like Steve said. He might not be staying, not if they bin him for the rest of the season.”

“Cobham? What time?”

“Too early to get a train. Shit, a taxi will be expensive, too.”

“You can get his autograph, right? Jason’s?”

I stared at her, puzzled. “...Yeah... I would guess so...”

“Then I might well have a solution...” She paced away to the kitchen with her phone to her ear, muttering and laughing and making little mewls that sounded suspiciously like begging. I chewed my nails, trying not to eavesdrop. “Ok, I’ve got it. Lift at six a.m. Will be quite a carful.”

“A carful?”

She nodded. “You met Cat, right? At burlesque night? Green eyes?”

“Yeah, I met her.”

“Her mum’s guy is Singers crazy! Singers and bingo, don’t ask. He’d go crazy for a Jason Redfern autograph.”

“She’s going to drive me? To Cobham? At six a.m.?”

She smiled. “Not her exactly... just wait and see.”

***