The Taming of the Bastard (8 page)

“Stop it,” I
whispered. “I’m trying to concentrate. You’re distracting me.”

A low chuckle
escaped his lips. It was guttural and deeply erotic. “Good. He’s
boring anyway.”

“What’s he
talking about? What’s a ruck?” I whispered, trying not to breathe
for fear I would suck his manliness in and become further
distracted.

“Huh?”

“A ruck?”

“Oh. It’s when
the players go to ground with the ball and the other team tries to
get it off them. Sort of. There’s a lot of laws surrounding the
ruck.” Sam looked up from the spot where he was blowing along the
vein near my nape. He was living his man-whore title to the hilt
and while I didn’t approve, I didn’t quite know how to tell him to
leave it alone. It felt good. Extremely good.

“And a
breakdown?” I asked, elbowing him to stop.

“It’s what I’m
going to have if you don’t let me kiss you soon. I am seriously hot
for you, Millie. Have been since the moment I saw you in that
little red uniform.” He gave a soft wolf-like growl that made me
quiver.

Well. Right, I
thought, sucking in a calming breath and giving him another ‘cut
that out’ dig which he ignored.

“Hey, Sam, can
you get your tongue out of that chick’s ear for a sec’ and come and
give the speech,” someone yelled across the crowd.

Sam cracked his
knuckles and, showing no sign that he was about to accost me, stood
up. “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls. Back in a minute.” He wandered
off through the crowd to stand on the rickety bench. Saved by the
bell, I straightened to listen to his speech.

“Thanks for the
game,” he began. “I can’t say we’re pleased with the outcome but
the Panthers deserved to win after their fine play in the second
half.”

I was
surprised. Sam was an eloquent speaker. Unlike the speeches I’d
heard at my cousin’s wedding, the word ‘um’ didn’t pass his lips.
He was complimenting the other team and mentioning those who
excelled. He was talking as if he’d watched every minute and knew
each player personally.

“And may I
say,” Sam finished, yelling over the cheering for Rambo who was
wending his way to the bar to accept his large beer as best player,
“You may have outclassed us on the field but our women look like
supermodels and we all have jobs.”

A stunned
silence enveloped the room. Even with my limited experience of
these people I knew it wasn’t the wisest thing to say. The black
team were looking at each other, not quite sure whether or not they
had been insulted. Then it was on for young and old.

*****

“Considering
the gravity of your statement, I think we were lucky to escape with
our faces still attached to our heads.” Rambo puffed as we leaped
into his Range Rover and sped out through the gates of the ground.
“Think you could give us a bit more warning next time you’re gonna
to start a bogan riot?”

I looked at Sam
in bewilderment. He was still laughing at his own joke.

“What did you
say that for, mate? You must have known they’d go mental.”

Sam shrugged.
“It was the truth.”

I sat in
stunned silence, my head awhirl with seven-foot bears, stolen road
signs and women who looked like supermodels. In what world was it
appropriate to be so elitist, even if it was the truth? I wanted no
part of a man who caused trouble for a lark.

“You’re, like,
such a bastard, Sam. That was, like, totally uncalled for,” Kirby
added, buckling her seatbelt though I could see from the twist of
her smile that she was chuffed about the supermodel comment.

“Bloody
hilarious, though,” Johnny laughed and rubbed his swelling nose.
“The look on their faces was priceless.”

Sam reached for
my hand between the seats and gave it a tiny squeeze. “You know
what was even funnier,” he smirked. “They’re so stupid; their wives
had to tell them I was taking the piss.”

Oh God. What
had I got myself into? These rugby bastards thought they ruled the
world. Without a word, I sat back in my seat. If he thought there
was going to be a repeat performance of this date he could think
again.

*****

My resolve,
however, seemed to be in short supply when the phone rang a few
hours later. I’d come home, changed back into my ‘work clothes’ and
was busy sorting through the children’s old toys for charity when I
heard it ring in the study. Knowing Adele was dressing for an
evening out and Brian in the sauna, I ran to answer it.

“Hello,
Richards-Shaw residence, Millie speaking.”

“Hey Millie,
it’s Sam.”

I frowned into
the phone, irked that my heart had begun to pound at the velvet
tones of his voice. Even through the phone line, he exuded a power
over me. “Hi.”

“I was just
calling to see if you enjoyed your day at the rugby.”

I didn’t know
what to say. I was still trying to make sense of the whole
adventure. What with getting dinner for the children and bathing
and bedding, I hadn’t had time to decide whether or not rugby was
to my liking. Or more importantly, if Sam was. Good looks were one
thing. Common respect was another story. “Er, ah...yes... thank
you. It was very... um... different.”

“Good. I wanted
to apologise too.”

“For?”

“The comments
about the other team. I suppose I was outta line.”

“Maybe you
should apologise to them?”

“Ha. Have you
seen their women? They’d strangle me!”

I laughed,
despite myself. Sam was trying so hard to impress me. He’d clearly
never thought about the weight of his words until now. Everything
had just been a joke.

“Well, I just
wanted to see, you know... make sure you were okay with it.”

“I’m fine,
Sam.”

“Hey listen,
you wouldn’t want to go out to dinner next Saturday would you? You
know, with some of the lads and that?”

I paused. How
could I tell him that despite our physical attraction I thought he
had the manners of a wanker, that he was possibly one of the most
overconfident, self obsessed men I had ever met? Then something
dawned on me. “Sam, how did you get this number? Adele doesn’t like
me taking personal calls on the home phone.”

“You gave it to
me when you gave me your mobile.”

“Oh.” I didn’t
remember that but then my mind had been mush since I’d met him. It
was more than likely true. “Can I let you know?”

I was playing
for time, I knew, but the idea of a team date was too much for me
to handle. God only knows what mischief they’d cause roaming in a
pack.

“We could go
for lunch, alone, if you’d be more comfortable,” Sam added, as if
sensing my apprehension. “The boys can be pretty full on.”

“Maybe, I mean,
I might have to work.”

After Sam hung
up I stared, disconcerted, at the phone. I knew I hadn’t given him
the home phone number. Adele would fire me on the spot, after
breaking every bone in my body first, that is. So how had he got
it? The Richards-Shaw’s were not listed in the phone book.
Absently, I rubbed a spot of chocolate yogurt from the receiver
where Paige had been ‘on the phone’ again. There was a lot about
Sam I wasn’t sure of.

“Millie, Millie
…There’s a funny man at the window.”

It was two
dates and three afternoons later. Adele had retired upstairs with a
cold compress to her forehead after a hectic ladies lunch with the
Breast Cancer Society. I was up to my neck in glitter glue and
yellow paint because Paige had produced a note from her school bag
dated two weeks previous. Fabulous. The note said there was an
assembly the next morning. It also said Paige had a starring role…
as The Sun, of all things. Luckily for her, though I was no cook, I
was very creative in the costume department. Casting a sun from
cardboard and paint was nothing. Except a bit of an annoyance.

“Millie!
Millie!” Paige continued, jumping like an excited puppy,
“Look!”

Ignoring her
pleas and praying it wasn’t the Adventists again (I had so much
trouble getting them out of the living room the last time) I went
on with the pasting. There was only a limited amount of time before
this costume had to be ready and knowing Paige’s exacting standards
and the critical eye of her classmates; I would need every minute
of it.

Tap, tap,
tap.

“Ignore it,
Paige,” I instructed her. “Come and help me finish your
costume.”

Tap, tap,
tap.

“But
Millie...”

Sighing, I
tried to concentrate on the glitter. There was no time to have a
stern talk with the Adventists and they wouldn’t have taken me
seriously. I had gold glitter glue stuck to my eyebrows and yellow
smudges on my cheek that looked like a bad case of hepatitis. My
hair was falling out of its bun and trailing over my face and my
shorts had a rip along the cheek of my bottom. I glanced over at
Paige. She was peeking at the unwanted visitor from behind the back
of a lounge chair. “He’s not leaving Millie.”

Bang, bang,
bang
.

No, he wasn’t,
and the knocking was becoming more insistent which I found unusual.
Normally, the Adventists gave up after a few minutes. Wiping the
smudge away and only succeeding in smearing it further across my
face, I got up from the floor and walked to where Paige knelt on
the chair. I was a little peeved. It wasn’t like I had all day to
waste with hawkers.

“Who is
it?”

“It’s a funny
man... with make-up,” Paige giggled and ducked her head out of
sight, then popped back up again. Clearly, this was some sort of
game.

Little Tori was
now pointing toward the glass doors that lead out onto the
Richards-Shaw’s front verandah, too. “Clown. Clown,” she tittered,
as I continued to ignore them both.

Resolutely,
Paige tugged at my sleeve. “You have to open the door, Millie. He’s
got some big balloons.” She paused for a moment, deep in thought.
“Are we having a clown party for afternoon tea?”

I smiled at her
purity, exactly the right amount for a five year old, for a change.
It was obvious I was going to have to act, and so, sighing and
running my hand over the crown of her head, I put down the glitter
paint. Whoever it was could bugger off. I hadn’t ordered any
clowns.

With Paige,
Michael and Tori in hot pursuit, I walked to the window. Their
anticipation was mounting by the second and Tori gripped the denim
at my thighs excitedly.

“See!” Paige
pointed, as I slid the curtains across and peered around them
suspiciously. “I told you.”

On seeing the
man, Michael and Tori—though only three—began to squeal at the top
of their lungs. Piercing shrieks of joy threatened to burst my
eardrums. Little feet jumped up and down on my toes. A clown meant
fun and hilarity and their day had been sadly lacking in that, as
we’d only been to swimming lessons and Storytime at the
library.

“Letty in,
Millie. Letty in,” they cried in perfect twin unison.

I took a closer
look. And, oh dear. It wasn’t a clown.

It was Sam.

Dressed as a
clown.

There he was,
in all his colourful glory, standing on the verandah and tapping at
the window like some perverted stalker from
Law and Order:
SVU
. Beneath the grease paint, his smile was cheerful and
expectant. The children began to leap about and squeal even louder.
Adele would surely wake at the racket if I didn’t quell the tide
now.

Shit.

What was I
going to do?

Quickly, I
plonked the children back at the table and raced to the French
doors, directing them to stay quiet, lest the clown get scared and
run away. Slipping out and closing the doors behind me, I glanced
up and down the street in case any of the neighbours had spotted
Sam. Adele would have purple kittens if she knew I had a man on the
front doorstep dressed as a sideshow. I’d lose my job and be
homeless in thirty seconds flat. B & B dream over. Kaput.

“Hi.” Sam
looked extremely pleased with himself. The gravity of the situation
had eluded him, which I suppose was natural, given his attire.

“Hi,” I
replied, not quite as pleased. “Who are the balloons for?”

Proudly, he
pulled himself up to his full manly height, suitable to the
occasion. He grinned and handed me the bunch of balloons as
nonchalantly as if they were a bunch of flowers. “They’re for you,”
he stated.

“Um, thank
you?”

Sam stepped
closer, his lovely vanilla scent filling my nostrils. Beneath the
grease paint his face had taken on this weird look, sort of
like…

Oh surely, our
first kiss was not going to be in full view of the neighbours, the
children and a bunch of balloons?

No. No. No.
This was not going to happen, no matter how much thought he’d put
into this—despite it being rather bizarre—and how cute he looked, I
was not going to kiss him while he was dressed as a clown. Full
stop. I didn’t even understand the logic behind it.

“I saw them and
I… I just thought of you…” he rasped.

“And you felt
compelled to buy them?” I whispered back, choking on the words.

“They’re
cheerful and happy like you. So, I bought them. For a surprise. I
know, it’s a bit bloody weird but there you go. Sometimes I even
surprise myself.”

“Well, you’ve
certainly surprised me. What’s with the clown suit?”

“It seemed a
bit stupid giving you a bunch of balloons without some pomp and
ceremony to the act.”

The words clown
and pomp and ceremony didn’t naturally fit together in my book but
each to their own.

“Okay. Well.” I
didn’t know whether be happy or insulted. It wasn’t every day a guy
presented you with a gift like this and it was a sweet thought,
even if the words ‘IT’S A BOY!’ were emblazoned boldly across the
metallic surface of each and every balloon.