Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
BETTSY
I pace around the hotel lobby, probably pissing off the guy who’s just finished buffing the floors, but I can’t help it. I’m waiting, bracing myself, for the next time my phone rings.
Sure enough, I don’t wait long. It vibrates in my hand and Vicky’s name flashes up on the screen for the third time in less than ten minutes and I finally pluck up the courage to answer it.
Deep breath.
“Heyyyy, Vic, how’s it going?” I try to keep my tone casual—jovial, if you will, but she’s seething. I can practically feel her rage vibrating through my phone.
“What the hell is going on?” she says. “Because I just got off a call with Michelle and she said Coach?—”
“Who the fuck is Michelle?” I ask.
Vicky huffs. “Forget it. It’s not important. But do you want to tell me why the hell Coach Harris thinks you’re married ?”
Even though I knew this was coming, my throat tightens, and the nausea creeps in. I scan the lobby for the closest bin, just in case .
“Look—I can explain,” I say. But I quickly realise I can’t—not without telling Vicky how much of a fuck up I am. Though, let’s face it, it’s not new news, is it?
I pluck the cap off my head and perch myself on the arm of a chair in the far corner of the reception area, trying to figure out the best way to approach this. But Vicky’s keen; she doesn’t give me any time to think. She’s on me like a forechecker on a lazy D-man: relentless and stubborn.
“Start talking, Michael,” she snaps. “Because when I schedule the post?—”
I tune into her choice of words.
“Wait. Post? What post?” I think for a moment, then it occurs to me that this could be that post. The very post I’ve been waiting my entire career for.
“Oh, my God—did I get in?” Excitement replaces the anxiety I’ve been feeling.
Excitement that my dream has come true …
or at least that’s what I interpret. “Vic?”
She lets out a curt sigh down the line.
“Okay, fine. Yes. But act surprised. I only found out earlier and from what I understand, there’re a few things that have happened outside of all your crap.
They usually don’t announce the roster this early but …
anyway, you’ve impressed Coach with your skills and he said new information has come to light which has cemented things for you.
” She pauses and I wait for my brain to catch up.
“But Mike, you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”
I let myself revel in the excitement for a mere matter of seconds, even standing up and punching the air with glee before the realisation that this whole wife thing is something that’s going to rear its head pretty soon—even more so now Greer knows.
I settle myself down on the chair, the cushion this time, because I figure I may as well get comfortable if Vicky’s going to kick my ass .
“Look—I didn’t mean for it to come out like it did,” I begin, then I fill her in on the rest of the details. “I didn’t mean to tell him I was married, it just sort of … slipped out. And you should have seen his face, Vic. He looked relieved. I didn’t expect him to be so happy about it.”
“But you don’t have a wife. At least…” There’s an audible gasp through the phone. “You didn’t get married, did you? Tell me you didn’t.” Her voice shifts from its usual tone to almost a whisper, and my phone trembles against my ear.
“Well—sort of. At least we both think so … fuck.”
And I’m forced to come clean to Vicky. Telling her everything from Ellie turning up at my place, to me needing to check through my old paperwork for some sort of counterpart to the paper Ellie found.
I leave out the bit about spending the night.
“But there’s a problem,” I conclude. “And I need you to help me fix it. Because she’s not happy to go along with it.”
If Vicky was standing in front of me right now—going off how her breathing has changed—I’d have a black eye.
I pick up on her inhaling, probably ready to shout at me, so I carry on talking. A distraction technique that’s typically worked well in the past.
“She’s trying to kick start her business, so I figure … if you were willing to help her with some social media stuff, and we could convince Jen to help her with a new website …”
Vicky mutters something under her breath before adjusting her voice.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Why would I be kidding?” I say.
“You’re blackmailing someone you might already be married to—into pretending to be your wife, just so you can save face … in exchange for social media help?” She pauses. “That’s not just reckless, Mike. That’s selfish. Even for you.”
My heart falls into my stomach.
Now that she’s said it aloud, I hear it properly .
Blackmail .
And yeah … I am a douche.
But that douche part of me has a voice. And it’s screaming at me to not give up just yet.
“C’mon, Vic. This has been my dream for so long … what would Johnny say if he knew his little sister could have helped his best bud out of a hole and?—”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she says, cutting me off. “You don’t get to do that.”
“So, what do I do then?” I ask. “Unless you’re volunteering to take Ellie’s place and?—”
That wins me the mother of all cackles from Vicky.
“You need to fix this,” she says. “Come clean with Coach or?—”
“Or…?”
“Actually, nothing. Come clean. And deal with the consequences like a big boy.”
“I told you, it’s only?—”
“Stop it, Michael. Fix it. Nothing good can come of this.”
And she hangs up.
But instead of the bubbling excitement I was expecting after the revelation—I feel flat. Like I’ve been knocked over by a Zam and run over repeatedly.
Fix it. The words ring in my mind—just like the GM’s did: do what you need to do to make it happen.
I stare out into the lobby for a moment before putting my attention back on my phone, deciding to check my bank account to see if I could afford one of those mail-order brides.
But considering I don’t even know how much they cost, nor do I want to get caught out browsing through the internet to find out, I shove my phone away and try to come up with a new plan.
A couple exit the lift, hand in hand, merrily on the way to whatever outing they have planned.
I watch as they move across the lobby, laughing and smiling.
Happy in each other’s company. But all I’m thinking is, ‘ I bet he didn’t have to coerce her into hanging off his arm.
’ And the guilt of asking Ellie to lie for me ripples through my bones.
What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck was I actually thinking?
I guess I wasn’t. That’s the bottom line.
Typical, Bettsy.
I watch as the couple exit through the revolving door, the draft excluders dragging along the polished floor as the glass panels move forward. Round and round. Round and round.
They disappear out of sight and I’m about to look away when something catches my eye.
As the door spins around and the segment opening into the lobby empties, a porter steps out, carrying an enormous bouquet.
Purples, pinks, whites, greens. Fresh flowers that turn several heads as people pass.
Flowers that make me think of Ellie.
Ellie likes flowers. And I bet she’d like those flowers. Or maybe ones just like it—more purple, perhaps. I’m sure she likes purple, given the collection of towels she had in her bathroom.
Maybe I should send her flowers? I mean … it’s probably a dumb idea, but it’s all I’ve got.
The porter sets the flowers down on the reception desk and I conclude that it’s the right thing to do.
I’m going to send Ellie flowers, but her bouquet needs to be bigger.
I want a fuck-off bouquet that fills the door to Ellie’s salon and has all her clients asking who sent them because go big or go home, right?
Don’t get me wrong, I know this isn’t going to fix things, but it’s a start.
A gesture of good meaning that may give me the chance to talk with her …
to apologise in person. I figure I can send the flowers this morning, then rock up once I’m dismissed for the day and see if she can find it in her heart to forgive me.
Without hesitating, I pull my phone out of my pocket and unlock the screen, browsing through to my contacts and hovering my thumb over my mother’s name. Because if there is anyone who’d know where to get flowers from, it’s her.
My heart thumps as I listen to it ring.
“Everything okay?” she asks in a semi-panicked voice. “Have you found out yet? Did you get in?”
“Morning, Mam. Um … not yet,” I lie, figuring it’d be better to wait for the official news from Coach. “I’ve just called because I need a favour.”
“Oh?”
I realise I can’t tell my mam who I’m sending flowers to, so I twist the truth a little.
“One of the boys is in the doghouse. He wants to send his missus flowers in the way of an apology … local delivery … that sort of thing. Any idea where’s best?”
And ten minutes later, Ellie has an expensive bouquet winging its way to her.