Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
O utside, the early morning crows squawked. Beside me, Matthew’s heavy breathing was regular and steady. Apart from that? Silence. It was six forty-five on Saturday morning and I was savouring snuggling under the blankets before attending to the daily routine.
A hundred years ago, before Lexi and Angus were born, Matthew and I could stay in bed all weekend, making love, reading the papers in the pre-digital age, and drinking champagne. Okay, it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was amazing.
Banishing erotic Arnaud daydreams from my mind, I rolled over and wrapped my arms around Matthew’s stomach, then decided a back massage might be a more direct way to gain his attention. He rolled over to face me, my arms still around him, and I thought about suggesting I blindfold him or tie him up with scarves like I used to do in the old days. When Matthew and I first started dating, I owned an amazing Celtic wrought-iron bed. That bed was now languishing in our garage, covered in a mountain of grime and dust, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. Just the thought of Matt being tied up in bed excited me.
‘I’ve missed this,’ he murmured, then kissed me. I could feel him pressing into my thigh as his kissing became more urgent.
‘Me too,’ I whispered when we took a break. All right. We might get to see some action after all.
But Matthew had barely put his hand on my right breast when I heard Angus, stomping down the corridor to our room. ‘Where are my soccer boots?’
Matthew groaned. ‘Don’t go. Stay with me, pretend you didn’t hear him.’
It was very tempting.
‘Mum, are you ever getting out of bed?’ This time, the cry from outside our door was more insistent.
Maybe we could borrow Angus’s handcuffs tonight and take up from where we left off, I thought as I slipped out of our queen-sized ensemble. Though it’d be a challenge tying Matt to the Sealy Posturepedic.
‘You’re a good mother,’ Matthew muttered. That would be the hangover talking and his not-so-subtle way of asking if I could take Angus to his soccer game this morning.
I left Matthew to sleep and, on autopilot, swept through the household chores. I threw Coco Pops at Angus (what would the perfect school mums say about that?), biscuits to the pets, put on a load of washing, took the clean clothes out of the dryer, unloaded the dishwasher, and swept the floors, all while Angus followed me around, telling me to hurry up because we were going to be late. (And I found his boots. They were in the laundry cupboard where I’d put them two days ago after soccer training.)
‘About tonight,’ Mum started after I answered my mobile in the car.
‘Not a chance. ’
‘Your dad really wants to see you, Katie.’
‘He can have a viewing at my funeral.’ I pressed end as I parked at the Dragons home ground.
Barely eight o’clock and the sun was already warm. I discarded my denim jacket. (Why hadn’t I brought my camera? The light was perfect.) I knew the drill. After all, I’d taken Angus to most of his games this year. And, let me say, it’s a very long soccer season, like ten months. This year, I swore it would be different – that Matthew would appear at least fifty per cent of the time. It’s not so much that I dislike the game; it’s that some of the parents get caught up in the win-at-all-costs frenzy. The soccer mafioso.
Yes, I want Angus to play well and kick all of his team’s goals and win, but sometimes it’s excruciating – the frivolous chatter with parents, the heckling and the booing. Tackle him! Get him! Kill him!
At an under-nines game earlier this year, a mother from Angus’s school (normally a sane, level-headed woman, I’ve been told) ran onto the field shouting abuse at the ref. She ended up chasing him into the car park with her umbrella. She didn’t show her face at the school gate for several weeks afterwards.
Seeing Arnaud, I briefly wondered what it would be like to wake up to his French face in the morning, his dark hair, tanned skin, wide green eyes… Then I shook myself and walked over. Fantasies aside, my instinct was to dump Angus and take off, but seeing Arnaud with eleven swarming boys, soccer shirts in one arm, juggling balls, oranges and a mountain of papers in the other hand, I stayed.
‘Give me those.’ I took the oranges from him and regretted my ill-fitting jeans and threadbare blue sweater. Meanwhile, Angus and several boys chased a soccer ball around the dewy field. How these kids could run around in skimpy shorts, get knocked down, eat a mouthful of dirt, get up smiling and do it all again, staggered me.
‘How’s everything with you?’
I blushed.
‘Here we go.’ Arnaud leaned in and nudged me. Mardi, mother of Ben, was marching towards us.
‘Not happy, Arnaud.’ Mardi was, in fact, scowling.
‘Mardi,’ Arnaud said in a big bright voice. ‘You know Katie?’
‘We’re old friends,’ I said quickly.
She glanced at me and then back at Arnaud. ‘No offence, but Benjamin shouldn’t be playing in your team.’ Mardi was clearly meaning to offend. ‘He played for the A’s in the winter season, and I assumed he’d automatically be put in the same team for the summer.’
Arnaud coaches the B team.
‘ Oui , but I have no control. They were chosen according to how they performed on grading day.’
‘That’s not fair. In netball, once you’re put in a team, you stay there.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘This isn’t netball. Soccer grading is supposed to be fair and the teams fluid.’
‘But Benjamin had a cold, he wasn’t kicking his best. He should be in the A’s.’ She huffed loudly. ‘It’s embarrassing. I won’t have him playing in your team.’ Meanwhile, Ben was running around and laughing with Angus and the others. He didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. ‘If he’s not moved up, I’ll take him to another club.’
‘Talk to him, the one wearing the red shirt.’ Arnaud pointed to a small man surrounded by several irate parents, all posturing and puffing themselves up, no doubt demanding to know why their sons had not been selected for the A team. Meanwhile, the A team parents were looking mightily pleased with themselves as they smiled smugly into their morning lattes .
‘The B’s.’ Mardi sighed. ‘Playing with the likes of Billy with the wandering eye and Marcus with the learning disorder.’
My eyes widened. ‘Pardon?’
Mardi waved me away. ‘You can tell when a child’s not up to speed. Have you met his father? And his mother? Don’t get me started. She should have been playing Mozart while Marcus was in the womb. Instead, she was probably gobbling white bread and drinking cask wine.’ I hated to think what Mardi said about me when I wasn’t around.
‘Have you thought about offering Red Shirt an expensive Christmas gift? Wine? Restaurant voucher? BMW?’ I suggested.
‘Ha. Don’t think I haven’t considered it. I’m sure it’s how half of them got in the top team. It certainly wasn’t through talent.’