Playing the Field Read online

  PLAYING THE FIELD

  ZOË FOSTER

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  ROUND 1: Spilled Drinks vs Providence Inc.

  ROUND 2: The Size Eights vs The Size Fourteens

  ROUND 3: The Dates vs The Droughts

  ROUND 4: Fate United vs The Coincidences

  ROUND 5: Googling vs Ignorant Bliss

  ROUND 6: Chemistry vs The Clowns

  ROUND 7: Denim vs Tracksuits

  ROUND 8: Diamantés vs Linen

  ROUND 9: Tess vs Any Other Female

  ROUND 10: The Optimists vs The Realists

  ROUND 11: The No-dials vs The Noodles

  ROUND 12: Fierce Anticipation vs The First Date

  ROUND 13: Nerves vs Italian Curves

  ROUND 14: Optimism vs Deathly Silence

  ROUND 15: Arrivals vs Departures

  ROUND 16: The Insane vs The Innocent

  ROUND 17: Explanations vs Forgiveness

  ROUND 18: Elegant vs Excessive

  ROUND 19: East Germany vs Colombia

  ROUND 20: Mean Girls vs New Friends

  ROUND 21: The Footballer vs The DJ

  ROUND 22: Wine vs WAGs

  ROUND 23: The Enchantress vs The Press

  ROUND 24: Neutral Faces vs Red Faces

  ROUND 25: Bare-faced vs War Paint

  ROUND 26: Groupies vs Jealousy

  ROUND 27: The Rich vs The Hung-over

  ROUND 28: Disclosure vs Hush-hush

  ROUND 29: Secrets vs Solidarity

  ROUND 30: Rage vs Reprieve

  ROUND 31: Resurfacing Exes vs Reassurances

  ROUND 32: Blonde vs Brunette

  ROUND 33: Emasculation vs Eric

  ROUND 34: Trouser Snakes vs Jewellery-making

  ROUND 35: Fermented Grapes vs Coffee Dates

  ROUND 36: Confrontation vs Inebriation

  ROUND 37: Angry Anderson vs Apologies

  ROUND 38: Disbelief vs Denial

  ROUND 39: Accolades vs Anger

  ROUND 40: Scar Tissue vs Wedding Dates

  ROUND 41: Misguided Jealousies vs The Twinklings of Truth

  ROUND 42: The Past vs The Future

  ROUND 43: Footballers’ Wives vs Family Matters

  ROUND 44: Mad Monday vs Mobile Phone Lunacy

  ROUND 45: The Wonder WAGs vs The Sleazy Exes

  ROUND 46: Hazy Memories vs Lazy Eyewitnesses

  ROUND 47: The Foliage vs The Fury

  ROUND 48: Schemers vs Naivety

  ROUND 49: The Best Friend vs The Boyfriend

  ROUND 50: The Pot vs The Kettle

  ROUND 51: Mixtapes vs Mix-ups

  ROUND 52: Infatuation vs Deception

  ROUND 53: Friend vs Foe

  ROUND 54: Wake-up Calls vs Selfishness

  The Preliminary Final

  The Semi-final

  The Grand Final

  Acknowledgements

  ROUND 1

  Spilled Drinks vs Providence Inc.

  I turned from the bar and prepared to navigate my way through the mass of heaving, loud, beautiful people to our seats in the courtyard. I was doing a brilliant job, nursing the drinks to my chest and caving my shoulders to protect them, until I was knocked from behind. Half of each drink went flying onto the back of the guy unlucky enough to be standing in front of me.

  ‘Oh, shit, shit, sorry, shit!’ I said, trying to grip the now-slimy glasses.

  He turned slowly around. With my hands full and covered in vodka, I was unable to do anything but offer what I hoped was a sincere apology via my eyes. His mouth was open and his fingers were pulling his shirt out from his substantially wet back. And somewhere high above, God was high-fiving someone on his incredible handiwork.

  Deep blue sparkling eyes set against an olive backdrop, and a warm, mischievous smile housing a set of fluorescent white teeth. Quite tall with dark, dark brown hair, longish and floppy and tucked behind his ears in that sexy, European Underweary Model way. A rugged growth around his mouth and cheeks – the kind you don’t notice unless you’re forced to write a description of it in a book. In short, a twenty-first-century Adonis.

  He raised an eyebrow and his smile widened. We locked eyes, and for a few charged seconds the music, the floor and the pulsing liquor-friends surrounding us went out of focus, leaving only him, and me, and 4000 kilowatts of electricity. I couldn’t lift my feet, shift my eyes away from his, or mute the chorus of one thousand visually stimulated brain cells collectively applauding in my head.

  ‘That’s one way to offer me a drink,’ he said good-naturedly, shaking his shirt out but not taking his eyes off me.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I … I was pushed,’ I said, wincing at how wet he was. At the same moment, I was jolted again from behind, and launched forward from the waist up.

  ‘Noted and forgiven,’ he said, smiling cheekily.

  ‘Okay, uh, sorry again about your shirt … ’ I offered a weak smile and made to move away.

  ‘Could I buy you a replacement?’ he said quickly, a verbal hand on the wrist to stop me walking away.

  ‘Well, that makes no sense,’ I said, laughing and shaking my head. He was staring at me with his eyebrows up and a smile no one with a pulse could resist. ‘But thank you.’ I smiled sweetly, blushing, and turned to walk.

  ‘It makes sense in that you wouldn’t be getting away so fast,’ he said in a singsong voice with his palms outstretched, as if to say: Am I right, or am I right?

  ‘Really, it’s fine,’ I said, my brain throwing a spanner at my vocal chords for passing up the opportunity. I flashed him another dazzly smile and disappeared mysteriously into the crowd.

  ‘Hey, wait – I didn’t catch your name,’ I heard him shout, but I kept walking. We’d need new drinks soon, and I’d be sure to walk past him again. Until then, he could wonder. Well played, Sergeant Seductive, well played.

  ‘You should take longer next time,’ Colette said when I finally plonked down next to her. ‘What, you get thirsty on the way?’ she continued, surveying the half-empty glasses.

  ‘No, some dickhead pushed me and I spilled them all over probably the best-looking man in the universe! Ohmygod, Col. He had this smile … it was weird, we just stared at each other, like we had some instant connection. I know, I know, shut up.’

  ‘Mills! Boon! Come quick! We’ve got the beginnings of a great story-line,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘He even offered to buy replacements, when it was so not his fault …’

  ‘Look at you, Jay – all smitten over some random in a bar!’ she said, digging me in the ribs. As my older sister, it was in her job description to rib me, physically and figuratively, every time I showed any hint of liking a guy, ever.

  ‘Did you give him your number?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, in the three seconds we spent together.’

  ‘Well, what are you doing? You gonna go give it to him, or sit out here like a loser?’

  ‘I’m staying here. But I may walk past him and make him ask me for it when I get the next round.’

  ‘Maybe just write it on your forehead, or scribble it across your tits,’ Col offered, raising her glass to her lips.

  ‘You mean, show him from the outset the kind of classy bird I am?’

  She ignored me, instead making a loud slurping noise. ‘There’s actually nothing left in this,’ she said, peering into her drink.

  I leaped up. ‘Leave it to me,’ I said, giddy with excitement, already turning to walk inside.

  ‘Actually, know what? I really can’t be arsed waiting another twenty minutes. I think we should roll. I’m beat.’

  No! No go home! I screamed on the inside.

  ‘Ohh, come on, just one more
?’ I said aloud, fidgeting to get inside and see Adonis again. ‘You promised one drink and, technically, that was not even half of one … ’

  Dramatic sigh.

  ‘Okay then. But don’t take so bloody long this time. If you see Fabio, give him your number then keep walking. Treat ’em mean and all that shit.’

  I grabbed my gloss out of my handbag and applied a fresh layer before prancing gaily inside, heading back over in His direction, my heart racing.

  When I got to the scene of the spill, Adonis had vanished. I held my breath and looked around, to the left, to the right, trying to keep it all on the low-low. But he was nowhere to be seen. I put my head down and slowly made my way over to the stairs so that I could inconspicuously scan the entire room, which seemed to have tripled in volume and people since I was here four minutes ago.

  I looked, and I looked. And I looked. But he was gone. My heart, unaccustomed to such intense feelings within such condensed timeframes, plummeted through my body to the floor, where it mocked me quietly for getting my hopes up over a guy whose eyes drilled through mine because he’d put away fourteen rum and Cokes, not because he thought I was The One.

  You fool, Jean. Why didn’t you give him your name when he asked? And your number and email and blood type, too? Now he’s gone and you’ll never see him again.

  I turned and walked back outside, my shoulders slumped, my tone deflated.

  ‘He’s gone, Col.’

  Colette stood up and put her black patent studded bag on her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Jay. If it’s meant to be, then you’ll run into him again …’ She scrunched up her face sympathetically and led the way inside. I followed, my eyes combing the sea of heads for Adonis, but he hadn’t just gone to the bathroom, and he hadn’t just slipped off to the ATM. He’d gone.

  ROUND 2

  The Size Eights vs The Size Fourteens

  She was not a slim woman. But ‘overweight’ wasn’t accurate, either. The phrase ‘average weight’ would’ve felt cheated, embarrassed to be associated with her. Yet ‘fat’ seemed cruel.

  All frazzled blonde hair and frosted watermelon lipstick, with diamanté-encrusted sunglasses jammed on her head, she was that unique shape one earns by enjoying soft cheeses, crisp sauv blanc, and coffee ’n’ cake with The Girls. There was nothing wrong with any of this, of course, except that she was violently disillusioned by her shape, clothing size and age. Which is how she had found herself standing before me, one toe pointed, as though about to launch into a small solo from Swan Lake. Her hands smoothed the fabric of the dress over her thighs as she surveyed her frame in the mirror, head tilted to one side.

  ‘Ooooh, and I could wear that pretty coral necklace Gary bought me for my birthday. It would set off the aqua so nice.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said, nodding, smiling, speaking slowly and reassuringly. I cleared my throat. ‘Tell me, does it feel … restrictive at all?’

  She raised her eyebrows, darting her small, kohl-saturated eyes towards me. I knew this look. It was a blend of fear, surprise and wounded self-defence. It said: Why? Do you think I look fat? Is there something you’d like to tell me?

  ‘No. Why? Does it look it?’

  She twirled quickly to look at her bum, which had been flattened and widened and squished so that pockets of cellulite peeked through the satin, and the material cut in at the hips.

  ‘No, no, no … (Clever-shop-assistant rule #1: Never, ever answer a question like this in the affirmative). I mean, you could try the size up (#2: Never mention size numbers) and see if it feels more comfortable (#3: Never refer to a garment looking better, only feeling better). You see, this design is a small make (#4: Always describe any ill-fitting garment as being a small make to ensure customer knows it’s not them, it’s the design). We’ve found a lot of customers have had to move up in size (#5: Always refer to Other Customers so that customer thinks they are normal and not even remotely optimistic in their sizing choice). So how about we try it, just in case?’ (#6: Smile and nod, pretending this is merely a congenial suggestion, as opposed to a sly avenue for implementing a size up.)

  ‘Well, okay, but … I like what it’s doing for my bust. A size up might not give me so much oomph.’

  The oomph she spoke of, and now fondly handled, reminded me of two deflated water balloons taped onto a wall, and then gaffer-taped around the bottom third in an attempt to push some of the water up into the top third. It was a sad vision of a woman clutching onto the days when her breasts were perky and firm and allowed to roam under spaghetti-strapped dresses and fine-cotton T-shirts without the assistance or restriction of a bra.

  Ingrid, my boss, said that I wasted too much time and energy styling ungrateful cows, but I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t want a rash of thrilled, confident women flitting around town, attributing their wonderful new understanding of clothing – and magnetism for compliments – to our little store.

  A few minutes later, as I passed back her receipt (she bought the size up), Ingrid walked in holding a tray of coffees. She raised her eyebrows and folded down her bottom lip in a ‘Well done’ manner. I smiled smugly. Impressing Ingrid was akin to impressing a toddler using nothing but a head of broccoli. She wasn’t so much critical as prematurely disappointed in what I was bound to ruin.

  ‘Now, here’s your dress,’ I said to the customer. ‘You have a wonderful night. And promise me you’ll wear a bra?’

  ‘Oooh now, I can’t promise that! Thanks for everything, love.’ She turned, pink clamshell mobile to her ear, tale of the Amazing New Dress ready to explode.

  ‘What’d your new best friend buy?’ Ingrid asked as soon as Blondie was out the door. She tucked her short black hair behind her ear as she waited for my answer. She was wearing all black, as always: a particularly well-cut pencil skirt with a black frilly blouse and towering black peep-toe heels. A flaming red mouth of lipstick with black-winged eyeliner completed her ode to the 1940s.

  ‘A $400 dress and a new reputation.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name – was it Trinny, or Susannah?’ she smirked.

  ‘That’s it, tease me for making you money.’

  ‘Oh, settle down, doll.’ Ingrid called everyone ‘doll’.

  ‘I’m nearly at my target, you know.’

  ‘Mmm …’

  Ingrid wasn’t keen about letting a backyard designer into her high-fashion boutique, but I’d begged her to let me put some of my jewellery pieces on display, just to see if they’d sell. Being Ingrid, she’d set me a sales target to achieve before I was allowed to put my first ‘collection’ on the counter.

  Part of Ingrid’s issue, I sensed, was that my designs were decidedly un-Ingrid. They were tribal, ethnic-inspired, antique, boho pieces using wood, brightly coloured stones and rocks, gold and silver, with animal, plant and tree motifs. I liked to wear stacks of intricate cuffs on my wrists, and layers of delicate gold necklaces around my neck; Ingrid preferred diamonds and an Omega.

  But I was taking her promise seriously. I’d moved to Sydney from the Gold Coast three months ago for a number of reasons: 1) My best friend had just moved to London with her fancy new fiancé (boredom); 2) My sister was in a post-relationship mess and needed me (support); 3) I couldn’t bear living with Mum and Godfrey a nanosecond longer, much as I adored them (insanity); and 4) I thought that maybe if I moved out of home and had no life and no friends, I would take my designing seriously, and perhaps even turn it into a proper money-making business (motivation). This last reason despite the fact that I’d had little training: jewellery-making at school and a one-year design course after I’d realised that my commerce degree was about as me as a handlebar moustache and a Harley, and had deferred indefinitely.

  But for all my good intent, I was struggling. I had only seven finished pieces so far: three necklaces, two cuffs and two sets of earrings. For some reason, the last three pieces – Ingrid had requested ten – were coming along at the rate of soybean growth. It concerne
d me greatly. If I couldn’t even complete a collection of ten, what hope did I have of ever being a true, certified designer?

  ‘You look nice today,’ I said, changing the topic.

  ‘Justin is taking me out to dinner tonight.’

  Justin was Ingrid’s half-boyfriend. He was still officially married, but he was separated, and he felt that was good enough. Ingrid? Not so much. Though it wasn’t that she was hanging out for a wedding – she’d been married once before, and didn’t seem to be interested in kitting up in ivory again any time soon. But Justin screwed with her head in an atomic fashion; he was fifteen years her senior, Clooney-esque, wealthy and successful – and, I thought, excessively sleazy. I had no idea what Ingrid was doing, but had a feeling it had something to with the faint ticking noise emanating from her ovaries. Despite her prickly exterior I knew that somewhere there was a woman who desperately wanted to be covered in a small human’s spit and spew, and while I had no idea of her actual age, she had to be flirting with forty. Perhaps she saw Justin as her only chance of a ticket to the delivery room. Sure, maybe she was ‘settling’ with a pig who was still married to another woman, but maybe she was also smarter than I gave her credit for.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

  She was looking at emails on her BlackBerry.

  ‘Tell me, have you finished off that invoice I asked you to do yesterday?’

  Sale jubilation officially concluded.

  ROUND 3

  The Dates vs The Droughts

  Col had combined a short grey singlet dress with tan leather sandals. A flimsy, elegant black waistcoat was slung over her shoulders, and her wrists were drowning in bangles, cuffs and random pieces of leather string – all of which, Hermès cuff aside, I’d made for her. It was a typical Colette outfit – seamlessly thrown together but looking as though it had been pondered over for hours.

  On top of several kilos of metal, Col was also wearing an uncharacteristically large smile. She had left her natural honey curls alone, for once, and they framed her face perfectly, making her skin look more olive and her green eyes even prettier. I always told her she should wear her hair curly more often, but she preferred it straight. Made her feel ‘groomed’, she said, as opposed to ‘some surfy wench’.