Page 11 of Blindsided By You

JENNA

Aslushyslurpingnoisedrifts upwards from the floor beside my bed. I force open gritty eyes and lean over, already suspecting the source from the faint whiff in the air. And I’m right.

Despite my room being a no-go zone for an entire day yesterday, while I zonked out on high-powered migraine meds, somehow this morning wily wee Andy has managed to sneak his little body inside. No doubt he wheedled his way past my father. I heard Dad pop his head in earlier, as he always does, checking in to see if I’m winning the battle against the stabbing headache and swirling nausea.

I may have defeated the migraine, but I’m not betting on a win over Andy, though. He’s lying on his back, his little front paws clasped tight around one of my favourite fluffy slippers. His eyes scrunch tight with pleasure, his wee lips fastened onto the shaggy faux-fur as he makes contented sucking noises.

This is not the first time he’s got his sneaky paws on my slippers. My theory is he was taken off his mother too soon, hence his need for a surrogate. He kicks his little back legs in happy circles, keepingtime with the rhythm of small grunts as an imagined stream of warm milk trickles down his throat.

I definitely don’t have the physical or mental stamina this morning to fight Andy for the slipper, but I’m not prepared to let him have it either. I love those slippers. Instead, I create a diversion using another of my possessions he’s developed an obsession with.

The baby haggis soft toy I bought to complete my outfit for a Burns Night party last year looked super cute tucked under my arm. In reality, haggis sounds like some gross medieval method of execution, where an unsuspecting sheep has its heart, liver and lungs chopped into little pieces before they are stuffed back into its stomach with some oats, onions and a bit of seasoning.

I’ve never eaten it and never intend to. Call me disloyal to my heritage. I don’t care. But I’m more than happy to join in the imaginative Scottish craze of pretending the haggis is a wee furry animal, bred for the table as well as hunted in the wild. I liked my funny little haggis toy so much it has occupied a spot on my bed ever since.

The instant he spotted it, Andy snapped into terrier mode, desperate for the kill. I’d be sad to see him succeed, but I’m not so attached to the toy that I won’t sacrifice it for the sake of saving my slippers. I snatch it off the pillow next to me and toss it across the room.

Andy’s eyes snap open in recognition as it hits the floor, and he’s off. I swoop down to pluck the sad, damp, sucked slipper and its undamaged mate from the floor. Hearing my squeal of delight, Andy skitters to a halt just short of the haggis, and narrows his eyes, realising I’ve duped him.

I wouldn’t put it past the wee terror to launch himself at the slippers, so I slip them on my feet. If he does, I’ll have abetter chance of kicking him away. I’m not normally the sort of person who would kick a dog, but I feel justified if said dog is Andy trying to do me damage—after all, self-defence is a legitimate argument.

Andy seems to admit defeat, turning his attention to the haggis. Deciding that getting out of his range is the best idea, I cross the floor. Reaching for my dressing gown, I keep one eye on him just in case he decides to try a sneak attack. I value my ankles too much to risk his nasty little teeth wrapping around them. Realising I’m leaving, he springs to his feet, trailing behind me like he always did with Mum. I’m a poor substitute considering how lukewarm I am about the dog, but I’m all he’s got, and for Mum’s sake—and maybe for my own healing too—I vow to try harder with him.

Downstairs, the house feels unnaturally quiet after Saturday’s festivities. A blanket of sad emptiness hangs across the enormous lounge that just days ago buzzed with laughter and conversation. I enjoyed the party more than I expected, and now the contrast only emphasises what’s missing.

The rhythmic tapping of keys drifts from Dad’s bedroom. No doubt he’s on the BBC Sport website, poring over match reports with the intensity of a man who’s lived and breathed rugby his whole life. It’s overlaid with vague muttering, probably him voicing his disagreement with the analysis of a game.

Rugby is the only thing that’s dragged my father into the digital age and even then he seems to both love and resent how it’s taken over from listening to the radio or leafing through the sports section of a newspaper, a pleasure he still insists on even if the news is out of date by the time it gets into his hands.

I pour myself a cup of tepid coffee, a familiar loneliness settling in me as I survey the stark white kitchen. Even though I chose to takethis year away, I still miss the bustle of Glasgow and the craziness of Highlanders HQ. I miss my apartment and its view of the Clyde, and meeting my neighbours on the stairs. I miss lunches in cafes, and clubbing on weekends. But for now, there’s no time to mope about what I’m missing out on, but focus on what I have.

It’s been ages since I’ve had the luxury of calling in sick. At my job in London for Imagine PR, with one phone call I could hand off most things. However, once I stepped into the media management role with Dad’s pro team, I became indispensable. Like the players who’d rather quietly tape up than admit injury, I pushed through illness, never one to make a fuss, showing up as my usual efficient self even when fuelled by ibuprofen and caffeine.

Now, as I experiment with this little one-woman PR business, it’s even more important I show up. If I don’t do the work, no one else will. Besides, I’m loving it. The chance to represent who I want instead of who I have to, and the interesting range of clients, not limited to male rugby players, is feeding an unmet need I never knew I had. When I return to the Highlanders in November, it will be on the understanding I still get to keep this going on the side. With Andy at my heels, I shuffle across to the summerhouse, flick on a light and slide into my desk.

I’m buried in the most important task of my week, when the door swings open and my father steps in. To combat the cold, he’s wearing leggings under running shorts, a thermal top, and a beanie on hishead, ready for his daily run. Dad doesn’t take advice from many people, but he’s listened to his doctors. If he wants to overcome the battering his body took as a young man, back when the game wasn’t so safety conscious, and reach old age in good health, he needs to do his bit. Plus, he thrives on knowing that while he can’t keep up with his young players, he’s quickly able to cover the field, getting up close to a rucking pack or a rolling maul. I’ve watched him give coaching messages in person with an intensity he couldn’t deliver from the sidelines.

“Sure you’re OK love? You don’t seem like yourself at all.”

Dad’s thick salt-and-pepper brows furrow in concern. He’s not one for fussing, so I read this as a definite sign that I look as bad as I feel—and I feel like shit. The post-migraine fog has yet to lift, and until it does, I worry the pain will grab hold of me again and rip away another day of my life.

“I’m fine Dad,” I say, although I can see why he’s come to the conclusion I’m not. I must look a wreck.

I sit at my desk in a pair of Wonder Woman pyjamas, the bright slippers capturing my feet in a warm hug. Of course, one is a little worse for wear after its earlier ordeal with Andy. Numerous tiny damp dreadlocks nestle amongst the formerly sleek fibres, but the damage isn’t terminal.

My face is flushed; the room is too warm. Frost in August isn’t unheard of in Cluanie, but seeing the delicate white dusting across the lawn still triggers an unwelcome reminder that winter’s never far away up here, even though it’s accompanied by nostalgic memories of sliding across icy grass in my childhood rugby games. This morning I cranked up the heater to push off the chill, but now the heat I sought when I first came in here is making me nauseous again.

“You know there’s no reason for you not to have another day in bed,” he suggests. “Better to be properly well than trying to work and do a half-arsed job.”

It’s the same wisdom Dad’s always applied to his players. No one goes back on the list unless they are fit to do the task he expects of them. This time he’s wrong. There are two very good reasons that I need to be here, match fit or not.

“No Dad, really I’m good,” I say, mustering a smile.

After losing too much of my twenties to these debilitating headaches, I’ve finally got the migraines under control. My daily preventative meds run the offence and the newer, more effective drugs are ready on the bench if one breaks through the defensive line. I have this ridiculous fear that should I offer up a second day, the migraine monster will become greedy and, before I know it, I’ll be back to the bad old days.

However, the document open on my laptop is the other more pressing reason for keeping upright.

“I need to go over this proposal for Quinn,” I tell him, unable to keep the enthusiasm from my voice despite feeling like death warmed up. “I’ve got a zoom with her this afternoon and I want to be prepared.”

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