Page 68 of Playing the Field
‘Why not? People are always having parties.’
‘True, but now it’s so easy to order everything online, do people still pay for someone else to do all the organising?’
‘You should look into it,’ I tell her. ‘I think you’d be great at it.’
‘Can we have a look now?’
‘Sure.’ I move up the bed to sit beside her, more than happy to have another distraction, and we spend the rest of the evening investigating what’s already out there and throwing ideas around about how she could add her own spin.
‘Maybe I should put a portfolio together on Instagram and see if it gets any interest,’ she says. ‘Hasn’t your dad got a big birthday coming up?’
It’s his fiftieth in September and I don’t imagine he’ll get round to organising anything more than a nice dinner round our kitchen table. Getting Phoebs to make the occasion more special would be a lovely surprise for him. ‘It’s in a couple of weeks and I think you should go for it. It could be the start of something really amazing.’
‘And when Crawford win the league, maybe I can organise the celebration for that too,’ she says. It’s kind, but I tell her she might have to wait another season or five before we get to that stage.
‘I’ll get Craig to step things up a gear,’ she promises. ‘I’ll tell him no more blow jobs until he starts scoring goals.’
This makes me cringe-laugh. It’s not how I want to think about him.
‘Oh come on, you know we don’t sit around at his playing board games,’ Phoebs says, rolling her eyes. But that gets me thinking about Ben again. I was blissfully happy the night we played our games triathlon on his terrace. I’d do anything to do that again with him.
I pick up my phone and wake up the screen. Still nothing. Should I call him, to see how he’s getting on? I’m not used to feeling needy but I’m desperate to hear his voice.
The phone chooses that exact moment to buzz in my hand, making my body jolt so hard I nearly drop it. It’s him! A WhatsApp message rather than a call, but at last, it’s him.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Phoebs says, kissing my cheek and standing up to leave. ‘But call me any time you’re finding it hard and I’ll be here.’
I thank her for being such a good friend and wait till she’s closed the door behind her before I open Ben’s message. My heart races with excitement as I wait to read it.
‘Sorry this is so late. It’s been a loooong day. I’m only just getting back to the flat and I’m shattered,’he’s written.‘Texting because I doubt I’d make much sense if I called, but I’ll speak to you tomorrow. I hope you’ve had a great day. Love you xx.’
I read it again. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been hoping for more. Despite how chatty he usually is, he doesn’t even hint at what he’s been up to– specifically no mention of this evening’s event. But maybe he thinks I don’t want to hear about his ‘other woman’. To be fair, yesterday I didn’t even ask what her name is.
I pull up Google and type ‘Ben Pryce’ into a news search. Nothing yet. Why didn’t I even ask who she was? Perhaps because I knew I’d spend the rest of today looking at pictures of her, possibly even watching the show she was on, and I can’t let myself go down that rabbit hole. It won’t do me any favours.
But the devil on my shoulder still taunts me. Maybe she was so engaging he didn’t even think about me till it got so late. Maybe there’s a more sinister reason why he texted rather than called. Maybe he’s not beyond temptation while I’m down here and he’s up there.
A wave of paranoia takes hold. Am I a fool to believe all his talk about wanting to date a real girl who’s happy to talk about football over a nice draught beer in a pub with sticky carpets, when he could have a party lifestyle filled with champagne, VIP enclosures and glamorous TV stars? What if I really was just a convenient summer hook-up for him while he took a break from the endless stream of wannabe WAGS trying to get him to fall in love with them?
But then I bat those jitters away. If any of that were true, he wouldn’t have messaged me at all. He could have just ended things before he left if he wanted that other life. He certainly wouldn’t have signed off with love and kisses.
‘So just stop it,’ I tell myself sharply. I might have only known him for a few months but I know he’s not that guy. And all this fearing the worst? That’s not who I am either.
We’re both tired and we’ll catch up properly tomorrow. For now I just fire a quick message back to him.‘All good. Talk tomorrow. Love you too x.’
38
Ben calls me first thing the next morning– from his car, on the way to Millford’s ground– and apologises again for being too exhausted to chat last night, which reassures me that yesterday’s uneasiness was unfounded. But I still can hear the hesitation in my voice when I ask how his first day back went.
He tells me he was caught up on a rollercoaster of meetings– a lengthy session with the team psychologist to make sure his temper is under control, a fitness test with the head coach to make sure he’s match-ready, then a few hours with the physio, who ‘flexed and prodded’ every inch of his body to check for any stiffness that might present an injury risk.
‘Well, noteveryinch,’ he says, laughing. ‘There was no stiffness there! But it was non-stop. And now I’ve got a training morning with my teammates to integrate me back into the squad. It almost feels like I’ve never been away.’
And I can tell from the animation in his words that he’s buzzing to be back.
‘But enough about me, tell me about the rest of your day,’ he says, which instantly rouses my suspicions about last night again. Why isn’t he mentioning it?
‘I caught up with Phoebs,’ I tell him, deciding to skip the part where I tormented myself for hours waiting to hear from him. ‘She’s still keeping Craig on his toes, but they both seem happy.’
