Authors: Mary Costello
‘I’d rather do that than publicity.’
‘Yeah, but you also bring in the members, and you fascinate the media. Don’t know what you’ve got, mate, but whatever it is, we’re going to bottle it and sell it!’
‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it,’ Cal snarled, ‘but I don’t have to like it.’
He’d agreed for the good of the club; then he laid eyes on Merise Merrick. He’d noticed her the second he walked into the room. She had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen, and he’d known a lot of women. The whole time Paige was rattling on the way she always did, repeating herself, stating the obvious till she drove him mad, he’d been watching the girl. He liked what he saw: that defiant little pout, the way she told him what she thought of football, and of him. But was she trying just a little too hard? Was she really an ingénue, or was it all an act to get his attention? Plenty of women saw him as a quick ticket to success. She certainly thought a lot of herself, and he didn’t mind that. It’d be an interesting challenge, uncovering the real Merise Merrick, in every sense.
As he made his way through the sluggish city traffic after the meeting, he realised that the photo shoot they’d dreamed up was going to be harder than he’d imagined. Just keeping his eyes off that girl, even during training, was going to take discipline, and he needed to keep his mind on footy. Still, even a club captain was entitled to a little relaxation, he told himself; and if he decided it was worthwhile, he could have a lot of fun with the new, knock-out face of the Yarraside Wolves.
Less than an hour later, the first photo shoot had been organised and Bev was briefing Merise over coffee at Federation Square, the quirky collection of buildings and outdoor spaces in the heart of Melbourne. The day was warm and sunny, and as they sat outside the trendy Fleur Bistro, overlooking the Yarra River, Bev took note of the many approving glances that Merise drew from passers-by and other customers. The girl had worn a simple black-and-white dress for the meeting at Yarraside, and its very simplicity set off her radiant good looks. There was no doubt about it, she had serious eye appeal.
‘Well, what did you think of McCoy?’ Bev asked, scrutinising Merise’s face.
‘Oh, er, I don’t really know.’ Merise felt strangely flustered by the question. ‘He’s a bit beefcakey, I suppose.’
Bev laughed. ‘Don’t let the bronzed muscles fool you, dear; he’s a very cluey operator. He’s already well on his way to making a fortune in property development, and there’ll be a lucrative media career waiting for him when he’s finished footy.’
‘Really?’ Lucky him! A ‘lucrative media career’ would do her very nicely.
‘Yes, but he’s only twenty-five, so that won’t be for a while yet. Now let me tell you what we’ve planned.’
Merise listened carefully as Bev gave her a run-down on what to expect and what was expected of her. She was a fast learner and felt sure she could do whatever was required. But was she really model material? Would she be photogenic, or would she freeze when the camera began to flash?
‘All set for Friday then?’ asked Bev at last.
Merise nodded and swallowed a gulp. ‘Um . . . I think so.’
‘Good. We’ll need you at six-thirty a.m. sharp,’ said Bev, ‘for make-up, costume and so on. I’ll be there in person. SMO is an important client and this is a major account. They’ll have a rep present, too. Probably Tim Kerns. He’s a dear, but I want to make sure that everything goes well. Jay Willis will be doing your hair and make-up. He’s the best. You’ll look a dream.’
Merise pulled a funny face, but Bev patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, all you have to do is look good. See you then.’
Two days later, Merise and her best friend, Erica Walls, were having a picnic in the Alexandra Gardens, beside the Yarra. As Merise looked out over the slow-moving water, it struck her that one way or another, she’d been spending a lot of time on the Yarra’s banks over the past few days. Yarraside . . . Yarraside Wolves . . . him.
She gave herself a little shake and passed Erica a generous slice of focaccia from her favourite Italian deli. The girls had been friends all through secondary school and had moved to Melbourne together to take up their studies. Erica, who was studying physiotherapy, lived with her aunt’s family in Carlton, within walking distance of Merise’s apartment. She seemed more excited than Merise was about the modelling.
‘It’ll be so glamorous, Mer! Lovely clothes, being fussed over by make-up artists, exotic locations . . .’
Merise spluttered, ‘Huh! Try the Yarraside footy club – hardly exotic. More likely stinking of sweat and liniment.’ She looked at Erica. She loved her friend’s sweet face, with her big, round eyes and wiry brown hair sticking out in all directions. Erica was always so kind, so positive that just being with her made Merise feel good.
‘You know,’ Erica rattled on, ‘the Wolves is only the biggest sporting club in the country – a powerhouse on and off the field.’
‘And you follow footy, for some inexplicable reason.’
‘A bit. Mostly because my dad used to take me to games.’
‘Well, my dad followed the cricket, so it means absolutely nothing to me.’
‘It will, especially if you want to make a career in journalism in this city. You can’t afford to be an intellectual snob if you’re going to work in the media, Merise. Aussie Rules footy is huge. It’s a multimillion-dollar business. You have to realise that this is a fantastic opportunity for you to make contacts, to get your name out there.’
‘I’m not interested in writing about sport. This country is much too obsessed with sport, to the detriment of the arts and the sciences, Erica. How many Australians even know the name of our Nobel Prize-winning scientists?’
‘Australia has Nobel Prize-winning scientists?’ asked Erica with mock surprise.
‘You see? I rest my case. Besides, I want to write about the arts, about culture.’
‘Then you need to realise that footy is a key part of Melbourne’s culture.’
‘Maybe, but I’d rather go to a play than a game of football,’ said Merise, pouring coffee from a flask. ‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you – have you ever heard of Cal McCoy?’
Erica sighed and shook her head in mock-pity. ‘Yes, cupcake, I do just happen to have heard of the greatest player ever to have set foot on a footy field, and the fact that he’s one of the handsomest has also helped bring him to my attention.’ She expelled a mock-romantic sigh. ‘Absolutely no one takes a mark like Cal McCoy.’
‘A mark?’
‘Oh, Merise – you’re hopeless! A mark is when a player leaps high in the air and catches the ball. It’s one of the most thrilling things in footy.’
Merise rolled her eyes. She found it hard to imagine anything about footy being thrilling. ‘And Cal McCoy’s that good, is he?’
‘Oh, yes, and that gorgeous, don’t you think?’
Suddenly, Merise didn’t want to talk to anyone about Cal McCoy, not even Erica. It was enough that he disturbed her; no point in dwelling on him. She merely shrugged and said, ‘I didn’t particularly notice.’
Erica hooted with laughter. ‘Come on, Mer, who are you trying to kid? Apollo came down from Olympus and you didn’t notice? I’m really excited for you. What’s he really like?’
‘I didn’t get much of a chance to judge, but . . . I don’t know – a bit self-satisfied, I should think.’
‘Yes, but that’s the flip side of confidence, the self-belief that makes him such a winner on the field.’
‘And such a pain off it,’ added Merise with a little smile.
‘Don’t be so judgemental! It’s not like you. Look, he’s a real leader and that’s what the Wolves need. They’ve always been one of the top teams, but they haven’t won a premiership for donkeys’ years and the barrackers are getting restless. You see, McCoy’s father captained Yarraside to their last premiership, and everyone expects the son to carry on the family tradition. He’s . . . he’s their messiah.’
‘No,’ said Merise playfully, ‘just a very arrogant boy.’ Then she added, ‘So is he married?’
‘No way! I very much doubt that he’s the marrying type. I’d say he’s having far too much fun being single. He has loads of women after him – as you’d expect – but every time he appears in the papers, which is pretty often, he has someone new hanging on to him. Just about every beauty in Melbourne has thrown herself at him at some stage. He’d be quite a catch for a young actress or model – I don’t mean you – but someone trying to build a career in modelling or TV. Just being seen with him is worth money. When he finally does settle down with one girl, they’ll go straight to the top of the celebrity A-list.’
Merise laughed. ‘Yeah, but I suspect she’d have a bit to put up with if she’s going to get involved with the Yarraside Wolf-pack.’
Friday finally dawned. It had been warm and muggy overnight and Merise had slept badly. She had tossed and turned, worrying about the photo shoot, her uni course and her desperate lack of funds. She’d have to find that extra rent money for starters. Moving wasn’t an option. She knew she wouldn’t find a place with a lower rent close to work and uni, and the prospect of ever being able to afford a car was becoming more distant as her higher education debt grew. And she’d have to replace her laptop right away. No. She had no choice; she’d just have to make a go of this modelling business – however hard, however stupid it turned out to be.
She got out of bed before sunrise. The day was forecast to reach a temperature of forty-three degrees. By seven-thirty she was shut up in a small room at the Hartley Centre with Jay Willis, who talked incessantly, and the photographer, Simon Rae, who hadn’t opened his mouth.
As Jay played with her hair, trying out different styles, Merise warily eyed his short, gelled mohawk and the tear-drop tattoo below his left eye. She was praying he wasn’t planning anything like that for her.
‘Too gorgeous!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at your complexion! I so want your skin. Close your eyes and stop jiggling. I need to finish this or Bev will slaughter me. There – you look like . . . I don’t know, but you look sexy
and
classy. I’m a genius.’
Merise laughed nervously. ‘Don’t I get any credit?’
‘No. Don’t bite your lip! You’ll ruin my contours! Okay – I release you.’
She stood up and Jay removed the knee-length cape that had been protecting her clothes.
‘Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you really going to wear that?’
Bev’s stylist, Andrea, had dressed her in the black-and-silver-striped Yarraside supporters’ Guernsey and matching black shorts.
‘You look like a total bogan – stunning, but still a bogan. Good thing you’ve got lovely legs.’
‘That’s nothing,’ she laughed. ‘I have to wear the scarf as well, and in all this heat!’
‘Who cares, sweetie, you’re basically being paid to drool over Cal McCoy. I’d do that for free. He’s such a babe! I just love watching him on
Footy Review
. He’s so good on TV. He should get his own show when he retires.’
‘Oh no he shouldn’t!’ cried Merise. ‘I’m working really hard to get through my journalism degree, and so is every student in the course. And at the end of it most of us will have a lifetime of scratching around for low-paid jobs to look forward to. But someone like him – some completely unqualified airhead celebrity, who’s already made a fortune having a good time kicking a ball around, will waltz into a top job on TV and probably get his own newspaper column as well!’
‘I already have my own column,’ said a very deep voice and she whisked round to see Cal McCoy standing in the open doorway, looking horribly stern.
Merise’s mouth dropped open in dismay. ‘Oh! I . . . ah . . . .I didn’t . . . um, know—’
‘Obviously not,’ he cut in. ‘Look, you’re entitled to your opinion, but perhaps you could just glance at one or two of my columns before you condemn them outright? Not all footballers are total meatheads, you know. Or was it “airheads”? By the way, I just thought I’d come by to say good luck for the shoot.’ And he turned and left without another word.
‘Oh dear!’ hissed Jay. ‘You’ve ruffled the feathers of the great hero. But my! Doesn’t he ruffle up beautifully?’
Merise gulped and felt the sweat break out under her carefully applied foundation. She’d sensed that McCoy hadn’t been impressed the first time they met; now he’d just hate her. Well, he wasn’t exactly Mr Personality himself. But there was nothing to be gained by antagonising him. She’d have to learn to shut her big mouth if she wanted to keep this job and dig herself out of the hole she was in.
Just then Bev bustled in with a tall young man in a designer T-shirt and jeans.
‘Merise, this is Tim from SMO.’
‘Hi, Merise,’ said Tim. ‘I love your look. You and Cal will look totally great together – his muscled, manly thing, your elegant femininity.’
Merise felt herself blush and stifled a little groan, but Bev was hurrying them all up. ‘Come on! We’ll need to get set up before the team appears. Here, Merise, take this notebook. Cal will give you his autograph after training.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Cal was practically gnashing his teeth as he strode purposefully from the changing rooms to the training ground. So, she thought he was a meathead – all muscles, no brain. He could have set her straight there and then, but he hadn’t wanted to make too big a deal of it. Geez, she got to him. He’d have to play this very cool, otherwise that girl would become the distraction he simply couldn’t afford this year, especially now he was captain. It had taken him years of heart-busting effort to get to the point where he was following in his father’s footsteps, hopefully all the way to a premiership, and he wasn’t going to let anyone or anything put him off course, not even a babe like Merise Merrick. He suddenly broke into a run, yelling, ‘Ball drill!’ and one after the other the players grabbed a Sherrin from the ball bag and came pounding after him.
Merise was in place at one corner of the fence surrounding the training ground and she was feeling nervous. She eyed the small crowd of die-hard fans to her left. They were dressed in Yarraside’s colours and the season was still weeks away. So much passion, and just for a game. But then, as Erica had said, this was Melbourne, where Aussie Rules was more of a religion than a sport.
She sighed. She’d been practising her admiring smile for the past half hour and already her cheeks were aching. She glanced over at the photographer for the fortieth time.
‘Eyes right, Merise,’ hissed Bev, just behind her. ‘Don’t look at Simon. He’ll start snapping any minute now. Just ignore him. Look natural. Keep your eyes on McCoy when he appears, and smile!’
She smiled widely and McCoy ran out with the team. He seemed even more powerful in his training gear. His arms and chest were powerfully developed, and his long legs bulged with muscle as he bounced a ball in front of him as he ran, never missing a beat. Merise felt her throat go dry and a sweat break on her forehead, and not because of the heat. ‘Merise,’ Bev appeared at her side. ‘What’s up? You’re looking stunned. I said smile and look at McCoy.’
That was the problem: she was looking at McCoy. At every rippling movement of his totally ripped body. She forced another big smile, her heart hammering in her chest as her eyes followed him while he led the other players in running laps of the wide ground. She was relieved that he didn’t once look her way. He was concentrating fiercely on the training drills.
A little later the forwards were taking shots at goal. McCoy kicked true every time and the supporters close to Merise cheered him loudly. Several young girls were hanging over the barrier, their cameras pointed directly at him. They ‘ahhhedd’ and giggled every time he came close to the boundary line to gather the ball, but he seemed unaware of their existence, never once easing the intensity of his effort.
I suppose he’s used to being adored
, thought Merise. Yet she felt unaccountably annoyed – resentful even. She tried to shake off the thought. This was absurd! What did she have to be resentful about? What did she care about Cal McCoy? These poor, demented people adored him, yet a week ago she’d thought Yarraside was just an inner-city suburb. None of this meant anything to her, surely?
As training drew to an end, she saw Tim approach McCoy. They spoke for a minute. Then while the other players headed back to the gymnasium, Tim and McCoy were suddenly walking towards her. The supporters nearby yelled in delight.
‘Okay, Merise, now just smile and hold your notebook out for his autograph.’
She was just part of the crowd jostling at the barrier now. Cal quickly moved along the line, shaking hands, posing for photos, signing jumpers and footballs, but looking like he wanted to be elsewhere. He finally reached her. She felt suddenly nervous as she held out the little blue notebook. Their eyes locked and he smiled in an unexpectedly intimate way and she broke out into a dazzling smile herself.
‘Yes!’ she heard Simon exclaim. He had somehow appeared on the oval beside Cal and was snapping away furiously. ‘That’s the one! Just hold that.’
Cal only rolled his eyes and stood holding her notebook. Merise was vaguely aware that club officials, aided by Tim and Bev, were ushering away the fans. They’d got their autographs, even touched their hero, so they went quietly. Merise realised that she was still staring into Cal’s eyes, a stupid grin on her face, as Simon shot them over and over again from every angle. She felt like such an idiot – an uncomfortable, exposed idiot.
The sun was hot now and she was beginning to wilt – the woolly scarf was sweltering. She could feel the sweat under her make-up. Would it begin to run? Cal, despite the strenuous workout, looked completely cool and relaxed. As she passed a hand across her forehead he leant down towards her.
‘You’re looking a little dehydrated,’ he said, almost gently.
‘Oh, no, I’m fine, really, it’s just so hot.’ But her head was banging and she was feeling a little dizzy.
‘That’s enough I think, mate,’ he said, turning to Tim.
‘But, we haven’t quite—’
‘That’s enough for today,’ he interjected, and despite Bev’s fluttering and Tim’s hand-wringing, no one was game to argue the point. Still rather shocked, Merise watched him as he turned and walked back towards the gym. Had Cal McCoy actually been considerate? He’d clearly seen that she was uncomfortable, and he did something about it right away. Or had he? Was she flattering herself, making too much of it? Maybe he’d just been fed up with the whole thing himself. Maybe she was just his excuse to get away. Either way, as she stood looking across the footy oval, she realised that that great expanse of green seemed suddenly . . . empty.
Half an hour later she was standing outside the Hartley Centre trying to wave down a taxi, but it was late Friday morning, when taxis were monopolised by office workers off to boozy lunches, and she knew her chances were slim. Just then Cal came out of the building. He spotted her immediately, but she turned, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. She didn’t even understand why. He just had a bad effect on her – made her do stupid, awkward things.
The next moment he was at her side. ‘I’m parked just here,’ he said. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘Oh, would you?’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve got a reenrolment interview at Melbourne Uni and I’m running late. I didn’t think the shoot would take so long.’
‘Sure, get in. I live in Parkville. It’s on the way.’ He pointed to a sleek, black sports car and held the passenger door open for her when they reached it. She was struck by the gentlemanly gesture. She hadn’t expected it. He noticed her surprise and said, ‘We’re not complete hoons, you know – footballers, I mean.’
‘I didn’t say you were,’ she said quickly, looking away.
‘No, but your eyes did, and I can’t help looking at them. They’re unusual eyes. What colour are they exactly?’
She felt herself quiver. He’d been looking at her eyes. He’d taken the time to notice their colour. ‘A sort of green-blue, I suppose.’
‘They’re like the sea,’ he said teasingly. ‘Seaweed eyes.’
She laughed and relaxed a fraction. She could see how he could charm when he wanted to. This smiling Cal was very different from the aggressive leader she’d just seen on the training field. Still, he wouldn’t charm her; she’d make sure of it. She’d never be one of his throng of barracking bimbos. She would be on her guard. Yet as she sank into the leather upholstery of the car’s gleaming interior she was very much aware of his presence. He was so big and powerful, and so close to her. He’d just showered and his hair was still wet. He smelt wonderful too – of spice and eucalyptus, she guessed – a very manly smell.
She felt compelled to say something to fill the silence, to break the tension between them. She summoned up her courage.
‘Oh, by the way, I didn’t mean anything . . . about your writing. I haven’t even seen your column. I don’t read the sports sections. I mean, I haven’t. I’ll definitely start reading them now.’
He looked sideways at her and mischief danced in his eyes. ‘Excellent. Because I’ll be asking questions about them next time we meet.’
She laughed. ‘What I meant was . . . well, just that celebrities get an easy run in the media.’
He nodded. ‘At the outset, yes, I suppose they do. But if you haven’t got what it takes, you won’t last long.’
‘Oh, I see. And I suppose you’ve got what it takes?’ The words were out of her mouth before she even realised it.
He merely smiled in reply. No – she wouldn’t call it a smile, more a superior, assured smirk, and it riled her. She couldn’t help herself.
‘I suspect that “what it takes” is having a lucrative sports contract. There seem to be plenty of talentless chumps who get far too much airtime on TV and radio in this sports-mad city.’
He shot her a glance as he pulled up near the university. ‘Here we are, and just in time to save you from overexposure to this particular celebrity chump.’
She looked at him defiantly as she climbed out of the car. ‘Look, I didn’t mean—’
‘Let me guess,’ he interrupted, smiling grimly. ‘You’re sorry – again,’ and he banged the car door and roared off up Swanston Street.
‘Hoon driver, that’s for sure!’ Merise called after him, and feeling flustered and strangely churned up inside, she stormed into the Arts Faculty building and took her frustration out on the door.
Cal didn’t go home; he went back to the club for an extra workout. He’d have the gym all to himself over lunchtime. Just as well. He wasn’t up for the usual male-bonding banter. He was feeling somehow on edge, thanks to her. Damn it! She got under his skin, and under his collar. She’d looked so sexy as she stood staring up at him with that adoring, phony smile. Sure, he knew she was only acting, but what the hell. It had annoyed him to see her wilting like that in the heat, looking so bloody vulnerable. He’d had an impulse to put his arms around her, to look after her. He laughed to himself. She’d really hate that; she’d think he was a total Neanderthal. He guessed she’d be tough as old boots – cynical and judgemental, too. There was a man-eater behind that sweet young face, and he didn’t plan to get devoured.