The Taming of the Bastard Page 6

  “I hope you didn’t listen to their rubbish. They think they know everything about everybody in this club. God only knows what they’ve said about me.” His face was serious.

  “Of course I didn’t. If I believed the stuff they told me, I’d have left before you made an appearance. Besides, it’s not as if it matters is it? I mean, I’m only here out of the goodness of my heart. I couldn’t bear for you to be left to Donna.” He looked worried, so I reassured him. “Look, I can make my own judgements, Sam. I trust my instincts more than relying on the gossip of others.”

  “That sounds very sensible. You’re not like that all the time, are you?” He gazed into my eyes in a way that made me feel far from sensible. He’d shuffled so near I could smell the soap he’d used to wash the mud of the game away. It was mingling with his musk and drifting up my nose. It made my heart pound and my brain think all manner of naughty things.

  “Definitely not. In fact there are moments when I’m classed as positively outrageous.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  He would, I thought. Sam was the kind of man who looked forward to a lot of things, things I'd never been game enough to try though, frankly, would have liked to.

  “Oh and that favour thing… let’s just forget about that, shall we? We both know I wouldn’t touch Donna Atkins with a barge pole. That girl has serious issues with fake tan.”

  I tried not to laugh and I knew I shouldn’t but it was true. Most of the time, Donna looked like she’d been dunked in a vat of orange paint.

  After a bit, there was a general clinking of glasses and a craggy old man, wearing black—and sporting a noteworthy beer gut—climbed onto a bench in the middle of the room. The seat groaned under his weight and threatened to snap its puny metal legs if he so much as moved. He cleared his throat, by taking a chug of his ale, and began to speak.

  “Ahh, erm, yeah, thanks to the Hornets for having us at their Club again. They always put up a good show, erm, even though we were victorious again. (Raucous cheering from crowd members wearing black.) I'd like to call our captain, erm, Slugger, to say a few words about the match. Then, we’ll have a speech from, erm, the Hornets’ spokesperson for the afternoon. Yeah.”

  Slugger, the man who’d carried the ball onto the field earlier in the afternoon, took his place on the creaking chair. He pushed up his sleeves to reveal some faded tribal-type tattoos. I straightened, determined to listen and learn as he spoke, but I had not one clue as to what he meant. Rugby was a confusing game for a novice like me. To make matters worse, Sam’s body was dangerously close to mine on the sill. It was making me feel queasy in a hyped-up, excited sort of way like butterflies had invaded the pit of my stomach. His thigh rest against mine and I was trying to ignore it but he had no intention of letting me. I could feel his eyes welded to a spot on my neck, eyeing it off. He was being very presumptuous for a man on a first date.

  “Stop it,” I whispered. “I’m trying to concentrate. You’re distracting me.”

  A low chuckle escaped his lips. It was guttural and deeply erotic. “Good. He’s boring anyway.”

  “What’s he talking about? What’s a ruck?” I whispered, trying not to breathe for fear I would suck his manliness in and become further distracted.

  “Huh?”

  “A ruck?”

  “Oh. It’s when the players go to ground with the ball and the other team tries to get it off them. Sort of. There’s a lot of laws surrounding the ruck.” Sam looked up from the spot where he was blowing along the vein near my nape. He was living his man-whore title to the hilt and while I didn’t approve, I didn’t quite know how to tell him to leave it alone. It felt good. Extremely good.

  “And a breakdown?” I asked, elbowing him to stop.

  “It’s what I’m going to have if you don’t let me kiss you soon. I am seriously hot for you, Millie. Have been since the moment I saw you in that little red uniform.” He gave a soft wolf-like growl that made me quiver.

  Well. Right, I thought, sucking in a calming breath and giving him another ‘cut that out’ dig which he ignored.

  “Hey, Sam, can you get your tongue out of that chick’s ear for a sec’ and come and give the speech,” someone yelled across the crowd.

  Sam cracked his knuckles and, showing no sign that he was about to accost me, stood up. “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls. Back in a minute.” He wandered off through the crowd to stand on the rickety bench. Saved by the bell, I straightened to listen to his speech.

  “Thanks for the game,” he began. “I can’t say we’re pleased with the outcome but the Panthers deserved to win after their fine play in the second half.”

  I was surprised. Sam was an eloquent speaker. Unlike the speeches I’d heard at my cousin’s wedding, the word ‘um’ didn’t pass his lips. He was complimenting the other team and mentioning those who excelled. He was talking as if he’d watched every minute and knew each player personally.

  “And may I say,” Sam finished, yelling over the cheering for Rambo who was wending his way to the bar to accept his large beer as best player, “You may have outclassed us on the field but our women look like supermodels and we all have jobs.”

  A stunned silence enveloped the room. Even with my limited experience of these people I knew it wasn’t the wisest thing to say. The black team were looking at each other, not quite sure whether or not they had been insulted. Then it was on for young and old.

  *****

  “Considering the gravity of your statement, I think we were lucky to escape with our faces still attached to our heads.” Rambo puffed as we leaped into his Range Rover and sped out through the gates of the ground. “Think you could give us a bit more warning next time you’re gonna to start a bogan riot?”

  I looked at Sam in bewilderment. He was still laughing at his own joke.

  “What did you say that for, mate? You must have known they’d go mental.”

  Sam shrugged. “It was the truth.”

  I sat in stunned silence, my head awhirl with seven-foot bears, stolen road signs and women who looked like supermodels. In what world was it appropriate to be so elitist, even if it was the truth? I wanted no part of a man who caused trouble for a lark.

  “You’re, like, such a bastard, Sam. That was, like, totally uncalled for,” Kirby added, buckling her seatbelt though I could see from the twist of her smile that she was chuffed about the supermodel comment.

  “Bloody hilarious, though,” Johnny laughed and rubbed his swelling nose. “The look on their faces was priceless.”

  Sam reached for my hand between the seats and gave it a tiny squeeze. “You know what was even funnier,” he smirked. “They’re so stupid; their wives had to tell them I was taking the piss.”

  Oh God. What had I got myself into? These rugby bastards thought they ruled the world. Without a word, I sat back in my seat. If he thought there was going to be a repeat performance of this date he could think again.

  *****

  My resolve, however, seemed to be in short supply when the phone rang a few hours later. I’d come home, changed back into my ‘work clothes’ and was busy sorting through the children’s old toys for charity when I heard it ring in the study. Knowing Adele was dressing for an evening out and Brian in the sauna, I ran to answer it.

  “Hello, Richards-Shaw residence, Millie speaking.”

  “Hey Millie, it’s Sam.”

  I frowned into the phone, irked that my heart had begun to pound at the velvet tones of his voice. Even through the phone line, he exuded a power over me. “Hi.”

  “I was just calling to see if you enjoyed your day at the rugby.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was still trying to make sense of the whole adventure. What with getting dinner for the children and bathing and bedding, I hadn’t had time to decide whether or not rugby was to my liking. Or more importantly, if Sam was. Good looks were one thing. Common respect was another story. “Er, ah...yes... thank you. It was very... um... different.”


  “Good. I wanted to apologise too.”

  “For?”

  “The comments about the other team. I suppose I was outta line.”

  “Maybe you should apologise to them?”

  “Ha. Have you seen their women? They’d strangle me!”

  I laughed, despite myself. Sam was trying so hard to impress me. He’d clearly never thought about the weight of his words until now. Everything had just been a joke.

  “Well, I just wanted to see, you know... make sure you were okay with it.”

  “I’m fine, Sam.”

  “Hey listen, you wouldn’t want to go out to dinner next Saturday would you? You know, with some of the lads and that?”

  I paused. How could I tell him that despite our physical attraction I thought he had the manners of a wanker, that he was possibly one of the most overconfident, self obsessed men I had ever met? Then something dawned on me. “Sam, how did you get this number? Adele doesn’t like me taking personal calls on the home phone.”

  “You gave it to me when you gave me your mobile.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t remember that but then my mind had been mush since I’d met him. It was more than likely true. “Can I let you know?”

  I was playing for time, I knew, but the idea of a team date was too much for me to handle. God only knows what mischief they’d cause roaming in a pack.

  “We could go for lunch, alone, if you’d be more comfortable,” Sam added, as if sensing my apprehension. “The boys can be pretty full on.”

  “Maybe, I mean, I might have to work.”

  After Sam hung up I stared, disconcerted, at the phone. I knew I hadn’t given him the home phone number. Adele would fire me on the spot, after breaking every bone in my body first, that is. So how had he got it? The Richards-Shaw’s were not listed in the phone book. Absently, I rubbed a spot of chocolate yogurt from the receiver where Paige had been ‘on the phone’ again. There was a lot about Sam I wasn’t sure of.

   10 

  “Millie, Millie …There’s a funny man at the window.”

  It was two dates and three afternoons later. Adele had retired upstairs with a cold compress to her forehead after a hectic ladies lunch with the Breast Cancer Society. I was up to my neck in glitter glue and yellow paint because Paige had produced a note from her school bag dated two weeks previous. Fabulous. The note said there was an assembly the next morning. It also said Paige had a starring role… as The Sun, of all things. Luckily for her, though I was no cook, I was very creative in the costume department. Casting a sun from cardboard and paint was nothing. Except a bit of an annoyance.

  “Millie! Millie!” Paige continued, jumping like an excited puppy, “Look!”

  Ignoring her pleas and praying it wasn’t the Adventists again (I had so much trouble getting them out of the living room the last time) I went on with the pasting. There was only a limited amount of time before this costume had to be ready and knowing Paige’s exacting standards and the critical eye of her classmates; I would need every minute of it.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Ignore it, Paige,” I instructed her. “Come and help me finish your costume.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “But Millie...”

  Sighing, I tried to concentrate on the glitter. There was no time to have a stern talk with the Adventists and they wouldn’t have taken me seriously. I had gold glitter glue stuck to my eyebrows and yellow smudges on my cheek that looked like a bad case of hepatitis. My hair was falling out of its bun and trailing over my face and my shorts had a rip along the cheek of my bottom. I glanced over at Paige. She was peeking at the unwanted visitor from behind the back of a lounge chair. “He’s not leaving Millie.”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  No, he wasn’t, and the knocking was becoming more insistent which I found unusual. Normally, the Adventists gave up after a few minutes. Wiping the smudge away and only succeeding in smearing it further across my face, I got up from the floor and walked to where Paige knelt on the chair. I was a little peeved. It wasn’t like I had all day to waste with hawkers.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s a funny man... with make-up,” Paige giggled and ducked her head out of sight, then popped back up again. Clearly, this was some sort of game.

  Little Tori was now pointing toward the glass doors that lead out onto the Richards-Shaw’s front verandah, too. “Clown. Clown,” she tittered, as I continued to ignore them both.

  Resolutely, Paige tugged at my sleeve. “You have to open the door, Millie. He’s got some big balloons.” She paused for a moment, deep in thought. “Are we having a clown party for afternoon tea?”

  I smiled at her purity, exactly the right amount for a five year old, for a change. It was obvious I was going to have to act, and so, sighing and running my hand over the crown of her head, I put down the glitter paint. Whoever it was could bugger off. I hadn’t ordered any clowns.

  With Paige, Michael and Tori in hot pursuit, I walked to the window. Their anticipation was mounting by the second and Tori gripped the denim at my thighs excitedly.

  “See!” Paige pointed, as I slid the curtains across and peered around them suspiciously. “I told you.”

  On seeing the man, Michael and Tori—though only three—began to squeal at the top of their lungs. Piercing shrieks of joy threatened to burst my eardrums. Little feet jumped up and down on my toes. A clown meant fun and hilarity and their day had been sadly lacking in that, as we’d only been to swimming lessons and Storytime at the library.

  “Letty in, Millie. Letty in,” they cried in perfect twin unison.

  I took a closer look. And, oh dear. It wasn’t a clown.

  It was Sam.

  Dressed as a clown.

  There he was, in all his colourful glory, standing on the verandah and tapping at the window like some perverted stalker from Law and Order: SVU. Beneath the grease paint, his smile was cheerful and expectant. The children began to leap about and squeal even louder. Adele would surely wake at the racket if I didn’t quell the tide now.

  Shit.

  What was I going to do?

  Quickly, I plonked the children back at the table and raced to the French doors, directing them to stay quiet, lest the clown get scared and run away. Slipping out and closing the doors behind me, I glanced up and down the street in case any of the neighbours had spotted Sam. Adele would have purple kittens if she knew I had a man on the front doorstep dressed as a sideshow. I’d lose my job and be homeless in thirty seconds flat. B & B dream over. Kaput.

  “Hi.” Sam looked extremely pleased with himself. The gravity of the situation had eluded him, which I suppose was natural, given his attire.

  “Hi,” I replied, not quite as pleased. “Who are the balloons for?”

  Proudly, he pulled himself up to his full manly height, suitable to the occasion. He grinned and handed me the bunch of balloons as nonchalantly as if they were a bunch of flowers. “They’re for you,” he stated.

  “Um, thank you?”

  Sam stepped closer, his lovely vanilla scent filling my nostrils. Beneath the grease paint his face had taken on this weird look, sort of like…

  Oh surely, our first kiss was not going to be in full view of the neighbours, the children and a bunch of balloons?

  No. No. No. This was not going to happen, no matter how much thought he’d put into this—despite it being rather bizarre—and how cute he looked, I was not going to kiss him while he was dressed as a clown. Full stop. I didn’t even understand the logic behind it.

  “I saw them and I… I just thought of you…” he rasped.

  “And you felt compelled to buy them?” I whispered back, choking on the words.

  “They’re cheerful and happy like you. So, I bought them. For a surprise. I know, it’s a bit bloody weird but there you go. Sometimes I even surprise myself.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly surprised me. What’s with the clown suit?”

  “It seemed a bit stupid gi
ving you a bunch of balloons without some pomp and ceremony to the act.”

  The words clown and pomp and ceremony didn’t naturally fit together in my book but each to their own.

  “Okay. Well.” I didn’t know whether be happy or insulted. It wasn’t every day a guy presented you with a gift like this and it was a sweet thought, even if the words ‘IT’S A BOY!’ were emblazoned boldly across the metallic surface of each and every balloon.

  “Don’t you like them?”

  “I love them.” I was simply a little overcome.

  “Good. I want you to be happy Millie, I want to be the man to make you happy.” Sam’s hand came to rest on my bare arm. His fingers caressed the skin and I trembled just a little inside. His chest was so near to mine, there was barely space between us for me to push him gently away, even if I’d wanted to. His eyes glazed over with desire and his lips drew close to mine.

  “Are you having a baby, Millie?”

  Oh shit, shit, shit. Paige had poked her head through the glass doors, her face directed towards the balloons.

  “No, sweetie,” I replied, leaping away from Sam and trying to stay calm.

  Why the hell did they teach children to read so young these days? Bloody, expensive, private schools.

  “Then why is the funny man giving them to you? Mummy says only people who are married have babies and you’re not married. Are you?” She frowned questioningly at my stomach and then my finger, searching for either a ring or a baby bump, I’m sure.

  Sam shrugged, uneasily. “It was either that or ‘Happy 60th Birthday’.”

  I ignored him. “Go back inside Paige, and take Tori and Michael with you. Angry Beavers is on in a couple of minutes.”

  Now Paige was eyeing me suspiciously. “But Mummy doesn’t like it if we watch TV when it’s homework time. She said Angry Beavers is detrimental to my intellectual growth because beavers can’t talk.”

  I pressed my lips together. For Pete’s sake. “Well, we won’t tell her. Today it’s our secret.”

  Mollified, Paige shuffled the children inside and I breathed a sigh of relief.