Page 6 of Blindsided By You

The teenage girl I last saw in shorts and t-shirt lounging on the sand at the little beach down by the loch—she’s long gone. In her place is a dark-haired woman with brown almond eyes set in smooth honeyed skin. She’s in a pair of jeans that fit her ample curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. The shiny emerald green top, slashed in a deep v, reveals a peek of cleavage.

I’m reminded of my father’s less than subtle attention to Nigella Lawson’s cooking show. He always says it’s a compliment to my mum that the only women he ever looks at all have her shapely outline. I’ve inherited his love for a decent set of curves. It’s the only thing I’ve got in common with the bastard.

We all stand there like idiots, the less discreet with mouths dropped open. Jenna is fucking beautiful. Sometimes life really sucks. The first woman to truly catch my eye in ages, and my sense of self-preservation screams at me to stay away from her.

Chapter 4

JENNA

Thecrowdbelowmeis a blur, and I waver in my glossy patent heels. But it’s too late to turn and dive for the safety of my bedroom. There is a hush in the room and every face turns towards me. And then a disturbing and surreal sound—applause.

At the foot of the stairs, a young woman in a tight sequined dress—sequins? Really? For fuck’s sake, this is Cluanie—slaps her palms together in polite applause that spreads like a ripple across the room. I swear I’ve never felt so embarrassed in my life. Not even when I walked on stage beside Dad to support him, when he received the Coach of the Year award, with a bit of loo paper stuck to my Jimmy Choos. Whenever I see the footage, I still cringe at that nasty piece of glaring white tissue lodged on the leather sole of my first truly excessive footwear purchase.

I plaster a smile on my face. Get it right Jenna. Just enough to look modestly appreciative, but not too much, or you’ll appear smug. Mustn’t look like I expected this.

I grip the banister on the way down, careful not to slither off the carpeted edge of a stair in my unsuitable shoes. Now is not the timeto make a spectacle of myself, even in front of what appears to be a warmly welcoming hometown crowd.

“Jenna, darling, you look gorgeous.” At the foot of the stairs, Laura Darby folds me into her embrace. She never notices my awkwardness with hugs. As always, she presses my angular shoulders against her ample bosom, and tonight it’s surprisingly comforting.

Laura is the gracious first lady of Cluanie Rugby Football Club. Her husband, Grant, as President, is still in disbelief that someone with Dad’s pedigree would step up and volunteer to coach the first division team. And Laura, mother to four big strapping boys, perhaps seeing the opportunity for a daughterless mother and a motherless daughter to build a relationship, has taken me under her wing. My normal resistance to any form of mollycoddling slips away in her presence.

It’s not quite a receiving line, but Laura sweeps me along, as I’m greeted by one woman after another. She has an innate sense of the hierarchy of this social situation, first introducing me to some of the older wives and girlfriends who have come along to support their men.

Not that any of them would have missed it. There’s not much to do in Cluanie on a Saturday night. A party with free booze and free food—even if it is the slightly suspect posh fare Dad requested—is an irresistible attraction. The dazzle of cocktail dresses, heels, and make-up suggests it’s also a rare opportunity for these women to put on their glad rags and have a little fun.

I suppose I expected hostility from some of them. After six years’ experience on the pro rugby circuit with the Highlanders, I’ve learned that WAGS are an odd bunch, often insecure and rarely welcoming to other women. No matter how hard I tried to projectan air of professionalism, most didn’t understand that my interest in their men wasn’t to fuck them, but simply to make sure they didn’t fuck up. Or if they did, to cover their dirty little tracks. It was my job to ensure player trysts with women in airport bathrooms didn’t hit the media, not leap in there with them.

Perhaps that was another reason they didn’t trust me—the suspicion I knew things about their husbands and boyfriends that they didn’t. In many cases that was true, but I couldn’t tell them, much as sometimes I’d have liked to. Spending my life surrounded by men, I’ve come to realise overall they’re an untrustworthy species.

But here, no one seems to herd their guys away from me, or stare me down with pouts of collagen-filled lips or challenging glares from beneath heavy fake lashes. Of course, it might be sympathy. They all know about Mum. Or maybe it’s because they don’t feel threatened by a thirty-four-year-old with crinkles at the corner of her eyes and the hint of a furrow between her brows.

Perhaps they see no competition from my big butt on display in tight jeans. But then, as always, I think of Kim Kardashian’s highly-lauded curvy arse and push away any doubts about the attractiveness of my own. I may not be able to balance a glass of champagne on it, but the taut outlines show the results of my daily workout—although that’s always been more a way of keeping my sanity intact rather than a desperate desire to make my body into something it’s not.

Travelling with a professional sports team, I never lacked access to the gear, and even now back in Cluanie, Dad’s set up an entire gym room in one corner of this vast house. That room has been my refuge in the dark days since Mum died. I haven’t let things slip. So,while I know I’ll never be small, either clothed or unclothed, I’m not dissatisfied with my appearance.

We weave our way through the room, finally stopping in front of the woman Laura evidently considers the least of them—just a girl, really—the one who started the applause. She’s wide-eyed and long-lashed, like a cute blonde doll. Tiny, she looks adorable in her pink glitter-ball of a dress.

“Hi Jenna,” she says, extending her hand and clasping it over mine. “I’ve been so excited to meet you. I’m Skylar—Brandon Smith’s girlfriend?”

She casts a proud glance towards where Brandon is chatting to a group of the older guys in the team. He’s an anomaly. Most young people can’t wait to get out of Cluanie. The moment they’ve got their high school exams done, or sometimes even before, they’re hurtling out of here with barely a backward glance. Yes, I was one of those, too. I’m a cliché. Some come back, but usually not till they’ve put a good few years between them and Cluanie, or something unexpected forces them to return home. Me again.

But here’s Brandon, nineteen years old, professional teams waving attractive contracts in front of him, and yet he brushes them away. I don’t understand what is keeping him here. Maybe this is it—young love.

“Oh, yeah, Brandon,” I say, “He’s our star player, for sure.”

It’s a sincere compliment. Dad couldn’t believe his luck when Brandon rolled in on his first night at the club. I saw Grant Darby’s grin, and his quiet aside, “Don’t question it, mate. Just accept that sometimes the man up top is smiling down on us.”

“Well, I thinkyou’rea star,“ the girl says quietly, a small flush of embarrassment on her face. My god, I realise this kid isfan-girling—over me. I’ve seen admiration for my work before—after all, I’m very good at my job—but never this adoration from a stranger.

“I’ve read all about you, seen you on telly, followed the things you’ve done. If I could only hope to achieve half of what you have, I’d be happy.”

“So, you want to go into PR?”

She nods. I can’t imagine this innocent baby has what it takes to survive in the world I inhabit—inhabited, I correct myself. This year’s leave from my position at the Highlanders has given me breathing space. Setting up my own little sports PR company in the interim has taken my mind off the grief, and allowed me to be selective with my clients. Already it’s less brutal. But I learned from the years of long hard slog, a struggle that’s also given me a very thick skin—one I doubt this gentle kid could ever develop.

“I do,” she says. “I made sure I took all the right subjects. I’m just waiting for exam results for my Advanced Highers. I’m going to work for a year—doing nights waiting tables and in the kitchen at The Railway. And then next year I’ll go to university.” Her face is brimming with hope, so damn eager. Did I look like that once? “And,” she says, swallowing, looking up at me from under a nervous flutter of charcoal lashes, “I was wondering…if you might…take me on. Not paid, I mean,” she rushes to add. “Just work experience. I’ll do anything. Make you coffee, do filing, run errands. Just a chance to see what you do firsthand.”

I’m a little in awe of this meek-looking kid. Maybe she has got an inner grit there, just wrapped in a sweet, pretty package. At eighteen, I certainly wasn’t brave enough to do what she’s doing, and back myself like this.

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