Page 76 of Playing the Field
‘Or we could go out afterwards?’
‘Lily Crawford,’ she says sternly, ‘you’ve been trying to get your degree for five whole years. We are not postponing the celebration of you finally passing for another minute.’
I roll my eyes. I know she won’t back down. ‘You’re such a bossy cow sometimes.’
She just laughs and moos at me.
But to make sure I don’t change my mind, she comes to my house early on results day, so she can be there when I get the email. After that she’s insisting we go shopping to find me something sparkly to celebrate in– she doesn’t doubt I’m going to pass this time– then we’ll come back here and get dressed up before we hit the town.
I end up glad she’s here, because Dad is putting me on edge as he fidgets in his seat. They both look at me expectantly from the other side of the table as I open my laptop. ‘Effective leadership...’ I leave them hanging for a few seconds. ‘Pass.’
‘Yes!’ Dad beams.
‘Go, girl,’ says Phoebs, holding her hand out for a fist bump.
‘And global communication...’
‘You’ve got this,’ Phoebs encourages.
I try to sound as upbeat as I can. ‘I smashed it!’
It’s not that I’m not happy to be graduating– of course I’m pleased. It’s just while they high-five each other before coming round the table for congratulatory hugs with me, what I want to do more than anything is tell Ben, but right now we’re barely speaking. Our conversation on Sunday night didn’t manage to resolve anything. He’s still pissed off that I accused him of encouraging Georgina. I ended up suggesting we take a few days out to think about things.
I don’t know why I did it. I guess I was admitting to myself that I’m not happy. I don’t like the insecure, uneasy person I’ve become while I’ve tried– and failed– to handle the position I’ve found myself in. I thought a few days to regroup might help, so I can get back to feeling more like myself. Then I’m hoping we can revert to the fun and flirty chat that’s the reason I fell for him.
I resist messaging him while I’m out shopping with Phoebs and while we’re doing our hair and make-up, but I finally take the first step towards reconciliation when I drunk-text him from a bar later in the evening, while Phoebs is queuing for drinks.
It’s just a short message.‘It turns out I don’t like not talking to you.’
His response is immediate.‘I hate it! Are you free to chat now?’
‘I’m at my graduation drinks. Phoebs made me do shots. I’m a little slurry.’
‘You passed? Why didn’t you tell me?!’
‘We weren’t speaking,’I remind him.‘But we are now. And when I see you on Friday we can make up properly.’
There’s a longer pause this time before his three dots start flashing.‘About that,’his message starts and it’s probably just as well I’m quite tipsy. It means my reactions are dulled and I don’t fly off the handle when he says,‘Under the new coach there’s a ban on wives and girlfriends the night before a game, so I’m not going to be able to sneak you into the hotel.’
‘After the game then?’
‘Flying straight back to Millford with the team. I’m not trying to make things even more difficult. What about if I could get you a seat on the same flight?’
‘We’re away at Feybrook on Saturday. I’d never make it.’
‘Sunday then. Somewhere in the middle. One of the nicest hotels on our list. It’s probably better that way anyway– less chance of getting spotted.’
I ignore the reminder that we’re not allowed to be seen together and tell him, alongside a string of happy-face emojis, that he’s got himself a deal.
42
The day before we’re due to see each other, Crawford United scrape another draw out of the match against Feybrook. It’s a miserable day that starts with Dad, Cassie and I staring out of the kitchen window at rain that hasn’t stopped for three days straight. And there I was thinking August was meant to be summer. We can’t imagine too many of the fans wanting to travel for an hour to stand around in this for the afternoon, and we’re right, we end up with our lowest attendance to date.
As we stand pitchside, huddled under Dad’s golf umbrella, it occurs to me that I should have had some team ponchos printed up.
‘Let’s look into costs and see if we can get some on sale on the website for next time,’ Dad says.
By half-time, our players are soaked to the bone. We shelter inside the coach while Dad and Cassie go over a few pointers with them, as the Feybrook ground doesn’t have locker rooms. It’s really just a pitch with a fence around it. I feel terrible that they don’t have a dry kit to change into as they sit wrapped in their towels. I make a note to try and find a way to work this into our budget. At least it’s not cold, only wet.
