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Previously...

The game restarted and it was soon end-to-end stuff. Whitehaven nearly scored twice and it was only a smart save from our keeper and a goal line clearance by Desmond Etoo that kept us in the game. For our part, we peppered their goal with shots only for us to rattle the woodwork or bring out athletic saves from their goalie. I even did an overhead scissor kick that looked a bit flash as the ball clipped the crossbar, but it didn’t result in a goal–just more tummy cramps.

After sixty minutes we brought on a couple of subs, Walter Indongo and supersub Dave Hastings. The changes gave us more impetus and Walter scored a cracking goal from a free kick just outside the area that had the giant German all a-floppin.’

GOAL!

We mobbed Walter and he was kissed and hugged by more than one player; who said boys don’t have a tender side?

After that, we battened down the hatches and weathered the storm. It was a close run thing because they scored in the ninety-third minute but–to the groans of the crowd–it was offside by what the Boss called a ba’-hair.

We had won!

On the coach home, I smiled to myself as I listened to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, lying down on the back seat with my hand on my tummy. The music was a bit sombre, but I certainly wasn’t!

And now the story continues…

When I got up the next morning I felt like death warmed up. My period was still in full swing and so were the cramps in my tummy–not forgetting my mood, that was up and down like a yo-yo.

I didn’t want to see anyone or do anything and believed that dying might be a viable option. I couldn’t go out for a run, not because of the curse, but because my leg had reacted to the tough match yesterday.

When I got back from the match, I was on a high and everyone said how well I played. Then, on TV some plonker of an ex-player insinuated that I was hogging the ball–and the limelight–and the other plonkers agreed with him. I never thought that the BBC was biased against me and wondered if I could add the Corporation to the ever-lengthening list of people and organisations that didn’t like poor little me.

I don’t think I’m a prima donna–at least I hope not–and if I ever showed any signs of it, my ever-loving family would soon give me what for.

Anyway, there was I, tucked up in my nice warm bed cuddling my white rabbit, watching Match of the Day while they carved up my performance, dissected it and made me feel as if I was a one-woman ball-hog.

Halfway through, there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I called.

It was Daddy. ‘Hello, love, have you seen what they’re saying?’

‘Mmm,’ I said, hugging my cuddly rabbit tightly but not trusting myself to open my mouth in case some expletive escaped.

‘Bloody disgrace,’ he protested, sitting on the bed next to me and watching the remainder of the item.

‘–Yes, Jeff, young Hurst can be seen here; look how she’s clearly ignoring Ogsood, waving in the centre, for the ball. As you can see, Oggy’s ideally positioned to have a crack at goal, but she decides to shoot from outside the box at an angle that’s very unlikely to get results. All right, she did hit the crossbar but I think it’s yet another opportunity missed. Then in the second half, she decides that she can take on the whole Whitehaven team herself and sprints the length of the field and then tamely shoots at the goal. All right, she’s quick and has great dribbling skills but you can tell that she’s still raw and inexperienced. This was an instance where she left all her teammates behind and gallops up the field again, but what is the point of that if there’s no one in the box to take advantage of any pass she might give?

‘Sandy McPherson and his team need to harness the obvious skill that she has and insist she becomes more of a team player rather than someone who plays for herself.’

I switched off the TV and turned to Daddy. ‘Am I like that?’ I asked pensively.

‘No love, you know what he’s like, he always downs a player in his match assessments, it’s why they have him on–he’s controversial. Let’s face it; he never got over only playing for England only once. Andy Green will always be the player who could have achieved but never did.’

‘You saw the match, Daddy: did I hog the ball and not play for the team?’

‘No love, you didn’t; you sprayed the ball about and gave your teammates plenty of support. You have to face the fact that there are people out there who will not like you. You have to develop a thick skin otherwise you’ll become like Andy eventually–ex-player, old, overweight and bitter about the past.’

I rubbed my tummy; it was aching rather too much for my liking.

‘You will tell me if I start doing things like he suggested I was doing, won’t you?’

‘Of course, love, and anyway d’you think Sandy would tolerate a player like that in his team? Remember Nikersov, or whatever his name was–that lad from Russia who thought that he was the best thing since sliced bread was invented? They paid twenty million for him and he strutted around the pitch playing pretty football and didn’t give a toss about the rest of the team: he lasted one season and then he was sold on at a loss. Look at him now, playing for a team in the second division. No, Sandy won’t take that kind of thing from anyone, so don’t you worry about what some pundit–who half the time doesn’t know what he’s talking about–says about you. If he’d had as much talent in him as you’ve got in your little finger, he’d have been a great player himself.’

I looked at him, feeling slightly better in mind if not in body and said, ‘I think he was Niskerov and you know it.’

‘Yes, well it made you smile, didn’t it?’

‘Daddy, dearest,’ I said in a slightly oily voice, changing the subject rather subtly.

‘Yes, love,’ he replied, somewhat cautiously.

‘Can I have a Paracetamol and a hot drinky-poos?’

‘Why can’t you get it for yourself?’

‘Welllll–I have awful tummy cramps and my leg hurts lots, too.’

‘Don’t give me that doe-eyed, Bambi look, it doesn’t work–your mum tries it on and I’m immune to it. Okay, well just this once, but don’t think you’ll always be able to wrap me around your little finger.’

‘Oooh, thank you, Daddy!’ I smiled as he stood up, and walked to the door. ‘Oh, and Daddy?’

He turned back and, in a tired voice said, ‘Yes, Susan?’

‘A chocky bicky would be nice too.’

He shook his head and I’m pretty sure he said something not very polite under his breath as he left.

I snuggled down in bed and fired off a text to Claire. I know she was only three doors down from me, but texting is a cool way of communicating and anyway I couldn’t possibly get up, could I?

‘Wassup, Claire?’

‘Like, nothing?’

‘In bed?’

‘Yeah, u?’

‘Yup, waiting for hot drink and Bics from Daddy’

‘Cor, I could do with some o that.’

‘Want to do a sleepover?’

‘’kay, cool. I’ll go get me a drink an that and see u in ten.’

‘Okily-dokily’

I phoned Mummy.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mummy, Claire wants to do a sleepover, is that all right?’

‘God, Susan, do you have to use that flaming iPhone for everything? You could get off your bum, come downstairs and ask me face to face.’

‘But Mumeee, I does hurts.’

‘Don’t do the baby talk; you know I hate the baby talk. Why do you want a sleepover for goodness sake? Sleepovers are for people that live in different houses, not the same one!’

‘Yea, but it’s such a big house and––’

‘–She’s only three doors away from you––’

‘–Yeah, but, I’m traumatised and need company tonight.’

‘You sound about as traumatised as a sleeping cat…all right, as long as Claire has asked Monica, you can do it. Now, how’s your leg and tummy?’

‘Painful; Daddy’s getting me some pills and stuff.’

‘So you’ve got him running around after you. Well don’t make a habit of it, girl, he’s my slave, not yours!’

We both giggled and after putting the phone down I lay back and awaited developments.

I really was upset over what that Andy Green person had said, but Daddy was right, there was no point in getting my knickers in a twist over what people say. I would respond by playing the best way I could and be sickeningly nice to anyone like that, if I was ever unlucky enough to meet or be interviewed by such a person.

The door opened and I put on an ‘in pain’ look for Daddy as he walked in with a tray. He put the tray down on the bedside table and looked at me. ‘How are you feeling, honey?’ he asked, gently.

‘I’m okay, Daddy,’ I said bravely.

‘Well, you’d better take the pills and other things and then get some sleep.’

I just smiled and said ‘Thank you Daddy, you’re the best!’

He kissed me on the forehead, mussed my hair a bit and then said, ‘Goodnight, see you in the morning. I hope you feel better by then.’

‘Me too, night-night.’

As soon as he left and quietly closed the door, I fell on the biscuits–my fave, chocky Hobnobs. It didn’t take long for me to finish them off, have my pills and start sipping the hot chocolate before Claire arrived.

After a gentle knock, she came in and over to the bed. Like me, she was wearing a rather girlie short satin nightie, but unlike mine, which was pink, hers was a sort of peach colour. She had a mug with her and a carrier bag.

She put the bag and mug on the side and then jumped into bed.

‘Ooh, Claire, your feet are cold!’ I whinged as she snuggled down next to me.

‘Sorry, look, I’ve brought some supplies.’

She picked up the bag and put it between us. Inside were several Kit Kats, Mars Bars, Milky Ways and other chocolate bars. We were in for a yummy but probably sickly night! Good job it was Sunday tomorrow because we didn’t have to get up early and we could watch a film or something.

I nearly suggested asking if it was okay for Andrea to come to the sleepover, but Mummy was a bit funny about that at the moment and I don’t think she would’ve approved of us being in the same bed together yet. I, being a bit of a schemer, would work on her and Monica and maybe next time they would agree to her coming, even if it meant some barbed wire to keep us apart in bed. Mind you, the thought of Andrea in bed with me made me feel a bit…well never mind that, Claire was talking and I supposed I should be listening to what she was saying…

‘So like, that scumbag Andy Green, what’s with him? Anyone could see he’s got a bee up his arse!’

‘Claire, don’t be a potty mouth!’

‘Hark at you Miss-Prim-And-Proper, you can talk; I've learnt more than a few new naughty words from you lately, anyway where was I? Oh yes, he’s so full of himself, just like, because he’s on the telly, doesn’t mean he can dis my sis!’

‘I know, Daddy implied that he’s jealous of players who are better than him. I’ll just remain calm and aloof about it.’

‘Aloof?’

‘Yes, aloof!’

‘That’s a roof on a Chinese takeaway restaurant, like isn’t it?’

A giggle-fest commenced and it took all of our iron self-discipline not to spill hot chocolate over the duvet.

After that, I braved the cold by getting up, limping over to the Blu-Ray, only whimpering quietly for effect, putting on Legally Blond–again and scampering back under the duvet. We didn’t see the end as we both sort of zonked out halfway through.

The next morning, I wakened to hair all over my face–not mine–Claire’s. She was spooning me and was all toasty warm. She was also snoring, which was one of the reasons why I woke up in the first place. I was dying for a wee-wee, so I untangled myself and went to the loo. On checking my panty liner, I was pleased to note that the flow of the Orinoco had reduced to a trickle and that pleased me. However, my leg was still quite painful and it looked as if I was going to have another all-in wrestling match with the physio tomorrow at the training ground. Ah well, the joys of being a super-sportsperson.

As it was nearly nine o’clock and I wanted to have a decent breakfast–rather than an indecent one–I decided to get dressed, but in the true spirit of sisterhood that Claire was so keen to engender, I helped wake her by gently placing a cold wet flannel on her face. She wasn’t too happy about that for some reason and the pillow fight that resulted had nothing to do with me.

Anyway, we eventually arrived downstairs. I was wearing a white lacy top and mini skirt–not too mini because Mummy doesn’t like it. And that reminds me; she showed me a few photos a while back, of her at my age. I know that it was like, pre-war, ’cos they were faded and everything, but she was wearing a miniskirt in the photos which was far shorter than any I had. Talk about hypocritical?

It was fairly quiet in the kitchen and Mrs M was baking something yummy that set my mouth watering. The others had had their breakfast so it was less like a chimps’ tea party. I had ham and eggs and Claire, toast and OJ, she was watching her figure, I didn’t need to as I was a super sportsperson that burnt off fat and stuff quite easily.

After we finished we went into the sun lounge and erm, lounged about for a bit. I liked it there as it was cosy and warm, good for my battered leg and still slightly cramped tummy, even though it was cold and frosty outside. I plugged in my iPhone and listened to some Tchaikovsky; I found the 1812 Overture woke me up a bit–sort of head-banging music for the intelligentsia and anyway, so what if I like classical music? I have you know that some of the modern popular music has pinched tunes from the classics.

I was jolted back to the present by Daddy, who was standing, saying something. I switched off the music so I could hear what he was saying, although my ears still rang from the onslaught of the cannon I had just heard banging away behind the orchestra.

‘You’ll go deaf listening to that; I could hear your iPhone from the next room.’

Claire’s eyes went skyward and I shook my head. She was playing some sort of game on the X Box but continued killing aliens without missing a beat.

‘A bit of an exaggeration there, Daddy.’

‘Never mind that. Listen, Teen Girl want to do an interview with you here, do you feel up to it?’

‘Mmm,’ I pondered. ‘How much will I get? Can I have editorial privileges before the article is published? Is there a clause regarding copyright and do I get secondary payments for syndication in the UK, Europe, and the rest of the world? Oh yes, and do they pay for the dress and makeup session, not forgetting my hair?

He looked at me and frowned.

‘Have you been talking to Sheila?’ he asked with a twinkle.

‘I may have taken a few hints from her.’ I answered airily, tossing my hair back coquettishly.

‘Mmm, well it’s been cleared by Sheila, not even she thinks you can go too far wrong with a Teen Magazine.’

‘I don’t know what you mean Daddy–moi?’

‘Oui, toi! I’ve seen your temper and it’s not a pretty sight. Just be your usual sweet self and you’ll be fine.’

‘So when will this person be coming?’ I asked, looking at my iPhone and wanting to return to 1812.

He looked at his watch.

‘Oh, err, in about an hour.’

‘Okay––WHAT? An hour? Daddy I haven’t got time to change and make myself look half-way decent. Look at me–I’m a total mess and anyway, why do I have to do this on a Sunday? It’s supposed to be a day of rest.’

‘Not for the millions who have to work, love. Look, the deadline for the next issue is tomorrow, that’s why there’s a hurry on it.’

‘Will they want to photograph me?’ I asked, sighing.

‘I believe a photographer is coming.’

‘So I do need to change and glam up then?’

‘It might be advisable. Did I mention that you’ve got some egg on your chin?’

‘What?’

I stood up and rushed out.

~ §~

Actually, Daddy was being a bit of a wind-up merchant because I had two hours to prepare. Claire–my self-appointed style consultant–followed a few minutes after I rushed to my bedroom to repair the ravages of my face.

‘Righ’,’ she said, chewing bubble gum, ‘Do you want like, Goth, business woman, glam or sweetly innocent?’

‘Doo what?’ I said intelligently as I started pulling clothes out of the wardrobe with a certain degree of frenzy.

‘What style do you like, want?’ She asked and then blew a ginormous bubblegum bubble.

‘I don’t know, normal teenage I s’pose.’

‘What, grunge?’

‘You know I’m not into grunge. Something pretty, I s’pose. I don’t want people to think that I’m an ex-boy in a dress.’

‘Right, try this––’

I reckon I tried on every single thing in my wardrobe and then finished up wearing the first thing I tried on. It was a gorgeous Oriane Monsoon black lace dress with chocolate under-layer. It was ruched around the waist with a crossover top. A bit dressy–more like something you wore to a party, but I knew that mags liked this type of thing and if they objected to what I had on I could always change into jeans and a T.

Before dressing in my finery, I had another shower; I did that when I was on, as I always felt a bit dirty, what with the yucky blood n’ stuff. Sometimes I showered four times a day–weird or what? I was hoping that I wasn’t developing one of those compulsive disorders like I had read about. Mummy had assured me though that a lot of girls felt the same when they first started their periods, so I shouldn’t worry too much.

I had missed Mummy; she had gone to visit an aunt and uncle with the twins early that morning and Monica went along to keep them company. Andrea was in Andrew mode and had gone to play badminton at a club that she belonged to. She had wanted to wear girlie, but didn’t want to fully out herself just yet. She was going to see the psychiatrist on Tuesday and would talk to her about it then. I just wanted her to be happy.

After the shower, I pulled off the shower hat, put on my silk robe and walked back to the bedroom where Claire was lying on her tummy in bed watching Spongebob Squarepants of all things. I took off the robe and put on my black bra and panties. My little booblettes had begun to grow up a bit now and I was a full B–well semi-full anyway and I loved the way the satin cups of my bra caressed my breasts.

Sitting at the dressing table, I tried to decide the thorny question of makeup.

‘Claire, what do you think, heavy club-like, medium or subtle?’

‘Mmm?’ she said distractedly.

‘Claire, please tear your eyes away from the idiot box. I need advice from my style consultant here!’

‘All right,’ she replied reluctantly, switching off the TV and coming to me.

‘Well, you don’t want heavy, and subtle wouldn’t show up well in the photos; mind you, they’ll airbrush you out of all recognition anyway, so go for medium day wear.’

‘Can you help me? Pretty please––?’

‘Don’t get all like, crawly with me, girl. Okay I’ll help.’

Claire was very good at makeup and had far more experience than I, so I just sat back and let her work her magic.

After about fifteen minutes she had finished and then went to work on my hair. I had planned to have my signature ponytail look, but with this dress and the makeup, Claire decided that down was best, so she brushed my hair vigorously, detangled it and then hair-sprayed it to within an inch of its life before she was satisfied.

Then I had to put on some black two inch heels–despite the pains in my leg–and walked through a mist of scent before I was finally allowed to look at the end result.

Studying the lovely vision before me in the full-length mirror, I almost cried. I looked pretty–no beautiful. My hair was just right, my makeup accentuated my face, my eyes looking, if anything, more Bambi-like than usual and my lips somehow seemed fuller and more sensuous. Then there was the dress; it fitted me like a glove and I could see that my body had lost most, if not all of its androgynous look and was more feminine that I had ever noticed before. My legs looked fantastic encased in fine black nylon tights–which also hid my bruises–and my shoes complemented the look and gave my calves some shape. Altogether, I thought I looked breathtaking.

I turned to Claire and gave her a big hug. ‘Oh thanks, Claire honey, you’re a star.’

‘Gerroff!’ she said.

After another quick hug and a kiss on her cheek that left a pink stain, I stepped away and looked at myself again.

‘You should do this for a living, Claire, you are an artist.

‘Well like, I want to have my own salon one day. People will flock to it to be styled by the famous Clarisse!’

I dragged my eyes away from my reflection and stared at her. “Clarisse”?’

‘Well, it sounds a bit better than, “come to Claire’s”!’

~ §~

Forty minutes later I was sitting in the sun lounge with Melissa Fortune. I had already had the photo shoot with a little man whose first name was an improbable Arnold–I never discovered his other name.

Sheila had arrived at almost the same time as the magazine people.

‘Just need to sort a few things with Jeff, darling. Just ignore me.’

Ignoring Sheila was like ignoring a crocodile ten feet away from you, eying up the menu, but as she was working for me, I didn’t think that I would be the hors d'Å“uvres today!

Melissa was one of those “bright young things,” full of giggles and trying hard to be “with it, cool but sophisticated” at the same time. She was wearing an expensive trouser suit in grey. Her hair was short–bob-like and expensively cut. She was pretty–but not drop dead pretty. Anyway, she started in on the questions and it was the usual stuff like what was it like to be a girl footballer in a man’s world and stuff like that. I had been asked that question so many times before that I answered it without too much of a problem. Looking over at Sheila, I noticed that she didn’t blink much; perhaps if she did blink, she might miss something–

Other questions were asked like my favourite music, I said the name of a couple of boy and girl bands, no way was I going to tell her about my pash for classical–a girl has to have street cred yer know?

She looked at her pad, I noted that she had her recorder on–the usual thing with interviews, I understood–better evidence in court, if you needed to defend your paper against possible litigation.

‘So Susan, how do you feel about the campaign to blacken your name?’

Sheila coughed and looked at Melissa as though she was something unpleasant she had found on her shoe.

‘Melissa, darling, we agreed on this interview being a general, non-contentious one. You know that certain things are going on legally, so Sue will not be answering questions of that nature.’

‘But she has been targeted and our readers would like to know–in general terms of course, nothing specific–just her feelings at a most difficult time for her.’

‘I don’t think––’

‘–Sheila, let me answer. I won’t deny that certain things have upset me and I am hurt that I am being targeted, but I know that this will pass and all I want to do is play football and get on with my life.’

‘But––’

‘–I think that that line of questioning is over, Melissa, don’t you?’ said Sheila, her smile seemed genuine but didn’t reach her eyes. Melissa had been given a yellow card and a red card would send her off. The reporter frowned slightly and then, I presumed, thought she would return to more solid ground.

‘Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, Susan?’

Sheila coughed again; maybe she needed a cough sweetie or something?

‘I’m sorry, Melissa, but that is too personal at the moment.’

‘Righht, can I assume from your response that Susan does have a boy or girlfriend but would prefer not talk about it?’

‘Her private life will remain private, so she can neither confirm nor deny one way or the other.’

As I sat watching them spar, it was rather like a tennis match with serve and volley going on and my eyes switching back and forth from one to t’other.

‘Don’t you think that the public has a right to know more about Susan? After all, people pay a lot of money to watch her play and she is sponsored by several teen-based products. The public needs to know that she’s a fit and proper role model, so innocent questions like this will help them understand what makes him–I mean her–tick?’

‘I’m afraid your little slip of the tongue has given away your agenda, Melissa, and I’m afraid that this interview is now over. Should you decide to print any of what you have heard this afternoon, we shall, as agreed, expect to see the content and consent to it before publication unless your erm magazine can afford expensive law suits?’

Melissa smiled and stood up.

‘Of course we will show you everything we think is worth printing, it’s been a pleasure to interview you, Susan, and may I say that you are more beautiful in the flesh than I thought you would be.’

She held out a hand and we gave each other a limp shake.

‘Goodbye,’ she said smiling, although I got the impression that her smile was a bit forced.

‘’Bye,’ I said brightly, returning her gaze.

After she had gone, I sat down again and stared out at the beautiful garden and the lake. I wondered, in passing, whether ducks and swans actually liked swimming about on the water at this time of year and did their bums get cold?

Moments later, Sheila returned and sat next to me.

‘Thanks for being here,’ I said.

‘I had a feeling that this might be a bit of a fishing expedition and I was right.’

‘What was all that about? I thought it would be like the usual teeny-type mag interviews–all about clothes, makeup and what music I like?’

‘Well it was, but I have a feeling that those extras were the things to which she really wanted to know the answers.’

I gazed at her and sighed. ‘I’ve a lot to learn, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, honey, but you’re doing well and you’ve got me, so don’t worry.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ I replied, hoping desperately that some sort of normality would come into my life–sooner rather than later.

To Be Continued...

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, making suggestions that I hadn't even thought of and pulling the story into shape.