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It’s why I jumped at the chance of the rugby game. As I sat on the balcony, the sun slowly dipping into Leigh’s glittering estuary, all of us nursing cold beers at Ralph’s little rattan table, blankets around our shoulders, it had been a little beacon, that text from Jack. A distraction. And something productive, somethingbrand new, instead of sitting feeling shameful, wondering just how calm my life would look had the emails not been sent; wondering how Chloe’s feeling, what’s happening within the walls of her and Owen’s cinema-converted flat; if Alexis misses me. (Or why she refused the brownies I sent to her work.)
And sport and TV may not be where my heart is, like Owen’s is, or people like Michael Waterstreet’s, but maybe itcouldbecome so? If I learned enough, if I moved a bit up the ranks, perhaps, found a little drive for it .?.?.
Although, I have to say, this isn’t exactly riveting, or what you might expect from glitzy live TV and exciting, important sports games. Because, after parking up in a dusty, hard-grounded car park, I now stand in the grounds of the StoneX rugby stadium itself, and it’s .?.?.dead.The angular, brown, wood-panelled building, stands tall and quiet, like a community college, or a hospital, and although there are a scattering of people at the entrance – fans, I assume – I can hardly see any evidence Flye TV are even broadcasting here at all.
I dial Petra’s number. ‘I’m here, but I think I’m in the wrong place? I just parked in what is basically an empty, dusty field.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Millie,’ says Petra, ‘you’re at the front. Sorry! We’re all over the other side, at the back. I know where you are. Stay there, I’ll come and get you.’
Within five minutes, Petra is strolling up in straight-legged acid-wash jeans, starch-white Converse and an oversized orange T-shirt, half tucked in, and it suddenly feels a bit ‘school trip’. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Petra in anything except office gear and there’s something a bit exciting about it. A little adventure, in a mini heatwave.
And I wonder if Jack’s here. He doesn’t attend all the matches he organises staff for, but .?.?. I do hope he is. I’ve thought about our chat at BackDonalds every day since it happened. The ease, the conversation about Brazil and alpaca farms. The ‘so what?’ The gentle hope of it.
‘Thank you so much for coming, my love,’ says Petra, squashing her cheek to mine. ‘I’m so sorry, I should’ve said we have to go around the back. With the vans, the lorries, yadda, yadda, yadda. This is the people-facing, nice side. We’re out the back with the bins.’
‘I like your hairband,’ I tell her, and she smiles, her eyes sliding away from me, shyly.
‘Ah, Kira got it for me when she was in Frankfurt,’ she replies, then she points to the fabric, squished amongst her bouncy curls. ‘It’s um, covered in pickles. She .?.?. calls me her pickle?’ She lets out a little embarrassed groan through a huge grin. ‘Ah, I dunno, it’ssilly.’
‘It’s not silly, it’s adorable,’ I say. ‘Surely all of us want to be someone’s pickle.’
Petra laughs. ‘Some people want to beeveryone’spickle.’
‘Yes, and they’re the ones who ruin it for the rest of us.’
Petra leads us through cold, echoey corridors, and I am struck by howunlikeglamorous sporting grounds it is in here. From the outside, it’s all sleekness and shiny stands. All muscular players and cool sportsmen grit. But here it’s almost office-like. Bland and grey, the smell of new carpets and vending-machine coffee. The walls are stamped with framed prints of historic matches, between neat signs pointing to ‘studio one’ and ‘player entrance’. It feels like a big machine. A big ol’ oiled, shiny machine, just to get a singular rugby match to air, before everyone switches off, or goes home again.
‘OK, so full disclosure,’ says Petra, her voice dipping. ‘And don’t panic .?.?.’
And of course, I panic. It’s automatic that you do panic when someone saysdon’t panic.‘Oh, shit, what?’
‘Owen is here.’
‘Oh.’
Great.
‘But he’ll be in the truck the entire time, I double and triple-checked. This game’s a big deal and he’s director, so, he’ll literally be way,waytoo busy doing his thing.’ Petra looks at me, wide mink-brown eyes scanning me for a sniff of how I might be feeling.
‘Right,’ I say, trying very hard to keep poker-faced. ‘Well—’
‘And Chloe’s finishing in ten minutes,’ she adds quickly.Ouch.Another Band-Aid ripped off with a sting. ‘She’s been here hours, so you won’t see her either. She’s leaving soon. Triple-checked that, too. I’ve got you.’
‘Oh. Good,’ I say, worry simmering inside me, like lava. But, well, maybe it’s agoodsign if they’re working together. Maybe the wedding’s back on? Maybe they’ve just brushed my email under the carpet as a silly thing that happened, and I can go back to .?.?. what? Brushingmyfeelings into the same dark place? What’s the plan beyond that? And now I can’t remember why exactly I agreed to this at all, because this was always a possibility, being stuck working with my ex and his maybe-new-wife-to-be. But Owen’s been busy with the cricket games. And Chloe was in for a planning meeting about bloodywrestlingof all things, on the day I bombarded her outside the café. She was not on my radar for today at all.
‘These things are so big and busy, you won’t see anyone, really,’ Petra continues, all wide eyes and hand gestures, as if to pull as much reassuring energy into our conversation as she can.‘Especiallyout on the pitch with Marshal. That’s where you’ll be. With Marshal on camera two.’
A silver lining at least. Marshal is one of the freelance cameramen who works for Flye and Ilovehim. In a normal, non-romantic, wish-he-was-my-second-dad way, obviously. In the spring, I assisted him at some events to help Petra out due to some freelancers who had bailed, and he’d been so kind and patient. He taught me how to set up a camera, how to focus, the difference between a good shot (his), and a bad one (mine). He even brought me lunch in on the second day – a little Thermos of the best lentil dal I’ve ever eaten in my life. Marshal. I will simply stick with Marshal and everything will befine.
Petra pushes open a door, weaves us left, and just like that, a swarm of warm, September breeze hits us. Fresh cut grass, a slight tinge of woodsmoke; an autumnal amuse-bouche. And at the end of the arch we stand at the foot of, is a huge expanse of green space.
‘The player tunnel,’ grins Petra, excitedly. ‘Cool, huh? We’re literally walking down the same path the players will.’
And walking through the tunneliscool; the way it opens up its mouth to the wide, green sea of the pitch. There are peopleeverywhere.Crew milling and gathering; people wearing headsets, some holding iPads, others, with equipment and cameras and leads and tripods, all safely contained inside the borders of the stands, and on the outskirts of the safety ropes, warning people off the pitch.
Petra’s right. This is huge. Even if Owen is floating about somewhere, I probably won’t see him.
‘Give me a sec, my love,’ says Petra, tapping away on an iPad. ‘I just need to send this off to the truck .?.?.’
