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It ached, hard, right in the pit of me. “What can I do, Steve? I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know what I can say. I don’t even know what I can offer him. I’m just an overweight redhead, who’s now unemployed as well.”
He stewed awhile on the line. I let him think. “Gemma, can you get to Cobham?”
“I guess, by train.”
“The training ground is on Wycombe Road. Past the main entrance there’s the player’s car park. It’s all fenced off, but there’s gaps, enough for fans to get autographs. There’s often a crowd of them hanging around, waiting. Get there early, seven in the morning or thereabouts. Talk to him. Tomorrow if poss, he’ll be in for a meeting, definitely.”
“Reporters will be swarming the place.”
“Take a disguise, I dunno, a hat or something. A big jumper and an autograph pad, that should do it. Do it soon, though, he’s got a two-game suspension but he’ll still be training, unless they drop him, that is.”
“Surely they won’t?”
I heard him stub his cigarette out. “I hope not.”
I checked my laptop for train times while he was on the line. Nothing ideal. Too early. “He might not even want to see me.”
“He’ll want to see you. He just might not know it yet.”
I smiled. “Why are you doing this, Steve? He might kick your ass for interfering.”
“Maybe,” he laughed. “I’m his mate, always have been. Do what’s best for your mates, don’t you?”
Guess he’d never had a friend like Chelsea.
Lucky him.
***
The pole was a wobbly, creaky mess in my living room, even though Cara assured me it was perfectly safe. I took her word for it, and with a bit of grumbling it stayed upright long enough for me to practice. I had to admit it felt good to be dancing again, even if it was in a cramped room on a fluffy cream carpet.
We ran through our little performance over and over, highlighting a spin here, a twirl there. Cara slowed it right down, suggesting more of a sultry feel. Sexier, hotter. I finished up with a decent burn in my limbs, my cheeks a healthy shade of pink.
“You were great!” she said. “Fantastic.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, flopping onto the sofa to catch my breath.
She sat down with a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “You’re either super good at keeping a poker face, or you haven’t been on Facebook. Which is it? Christ, I’m bursting over here!”
I shook my head. “No poker face for me. I haven’t been on Facebook since all hell broke loose. Don’t have the stomach for it.”
“I think it’s time you went back online.” There was a sparkle in her eye, the same mischievous sparkle that gave me shivers.
“Why?” I asked. “You’re weirding me out.”
“The world’s not full of assholes, Gemma, it just takes the nicer ones longer to amass a voice. They’re finding their voice now, finally. The Daily Times went all-out on the fat-hating last week, you read that, right?”
“Scanned it.” It was a cursory scan as well. The thing had turned my stomach. They’d called that Casey Hopkins bitch in for a guest column, and she’d ranted about plus size like it was a war crime or something. They’d picked on Jason more than me, in fairness, but it was a pretty brutal attack on both of us.
“The bitch asked the world a question.Should we introduce an eyeball bleach tax for those fatties who can’t stop scoffing, and the men who convince them fat is sexy? Who are worse? Chubby eaters or chubby chasers?”
I flinched. “Yeah, I saw that bit. Horrible cow.” They’d stuck mine and Jason’s faces over the poll options, and mine let out an oink whenever someone selected chubby eaters. I’d nearly cried over it, but I didn’t want to give the stuck-up cow the satisfaction.
“Well, the people have spoken. Turns out another poll sprung up.Who are worse? Chubby eaters, chubby chasers, or spiteful bitches who can’t help but fat-shame?She came in at 98% of the vote. Her next articleWhy hot men should never date ugly womengot annihilated in the comments, it was a full-on freak-out, everyone and their mother posted.”
I smiled. “I haven’t seen that one.”
“What about the Twitter trend?”
