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Chapter 5
I got a text from Sasha to say she would be home by five-thirty if I wanted to come around for a fitting—my final fitting—so when my shift finished at The Sports Daily, I went straight to her place. This time it was just Sash, me and Prada the puss; her gorgeous live-in-lover Saint Nik was at training. Seriously, could the week go any slower ... bring on Sunday night.
“Righto, do a lap for me,” Sasha ordered after she had pinned up my hem and pulled herself up from her knees.
“Love to,” I said, and took to the catwalk. I walked down and back, head high, shoes high, just like you see in the fashion shows. I watched my reflection and how the dress moved in the mirrors.
“Oh Sash, it is truly stunning, you are a miracle worker,” I gushed, and she grinned with pleasure.
“It has come up a treat and you do it justice. It’s like having a model wearing my designs.”
“It’s just so fluid and glamorous,” I said, twirling again and watching the skirt kick out from the bottom. The fitted bodice and hips were just perfect and not so tight that I couldn’t eat, drink or breathe, and the neckline was flattering, showing off my assets without putting them in anyone’s face if you get my meaning.
“I love it,” I said. “You should be charging more and doing this full time.”
“That’s the dream,” Sasha said, “but for now, a few social pics and label dropping will be much appreciated,” she assured me. “Okay, you can slip it off.”
I was both relieved and excited ... I knew it would get the Josh nod. I disappeared into Sasha’s changing room and returned five minutes later, with the dress over my arm.
“I have a few finishing touches to do and then I’ll bring it hanging but wrapped to the media box on Saturday and you can sneak it home after we finish work. Okay?”
“That’s perfect, thank you. I can’t wait to wear it,” I said, watching her lay it out carefully, ready for hemming.
We exchanged air kisses and I headed home. I was terrified that The Russian would pull out; that he would find some reason to get out of the bet and I’d be embarrassed in front of everyone I had told. I had to keep coaching myself to put the thought out of my mind so it wouldn’t become a reality.
Just as I entered my apartment my phone rang; I didn’t recognize the number.
“Carla, hi, it’s Deidre Carmichael, personal assistant for Karen Meares,” the mature female voice said.
Karen Meares ... my brain was sifting names ... Karen Meares was the Head of Production at the Cable TV station where I had applied for a basketball commentary job!
“Deidre, hi, how are you?” I said, trying not to sound insanely excited.
“Well, thank you,” she said, then cut to the chase. “Karen would like you to come for an interview for the women’s basketball commentary job on Monday. Would you be available at ten a.m.?”
“Absolutely, thank you,” I said. “Should I bring anything in particular?”
“No, just yourself. So we’ll see you Monday, at ten at the studios. Just ask for me at reception when you arrive.”
I thanked Deidre and hung up. I looked at the phone … yes, that really did just happen ... I leaped for joy. I had applied for this job several weeks ago; I wanted it so bad I could taste it, and it tasted sweet. If I got the gig, I would be working with former competitors – Lynx’s Captain Suzie Ellis and Storm’s recently retired goal shooter, Catherine Allan. Since I couldn’t play, it was the next best thing to attend women’s basketball games around the country with the commentary team, doing interviews and calling the games for home viewers.
I couldn’t believe it, this was the best week ever – going to the Ball with The Russian on Sunday, a gorgeous new dress, and now an interview for my dream job on Monday. Thank you, universe!
I dropped my gear on the counter, opened the fridge and saw a casserole dish with a note on it reading ‘Eat me’. I lifted the lid—fantastic—dark, rich, beef casserole. I put it into the oven to heat up – thank you, Josh. He must have cooked it earlier then gotten a better offer; we were great housemates – he liked to cook and I liked to eat.
I changed, slipping on some fitted Lycra running pants and a long-sleeve Suns t-shirt and headed to the couch with the remote to watch Sports Week on television. They were interviewing a gridiron player and I waited patiently for the discussions around this weekend’s major league games including the Saints and Suns. My girls—the Suns—were playing the Firebirds and it wasn’t going to be pretty. We had lost to them more than we had won. Imagine if The Russian and I got together—a Saint and a Sun—well, a retired Sun. Mm ...
I can’t believe that I was so busy swooning that I forgot to send The Russian my address to pick me up for the Ball Awards on Sunday night. I reached for my phone and messaged him.
Hey Alex, hope the tux still fits. My address is 2/14 Scarborough Street. Starts at 7pm. See you Sunday at 6.30pm here? Carla.
I thought I’d better write my name since I had his number and he didn’t have mine ... I didn’t want him to confuse me with anyone else he might have been dating this week. I put the phone down and waited. Nothing. Maybe he was still at training. I rose, poured a glass of wine—I could do that now that I wasn’t training—and returned to my program. Still nothing. Maybe he was trying to think of a way to get out of it. I was pleasantly distracted by the review of the Saints and Suns pending games, and then I realized it was forty-five minutes since I had sent the text and still nothing. A churning feeling rose in my stomach ... maybe he had forgotten already about the bet and the date. What would I do if he never texted back? Crap, that was a drama I could do without.
Then my phone pinged, and I almost leaped off the couch reaching for it. So uncool, lucky I was home alone. Crap again, it was from Aimee asking if I was coming to the Suns’ game on Saturday. I shot back a response that I was working in the Saints’ media box but would be following scores online and told her to break a leg.
I got up to serve myself some casserole and glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight p.m. He must be out somewhere, with someone, because training would be over by now ... Sasha was expecting Nik early because they had started early. Whatever. Men sucked. I wished The Russian would suck me. Seriously, where had that come from? My apartment buzzer went off and I jumped again ... so jumpy lately. I lifted the intercom phone.
“Hello?”
