It took about a month but soon we were texting. We didn’t see each other every day, unlike in the movies, we actually had work to do and since I was still an astonishing bad bookkeeper, I couldn’t spend too much time daydreaming at work.
Not that I didn’t. I had my fair amount of “imagine if…” moments. I lived in anticipation. The husband noticed (surprise) but I just brushed it off as his imagination.
I felt guilty and it pissed me off. I hadn’t messed this up. I didn’t screw around and yet I feel bad just thinking about another man.
Why did God give men penises?? Because they needed something in place of a conscience. Ha! Ha! Ha! Not funny.
I gave him my number so he could text me when his song would be playing on the radio. I couldn’t keep on the radio all day (not when it had to compete with the noise of 3 teenage boys and one little girl and one very obnoxious husband.) He was eager to comply. And yes he actually was eager, for once it was not my imagination.
When that first text arrived telling me he was on radio, I got so heady and excited I nearly forgot to tune in. “Here is his number. On my phone.”
It was the weirdest rush of power. His voice was deep and silky. He sounded like someone else not the guy who knocked over my coffee in the Scanteen. I was hearing him sing for the first time, since I hadn’t heard him at the wedding and I hadn’t attended either of the company’s do’s where he had performed. And me not attending has less to do with being a dutiful wife and mother and more to do with me being a confessing drunk – which means if you get enough alcohol into me, I will confess to anything and everything without being asked. And the last thing Shelley C needs to hear is me drunkenly telling her I don’t really have a cooking clue about the work I am supposed to be doing.
So there I was, feeling powerful and feeling so proud of TGWTDG. I couldn’t wait to get to work the next day to talk to him face to face about it.
When I got to work however I had petty cash forms to handle. A celebrity was coming into the office for an interview and refreshments needed to be ordered. As I typed in the guest’s name I froze.
“No freaking way…” I breathed.
The runner who had brought the petty cash from to me beemed, “pretty exciting hey?”
The look on my face stopped the smile on his.
“Are you okay girl?” He asked hesistantly, his eyes begging me to say yes.
I couldn’t oblige, instead I burst into tears and ran to the ladies.
This you should know is not behavior normally associated with me. I am not a crier especially not a public one. When Shelley C comes knocking, I have calmed down but look like a wreck.
She takes me to her office and enquires again why the name of their guest upset me so. I can tell that she thinks I may be one of his many jilted lovers .
“He is my father.” I blurt out.
I can practically hear her heart stop.
She actually sits gaped mouth and stares at me.
She turns to her laptop and starts typing furiously.
“Dear God . it is you. Saoirse.” She looks at me as though she is seeing me for the first time.
“Why have you never mentioned this before?” she asks.
My father is a famous footballer and by that I mean soccer player. And when I say he is famous, I am mean really famous. FIFA golden boot, UEFA championship trophy holder famous. Upon retiring he became an equally record breaking coach.
Am I ashamed of this? No I am not.
Am I ashamed to be his child?... Well…
Let me give you the whole story.
When my mother met my mother, he was married to his first wife . My mother was my older brothers nanny.
Yes, it is one of those stories.
In any case when mum fell pregnant with me, my dad’s first marriage went to shit and they ended up divorced. This was ofcourse all over the media and it was probably very juicy to the tabloid readers. Not to much to the lovechild who would eventually grow up (yes that happens) and read’s the articles online about how her mother seduced her father & broke up his marriage . My parents then got married which may have been an even bigger mistake then the initial affair.
My mother, sweet naïve lady that she was was stunned to find that marrying your mistress doesn’t cure of your infidelity. He had numerous affairs, making my mother wife number 2 in a series of seven wives.
The current one is 8 years my junior.
I am his 2nd eldest child and only daughter, he had 12 sons after me and there has been stories that the current toddler he is married too may be pregnant again.
All my siblings are involved in soccer in some way or the other. With the exception of being foolish enough to marry a soccer player who plays for my fathers team (read that line again, it is hilarious), I have stayed as far away from soccer as I could.
Am I ashamed to be my fathers child? No, not really.
Am I ashamed to have been as fucking stupid as my mother was for trusting a bloody soccer player with my heart?
Yes. Yes I totally am.
I place my hands on his chest and enjoy the moment of anticipation before his lips touches mine. He is so damn sexy. I feel like I can drown in his arms, I want to drown in his arms. It feels so good to be with him. When I touch him, he shivers at my touch.
He looks at me as though I am a goddess. I feel powerful and helpless at the same time.