complex he got out and opened the door for her. She was already regretting the things she’d said. She’d overreacted. He had, after all, rescued her from Murdoch – not that she’d really needed rescuing, but it had been an awkward moment, she’d felt really threatened and Cal had arrived just in time. She decided to be very civil as she stepped out of the car.
‘Thanks for bringing me home. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.’
She thought for a second that she detected the spectre of a smile around his mouth, but he only said, ‘No worries.’
As he walked away without looking at her, he paused and called over his shoulder, ‘And next time you go out at night, if you don’t want boofheads like Murdoch bothering you, wear something less . . . obvious – unless you enjoy the attention?’
‘Oh! You—’ she spluttered, gasping in fury as he walked away. She had an impulse to launch herself at him and, and . . . she could barely find the words to express her outrage. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said—’
I know what you said,’ she cut in furiously, ‘and I know what you meant – that I was asking for it, that it was my fault.’
‘Look —’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me!’ she snapped. ‘You’re so damned sexist; it’s always the woman’s fault, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, I’d say it’s never the woman’s fault. I think men should get a grip and take responsibility for their own actions. And I don’t think the fact that a man is pissed out of his mind is any excuse for behaving like an animal. But hey – assume I’m a sexist pig if it makes you feel better.’
‘Wait!’ But she was wasting her breath; he was already leaving. As he drove off, she flounced into her unit and banged the door behind her. If she never saw bloody Cal McCoy again it would still be too soon, she thought. But she saw him sooner than she expected.
They made the papers again the following morning, only this time it wasn’t the Yarraside advert. On page 5 of the tabloid, Melbourne Tribune , under the headline, ‘New Season, New Woman?’, there was a colour photo of Merise emerging from the Oak Room with Cal’s arm round her shoulder. It seemed like an intimate gesture and they looked like a couple. It had only been a momentary thing as he’d steered her away from the pouncing paparazzi. She was just looking at the paper in dismay when the phone rang. It was Bev.
‘Have you seen the Tribune ? Fabulous publicity! Well done. We couldn’t have planned it any better!’
‘It’s not what it looks like —’ Merise tried to explain.
‘Who cares?’ interrupted Bev. ‘It’s just what we need to keep the focus on Yarraside. You’ve done well. In fact the campaign so far has been a runaway success. SMO want more, and as soon as possible. Are you available for a video shoot on Friday evening?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Yarraside are playing the Brighton Brumbies in a preseason practice game at seven-forty, and we’re planning a shoot with you in the changing rooms before the game.’
‘What? What would I, or rather, what would a supporter be doing in the changing rooms before a game?’
‘Ah, Merise, you know nothing about the footy world. Some fans pay thousands of dollars a year for club memberships giving them occasional access to the rooms before or after games. The corporates all do it, too – it’s a real earner for the clubs.’
‘But won’t I be in the way?’
‘No, you just have to stand in the corner and —’
‘Let me guess – look adoringly at Cal McCoy.’
Bev laughed. ‘You got it in one! I’ll email you through the details shortly.’
When Merise put down the phone she was surprised at her own mixed feelings. Her blood was still boiling at Cal’s parting shot from the night before; but while part of her was dreading the Friday evening session, she was strangely excited at the thought of seeing him again. She was annoyed at
‘Thanks for bringing me home. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.’
She thought for a second that she detected the spectre of a smile around his mouth, but he only said, ‘No worries.’
As he walked away without looking at her, he paused and called over his shoulder, ‘And next time you go out at night, if you don’t want boofheads like Murdoch bothering you, wear something less . . . obvious – unless you enjoy the attention?’
‘Oh! You—’ she spluttered, gasping in fury as he walked away. She had an impulse to launch herself at him and, and . . . she could barely find the words to express her outrage. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said—’
I know what you said,’ she cut in furiously, ‘and I know what you meant – that I was asking for it, that it was my fault.’
‘Look —’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me!’ she snapped. ‘You’re so damned sexist; it’s always the woman’s fault, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, I’d say it’s never the woman’s fault. I think men should get a grip and take responsibility for their own actions. And I don’t think the fact that a man is pissed out of his mind is any excuse for behaving like an animal. But hey – assume I’m a sexist pig if it makes you feel better.’
‘Wait!’ But she was wasting her breath; he was already leaving. As he drove off, she flounced into her unit and banged the door behind her. If she never saw bloody Cal McCoy again it would still be too soon, she thought. But she saw him sooner than she expected.
They made the papers again the following morning, only this time it wasn’t the Yarraside advert. On page 5 of the tabloid, Melbourne Tribune , under the headline, ‘New Season, New Woman?’, there was a colour photo of Merise emerging from the Oak Room with Cal’s arm round her shoulder. It seemed like an intimate gesture and they looked like a couple. It had only been a momentary thing as he’d steered her away from the pouncing paparazzi. She was just looking at the paper in dismay when the phone rang. It was Bev.
‘Have you seen the Tribune ? Fabulous publicity! Well done. We couldn’t have planned it any better!’
‘It’s not what it looks like —’ Merise tried to explain.
‘Who cares?’ interrupted Bev. ‘It’s just what we need to keep the focus on Yarraside. You’ve done well. In fact the campaign so far has been a runaway success. SMO want more, and as soon as possible. Are you available for a video shoot on Friday evening?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Yarraside are playing the Brighton Brumbies in a preseason practice game at seven-forty, and we’re planning a shoot with you in the changing rooms before the game.’
‘What? What would I, or rather, what would a supporter be doing in the changing rooms before a game?’
‘Ah, Merise, you know nothing about the footy world. Some fans pay thousands of dollars a year for club memberships giving them occasional access to the rooms before or after games. The corporates all do it, too – it’s a real earner for the clubs.’
‘But won’t I be in the way?’
‘No, you just have to stand in the corner and —’
‘Let me guess – look adoringly at Cal McCoy.’
Bev laughed. ‘You got it in one! I’ll email you through the details shortly.’
When Merise put down the phone she was surprised at her own mixed feelings. Her blood was still boiling at Cal’s parting shot from the night before; but while part of her was dreading the Friday evening session, she was strangely excited at the thought of seeing him again. She was annoyed at
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