Just for Fun (36 page)

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” his father said, his face
purple with rage now.

“Yeh, I have,” Nic told him levelly. “Finally. I’ll say
goodbye to Mum, and we’ll be off. We won’t be staying for lunch. Let me know
what you decide.” He left his father standing there, staring after him. Turned and
walked back to the house without another word.

“You all right?” Nic asked.

“Yeah.” Emma turned her head briefly to smile at him. She’d
taken the morning off work to drive him to the airport for the long journey to
London, and the World Cup. Nic had driven Zack to school earlier so they could
say their own private goodbye. Now it was just the two of them, this final half
hour in the car.

“I know it’s a hell of a long time,” he said now. “Eight
weeks. But I’ll ring you every morning I can, talk to you before you go to bed.
Not as good as being there with you, but it’s the best I have to offer.”

“I’ll take that,” she told him seriously. “And we’ll get to
watch you, remember. That’ll help. It’s not like you’re being deployed. We’ll
talk to you, and we’ll watch you, and we’ll be here supporting you. The rest of
the team too, of course,” she added. “But mostly you.”

“Soon as I’m back,” he said, “we’ll go on that holiday, take
some time together. With Zack too.”

“Are you telling me,” she asked him gently, “or convincing yourself?
I’ll be here, Nic. We both will.”

For all her brave words, it
was
hard without him. The
phone calls helped, and the emails and photos they exchanged. And watching him throughout
the four rounds of pool play, the All Blacks winning all their games as
predicted in this eighth World Cup, the expectations stratospheric for the
reigning World Champions. But by the time the team had won their quarterfinal
match to secure their spot in the semis, Emma’s longing had become a physical
ache.

“You looked so good,” she told him on the phone late Sunday night.
“You did so well.”

“And how d’you know that?” he asked, the smile in his voice
coming through clearly.

“Zack said,” she admitted. “And the commentators too, about
how you did. But how you
looked?
That was all me.”

He laughed. “Didn’t realize it was all down to how I filled
out the jersey. Here I thought I was meant to be playing well.”

“If I were a selector,” she promised, “it’d be all about the
jersey. And I miss you. At the weekends especially, with Zack, we both do. And
at night, like now?” She sighed. “I
really
miss you.”

“Miss you too. I look at the photos on my phone before I go
to sleep. That one of us doing the backbend? That’s my favorite. But I’m
wishing I had something better to remember you by, at night.”

“Want me to send you something?”

“Yeh. I would. Maybe a photo you wouldn’t want to put in an
email? Something like that.”

“What, take it in front of the mirror?”

“Yeh, that’d work. That’d be choice.”

“I’m not going to send you some porn shot,” she cautioned.
“No . . . major body parts. That’d just be icky.”

“Not asking for a porn shot. But if there were a bit of skin
there . . . I wouldn’t mind that, would I. I wouldn’t mind seeing that at all.”

Nic saw the red light blinking on the hotel phone as he and
Koti James came into the room after dinner on Thursday. Koti picked up the
handset, punched buttons to listen to the message.

“Parcel at Reception,” he informed Nic. “And sadly, it isn’t
for me.”

A moment earlier, Nic had been looking forward to having a
bit of a lie-down, watching a film on his laptop. But now, he grabbed his
keycard and headed to the lift. Collected the flat, thin parcel from the
reception desk with a word of thanks. He began to open it in the lobby, then
checked himself. If it was what he was hoping, he was going to need privacy for
this.

Five minutes later, he was on the phone, a huge, stupid grin
on his face. Three rings, then Emma’s cautious voice on the other end. “Nic?”

“Hi,” he said. “You at work?”

“Yeah. Let me go out into the passage.” Thirty seconds of
silence, and her voice again. “OK. I can talk now.”

“Got your parcel.” He laughed. “That was bloody brilliant.
That’ll do me.”

“You liked my photo, then?”

“Loved your photo. Very artistic,” he said approvingly.
“Loved the candlelight. Gave me some good ideas, for when I’m home again. But
what gave me even better ideas?” He rubbed the silvery lace of the filmy
underwear between his fingers. “That other item you put in.”

“I was hoping it might bring back some memories,” she said,
her voice sounding a bit breathless now. “I’m living on those memories, myself.
And I need a little refresher.”

“I’ll give you a refresher,” he assured her. “Give you more
than that, in another week or two. That’s a promise.”

  Three days later, their playful conversation was the last
thing on Emma’s mind as she sat beside Zack on the couch and anxiously scanned
the screen in front of her for Nic’s number 15. Fewer than fifteen minutes remained
in the semifinal match that would determine the team to face the Springboks in
the final. Churches were reported to be nearly deserted in favor of this game,
being played on Saturday night in England and shown live here in New Zealand on
Sunday morning. Rugby was New Zealand’s real national religion, the old joke
went, and Emma knew from the frenzy of the last World Cup just how true that
was.

Today, the French side was testing that staunch Kiwi faith
in their national team. After playing the entire tournament like a disorganized
mob who seemed to have got their wins on pure luck, the French had chosen this
occasion to put together their strongest performance. The forwards in
particular were surging, wrapping up the New Zealand side, not allowing the
backs to break the line or play their expansive game. Nic’s play had been
solid, but the French lockdown had meant a lack of spectacular moments from
him, too.

The All Blacks, in fact, didn’t seem to be firing on all
pistons. It was what Nic had said, Emma suspected as her tension mounted. For
all the effort she knew the team had put into mental preparation, they had
allowed themselves to relax a bit too much, to look past this game to the
final. There had been too many missed tackles, and two rare misses on penalty
kicks from Hemi had left six points on the field. The score was tied at 12 all,
and the French had the ball. The All Blacks
couldn’t
lose now, Emma
thought in despair. Being knocked out by the French again, after the
heartbreaking defeats of World Cups past—that would be too cruel.

The ring of her mobile startled her. She glanced at it.
Lucy. Why on earth would she be ringing now? She had to know that they’d be
watching the game. She picked up the phone, keeping her eyes on the screen.
“Luce. We’re
watching.
Is it an emergency?”

“It’s urgent. Have you seen the Sunday
Herald?”

“What? How can that be urgent? I’ll ring you back when this
is over,” Emma said hurriedly as bodies piled into the ruck and the announcers’
voices rose. “I’ve got to go.”

“What happened?” she asked impatiently, trying to make sense
of what was going on.

“The French knocked on,” Zack said. “We get a scrum.” He was
clutching Raffo tightly around the neck with both hands, squeezing in his
tension.

The scrum was clean, and the All Blacks forwards were holding
the French back, giving the backs quick ball. Emma checked the time. Ten
minutes. She could see the pattern being set up on the open side, four players
running together. At last, a flicking pass to Koti James, the big centre. Koti
plowing through one defender as if he weren’t there, sidestepping two more. And
finally putting on a burst of speed that left the chasing French behind, diving
across the try line at the corner, arms outstretched, a grin on his face, as
the stadium exploded. And Zack and Emma, together with most of New Zealand,
leaping from the couch, jumping and shouting.

Hemi’s kick was straight between the posts this time despite
the difficult angle, and suddenly New Zealand was seven points up, with six
minutes left to run on the clock. The French gave it a game effort, but there
was no way, Emma saw, that the All Blacks were giving up this game now. They
tackled like men possessed, Drew Callahan forced another turnover, and then it
was the All Blacks’ ball, and they were plowing forward, meter by meter, until
at last, mercifully, the referee blew the whistle. One last kick into touch by
Hemi, and the game was over, the All Blacks advancing into the final. And the
French going nowhere but home.

Emma and Zack were hugging again, Zack laughing, Emma
crying. She could hear, even from the back of the house, the shouting and
cheering filling the morning air as neighbors came outside to celebrate. The
relief was as great as the tension had been.

“If the final’s like that,” Emma sighed at last, sitting
back on the couch with a thump and wiping her streaming eyes, “I’m not sure my
heart can take it. Maybe I’d better not watch.”

“Mum,”
Zack said with alarm, “you
have
to
watch! It’s Nic!”

She laughed shakily. “I’m just talking, baby. I’m going to
be watching. But I’m afraid it’s going to be just this tight. I was hoping,
yesterday, that Wales would win. South Africa . . . that’s going to be an
awfully tough match, on top of this one.”

“They can do it,” Zack assured her. “They can do
anything.”

 A knock at the door had Emma hurrying to answer. Lucy stood
there, the Sunday paper in her hand.

“I came as soon as the game was over,” her sister said, no
smile on her face. “I need to show you this.”

Emma laughed. “Aren’t you even happy? They
won,
Luce!
They’re going to the final!”

“I need to show you this,” Lucy repeated, going into the
kitchen and spreading the paper on the table. “Here. I’m going to go talk to
Zack, get him distracted with something else.”

Emma sat down, looked where Lucy had pointed. A photo of an
attractive middle-aged woman she didn’t recognize, holding a large framed
photo. Of Nic and Claudia, she realized. And then the headline.  
Nic
Wilkinson’s double life.
She began to read, her heart sinking
further with every word.

Even close friends were stunned when one of New
Zealand’s most prominent and glamorous couples, rugby heartthrob Dominic Wilkinson
and his gorgeous bride-to-be, lawyer Claudia Parker, announced recently that
their longstanding engagement was off. For the first time, the
Herald on
Sunday
can reveal the reason behind the shock split: Wilkinson’s double
life with his longstanding mistress and their six-year-old son.

Elizabeth Parker, Claudia’s mother, has shared her
story with the
Herald
in an effort to quell rumors that Wilkinson
initiated the breakup. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” Mrs. Parker
insists. “Nic begged Claudia to stay. But when she knew what he really was, and
the secrets he’d been keeping all this time, she really had no choice but to
go.”

Turns out that All Black stalwart Nico, as he’s
known to teammates, isn’t just popular with rugby supporters. The handsome fullback
is a hit with the ladies as well—and according to Mrs. Parker, he hasn’t been
shy about spreading his attentions around, especially when on the road with the
Blues and All Blacks.

The final straw came when his fiancée discovered
that Wilkinson had a six-year-old son he’d never acknowledged nor supported—and
that he had continued to maintain a relationship with the boy’s mother,
27-year-old Emma Martens. While Wilkinson reportedly spent hundreds of
thousands doing up a posh house on the North Shore, his son and the boy’s
mother have been living in substandard conditions in a shabby basement flat
nearby.

“Why any woman would be willing to stay involved with
somebody under those circumstances, somebody who wasn’t even willing to support
the child they had together, I have no idea,” Mrs. Parker says. “Fortunately,
Claudia has more self-respect than that. As soon as she learned of the boy’s existence,
and Nic’s involvement with his mother, my daughter called a halt.”

“I can’t help but feel sorry for that boy,” Mrs.
Parker notes. “He didn’t ask for the parents he got. Who knows, maybe Nic will
step up to his responsibilities, now that everyone knows what he really is. I
can only hope that public shame will force him to do what his own conscience
couldn’t.”

The article went on to say that the newspaper wasn’t naming
the child in question, due to concerns for his privacy. “Some help,” Emma said
when Lucy returned to the kitchen, after giving her time to read the damning
article twice more. She could barely speak for fury. “My name’s in there. How
hard is that going to be, for people to figure out who the kid is? And how
could she
say
that? I can’t believe Claudia told her that. Surely it
can’t be what
she
believes. Nic said he told her even before we got the
blood tests. That’s why they broke up, because of his wanting to pay for Zack,
and get involved with him! So how could she
say
that?”

“Are you sure it’s not true about the other women, though?”
Lucy asked. “He sure took up with you fast, in the beginning. And this latest
time too, for that matter.”

“What evidence does she offer for that?” Emma flashed back.
“For his seeing other women? Absolutely
none.
I took up quickly with
him
,
too. Both times. Does that mean I’m some kind of slut?”

“No.” Lucy backed off. “No, of course not.”

“Well, neither is Nic. I don’t believe a word of it. It’s
all innuendo, taking a little bit of truth and twisting it so it sounds just as
bad as possible. I’d like to kill that woman. How could she do this to him?
How’s he supposed to defend himself against this?”