Read Online The Family Men by Catherine Harris - Free Book Online Page B

some weight (even Matt would back him on that). His father used to protest that they weren’t true – the media loved to scapegoat him, he would say, to make up lies. The prostitutes, for example; why would he have spent so much money on hookers when so many women were happy to offer their services for free? A classic defence guaranteed to both exonerate and incriminate him in a single misfire (he was the victim here), but the rumours invariably had some veracity.
    Laurie calls the house again. This time he doesn’t bother leaving a message, he just says his name and hangs up. Matt calls too, from LA. Doesn’t say his name but of course Harry knows immediately who it is, can imagine the palm trees visible outside his hotel window, the neon bright cocktail sweating in his other hand. “Call Laurie, you prick. He knows you were home this morning. He saw your car. For fuck’s sake, if he messages me one more time I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve already told him to leave me out of it. I’m not your fucking keeper. Get your shit together. You’re embarrassing me.”
    So butt out then , Harry would like to say. But why bother? His brother has always done whatever he likes, whenever he likes. Which often as not involves telling Harry what to do. Or telling him what he thinks others want him to do. Anticipating messages from the coaching staff, as though he has some special insight into the workings of his younger brother’s sensitive soul, the only person who can effectively motivate him – “Jim’s going to tell you to pick up your defensive pressure in the forward half” – the other boys getting good mileage out of it. “Can’t think for yourself, Squeak?”
    â€œNeed your brother to give you a helping hand?”
    â€œNo, that part he can manage,” says Nick. “Right, Goodfa? No trouble putting the elbows to work.” The lads making plenty of sport out of it, so that next time Matt comes within spitting distance, Harry snaps: “Do you want to play or do you want to coach?” Everyone knowing the best coaches are often average on the ground.
    Not that Matt gives a stuff. “I don’t care if you’ve got your period, change your tampon and get on with it.”
    Harry thinks he detects the wail of a police siren in the background, the distant drone of authority. His brother’s soundtrack? Or is that Laurie’s?
    â€œScrew you both,” he mutters.
    He deletes the message without a second thought.
    Harry assumed it would have been easier with most of the boys out of town but it doesn’t make any difference. He still expects to see them everywhere, catches himself planning his movements, devising ways to avoid running into them when he goes out.
    Rosie is hankering for a thickshake. At McDonald’s, the drive-thru line snakes all the way back to the corner. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, dreading the idea of inching along for another twenty minutes, plenty of time for fellow punters to figure out who is behind the wheel and then heaven knows what. But Rosie is adamant.
    When they finally pull up to the order station her housemate, Katia, is behind the microphone.
    Rosie leans across to say hello.
    â€œWho’s your date?” asks the voice, knowing damn well.
    As Rosie makes the introductions, Harry catches a whiff of her BO, a sharp acrid smell mingled with the old-lady scent of lavender talcum powder. “What do you want to eat?” she asks him as she continues to peer up at the microphone, her head hovering above his lap as she orders.
    During the season it isn’t uncommon for him to devour two or three hamburgers in one sitting, especially before a game, but now it is the last thing he feels like, just as footy is the last thing he feels like along with anything remotely related to it, such as contracts or the other players or the women who are drawn to them.