“You guys were really good, and we were crap,” Paul said. “Not fair. We should have received a head start.”
The woman behind him smiled. Fred remembered her—Simone, was it?
“I’m Simone,” she said.
“Goal attack, right?” Fred asked. She was a graceful player and had scored many points.
She nodded.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” Laura asked.
“Just drowning our sorrows,” Paul said. He glanced over; Fred elbowed him. “Ouch,” he added.
“We’re heading to Infernos,” Laura said, mentioning a notorious establishment around the corner. Upon exiting this nightclub, most people resembled a public service announcement on the dangers of binge-drinking. “They’re doing two-for-one buckets tonight.”
“What’s in the buckets?” Fred asked.
“Alcohol,” Laura replied in a satisfied tone. She pumped her fist like she’d scored a goal.
“Amazing,” Paul said. “Keeping up the grand tradition of teachers getting sloshed.”
Simone smiled again, at Fred this time. Paul seemed to notice, and he raised an eyebrow at Fred.
“You guys are free to join us,” Laura said. “I can show you some netball moves, point out where you were going wrong with your passing, stepping, shooting.”
“We’d love to,” Paul said.
“We’ll think about it,” Fred said.
“No pressure. We’re heading there now—maybe we’ll see you guys a little later.”
“Maybe,” Paul said. The women waved and walked off.
Paul turned to Fred. “Okay, enough of this moping,” he said. “Did you see her smile at you? Not Laura the netball monster, the other one.”
“Simone,” Fred said.
“Exactly. We’re hitting Infernos.”
Fred laughed and shook his head. “No way. You have a wife and a child.”
Paul shook his head. “Nadine put me up to this,” he said. “My wife, after hearing your tale of hilarious woe, insisted I be your wingman tonight.”
Fred sighed. “A tempting offer but I think I’ll hang here. Thanks, Paul. Another time.”
“Are you sure?” Paul stared at him for a moment.
“Positive,” Fred replied.
Paul exhaled. “Oh, thank God. For a minute I thought I was going to Infernos. I was getting a hangover just thinking about it.”
Fred laughed. “I knew it.”
“Okay, mate,” Paul said. He smiled and patted his pockets for his keys. “See you tomorrow?”
Fred shook his head. “Off to London tomorrow. Meeting those French exchange students we’ve got coming.”
“Yikes. Enjoy, mate. See you Thursday, then.” They shared an awkward fist bump where each fist missed the other, and then Paul left.
Fred looked around the dilapidated, half-empty pub and walked to the bar. Perhaps he should kick on at the nightclub? Maybe he could go on his own? It could even turn into an amazing night. He could dance and drink from a bucket!
As he mulled over the idea, one pint on his own turned into three, and when he tripped over the poker machine at twelve thirty A.M., the publican had no choice but to ask him to leave.
Fred agreed. Fair call.
STUMBLING HOME, FRED, the full-time brooder and part-time underachiever with great hair, who had always had luck with the ladies until last night, tripped through his front door. Earlier he’d seen a commercial promoting an Alien marathon that would be playing on the television at midnight. Splendid. What did he need her for, when he could watch five films’ worth of galactic carnage? He nodded at the certain genius of his plan. By morning all would be well, and he’d be done thinking about that infuriating woman.
The television in the spare room wouldn’t wake Sofia. He made a detour to the kitchen and found a half-drunk bottle of pink Moscato in the fridge. He stumbled through the house with the bottle, putting it down briefly to unbutton his shirt and fling it into the air, where it landed on the blade of the ceiling fan. He unbuckled his trousers and let them bundle to the floor, midstride. If he was to give five Alien films his full attention, he needed to be unencumbered by clothing.
He pretended his belt was a whip and lashed an imaginary snake on the floor. Then he picked up the bottle again, danced up the stairs, and entered the spare room in his boxer shorts.
He switched on the television. The first film had started, but no aliens yet.
Splendid.
He took a swig from the wine bottle and remembered why it had been left half-drunk, then backed onto the bed and sat down on someone’s head.
Chapter Eighteen
Jane woke. She tried to scream but a tremendous weight on her head muffled any sound. It also blocked her sight, and she couldn’t breathe. She battered the unidentified object with her fist. The weight shifted off her and she pulled back the bedsheet and jumped out of bed, gasping for air. A figure loomed above her in the darkness. Jane felt around for a defensive weapon; she located her leather boot on the floor and bashed the intruder’s head with it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jane demanded into the darkness, striking the intruder once more.
“Youch!” shouted the figure. “My head!”
“Who are you and what business have you here?” Jane asked.
“It’s my houshe!” they slurred in a drunken voice. “What business have you here?”
Sofia rushed in. She lit the magic candle in the ceiling and light flooded the room. Jane stood by the bed in her pink nightgown and surveyed the scene. An inebriated man of at least thirty swayed in his underclothes and rubbed his head. The picture frame mounted to the wall portrayed a theatrical scene, but unlike a painting, where the actors froze as eternal statues, the characters in this frame moved.
“This pervert attempted to have his way with me,” Jane said, pointing to the man in his underdrawers.
The man glared at her and raised his arms in surrender. “Steady on. I came in to watch the telly,” he said.
Jane scoffed and regarded the man in front of her. He presented a preposterous anatomical display of muscle and skin; her cheeks flushed all manner
