Chapter Six:  

Eve had managed to fin vd a routine that sort of soothed her. Even though it was an effort, she would swing her legs out of bed at seven o’clock every morning, pull on her trainers and walk down the several sets of steps that she now knew cut directly through the town to the beach. There was a small cafe that was always still setting up when she arrived; putting out their tables and chairs and mopping the floors. The grandmotherly, grey-haired, smiley lady who ran the place would see her coming and pour her a coffee, even though they weren’t properly open yet. Eve had almost cried on the first morning she’d wandered in and ordered an Americano only to be told they were closed. Coffee and kindness had then reigned down her. Who knows what her face had looked like to provoke such a reaction in them. And now, she was as much a part of their set-up routine, as they were hers.  

She would then walk, takeaway coffee in hand, to a little bench that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. There she would sit and sip the rich dark liquid while trying to find some kind of even level and positivity. Coffee done, she would brave her phone. Today, after answering a banal e-mail from her accountant, and another from her agent, Eve texted Poppy, who she hadn’t heard from in a couple of days. 

Game day. Good luck. 

Hanmore were playing their first league game of the season, as were Real Martinez. Eve felt nervous. She wanted to be in the starting eleven, but at the same time the idea terrified her. She’d felt more at ease in training the last few days, had played a few good passes, put in some tackles, and even been trusted with a few corners – of course these were training matches and not the real thing – but she had felt like a footballer again, and a half decent one at that. 

Two little ticks appeared to show her message had been read. A wiggly line appeared to show Poppy was replying. Eve stared at it for a while waiting for a response but then the wiggly line stopped. No reply. She tried not to feel hurt. Poppy was probably running around, trying to get her stuff together and out the door. It didn’t mean anything.  

While she staring at the phone, however, another message came through from her brother that surprised her. 

Can we watch today? Saskia’s asking. I’m not allowed to go to out because we have this wedding reception viewing later. 

Eve texted back a reply saying that she didn’t know and to try You Tube. She added that she hoped Saskia would like the venue, and that she was looking forward to the wedding – even though she was very much not looking forward to the wedding. 

Poppy had still not replied. Eve’s finger hovered over Instagram, hesitantly at first and then she reasoned that she’d only look at Poppy’s stories to see if she’d missed anything. There had obviously been some team building event at Hanmore last night, some non-alcohol induced games and quizzes. Poppy had posted a few pics with the team, but was tagged in even more snaps, including one with her between Kate and Sam, their arms flung around each other’s shoulders.  

Eve felt a little sick. She pocketed her phone and ran, fast, back up the steps, all the while telling herself off. This wasn’t school, she told herseld, they weren’t teenagers anymore. Poppy and Kate and Sam all played on the same team. Poppy had to be friendly with them, obviously, she had no choice.  

Nevertheless, it hurt. It stung. Eve ran and was panting by the time she reached the square courtyard that lay between hers and Lucia Perez’s apartments. She had to stop, hands on her knees, for a few moments to get her breath back. And then Lucia appeared with a rare smile on her face. ‘We play today, this warm day. Slow down.’ She reached into a rucksack and held out an unopened bottle of water that Eve gratefully accepted. 

After she’d drank the water and took some deep breaths, it suddenly struck her that they were on their way to the same place, to the training ground, where they would catch a bus to the stadium for their inaugural game of the season. They were playing against a team that was newly promoted to the first division in what should be an easy fixture. It should be an easy win. 

‘Hey, do you want to share a car?’ Eve asked. ‘You drive, or I drive to the training ground?’ 

Lucia’s expression was hard to read, hidden as it was behind a pair of sunglasses. ‘I cannot. I must do other things after the game.’ 

‘Sure, yeah, of course.’ Eve bristled and stood up straight suddenly, going from not being able to move, to wanting to move desperately. ‘Thanks for the water,’ she mumbled as she hurried off.  

 

The match kicked off at 1pm, which seemed like a madness given it needed to be stopped at twenty-minute intervals for water breaks and the players moved like turtles with great shells on their backs the whole game. Real Martinez could not find a break. Their opposition gave the ball away constantly, kicked it out for unnecessary corners and free kicks. And yet, despite all the opportunities her team were given, they could not score. Shots went wide, over the bar, or straight into the arms of the keeper. Eve watched from the bench, having again not been chosen to start. Young Maria was showing promise while Lucia was raging up and down the pitch, too angry to do anything useful. Passes went astray, long balls were overhit. Eve was, at last, asked by Mikel to warm-up, but the seventieth minute came and went, and she still wasn’t allowed on the pitch. When it was still nil-nil at eighty minutes, Eve lost her temper and approached the coach. ‘Can I go on? I want to play, that’s why I came here. Just give me a few minutes, the games nearly done, what harm am I gonna do?’ 

 Mikel raised a stern finger at her. ‘You play when I say you play.’ 

‘Why did you buy me?’ Eve shouted back at him. 

‘You play,’ he said. 'When you are less up here,’ he pointed to her forehead, 'and more in here,’ he finished, jabbing at her heart. 

Eve shook her head and stormed off. She threw herself onto the bench and was forced to watch Real Martinez fall victim to a late set piece goal; a goal-mouth bundle and a tap in. A loss. Their first game of the season, to the easiest of opponents. No points and they would sit bottom of the table. 

Mikel strutted out to perform a huddle that no-one else seemed to want to join but it was at least a step up, in Eve’s mind, from the last game where there hadn’t even been a huddle. He spoke at length in Spanish. Eve didn’t even try to understand. 

 

 

Unfortunately, Eve’s cross words with Mikel had started an online debate that even more unfortunately, she had been tagged in by some of the commenters. Their altercation had been filmed from the stands by a fan with a smart phone. Opinion seemed divided. Half the Real Martinez fans were saying that Mikel was out of order and should have played her, and the other half were laying into Eve, saying she was a diva who thought herself better than the Spanish players. 

Eve groaned and her head fell into her hands. The bus was so quiet. Even Happy young Maria had nothing to say. Greta was met by Eduardo and little Matteo at the training ground and Eve looked on, a little enviously, as the little boy greeted his mother like a hero even though she had been part of the losing team. The small family bundled into their car and took themselves home. 

A few of her teammates nodded a farewell in her direction and then one by one, they disappeared. 

Eve sat on the kerb and pulled out her phone. 

Poppy had finally texted back. 

Mate, you know I love you. I’ve got to do stuff with them, for the team. I hope you know what you mean to me. 

She tentatively opened the internet again, only to see footage of Poppy and Sam O’Brien jumping up and down in the changing room, arms wrapped around each other celebrating a thumping Hanmore win over their main rivals. It stung. She wanted to be mature and understanding, but it all stung. 

Eve replied to Poppy but ignored the content of the message. 

Come out to Spain when you can, I’m right by the beach, be a laugh. Got a comfy sofa you can kip on. 

Poppy replied quickly. 

Yeah, schedules busy but that would be good. 

A text from Patrick then popped up.  

Well, I watched, on some weird illegal stream. Wasted two hours of my life. Where were you? Saskia wants to know when you’re back in London, something about being a bridesmaid, told her I didn’t think it was your thing.’  

Eve didn’t know if she was flattered by Saskia wanting her to be part of the wedding or offended by her brother suggesting it wasn’t her thing. Why? Because she liked girls? It wasn’t like she was allergic to dresses. She even wore one occasionally. With a deep sigh, she got up and walked to the car where she slung her rucksack angrily into the back seat without replying to Patrick. She drove, hands shaking, back to her apartment and wiped a couple of angry tears away as she parked in her spot. The tears, she feared, would not stop for the rest of the day; and there was a whole lot of late afternoon and evening to still get through, alone. 

She did not want to eat, or drink, or talk to anyone or do anything. She wanted to hide under her duvet for the next few hours. Instead, she pulled her trainers on and wandered back to the beach. Her usual cafe was packed, instead of a few locals, wandering in and out for coffee, they were jammed packed with tourists and lovers, enjoying the sunset with cocktails or wine, browsing menus while deciding whether they were hungry or not. There was no quiet space for Eve to sit and brood and so she wandered on, over the sand to the water’s edge. She took off her socks and shoes, abandoned them and waded into the sea till it reached her ankles. This was the sort of thing that should make a person feel alive. It was beautiful. The cliffs that surrounded the bay were being hit with strong waves. The spray it produced, full of sand and water, looked incredible enough for her to pull out her phone and take a picture. 

It was the first time since arriving in Spain that she had felt moved by something enough to post it on social media. She uploaded it to Instagram, without a caption, hitting send before she walked on.  

There was a game of beach football being played towards the quieter end of the beach and Eve stopped to watch. It was a pleasing mixture of boys and girls playing at the age before testosterone had fully kicked in. There was laughter and fun, and no overly-aggressively tackles. When the ball was overhit and rolled towards Eve, she launched it back towards them in such a beautiful, perfect, accurate arc that it made them all stop and stare. One of the girls looked at her quizzically, with feint recognition, before she was pulled away and shouted at by her teammates because the game had begun again and she wasn’t concentrating. 

Eve walked further even on and realised she could see Eduardo’s and Greta’s house, which wasn’t right on the beach, but set a little further back. She imagined them sitting out on their deck while their small son played around them. There would likely be something tasty warming up in the oven. Or maybe that wasn’t what was going on – maybe Eduardo was working his fingers to the bone at his restaurant - and maybe Greta, after having played ninety minutes of competitive football, was struggling to keep her eyes open while Matteo was throwing an almighty tantrum.  

People only showed you what they wanted you to see, and it was easier to tell the world that you were fine, than admit you were struggling. Hadn’t she just posted a beautiful picture of the beach that suggested all was good and she was having a terrific time in Spain, when she had never felt so low in her life. 

Eve took out her phone to look at the picture again. There were likes and comments on her post now. A few were suggesting she ‘come back to Hanmore,’ and others wished her well. When she saw she had a direct message, she immediately accepted and opened it, thinking it would be from someone she knew. 

Glad you fucked off to Spain, you useless bitch. You’re not even that pretty. Kate and Sam are the stars of the Hanmore team now. You’re washed, can’t even start in some crappy Spanish side. Kate is so much better off with Sam. 

She blinked in disbelief at it a few times. What kind of weirdo would send such a nasty message? The text box then flickered and disappeared. She could still, however, see the username of the sender and with shaking hands she tried to search for them on the app. There were no results. They had either already blocked her or deleted the account, which no doubt had just been set up for the sole purpose of sending her abuse. Eve mentally kicked herself for not having taken a screenshot, and for even accepting the message in the first place. After a few deep breaths, however, she reasoned that it was just some sad teenage girl, alone in their room, with a serious case of Sam O’Brien or Kate Sandler hero worship. Someone who was following women’s football for all the wrong reasons. Why they felt the need to attack her when she was the one who had been dumped, and when she was the one who had walked away from it all, Eve couldn’t understand.  

When her phone started to ring her whole body jumped and she looked around her, paranoid suddenly, which was ridiculous. No one was going to go to the effort to stalk her all the way to Spain. It was just one nasty message that’d she’d just have to shake off. Even so, she answered the call hesitantly. 

‘Ola, is Lucia. You things here.’ 

‘Hi, what? Sorry, what do you...Lucia?’ 

‘I get number for you from group chat.’ 

‘Oh yeah, that’s fine.’ 

‘The van come, you not in ...they go leave again, I say no...they put things on road and go.’ 

‘Things. Oh my God, my shipment,’ Eve squealed. ‘My stuff from London, it’s actually here?’ 

‘Si, that is what I say. But you not here, and things is in road.’ 

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, no less than that, ten minutes, I’m running.’ She jumped up, shouted a thank you into the phone and sprinted back in the direction of her apartment.  

 

Lucia was looking at her watch when Eve burst around the corner of the building with the urgency of a defender who had been caught too far up the pitch on a counterattack. When she reached Lucia and the boxes she recognised as the ones she had packed up a few couple of weeks ago in her London flat, she was so pleased she almost cried. ‘Thank you so much,’ she gasped. ‘I really appreciate this. When I phoned them this morning, they said they might be able to get them to me tomorrow – at least that’s what I think they said, Spanish, you know.’ 

‘You learn?’ 

‘What?’ Eve went to examine one of the boxes, the one she knew held her shoes and photographs. She couldn’t wait to open it. ‘Oh, am I learning Spanish? Well, you know. I was thinking of downloading Duolingo.’ 

Lucia rocked on her heels and laughed loudly. She was wearing smart loose trousers and a vest top with a shirt over the top. Her hair was down and there were sunglasses perched on the top of her head.  

‘Are you off somewhere? You have a date? You look nice.’ 

Her eyebrows raised, Lucia cocked her head to the side. ‘A date, yes, ok. But I thinks you are not getting these stuff up stairs if not with me,’ 

‘Yeah, could you give us a hand? Sorry.’ 

‘You English, always with the sorrys.’  

‘True, sorry,’ she said, then realised it was one more sorry. They both laughed then shifted the boxes, hogging the lift, much to another tenants’ annoyance and moved them into Eve’s apartment. As soon as the job was done, Lucia looked at her watch again. 

‘Thanks again,’ Eve said. ‘I hope your date isn’t pissed off if you’re late.’ 

Lucia smirked and said goodbye with the little half wave, half salute that Eve was beginning to associate her with. ‘I see you Monday.’ 

Monday! 

It felt like years away. Eve leant against the door and sighed heavily after seeing Lucia out, but then her eyes fell greedily upon the boxes, and she fell onto her knees in front of them, ripping the tape off eagerly. She had been so looking forward to them finally being delivered, had been calling the shipping company several times a day. A big part of her was convinced that when she was reunited with her favourite photographs and clothes all would be well; that it would stop feeling that there was a big empty hole in her chest.  

Only, after she had spent an hour putting stuff on shelves and hanging things in the wardrobe, she still felt flat. The only thing that caused a small sparkle of excitement was a bikini, her favourite pink bikini, which she fully intended to wear tomorrow at the beach because she knew she looked good in it. Was that what had driven Kate away? Was she vain? Kate had mocked her for wanting nice nails – ‘what's the point,’ she would say, ‘they only get dirty when we play’. She had mocked her when she’d had her eyelashes lifted – ‘you don’t need that’. And when she’d had her highlights done – ‘your natural hair is fine’.  

What with the packing boxes and random belongings everywhere, and the deepness of her own thoughts, it took Eve a while to register that her phone was buzzing and beeping. When she found it under a denim jacket, there were messages in Spanish that the clever app was translating into twisted English. The Real Martinez players group chat was popping off and from what she could vaguely gather, they were going out, and she was tagged in a message that insisted she MUST join them.  

Eve considered, but not for very long. She had clothes now, her own clothes, and nothing else to do. Reasoning that she needed to bond with her new team, especially after the incident with Mikel, she found herself, sixty-five minutes later, in a neon-lit, sticky bar that was playing loud reggaeton. The group of ten other footballers who cheered her arrival were all at least five years younger than her. A green-coloured shot was pressed into her hands, and she threw it back willingly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk anything except wine and beer, but when another tray of tiny glasses of green poison were put on the table they were dancing around, she reached for another, and then another. There were cheers and laughter and a lot of conversations that she could make neither head nor tail of. A defender – another Maria – was soon full-on making out with a goalkeeper, who was also called Maria, in a corner.  Eve took a moment to look around the bar. She was already drunk and everything was blurry, but she realised it was all women, wall to wall women.  

‘Is this a gay bar?’ she asked happy young Maria, who was floating past in a skimpy top.  

‘Only one a month, today. Me, I like the men but is so fun. Si?’ 

Eve laughed. And danced. That this little Spanish town had a full-on lesbian hangout was incredible. Only once a month, but it was something, and it was, as Young Happy Maria suggested, fun. It was also busy, and the drink tasted good. The music she was not so sure about, but she danced under the strobe lights till her feet hurt anyway; until she collapsed, unceremoniously into a booth in a corner. And then, the alcohol having stripped her emotions bare, she cried. Bless the young players because many of them came to comfort her and listen to her distressed ramblings. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she heard herself saying out loud, expressing thoughts that she had only ever given private space to. ‘I mean, we went to nice restaurants, we read, we travelled, we went to galleries, we cycled everywhere, you know. And Sam, she’s all Ibiza and chicken and chips. I sound mean, i hate myself, but what the actual fuck? Was she pretending, with me? Was she pretending to like the things I like, to want the life I want? We spoke about it all you know, kids, houses. Was she faking? Why? Why would you tell someone you’re all in when you’re not, and then run off with someone so bloody different to me?’  

The Spanish girls stroked her hair and her face and patted her knees. They cried out ‘puta’ and ‘perra’. And though Eve didn’t fully understand, she felt they were on her side.