Chapter Six:  Beach

Eve had managed to find a daily routine that sort of soothed her. Though it took some effort, she would swing her legs out of bed at seven o’clock every morning, pull on trainers, shorts and t-shirt, scrape her hair into a ponytail and then without even a glance in the mirror, leave her flat to walk down the sets of steps that she now knew cut directly through the heart of 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, smiley lady who ran the place would see her coming and pour her a coffee even . Eve had almost cried on the first morning she’d wandered in and tried to order an Americano, only to be told they were still closed. Her face must have shown her devastation because coffee and kindness had then reigned down on her. 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, and sit and sip the rich dark liquid while trying to draw some kind of inner peace from the water and blue skies. Only when her coffee was drunk would she brave her phone. Today, she had a boring e-mail from her accountant and another from her agent that she fired off quick replies to, and realising that she hadn't heard from Poppy in a few days, she sent her a text.

It's game day. Good luck. 

Hanmore were playing their first league game of the season later, as were Real Martinez. As much as Eve wanted to be in the starting eleven, the idea of it terrified her a little. 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 asked to take a few corners – they were only training matches and not the real thing – but she'd begun felt like a footballer again, and not just that girl that used to play for Hanmore, or Kate Slater's ex-girlfriend, the one she dumped for Sam O'Brien. 

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 get 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? We have this wedding menu tasting thing later but have some time to kill so might as well watch your new lot play. 

Eve sent a text back saying that she didn’t know and to try You Tube. She added that she hoped Saskia would like the menu, 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. 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. Feeling a bit sick, Eve pocketed her phone, threw her empty coffee cup away and ran back up the steps, all the while telling herself off. This wasn’t school, they weren’t teenagers anymore. Poppy, Kate and Sam all played on the same team. Poppy had to be friendly with them, 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 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 top division for what should be an easy win. 

‘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, before hurrying away.  

 

The match kicked off at one, which seemed like a madness given the heat. It needed to be stopped at twenty-minute intervals for water breaks and the players moved like turtles with heavy shells on their backs . 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 was gifted, they couldn't 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 but Lucia was raging up and down the pitch, too angry to do anything useful. Passes went astray, long balls were over-hit. Eve was, at last, asked by Mikel to warm-up, but the seventieth minute came and went, and still she wasn’t allowed on the pitch. When it was still nil-nil at eighty minutes, Eve approached him. ‘Am I getting on at all? I want to play, that’s why I came here. Just give me a few minutes, the games nearly done.’ 

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

‘Why did you even buy me?’ Eve asked, her temper rising. 

‘You play when you are less up here,’ he pointed to her forehead, 'and more in here', he finished, pointing again, this time at her heart. 

Eve shook her head and walked away. 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 when he hadn't spoken to them at all. He spoke at length in impassioned Spanish. Eve didn’t even try to understand. 

 

 

To make matters worse, Eve’s slightly-heated exchange with Mikel had started an online debate. Their altercation had been filmed from the stands by a fan with a smart phone who had posted it and tagged her in. New comments were being added every couple of minutes. 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 back to the training ground was so quiet. Even Happy Young Maria had nothing to say. Greta was met by Eduardo and little Matteo when they reached the car park and Eve looked on, a little enviously, as the little boy greeted his mother like a hero, not caring that 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 had nowhere to be and was in no rush. She sat on the kerb, pulled out her phone, and wondered if it was possible to un-tag herself from video with Mikel but got distracted when she saw that 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 wondered how Hanmore had gotten on and checked her watch.Their season opener was a local derby, a big game. When she clicked on  Hanmore's instagram, there was a video showing Poppy and Sam O’Brien jumping up and down in the changing room, celebrating a thumping Hanmore win.  

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

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

Poppy replied quickly. 

Yeah, schedules busy but that would be good. 

Another text from Patrick then popped up. She'd had more texts - two in total - from her brother today than she'd had in the last six months. 

Well, I watched the game, on some weird illegal stream. Wasted two hours of my life. Where were you? Saskia wants to know when you’re back in London, wants to talk to you about being a bridesmaid, told her I wasn't sure if 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 dated girls? It wasn’t like she was allergic to dresses, she wore them semi-regularly. With a deep sigh, she got up and walked to her borrowed car where she slung her rucksack angrily into the back seat. Then she drove, hands shaking, back to her apartment and wiped a couple of angry tears away as she parked in her spot. There was a whole lot of late afternoon and evening to still get through, alone.

The idea of going to bed and pulling the duvet over her head till the morning was tempting. Instead, she went indoors only to change out of her Real Martinez kit and then wandered back to the beach. Her usual cafe was packed. In the mornings, there were only a few locals wandering in and out for coffee, but now it was jammed with tourists enjoying the cooler late afternoon sun with colourful cocktails or glasses of wine in front of them while they grazed on small plates of tapas. There was no quiet space for Eve to sit and brood, so she wandered over the sand to the water’s edge. She took off her socks and shoes, and carried them as she waded into the sea till it reached her ankles. The cliffs that surrounded the bay were being lashed by gentle waves. The spray it produced, full of sand and water was dazzling, impressive enough for her to pull out her phone and take a picture. And for the first time since arriving in Spain, she felt moved by something enough to post it to her Instagram account, without a caption. She hit send before walking on, kicking at the sea and studying shells and pebbles as went.  

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 of all ages. There was a lot of laughter, and no overly-aggressive tackles. When the ball was over-hit and rolled towards Eve, she stopped it with the sole of her foot, then kicked it back towards them in such a beautiful, perfect, 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. 

Eve walked further even on and thought 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 cooking 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 far easier to tell the world 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 Slater 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, when she was the one who had walked away from it all, Eve couldn’t comprehend.  

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 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 recognised the boxes as the ones she had packed up a couple of weeks ago in her London flat, she was so pleased she almost cried. ‘Thank you so much,’ she gasped. ‘I really appreciate you waiting with it. 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 white trousers and an army green tank top that showed off toned biceps. 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.’ 

With her eyebrows raised, Lucia cocked her head to the side. ‘A date, yes. But I thinks you are not getting these stuff up these 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! Eve thought as Lucia left. It felt like years away. She leaned against the front door after she'd closed it with a heavy heart 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 photographs and clothes all would be well; that it would stop feeling that there was a big empty hole in her chest.  

Yet, 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. It was a stupid thing, really. She suddenly felt silly and vain. Was that what had driven Kate away? 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’. And yet Sam wore heavy fake lashes, used sunbeds, and had botox every six months. It was all so confusing.

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 they were going out. She was tagged in at least two messages that insisted she MUST join them.  

She had clothes now, her own clothes, and no excuse not to go, and what if she turned them down and that didn't bother inviting her again? 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 only understood parts 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. That this little Spanish town had a full-on lesbian hangout was incredible. Only once a month, but it was something. It was also busy, and the drink tasted good. The music she was not so sure about, but she danced under the strobe lights in a way she hadn't for years, until her feet hurt; until she collapsed, unceremoniously into a booth in a corner. And then, the alcohol having stripped her emotions bare, she cried. The younger players 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 traveled, we went to galleries and 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? 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?’  

'What is wrong with Ibiza? I am from Ibiza.' One of them asked, looking offended.

'Oh, I mean the loud bits, the touristy bits.'

The girl from Ibiza nodded in acceptance. 'With their Turkey teeth and mini-skirts. Si. 

Her teammates stroked Eve's hair and face and patted her knees. They said Kate's name and called out ‘puta’ and ‘perra’. And though Eve didn’t know what the words meant, she felt they were on her side.