It’s A Man’s World. Polly Courtney
Riz shook his head as someone from the news desk stepped forward and hauled his boss out of the way.
Alexa turned to see whether the commotion had alerted the bar staff. Remarkably, they seemed oblivious, too busy serving customers.
‘Is that normal?’ she asked.
Riz shrugged. ‘I guess he has more respect for the game than for women.’
Alexa didn’t reply. She couldn’t tell whether Riz was joking, but she had a feeling he might be right.
The whistle blew for half-time and Alexa found herself lifted off her feet, buckling under the force of a hundred thirsty men, surging towards the bar.
‘Drink?’ she found herself saying, as Riz, swept up in the same surge, appeared at her side. The idea of disappearing back to her flat seemed both strategically unwise and physically impossible, all of a sudden.
‘Go on then.’
Several minutes later, Alexa emerged with two pints of beer and two dripping, sticky wrists.
‘Thanks.’ Riz lifted his glass against hers, laughing as a drunk football fan stumbled between them. ‘The downside to watching the game in a shit-hole, eh?’
Alexa frowned. ‘What’s the upside?’
‘Well, er . . .’ Riz looked slightly embarrassed. ‘It means not going home. I’m living with my folks for a bit – between houses.’
Alexa nodded understandingly. She too had moved back with her parents the previous year, in an effort to save money to buy her flat. It had lasted six days.
They sipped their drinks, glancing instinctively at the ads on the screen.
‘You’re pretty young, to be a managing director.’
Alexa looked at him. For once, the words didn’t sound like an accusation.
‘You’re young,’ she returned, ‘for a sports editor.’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘See?’ He nodded. ‘Young.’
‘I’m only an interim.’ Alexa shrugged, making out that it was no big deal while secretly feeling flattered that Riz was taking such an interest in her career. ‘Fixed contract, fixed targets. Then I’m out of here.’
‘Like a Premiership football manager.’
‘Do they have targets?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Good point.’
Alexa smiled. This was incredible. She hadn’t reverted to babbling.
‘Maybe they should,’ she suggested.
Riz nodded. ‘I’ll put it to our readers.’
The second half passed much more quickly and seemed significantly more enjoyable. As a newfound Spurs supporter, Alexa no longer made expectant noises as Arsenal players took shots at goal. She noticed things, too. Like, for example, the way the Arsenal players spat more and tended to writhe around, feigning injury after every tackle. From what she could tell, Spurs had the upper hand. They just needed to score.
With one minute to go, there were still no goals from either side. Alexa found herself willing the players on, muttering words of encouragement, desperate to see them win. She was about to ask Riz what would happen if the score was nil–all at the end when she felt a vibration in her pocket. She pulled out her phone. Mum – home, said the display. After a moment’s deliberation, she took the call.
‘Hi!’ she cried, above the din. ‘Hold on a second.’
With hindsight, thought Alexa as she fought her way through the crowds, taking a call in the final minute of a local derby in a crowded pub was not the best idea. She spilled onto the pavement and looked at the phone, taking a couple of seconds to regain her breath.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Watching the football.’
‘Oh.’
Alexa smiled. Bewilderment, disdain, disappointment . . . it was incredible how much could be conveyed in a single syllable.
‘Is it urgent, or shall I call you back at the weekend?’
‘Oh, well . . . it’s nothing much.’ There it was again. Watching a game of football was clearly not deemed a sensible use of time.
‘Go on,’ Alexa prompted.
‘Well, I just wanted to find out whether you’d managed to talk to your colleagues yet. About Lara. Only I was talking to Janice at youth group and she said that Lara hadn’t heard.’
‘Sorry.’ Alexa grimaced at the thought of her unmet promise. ‘I’ll do it this week.’
‘Only if it’s not too much trouble.’
A deafening roar emanated from inside the pub.
‘No trouble.’
‘Lovely. Thank you, darling. Um . . . how is Matthew?’
Alexa was already in the doorway, waiting to return to the game. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Good. That’s good. Do send him our love.’
‘I will. Bye, Mum.’
‘Right, yes. Bye, darling!’
Alexa took a moment before returning to the pub. She was beginning to realise that she didn’t actually need to tell her mother about the job. It was only a nine-month contract, of which she had already served one. Her mother didn’t need to know. She would be better off not knowing. Alexa could just imagine the pained expression on her mother’s face whenever somebody from youth group or scouts asked what her daughter was up to. This way, her mother wouldn’t have to lie. Alexa felt the relief engulf her as she came to terms with her decision. It was better for everyone this way.
Even before she got close enough to see the TV, Alexa knew that she’d missed a goal. The pub was alive with activity: men standing on chairs, fists clenched in exasperation, eyes fixed on the screen. The question was: which team?
Riz’s expression told her the answer.
‘You should disappear more often!’
Alexa laughed. The score was one–nil to Spurs and there were only seconds of injury time left to go. As she watched, though, an Arsenal midfielder lobbed the ball half the length of the pitch and Alexa watched, dismayed, as a waiting team-mate crossed it perfectly into the goal.
‘Offside!’ Alexa found herself yelling. She knew the rules.
‘Fuck off !’ shouted a man, very close to her ear.
Alexa reeled sideways and realised with dismay that the man was Derek.
‘No way was that offside!’ he bellowed aggressively, both hands flying into the air above his stumpy little body. He seemed to be shouting at both the referee and Alexa at once.
Alexa became aware of a movement in the crowd around her. Bodies were shifting, making a clearing around her and Derek.
‘He was offside,’ she stated, calmly.
Alexa knew that she had the upper hand, not only in that she had drunk fewer pints than the deputy editor, but in that she was right. On the TV, a slow-motion replay was indicating, quite clearly, that the Arsenal player had been hanging around by the goal, a long way from the nearest defender.
Derek seemed unperturbed. ‘You’re a woman!’ he yelled. ‘You don’t even understand the offside rule!’
Alexa caught Riz’s eye, incredulous. He nodded at the TV, where the referee was signalling for the goal to be disallowed.
‘That’s bollocks,’ Derek spat in Alexa’s direction as he turned, barging