Simon & Britta

I'm going to defend this style a bit. I know it's not for everyone. This is the same story taking place from Simon's perspective first, then his wife, Britta's. I hope you enjoy!

Simon  

           I am sober. Eleven pints of lager, a couple grams of weed, four hours of dreamless sleep, and I'm completely sober. I should be dead. I don't feel dead.  I am absolutely exhausted. If I was dead, I wouldn’t be so tired.

           

I hear the faint melodic chime of my mobile. I reach over to the nightstand and look at the display on my phone: Nige. Of course it's Nige. It’s always Nige. With a match today, I'm sure he wants to give me s**t about being hungover. Little does he know that being completely pissed less than five hours ago has left no ill effects; other than the cold feeling in my chest, which has left my mind and body completely numb. 

           

I glance over at the other side of the bed, and see a gorgeous woman, wearing only a cream-colored nightgown, exposing a beautifully pregnant belly. Her brilliant golden smile warms my body immediately. I am sure that Nige's early morning call pleases her less than it does me. I manage a weak, embarrassed grin back at her. She shrugs, grabs the warm flannel sheet and duvet and rolls back over to sleep. I sigh deeply and hesitantly answer the phone.

 "Good morning Sunshine!" the familiar Cockney voice says before I have a moment to answer.

"'Ello Nige. How are ya mate?” I reply, trying to hide the fact that I am completely shattered. Sober, but utterly shattered.

"‘Allo china! Hope you're ready for the match this mornin'. Told the lads you might not make it today. Didn't think you'd make it home either!" Nige laughs and I can’t help but laugh with him. His rhyming slang is the true source of my amusement. “Apples and pears” I thought. I try to pay attention to Nige’s drunken ramble, but find my eyes are fixated on the George Cross on the opposite wall, set against the pale lavender wall. The colors obviously do not mesh well, but the walls are soothing and the George Cross reminds me of my calling, my duty as an Englishman. Britta and I are both patriots.

“Come on mate, it’s a cup game and you know I can’t miss a Man City match,” I chime in, not sure how much of the conversation I missed.

“Those filthy Mancs won’t know what hit ‘em! Silly tarts, if you ask me!”

“Remember who you’re talking to mate. No one wants to win more than I do. However, they are my ex-teammates.”

“So, you’re an ex-tart.” Nige roars in hilarity, and I chuckle with him in pseudo-amusement.

           

I glance over and see Britta rolling her eyes, probably very pleased she can’t hear the other side of the conversation.

“Well Nige, looks like you’ve woken up the old bird,” I wink at Britta who is shaking her head, with a smile behind her look of disdain.

“A’right china! See ya on the pitch. Give the old bird a kiss for me. Speak later.”

I hang up the phone, not bothering with the formality of acknowledging his closing remarks. I beam brightly at my lovely wife. I don’t bother to mention Nige’s kiss. I have plenty of my own to give her.

Her arms are crossed and she says, “I am NOT a bird, nor am I old.”

“Of course you aren’t love. I just love to wind you up, You know that,” I hold her head gently in my hands and kiss her smooth, wrinkleless forehead. Then, I slip down beneath the duvet and kiss her round belly, hoping that our future son can feel the love that I have for him already. “I’m going to grab a quick shower before heading out. Fancy riding with me?”

“Nah, I’ll catch one with one of the other ‘birds’,” She grins back at me and winks. That smile will stay with me for eternity.

          

  In the bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet and grab my bottle of Effexor. I’m not sure why I even bother. I nearly think that I just can’t be arsed today, but I don’t want to disappoint her. Unlike my previous remarks, Britta is actually young and absolutely gorgeous.  These traits are not difficult to find in the wife of a footballer. However, her kind spirit and selfless heart are uniquely pure qualities that not many possess. In fact, she is the most perfect woman I know. I hope she knows that. I pause for a moment, staring at the red tablet. I shake my head, take a sip of water and swallow the crimson pill.

           

Out on the pitch I can hear the fans screaming, chanting, and singing their football songs. Most of those lads have probably had one, two, or 10 pints too many. I love every moment: the fighting, the hooliganism. Their energy radiates through my bruised and battered bones.  I relish the fact that my actions will ultimately determine their behavior. No matter which team I am playing for, my supporters are the best there are. So I fight for their affection. I slide, jump, and defend their goal with every body part imaginable. Simon Worthington will not be penetrated. Simon Worthington will not disappoint his supporters. Not today.

            After the match, Arsenal supporters are wild with enthusiasm. I hear them chanting my name as I pass hoards of fans leaving the stadium, “Simon, Simon, Simon.” Their chant has morphed into a song. A song that I pray will live forevermore.

Intertwined with the Arsenal supporters are the Manchester City fans uttering not-so-kind remarks, “Ya fooking trader!”  It doesn’t really bother me anymore. It’s football. People either love you or hate you, sometimes it’s both. I take pride in the fact that they acknowledge my existence at all. I just contributed to their defeat. Manchester City was no longer a contender in the English FA Cup this year. Their ego might be a bit bruised, but they’ll come around. These men are the same lads who chanted my name countless times when I represented our home team. These are the same lads who pray to the gods of football while I defended their country, taking England to the World Cup. These are the same men who cheered me on in South Africa and Brazil.

When I leave Emirates stadium, I think about Britta. I should have picked her up. I shouldn’t be driving to the train station, but I am. I turn off my mobile, thinking that she can no longer invade my thoughts if I just turn it off.

            I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know why it is so unbearable. My life is good. My life is fabulous; absolutely fantastic. I love my wife, my son-to-be, my family, my friends, and my teammates, yet my heart is irreparable. I miss mum, of course. I wish she could have been there today. I feel an overwhelming sadness that renders my mind incapable of performing the simplest, mundane tasks. Just breathe, just keep breathing. It shouldn’t be like this. I power on my mobile to look at the time on my phone and see Britta’s name. I can’t bring myself to open her text message.  It’s a quarter past three.  The train should be here any moment now.

Britta

I open my eyes, realizing that I have just been woken up from a lovely dream. It was absolutely perfect. Simon and I were walking down the beach in Jamaica, or perhaps it was Hawaii, snogging, of course. We were just about to…then the phone rings. I’m sure it's Nige, it’s always Nige. Silly Nige. Simon can hardly stand the bloke.

Simon, Nige, and the lads were out drinking late last night (Actually, it was probably this morning when Simon finally turned in.) and I am sure Nige is concerned about Simon’s state before the match today. Scratch that, Nige wants to appear to be concerned. What he really wants is to gloat and boast about how well he feels and hope that Simon feels like crap. Simon doesn’t let it get to him. I’m proud of him for that. If it were me, I wouldn’t take the call. Well, that may not be entirely true. I have the same types of pseudo-friends as Simon does; the ones that really don’t matter at all. Simon and I are genuine with each other, and that is all that matters.

   I don’t actually recall when Simon came home, but I do remember rolling over early this morning and finding him sound asleep. I knew he was probably completely pissed when he came home. I love to watch him sleep. Those moments are very few and far between, but it is nice to see him at peace, even if the pot and endless pints of lager are responsible for it.

Simon’s mum died less than six months ago and he took it very hard. He was playing at the time of her collapse, and I think he has completely forgiven himself for not visiting recently.  I know that he can’t possibly fault himself for her death, but those are words are less than comforting when your mum has passed.

            I smile at him, knowing that today is a big day and hope that he knows I couldn’t be more proud to call him my husband. I appreciate his efforts completely. He doesn’t play for the money, or the fame. He plays for his love of football and to see the pride in the eyes of his supporters.  I know that he could have chosen anyone to marry, and the fact that he chose me amazes me every day. I don’t quite fit in with the other footballer’s wives with their expensive haircuts, perfectly manicured nails, and posh purses and shoes. I’m not a label girl, but I’m sure that is a quality that Simon enjoys about me. I’m much less maintenance and pretentious than the other wives.

            I overhear him call me an “old bird” and I try to give him a stern look. He winks back at me and I can tell that he knows that I couldn’t possibly be offended by his faux chauvinism. He can see straight through my ruse, and I know he couldn’t possibly take my defensiveness seriously. Poor Nige thinks that Simon is just like every other bloke. He’s not. He’s absolutely perfect. He loves me, he loves our unborn son, and we live every moment for each other.

           

After he’s put down the phone with Nige, I remind him that I am neither old, nor a “bird”. He cradles my head in his hands and kisses me lightly on the forehead. I feel chills run through my body. I could never grow tired of that kiss. He then kisses my impregnated belly, and I realize that we live in a fairy tale. He treats me like the princess that I am sure I am not, but I adore every moment of it all the same.

Simon asks if I need a ride to the game before popping off into the shower. I want to say “yes.” I want to go with him. Every part of my being tells me that I should go with him, but I’m meant to go with Trista and ride with her and her mate, Jeanine. I dislike them both very much, but would never say so. After all, I am a footballer’s wife and I do need to keep up appearances. But still…

  Trista is ex-footballer’s wife, but she loves to come out to see the new crop of young lads she can prey on. That, and she loves to gossip with the best of them. All of the other girls hate her as well, but apparently they are just as two-faced as I am. Although my thoughts on the subject are never heard, I keep those all to myself.

            At least I have a reason for dressing down: I’m pregnant. I know that Trista and Jeanine will want to outshine me anyhow. I don’t care. I have the hot, perfect, gorgeous football star who would rather snog his own wife that some tart he’s met in a club. Trista is a washed up has been and Jeanine is a wannabe washed up has been.

 I throw on a pair of jeans and a red Arsenal t-shirt. Spring games are best. No bulky scarves or itchy wool sweaters. I grab Simon’s England jacket. Mine doesn’t fit properly, little Simon is taking up a load of space, but that isn’t why I grab his jacket. It’s the smell. It always has his scent on it. I suppose that it always will. I hope it does anyway.

            The VIP lounge at the field is where all of the important people watch the game, including the footballer’s wives. They cackle to one another about who’s wearing what and who’s a slag or a wank. Trista and Jeanine love it. I hate it. After we arrive, Trista quickly excuses herself and Jeanine to talk trash with the other girls.

            “Britta, you don’t mind if we go and have a drink at the bar with the girls, do you? You can come of course,” She gives me that sneaky smile that tells me that she just wants to gossip; probably about me. “But, well, you shouldn’t be drinking and… you know how they are.” Of course I know how they are, you twit! You’re one of them! I think that, but don’t say it out loud. It must be the hormones.

Suddenly, I feel their eyes fixated upon me. I look up and see all of the girls smiling brightly and waving politely. I beam back at them. I can hear their hushed whispers, “How much weight do you think she has gained?” “Fifteen stone I bet!” “I hear Simon is going to leave her. He’s shacked up with someone already.”  “Serves her right. She really should look after herself.” “I heard she faked a pregnancy to get him to marry her.”

          Jesus!  Why am I here? To support my husband of course. While he’s on the pitch taking the physical abuse, the least I can do is stay up here and deal with the mental abuse. They don’t know him. They don’t know me. Not really anyway. But we know each other, completely and wholly. I smile again at them. They are jealous. I take immense pleasure in that fact.

           

After the match, I text Simon and congratulate him on his win. When he doesn’t respond, I figure that he’s probably gone for a few pints with the lads and forgotten to text me.

            I climb into our cold bed and I can’t shake the uneasiness inside of me. No text, no phone call. It's half past eleven o’clock at night and still…silence. I phoned Nige who said that Simon left the field alone. Nige of course took Trista home with him. I could hear her scathing voice in the background. She’s probably telling him how Simon’s in the city with his new (imaginary) girlfriend. I pray that he hasn’t been in a car accident. I really should have rode with him.

           

I must have dozed off for a few minutes when I am awoken by the door chime. I glance over at the clock and realize it’s a quarter to one in the morning. I fish in the darkness and grab Simon’s England dressing gown before heading down the steps. I peer through the peephole and see two policemen, one ruddy-faced, the other ginger. I assume the worst as I throw open the door.

            Before I could speak, the ruddy-faced officer, who looks as if he’s been sobbing asks, “Ma’am, we are very sorry to bother you.  Are you Mrs. Worthing-,” The ginger policeman interrupts him, “Of course she’s Britta Worthington. You see her on the telly every bloody Saturday. What’s wrong with you?” He looks upset too. His eyes are red and swollen. He pauses and my heart is racing with anticipation. I close my eyes and think, “Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.”

“Mrs. Worthington. There has been an accident,” He pauses again, holding back tears in his eyes. The ruddy one looks as though he is about to cry again as well. “Your husband was struck by a train at approximately twenty past three this afternoon. We are so sorry for your loss Ma’am.”

The world goes dark, and my fairy tale is gone.

Author's Note

If you aren't familiar with the drug, Effexor, one of the possible side effects is suicide. This aspect of the story was inspired by my own experience with the drug.