Playing James Read Online Free PDF Page A

always do, that Ben wouldn't see the funny side of Buntam. Ben is occasionally completely bemused by me and my scrapes and spends his time asking, 'But how did …?' and 'Why did you …?' in a puzzled sort of fashion.
    I shake my head and ask, 'Who are you playing tomorrow?'
    'Bath.'
    'Oh,' says I in a knowledgeable sort of way. 'Bath. That'll be a difficult game.' I honestly haven't got a clue, but I find that if I stick to ambiguous comments then I can't come a cropper. 'And will you be wearing your red shoes or your blue ones?' I ask, bringing the conversation back to more comfortable ground.
    'Holly. I have told you a hundred times. They are not shoes. They are boots. And it depends on whether the ground is wet or dry, not on what colour the other team are wearing.' He smiles, leans over and kisses me affectionately on the forehead.
    Ben is boyfriend extraordinaire. He is simply perfect. I met him at an awards dinner. It was when I was the sports correspondent for the paper (before Joe found out I couldn't tell one end of a cricket bat from the other). Ben was there to collect the 'Player of the Year' trophy for the local rugby team. He gave a little acceptance speech and told
the
funniest joke about a Labrador, a vicar and a skateboard. Now what was the punch line? Yes. Well. Maybe you had to be there.
    I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was dressed in the obligatory dinner jacket, his sandy hair was flopping over his face, he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen and he glowed with the remains of a golden tan from a week's sailing. I didn't take one single note for the paper all night, and the next morning I had to frantically phone round the other sports correspondents and promise them all sorts of lewd acts if they would just let me borrow theirs.
    Now, I can look OK when I want to. In fact, quite nice-looking. I am not like the advert people, of course, who wake up looking good, do a cross-country run, get the kids to school, rescue an old person and still look exactly the same. But when I take the trouble to do my hair and makeup the results can be pleasing. I am tall (about five-foot-nine, to be exact), have blonde, longish hair (natural in places), freckles (yuk! Have tried lemon juice, doesn't work), and a huge smile which I don't think is very elegant but Lizzie assures me it is extremely jolly (which is surefire proof that it isn't very elegant at all). Ben is very tall which is fantastic as I am a sucker for tall men. It is nice to slob around in his clothes and feel petite. I have always been really tall for my age. Once, at school, I went to a fancy-dress party as a flower fairy. I flounced and pirouetted around in what I imagined was a fairylike fashion and then won second prize! For being the Jolly Green Giant …
    But the gods must have been smiling upon me the night I met Ben, because I sashayed up to him and not only scored a try but converted it as well.
    I, the Jolly Green Giant herself, won the jackpot.
    Still to this day, I don't quite understand how. Because he is, as Lizzie would say, 'a catch'. And now, wonder of wonders, we've been going out for a while; in fact, nearly a year. So, life is very good. Not perfect, but then whose is? I mean, the rugby games every Saturday do get tedious, and then of course there are the constant training sessions. Oh, and the team-bonding male thing after the games … But I know loads of girls who would love to go out with him so that just makes me the luckiest person ever. And I don't want to be one of those girlfriends who is constantly nagging that I don't see enough of him because, to be honest, it is lovely to see him at all and I know his sport is important to him. I can put up with the rugby and all that goes with it because he is near enough perfect for me. He is charming, witty, funny, great in bed … the list just goes on and on. And although I am not thinking about it right now, I think he is The One because what else can a girl ask for? Right?
    'Come