Free Don't Ask by Hilary Freeman Page A

in a place where there were so many more men than
women. The background noise was a low rumble of deep voices and there was an overwhelming smell of clashing aftershaves mixed with beer. I was struck by the fact that there was no queue at all for
the ladies’ toilet, while the queue for the gents’ snaked around the corner. It felt like a little victory. Hah! I thought. Finally they understand what it’s like to be a
girl.
    As we walked outside to our seats – posh seats, because Alex’s dad had got the tickets through work – I’ll admit that even I was excited by the charged atmosphere, by the
raucous singing and the sense of anticipation. All around me was a red and white sea of thousands of supporters wearing Arsenal strips and scarves. In one corner, the sea was broken up by a little
puddle of black and white, the loyal away supporters who were doing their best to be heard over the din, trading insults with the home fans surrounding them. I zipped my jacket right up to my neck,
so nobody could think I might be one them.
    ‘When the camera comes round, smile and wave,’ said Alex, as we sat down.
    I tried not to show my panic. Camera, what camera? Jack was sure to be watching the match. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being seen on film, sitting right next to Alex. Talk about
being caught red (or should that be red and white) handed. Even I wouldn’t have been able to explain my way out of that one.
‘What? Someone who looks like me was sitting next to
your ex-girlfriend? At a football match, while I was out shopping with Katie? What are the chances of that?’
    ‘I don’t want to be on telly,’ I said, shuffling uncomfortably, even though my red plastic seat wasn’t as hard as I’d expected.
    ‘You’re not shy, are you Laura?’ She smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just for the fans in the stadium. The camera pans round and the pictures show up on
those big screens.’ She pointed to the corners of the ground, where there were giant screens showing the crowd. ‘Of course there are TV cameras here too, but they usually focus on the
super fans, the people with painted faces or big banners.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said. I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being filmed. It wasn’t worth the risk. What if one of Jack’s friends was there? Or someone I knew, who
might tell my parents they’d seen me?
    Too late . . . ‘Here we go . . . Wave!’ said Alex, as the image on the screen showed the people directly to our left. I had a split second to think and so I did the only thing I
could do – I kicked over the can of Coke that I’d placed at my feet, sending a stream of fizzy brown liquid over our shoes and bags.
    ‘Whoops!’ I cried, as I bent down to pick up the can, ensuring that the only image that might have appeared on screen was of the back of my head. As far as I know, the back of my
head isn’t particularly distinctive.
    ‘Are you all right, Laura?’
    ‘Yes. What a klutz I am,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry about your bag and shoes. I’m so clumsy, I’m always doing stuff like that.’ I made a mental note:
remember, Laura is clumsy, it could come in handy,
    ‘It’s OK,’ said Alex, wiping down her bag with a tissue she’d found in her pocket. ‘You made us miss our moment of glory, though.’
    I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Forget it. Hey, we’re about to kick off. Excellent, we won the toss.’
    As the match got underway, I soon realised that, in spite of my enforced football studies, I still had a lot to learn about the game and, more specifically, the individual players. Without the
benefit of a television zoom lens, or any commentary, I found it hard to tell one player from another. They were all dressed the same, after all.
    ‘Isn’t Walcott playing well today?’ said Alex.
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘Do you think he’s better off in this position?’
    ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It suits him.’ Just agree with whatever she says, I thought.
    ‘Who’s