The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  Maria’s syrupy voice rang out across the table.

  “Yes, Tara, honestly, woman to woman, you do need to lose just a titsy witsy bit of weight, your face could look so much prettier if it were slimmer, I really believe it, dahling, you do have a lovely face under there…”

  “Love, fifteen,” thought Seb, mashing his food, chewing painful with a near-broken jaw.

  Anton spluttered on his forkful, the cheek of the bitch! He jumped to Tara’s defence.

  “Oh heavens NO Tara, don’t you dare go on a diet,” his voice aghast at the thought. “You’re perfect, men luurve something to hold onto, don’t they, Seb?” looking over at Seb for reassurance.

  Seb nodded furiously, “yeah… yeah mate,” as if he knew! He was surprised that Anton assumed him straight, surely he of all people would have gaydar - maybe he wasn’t gay, just confused.

  Anton carried on, arms waving in front of him, drawing a curvaceous shape in the air.

  “Men like to feel warm flesh between their legs… to rest their head on an ample bosom… to sink into full juicy passion,” he looked over at Maria.

  “There is absolutely no pleasure in humping a bag of bones… and that hard pubic bone, urrgh… so painful, darhling… a womanly body is so much sexier,” he took a sip of wine.

  “The Lord knows we’re skinny long enough in our graves, don’t you think?” he leaned over and layered Tara’s plate with lashings of Parmigiano cheese.

  “Oh yeah… big tits… big ass… you can’t beat it, fanbloodytastic!” piped up eager young Mark, forgetting where he was, definitely a boob man.

  All faces turned towards him, shocked at hearing the normally shy boy speak, never mind what he’d said. Turning red with embarrassment, he thought better of adding further views on the female form and shrank back into his pasta.

  Fifteen all.

  Maria played with her food, dismissing Anton, what did he know? She doubted he’d ever had a woman. She caught Tara grinning into her plate… not for long, bitch.

  “Mimi, dahling, this is lovely, you must give me the recipe. Franco just loves me cooking for him, wine, candles, an early night… he is so romantic, must be the Italian in him, don’t you think?”

  Fifteen, thirty.

  Before Mimi could answer, she carried on talking at her captive audience.

  “So, how did the shoot go today? It’s sweet to see how seriously Franco is taking this dahling little job, I’ve been helping tutor his acting. He is a very good performer, you know it is quite amazing how convincing he can be when needed, he certainly knows how to turn on the charm. Now, let’s see, what do each of you do?”

  She looked around the table, feigning interest in her fellow diners.

  “Seb, you’re the photographer, obviously, Mark, you must be the assistant, who is the makeup artist?”

  “Anton,” they said in unison.

  “Ah ha,” she said disapprovingly, having taken an instant dislike to the outspoken arrogant little poof. “Then who is the hairdresser?”

  “Anton,” again in unison.

  “Ah, how sweet,” she lied. “The stylist?”

  “Anton,” they giggled.

  “Ooh hey, don’t forget Tony,” Anton said proudly, winking at the old boy tucking into his food.

  “He’s my wonderful assistant,” he didn’t normally dislike people on sight, but this snooty nosed bitch was getting to him.

  “Anton, gosh, how very useful you are, a genuine ‘Jack of all trades’… you do a bit of everything, and everyone I should imagine,” she smiled sweetly at him, as if in jest.

  Contentious line call?

  “And Tara,” turning to her main victim before Anton could retaliate. “And what is left for you to busy yourself with, my dear?”

  Fifteen, forty.

  “Not a lot, really, it’s rather dull… I just fuck the model, and give him head from time to time,” Tara replied, bored, nonchalantly supping her glass of red wine.

  Thirty, forty.

  The table spluttered into their plates with giggles. Maria laughed a little too loudly, pretending it was a good joke. Mimi, not quite managing to keep up with the banter, looked to Anton for an explanation. Tony had given up fathoming who was doing what to whom long ago, but from the tension he knew it wasn’t pleasant. It was best to mind his own business; he got on with demolishing his food, thanking God for the millionth time for such a great wife. Fork in hand, he blessed himself.

  Seb winked a ‘well done’ at Tara, and immediately regretted it as a piercing pain shot through his cheek. Franco had well and truly knocked him one. The others had believed his story of accidentally crashing into a low beam in his bedroom.

  Franco was well out of order, lovesick or not, no excuse! No way would the two of them be able to pose happily for the next days shoot. They needed to talk, sort it out or rethink the layout and have a plan B… mind you, with these eejits, everythin can change overnight.

  He wondered what the hell Tara was playing at; Ed had broken her heart big time, why go back to him? He would only have been using her for a quick leg-over. What was it with women and bastards, they couldn’t resist them, mad or what? He pushed the thought of David out of his mind.

  It was obvious that Tara didn’t know about the pictures yet, she was too huffed-up about Maria’s presence. Maria was the least of her worries, with the absence of Franco; he guessed he would have the job of telling her the good news… nice one, thanks Franco… shyte, what a mess!

  The pictures were black, white and grainy, he recognized the style, a disturbing thought had been nagging him… shyte, if it is feckin David, what the feck is he up to?

  Supper continued with Franco’s women silently seething at each end of the table. After pushing her food around the plate for twenty minutes, Maria lit a cigarette and stood up. She’d eaten nothing.

  “Thank you Mimi, that was wonderful, do excuse me, I’m going up to prepare for Franco, we’re having an early night, we’ve missed each other madly and have some catching up to do,” she smiled salaciously. “Good night, everyone.”

  Game.

  She blew kisses into the air as she left the table; turning back at the door, she said to an incensed Tara, “don’t bother waking us in the morning dear, I’m a very good alarm clock, I know just the thing to get Franco up… sweet dreams, everyone,” she slammed the door behind her, sending cloying perfume and cigarette smoke wafting through the room.

  Set and match…

  Tara was furious… the cow, how dare she?… how to get him up… he probably jumped out of bed with fright seeing that ugly mug first thing… yuk, just think, my mouth has been where her mouth has… shit, not to mention where his mouth has been… yuk yuk yuk! She slumped in her chair, holding back tears.

  Anton jumped up and ran around the table to give her a big hug, squeezing her tightly, he kissed the side of her head, the others looked on sympathetically.

  “She’s the bitch from hell; don’t give her a second thought. Franco has more taste than that my dear. She’ll be out on her ear tomorrow, mark my words. She’s got more verbal than a fishwife, and smells worse, what’s that pong she’s wearing, pulease!” he was such a sweetheart, Tara loved him.

  The gang helped Mimi clear the table to the kitchen and set about washing and drying plates. Tony, long ago banned from handling breakables in the kitchen, sat in the corner and strummed on his guitar, lifting the atmosphere. Anton insisted on pouring everyone more wine, and they drank, laughed, and swayed to the Latino rhythm as they worked.

  Mimi had never had so many helpers in her kitchen before; she loved it, giving everyone direction on what went where. Anton taught her the meaning of ‘alarm clock’. Her English was coming along in leaps and bounds, not necessarily with vocabulary that would be of use, but it was definitely expanding. She loved learning with Anton; he made it fun with his arm waving, face-pulling explanations of words.

  Leaving the others giggling in the kitchen, Seb gently pulled Tara aside
and into the living room.

  “We have to talk Tara,” his solemn voice frightened her.

  “What’s up, Seb? You look terrible; so sorry about your face, you poor thing, will you be able to work tomorrow, shall we delay for a day?”

  Typical, Tara always worried about someone else. He sat her down on the well-worn sofa… if only sofas could talk.

  “Look, there is a problem with Franco…”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Isn’t she a bitch? I’ll kill her before this trip’s over, so help me…”

  “It’s not Maria, she is the least of your problems,” he looked to the floor, searching for the right words, his grave face unsettling her.

  “What is it, Seb? It hasn’t been leaked that I’m involved in the shoot, has it? Ohmigod…” she began to panic.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he reassured her. “Someone has sent Franco some pictures of you in a compromising position.”

  “Who has? What kind of position?”

  He had the urge to say…well, doggy and 69 actually, but felt better of it.

  “Pictures of you and another guy… doing it.”

  “Doing what? Seb, you’re not making sense.”

  “Doing it…Tara… you and Ed, actually…”

  “Me and Ed doing what?” she shouted, beginning to lose her temper, wishing he would get to the point, momentarily stunned at the mention of Ed’s name.

  “Shagging,” he shouted back. “For fuck’s sake, Tara, you and Ed shagging, in your apartment, in all positions, in all rooms…”

  “Shagging,” she said incredulously.

  “Making love, fornicating, boning, fucking, bonking, banging, having your chimney swept, getting it on, Donald Ducking… whatever you want to bloody well call it, Tara. It is you and Ed at it in your apartment,” he was losing his temper, god, she was being slow.

  “Why… how… who would?” she ran nervous fingers through her hair. “What did he say?…oh shit.”

  “Oh shit yes, he’s furious. I tried to tell him it was a while ago but he was having none of it … he hit me,” pointing at his bruised face. “You didn’t really believe I walked into a beam, did you?”

  “No, err, yes… err… shit! Seb… he was right, I saw Ed just recently, it meant nothing, if anything it was a goodbye bonk, closure, you know what I mean. Anyway, where is Franco now? I have to talk to him, explain it to him… hey, hang on a minute,” she stopped mid-panic.

  “What the hell am I getting all apologetic about? He has been seeing the bloody bitch from hell all the time he has been seeing me,” she stood up and walked around the room, arms waving, her fury returning.

  “He is the one who has some explaining to do, whoever sent the pictures I should thank, he deserves it the little two-timing rat… and to think he proposed to me today, what a cheek.”

  “He did what?”

  “Proposed to me, well, sort of, said he was going to marry me, I guess that is a proposal of some sort… luckily I didn’t have time to answer him, I was too busy kissing the bloody son of a bitch. Christ, what a mess,” she continued stomping around the room.

  Mark opened the door and breezed in, beer in hand, taking one look at Tara’s dark face, he backed out and shut the door.

  “How can a guy get all loved up with me one minute and have Lady bloody muck the next? I should have known it when I caught them having lunch together. I’m just his bit-on-the-side, he’s another Ed. Well, this bit-on-the-side is no longer on the menu. I’m getting the first plane home in the morning.”

  “Tara, we have more at stake than your mixed-up bloody love life,” Seb raised his voice, annoyed at her selfishness. “We have a shoot to finish, in case you’ve forgotten. You’re going to sit down and plan a new schedule for tomorrow. Granted, it’s going to have to go on without you, ’cause there’s no way he’ll work with you in the mood he’s in… I think we can get away with what we have in the bag already, just film a few add-ons tomorrow, whatever; we need to sort it now, while we still have time to catch the New York office for agreement, ok?”

  She felt her wrist being slapped, she calmed, he was right, she was being unprofessional.

  “Sorry Seb; yep, of course… let’s get started, I’ll get Mark back in here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He drove the journey back to his parents’ house in half the time, he was lucky not to have killed someone or been stopped for speeding. The Jeep flew along at speed, carried by his rage.

  He’d finally found someone he could spend the rest of his life with, and she turned out to be a putana like all the rest. He’d made a fool of himself, and in front of an audience, he guessed the others had heard his marriage proposal… what a bloody idiot!

  He worked out which night the pictures were taken; it had to have been his mid week away game, the only night they’d been apart. He looked down at the large brown envelope lying innocently on the passenger seat, flashes of its contents jumped out at him.

  Glistening bodies, limbs, mouths, tongues, all locked in writhing passion, tormenting his thoughts. One visual etched its way to the front; Tara’s head thrown back, mouth open, a half smile of pleasure… had he ever made her that happy?

  He doubled up in pain, bending over the steering wheel, his heart thumped through his chest… it fucking hurts. He flattened the accelerator to the floor to escape the pain.

  Who the hell had taken the pictures? Who knew his address? He supposed the latter was not difficult to find out; he’d been in the public eye for some time; his valued privacy was slipping away.

  Whoever sent them also knew of his feelings for Tara, which was recent, they had kept their relationship quiet, or so he’d thought. Was it Maria, could she have organized this? Michael? No, he and Brommers were the only ones he could trust.

  Who else knew about him and Tara? Seb? Nah, he wouldn’t jeopardize filming. Maybe Tara had a jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe it was Ed… yeah, that’s it; he set up the camera for a little home-movie time, the bastard.

  He pulled up outside his parents’ house and sat in the car until he calmed down. He was not sure why he’d come here; he could have gone to a hotel. They would be surprised to see him again so quickly, he would have to put on an act that all was ok. With a feeling of déjà vu, he pulled out his phone and turned it on for the first time since he’d sat in the same spot the day before, cutting off Maria as she ranted.

  His message in-box was full of obscene texts from her. She’d also left voice messages, all along the same theme of killing him, then his bitch, and the various slow painful ways in which she would do it. She had an interesting imagination; he subconsciously cupped his balls to make sure they were still there. With a sigh, he erased everything.

  Maria had certainly got her wish of splitting them up, without having to do a thing; Tara had done it for her. He dialled Michael’s number. Ever alert, Michael picked it up on its first ring.

  “Hello, Boss, how’s it going? Lady Moodyknickers get to you all right?”

  “Yes, she bloody well did, Michael, what the hell do you think you’re doing, telling her where I was?”

  “I didn’t boss, she called last night asking for a lift to the airport, she said that you’d called asking her to come over and help with the shoot, it was going badly or sumfin. She already knew the address; I thought you had given it to her. I tried to call you but your phone was off… the little bitch… sorry, mate.” Michael was mortified. “Did she give you the envelope? It looked urgent.”

  If anyone else called him ‘mate’ he was going to kill them. What is it with this country? Is everyone a ‘mate’? Where he came from, it was someone you fucked on a regular basis and had babies with.

  “Yeah, she did. That was a nasty surprise as well, where did you get it from?”

  “It was with your mail. She was going out there, so I thought she could bring it to you, as I said, it looked… err… urgent. Anything you want me to do, Boss?”

  Michael had known h
ow nasty a surprise it was, he’d taken the liberty of opening it when it arrived, as he did with all suspicious looking mail, ever protective of Franco. He decided it was something Franco should urgently see, especially as he was out on the shoot with the lovely (not so much of a) Lady T. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t want Franco making a fool of himself. Forewarned is forearmed and all that shit. He’d taken the risk of letting Ms Moodyknickers deliver it, taping the envelope so securely closed, that she wouldn’t risk opening it for fear of being caught.

  “No it’s ok, thanks Michael, you were right to forward the package on. I have one more day of shooting then we return, I’ll call you with the flight details when they are confirmed. Good night, and… err… sorry if I bit your head off, see ya later.”

  “Yeah, no worries Boss, see ya,” the phone clicked off.

  Michael didn’t like the sound of Franco’s voice; he sounded weak and depressed. Lady T had obviously meant more to him than he’d realized. Those pictures were disturbing, if she wasn’t involved in taking them, it meant someone was watching her, and that someone was able to get pretty close, dangerously close, to her and Franco.

  He knew exactly when they had been taken; he’d been parked outside her flat when lover boy arrived, had seen him go in and noted that he didn’t leave before dawn, when Michael, tired, had finally gone home. He hoped that she’d seen the pictures; she needed to be warned that she was being stalked.

  He also knew that Franco was a jealous full blooded Italian, and would be unforgiving in the fidelity department, even though he was naughty, his lady wasn’t allowed to stray. This little incident would put an end to their liaisons, which was sad; Michael had liked her, approved of her for the boss.

  Anyway, he had other things to worry about right now, so much for his day off. Someone had scratched the Mercedes again, this time with the word ‘KUNT’ etched in large spidery letters across the hood. He would spend his day off organizing the respray job. This was getting expensive and tedious.

  Franco spent the night at his parents’ house; they were a little surprised to see him, but loved it all the same. There was always enough food in the pot for one more guest. They talked through the night about old times and family gossip. He then crashed out in his old room, surprisingly, he slept like a baby, he was more tired than he realized, or was it the copious amounts of wine he’d knocked back?