The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy)

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  Henri groaned, and picked over the calorific feast in front of her, ignoring the buzzing BlackBerry. ‘No, I’m not going to pick up.’

  ‘So he wanted a shag, he’s a 28-year-old guy. It’s not a fucking sin.’

  ‘He didn’t want to marry me.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit radical in this day and age, just to get a shag. Trust me, I ain’t shagging any girl who demands marriage first.’

  ‘You don’t go out with any girl who demands you call her by the correct name. You’re hardly the best yardstick to message the correct response by.’

  ‘I am your average male. Well, smarter and fatter, but you get the message.’

  Henri groaned again, louder this time. ‘He, and you, for that matter, should respect my beliefs.’

  Peter was now stuffing Henri’s portions of the egg and bacon into his mouth. ‘Why? You don’t respect his beliefs.’

  ‘And what would they be?’

  ‘The same as mine, and Mum’s and Dad’s. That life is for living, and for living, dear Henri, read: drinking, fucking and watching the game.’ Peter grinned. ‘Preferably all at the same time.’

  ‘That’s disgusting. Almost as disgusting as watching you suck down that breakfast. You know what the doctor said.’

  ‘To exercise, which is where the fucking comes in.’

  ‘Can you stop saying that word?’

  ‘It’s what life is about, sis, face it.’

  ‘At least respect my beliefs and call it ‘making love’.’

  ‘Technically, you should call it ‘procreating!’. And I’ll thank you to respect my religion.’

  ‘So hedonism is a religion, then?’

  ‘Yes, and quite frankly, it makes more sense that any other I’ve come across.’

  Peter’s personality relied on being an outrageous proponent of the obtuse – the fact that he had a first from Cambridge in Humanities came as no surprise to those who knew him.

  Giving up on the religious discussion – it was one she was never going to win, considering her brother’s fondness for winding her up – Henri poured herself a cup of tea (using the teabags she’d brought from London) and tried to concentrate on The New York Times. According to Eva Claire, there was a piece on their ‘breakthrough’ programme yesterday.

  Peter wasn’t in the mood for perusing papers. ‘So, back to poor old Rodney, he did love you, you know.’

  Henri sighed and lowered the paper. ‘He refused to discuss marriage. Then, the night we broke up he had sex with a waitress in the back of the Chicken Shack just out of Wood Green. That’s not love.’

  ‘That’s desperation. The Chicken Shack, no good talent in there! I’ve checked! Anyway, he managed years without sex. A good looking guy, dating a girl who, on the surface at least, appears to be a hornbag.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  But Peter was chuckling into his third serving of sausages. ‘Right, you are the very last person to be classified as a hornbag, Henri. Honestly, you need to lighten up.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

  Peter turned to her. ‘At least speak with him, let him explain.’

  ‘He did the deed, Peter. There is nothing, nothing, to explain, okay?’

  Holding up his arms in mock surrender, Peter said: ‘Okay, okay. I get it. Drop the subject.’

  Barely able to chew the cold toast she had in her hand, Henri dropped it and sank back in the richly-upholstered settee.

  What kind of life was this, shackled to a brother who was about as sensitive as an iron bar?

  She couldn’t wait until she had enough hours under her belt to approach a UK network for her own show. TV. Something nice, with a bit of gardening, gossip and the occasional soap star. It would be called ‘Henri’s Here’, or something similar.

  ‘Come on sis, I’ll be good. Promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Henri settled back onto the sofa and reached for the newspaper.

  ‘Just one question?’

  Here it comes.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When you turn thirty I am definitely doing a show on ‘Thirty Year Old Virgins’.’

  ‘Idiot!’ Henri threw the paper at him and stalked out to get dressed. ‘Honestly!’

  ‘And then, ‘Forty Year Old Virgins’!’ He called. ‘Although I think there might be a copyright issue there.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Henri called from the single bedroom in which she now stood.

  Observing her slim frame and untended, long hazelnut-colored hair in the mirror, Henri knew she wasn’t bad looking. There would be plenty of men about to replace Rodney.

  Because, of course, she didn’t want to remain a virgin all her life.

  She just wanted to find the right guy. A guy who shared her beliefs.

  And truth be told, whilst she fervently believed in the sanctity of sex in marriage, there was another reason she hadn’t had sex yet.

  She was completely and utterly terrified at the thought of doing it.

  And no one, not even that bastard banker Rodney, knew that.

  Wrapping an elastic around her hair and quickly dressing in non-descript, loose clothes and a grey trench, Henri decided to go out and spend some of the money they would soon be earning.

  Shopping wasn’t usually a priority, but anything was better than better cooped up her with Peter the Obnoxious; who kept reminding her of the virginity thing.

  Which, of course, she desperately wanted to forget.

  Peter told himself that it was working out. Sure, Henri wasn’t thrilled with the way the show had gone, but the network was, and surely that was the important thing?

  Glancing at the thick Rolex on his wrist, Peter saw there was plenty of time before they had to be at the studio to finalize details for the show. Given that his sister had organized the deal with MNC, he had been relieved those sour-faced execs had actually liked the off-the-cuff idea of ‘Ten Reasons’. Henri’s reaction to his interpretation, of course, was another matter.

  He was sure his sister would come around.

  She always did. In spite of all the joking, he couldn’t do it without her; needed her around to buoy his spirits when things went wrong.

  After all that stuff with Rodney, however, which she blamed him for, Peter knew he needed to tread carefully when it came to his sister.

  Shame his natural instincts to play the clown always got the better of him.

  Alone in the hotel suite (Henri was out shopping or something equally mundane), Peter felt depressed at the thought of letting his sister down.

  So he did one of things he did when he was depressed.

  He ate.

  Chewy the Greater’s name was Steven Modigliani (‘as in that painter dude’) and later that day the siblings met with him in order to lay down a few ground rules about the type of callers they wanted put through to the new programme.

  But they got waylaid when a photographer from some industry magazine appeared, begging to take a publicity shot for the cover feature they were putting together on brother and sister acts.

  ‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ Henri said, as they were posed in their headsets, Henri sitting in front of Peter to cover up his bulk.

  ‘Is that a fresh plate of donuts?’

  Peter had been disappointed that there were only two pathetic-looking sugar ones left when they had arrived.

  Of course, he’d complained.

  ‘Smile, and remind yourself you don’t need the calories.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You can talk yourself out of it.’

  ‘Is that what you do with sex?’

  Henri decided punching him in front of the photographer would be taking the brother and sister act too far.

  Chewy the Younger was called ‘X’. Henri couldn’t even be bothered asking why, because she suspected it had something to do with the fact that he appeared not to be able to read and write. X was the chairman’s son and as such, was unsackable.

  ‘So,’ said the producer, ‘We agree that a repe
at of the headjob issue of yesterday is not desirable.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Henri snapped.

  Peter smirked into the notepad on his desk. ‘She’s sensitive about the subject,’ he said to the two Chewys.

  ‘Sod off, Peter. It just gets boring, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re really hot looking, how come you’re so uptight?’ This from X, who, Henri noticed, had been checking out her arse since they had walked in over 30 minutes earlier.

  ‘The two are not related,’ Henri snapped. X, having no idea what that meant, went back to kicking the chair leg with a lack of consideration the Primes were not used to.

  ‘Shall we actually discuss the programme? After all, our new slot is 5:00 p.m., is that right?’

  ‘That’s a problem in itself. Don’t people want news and traffic at that time of the day?’ Henri asked.

  The three men (well, two men and X) looked at her with incredulity.

  ‘No, honey, they want sex.’

  ‘I doubt that the women want sex.’

  ‘Bullshit, sis. Pardon my French.’ Peter stood up and went to peruse the donut tray. ‘Everyone wants sex.’

  ‘It’s not appropriate, and besides, there might be other reasons people want to call in. I don’t think we should alienate certain callers just because they have issues that don’t emanate below the navel.’

  ‘Yes, we should!’ X said, clicking his fingers for Peter to throw him a donut.

  Oh. Oh. Henri stopped short. Peter didn’t handle being bossed around by minions well. ‘Let’s discuss the type of call we should look for today and . . .’

  But her attempts at placation failed and Peter picked up the plate of donuts and dumped them over X’s head.

  ‘There! Have one!’ He grabbed X by his grungy Smiths T-shirt and brought his face close up to the kid’s. ‘I’m the star, got it? You might be the boss’s son, but I couldn’t give a shit about that. So the next time you want something, first you ask me if I need anything, then you get your fucking donut yourself, got it?’ The last words were said through clenched teeth and producer Steven was gobsmacked at the turn of events. Henri, however, was used to it. Peter’s ill temper was the family’s nasty little secret – and it had certainly been a factor at their London station when it came to renewing their contract.’

  ‘Whoa, calm down, Pete,’ Steven said, although from the tone of his voice Henri suspected the producer thought X had it coming. ‘Let’s not waste good food, okay?’

  As usual, Peter’s mood swung back almost immediately and a second later he was his jovial self once again.

  X, on the other hand, was covered in sticky cream and sugar, and appeared to be weeping.

  ‘Why don’t you go get cleaned up,’ Henri suggested kindly, and the boy nodded and rushed from the room, followed by Steven, who mumbled something about call sheets and the midday show.

  ‘Nice one,’ Henri told her brother, disapproval etched on her pretty features.

  ‘That kid deserved it.’

  ‘Look, we need this job, and we don’t want a repeat of the employment tribunal thing, do we?’

  Henri was referring to an incident where Peter made a crude comment to a female cook in the canteen and they all ended up in court, agreeing the pay damages for discrimination and unfair dismissal. Well, theoretically it was constructive dismissal as the poor girl refused to set foot in the building again, in fear of Peter’s so called ‘lecherous behavior’.

  ‘We are the stars. That jumped up kid needs to remember that. I am sure his dad would agree.’

  Henri didn’t doubt it, but she didn’t want to test the theory.

  ‘Look, let’s just try to stay calm and do the job they are paying us a huge amount of money for. Come on Pete, I’m the one who should be stressed, what with Rodney refusing to marry me and the Curry Shack girl and all of that.’

  But her brother didn’t answer.

  Having finished his donut, Peter was surveyed those that had fallen to the floor.

  ‘Forget it,’ Henri snapped. ‘You need to get a grip on this eating stuff, too. Especially over here in America. The portions are so large.’

  ‘God, will you give it a rest, Henrietta. You are starting to sound an awful lot like mother.’

  Peter’s weight had been an issue in their family since they were kids. His jovial personality and hefty wallet meant that he was never without female company, but Henri and her parents were worried that a man approaching thirty; a single man at that, shouldn’t be bordering on morbidly obese.

  The problem was compounded by his love of booze, and Henri prayed that he didn’t get bigger now that they were over in New York.

  The possibility of either of them providing the coveted grandchild to their parents seemed to be growing more remote by the day.

  Suddenly, Eva Claire burst in through the swinging door of the outer studio and stood at the soundproof glass, a rancid expression on her face.

  ‘Look out, she seems to have contracted rabies,’ Peter said, putting his fingers in his eyes and poking his tongue at her.

  ‘I don’t think that was a good idea.’ From behind Eva, Henri could see Carson Abramson and some man they hadn’t met filing into the room. ‘I think we’ve got trouble.’

  ‘Can you both come out here?’ Eva virtually shrieked through her mic on the production side of the glass.

  ‘Let me handle this,’ Peter said as they walked towards the door.

  ‘Forget it, big boy. You’ve bloody done enough. I’ll sort this.’

  Carson Abramson didn’t even wait until they’d made it out of the studio before he started yelling. ‘What the fuck do you think you are doing? Here one day and you’re already assaulting staff.’

  ‘He’s not staff, he’s a lazy sod who is completely useless. We, on the other hand, are making you money.’

  Henri’s blood boiled. So much for letter her handle it.

  ‘Mr Prime, that boy is the chairman’s–’

  ‘I know who the hell he is. Why he was in our studio, bothering me, is what I would like to know.’

  Peter stared the three execs down. The final one, nameless and grim in a black suit and red tie, suddenly turned and walked out.

  ‘That was the chairman,’ Eva Claire said. For the first time, Henri actually got a good look at her. In spite of the tight blonde bun and loose-fitting peasant-style shirt, worn over a rather unflattering calf-length skirt, Ms Claire was quite pretty, in a geeky, hippy kind of way.

  ‘Oooh, I’m scared.’

  ‘Christ, Pete,’ Henri whispered.

  ‘Look, Mr Prime, you might think you’re hot stuff, but the chairman couldn’t give a shit whether you’re here or not. We can get lots of people, big names, to take this slot, and probably for half your fee, like that! (She clicked her fingers. Or tried to. The sound that came from the action was a little like a dull thud. Peter just laughed at her.) So, may I suggest for the rest of your time at MNC, which could be very limited indeed, that you conduct yourself in the manner befitting someone who could be jobless and homeless in an instant.’

  That told him, Henri thought, hoping, praying, that Peter would have the good sense to shut his mouth and not respond.

  Which, he did.

  ‘Look, Ms Claire–’

  ‘Eva, please,’ she inserted.

  ‘Eva, we are really sorry about what happened. It won’t happen again, I promise you.’

  ‘Don’t I need to promise, too?’ Peter had his arms folded in juvenile defiance.

  ‘Peter!’ they both said, at once. To which he began laughing yet again.

  ‘You know, you too probably have a lot in common.’ He winked suggestively at Henri. ‘Perhaps you should do lunch or something.’

  And with that he walked back into the studio, humming annoyingly.

  ‘Does he think I am a homosexual?’ Eva asked Henri.

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Shit, her stupid brother always dropped her in it. She couldn’t very well reveal that Pe
ter thought the radio exec was some sort of virgin. Like her. Not the least because you can’t do a show on relationships and have never done the deed.

  Especially not a show like theirs was turning out to be.

  Which reminded her. ‘Listen, about that caller yesterday, we’re not entirely comfortable with that level of, er, um–’

  ‘Sexual content?’ Eva suggested.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Shame, because that’s what saved your brother from the axe just now. The chairman is a rather large perve.’ She grimaced. I should know.’

  Ugh. Henri didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to know any of this, actually. And now, without any male presence, it was her chance to discuss dulling down the x-rated content with Eva.

  ‘Perhaps today we could take some normal calls? From people with genuine problems.’

  ‘To be fair, Henrietta, I think that girl yesterday had a genuine problem. I mean, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?’

  Henri certainly hadn’t! The only time she had seen a man naked was at school, during those revolting Sex Ed classes. And that wasn’t a man, it was a rather poor illustration of what she suspected was an ape from Mrs Morecomb’s Art class, modified for a different use. If men were that hairy, Henri was going to join a nunnery and tell her long-suffering mother that if she wanted grandchildren, she might have to adopt them.