Strummed

by Heidi Lowe

  She leafed through her selection, and I risked a cheeky glance at her butt, unable to help looking at the way the shorts were hitched up, revealing a bit of her left cheek.

  “What will the weather be like this afternoon?”

  What did she think I was, a meteorologist or a climatologist or something? “I don't know.”

  “Well you should. How am I supposed to decide on an outfit if I don't know what the weather will be like?”

  “I'm sorry. Next time I'll check before I leave.”

  She handed me a T-shirt and some faded, pale denim jeans to hold, then some underwear. I stood there like a clothes horse while she undressed in front of me, stripping down to nothing! The whole time her eyes were fixed on me, the faintest smirk on her lips as she watched me trying to look everywhere but at her.

  “Do you know how many women and men would sell everything they owned to be in your position right now?” she said. The torture seemed to last an eternity; the temptation to look growing more intense. Even as her clothes lay at her feet, she didn't move from her spot in front of me. “Millions, if my Twitter followers are anything to go by. And yet here you are, doing all you can not to look at me.”

  Her shallowness didn't shock or bother me; I'd been expecting it. But this teasing, using her body as a weapon, that I hadn't seen coming. Was it all a power play? There didn't appear to be a suitable explanation for it.

  “Don't you know it's rude not to look at someone when they're speaking to you?”

  I gulped. The painting behind her head, on which my gaze lay, was beginning to lose its coherence. Even without seeing her smirk I could certainly hear it.

  “Look at me.”

  I did as she commanded. Now I saw the smirk.

  “What's the matter, isn't this a more appropriate place to be naked? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I never want you to get comfortable around me.”

  Well there was no chance of that happening. She was, quite literally, the meanest person I'd ever met.

  FIVE

  “I'm not going back!”

  This time, Jessica didn't bother tugging the blanket from me. She'd given up that part of the ritual weeks ago. Storming into my room and yelling for me to get my ass out of bed, however, was still a part of it.

  “Right on cue,” she said. “I can time your delivery now. At seven forty-six on the dot you say the same thing. And by seven fifty-four you come to your senses and get dressed for work.”

  For six weeks we'd been going through this routine, where I proclaimed I would never return to Autumn Anders's house, and Jess listed all of the reasons why I was full of crap. For six weeks I kept going back, despite my protestations.

  “I keep thinking: is today the day she'll say something nice to me, or not be an absolute witch? Will today be the day when she'll treat me like a human being, and not something that lives in her gutter?” I spoke from beneath the covers, where the darkness represented my mood every morning, knowing I had to go in and see that woman. “But nothing ever changes. I go in for a few hours, she treats me like garbage, I take it, do odd jobs for her while she insists she doesn't want or need my help, then she tells me to scram. That's what my life has become.”

  Jess nodded knowingly, as she always did when I started my morning gripe. She let me continue, without adding anything to the one-sided conversation. Everything I said she'd heard before, and would hear again the following day.

  “Are you done?” she asked when I had run out of things to say about Autumn.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now get out of bed.” And that was it, how my days began.

  I grumbled to myself as she left the room. Time to suck it up and put on my happy face.

  I think it was half-nine when I arrived at her mansion, letting myself in with the key that she had grudgingly given me. The house was quiet throughout; nothing stirred. She didn't rise until after eleven most mornings, unless she had an appointment somewhere, and even then she got up whenever she wanted, often missing scheduled appointments.

  I heard shuffling in the kitchen. Odd. I'd checked her schedule a couple of times before I left my place, and she wasn't booked for anything this morning.

  When I stepped into the kitchen, a half-naked brunette greeted me from behind the fridge. Jesus, did no one wear clothes around here?

  “Um, you're not Autumn...” was the only thing I could think to say.

  Her smile was big and bright. Luckily for me her long brown locks fell conveniently over her chest, covering the most offending pieces of her breasts. Like a photo shoot for Playboy.

  “I know that. Who are you?”

  “The assistant.”

  She stretched out her free hand for me to shake, as the other currently held a bottle of water. I shook it cautiously, wondering why she would bother. She had to have known that we would never see each other again, surely. She was the fifth woman I'd arrived to see in Autumn's house (though the four before her, on separate mornings, had been asleep in Autumn's bed), and with my promiscuous boss's track record I suspected she wouldn't be the last. So far none had been invited back for seconds.

  “Where's Autumn?”

  “In the shower. So, what's it like working for her? I bet you see a lot of crazy shit.” She jumped up onto the counter, and sat swinging her legs like a kid.

  “It's a job,” I said simply, giving nothing away. Like I said, I was certain she wouldn't be sticking around, so making even smalltalk with her was pointless. Deep down I thought that she might be the one to sell her story to the papers. A percentage of Autumn's lovers did. You never knew who it would be, who needed the cash or wanted to tack an extra few minutes onto their five minutes of fame. Giving her any information about my boss was a fool's errand, a mistake I would never make. I may not have been a great assistant, but at least I was a private one.

  “Are you kidding me? A job's, like, going into an office every day, sitting behind a desk, staring at a computer screen and listening to fart jokes while your male coworkers try hitting on you. Being the assistant to one of the hottest guitar players in the world is a dream come true.”

  If only she knew what a monster her temporary lover was when she wasn't sending women to heaven and back with her tongue. But the lovers never got to see that side of her; they simply weren't around long enough to. The kiss-and-tells were about the only time the public ever saw anything nice written about Autumn, besides the compliments on her guitar solos and performances. Considerate, gentle, always happy to please were all words I never would have associated with her, but had seen written often. The handful of women I'd seen her with had left with big smiles on their faces. I could only imagine what she was doing to them to elicit those reactions.

  “How does someone get a gig like this?” she went on.

  I shrugged. “I'm with an agency.”

  “Cool.”

  An airhead. A beautiful airhead. That seemed to be Autumn's type. You date what you are, some would say. Except Autumn didn't come off as being an airhead. She was mean, granted, but her intelligence always shone through. It would have been easier to dislike her if she was stupid.

  I heard movement on the stairs. Autumn appeared moments later, a towel wrapped around her body, droplets of water clinging to her flesh. In her hands she held a bunch of clothes, a pair of high heels, and a purse. First she looked at me, then at the topless woman on her counter.

  “It's been fun,” was all she said, all that needed saying. The message was loud and clear.

  The smile that once occupied her latest conquest's face had vanished. She hopped off the counter, looking too startled to respond. She looked at me as though I should have weighed in, or maybe as if to say “is she for real?” I turned away, keeping myself out of it.

  “Would you like my assistant to call you a cab?”

  “Don't bother.” The tone was, naturally, unfriendly. A couple of minutes later, having dressed at lightning spe
ed in the hallway, she slammed out of the house.

  “What?” Autumn said when she noticed me staring at her. I myself hadn't noticed I'd been staring.

  “Nothing.”

  “Just say what you have to say. Don't pretend that you're not passing judgment right now.”

  “It's none of my business.”

  “You're right, but that isn't stopping you from having an opinion.”

  I hesitated. It really wasn't my business; but she was right in that I did have an opinion. Not one I felt compelled to share with her, however. “Honestly, I'd rather not say.”

  She brewed herself a coffee from her expensive, complicated-looking machine that probably cost more than I made in a month. “Say it or you're fired.”

  The first time she'd said that to me my heart missed a beat. Since then I'd heard it almost daily. Now it wasn't so much a threat as an expression.

  “Well I don't think that was very polite.”

  “I just spent the night, and most of the morning, rocking her world. I don't need to be polite.”

  “I think she really liked you.”

  She snorted derisively. “I'm sure she did. But they know the score: now it's time for a bunch of other women to like me as well.”

  I prayed she wouldn't ask me for my opinion on that, too, because she wouldn't like the response. As soon as I saw her look up from her coffee, though, I knew my prayers had been completely ignored.

  “Don't you ever get tired of wearing that judgmental expression? Out with it, though I have no idea why I'm saying this, seeing as your opinion of me is worthless.”

  Fine. If she wanted the truth I would give it to her, no holds barred.

  “It just seems like a lonely way to live, tossing everyone away after just one night.”

  “That's the definition of a one-night-stand,” she said matter-of-factly. “If they stayed any longer than that it wouldn't be a one-night-stand...” Her disparaging tone agitated me.

  “I just don't see the point in them, that's all.”

  “Of course you don't, you're a virgin.” She laughed to herself. “And, you know, for someone who has never been laid you sure have a lot to say about sex. Maybe if you dropped the judgment you'd actually find someone to sleep with.”

  Watching me blush, I'd noticed, gave her more pleasure than anything else I'd ever seen her do. She knew that mentioning my virginity would achieve that, hence her frequent use of it.

  “I have more important things to think about than casual sex,” I said quietly.

  “Like what, making sure my clothes are washed, or that I get out of bed on time? Honey, there's nothing more important in this world than sex. The sooner you get that, the happier you'll be.”

  “It hasn't worked out so well for you.” There it was again. It was as if a button had been pushed inside me, the type that was red and had a caution beneath saying “Do not press, otherwise this idiot will say something she regrets”.

  For the longest time she only stared at me, blinking just once. I wondered if she could see the goosebumps that had spread across my arms.

  “You don't think I'm happy?”

  What the heck did I know about happiness? All I really knew was what it didn't look like; everything I'd seen from her thus far couldn't have been classed as happiness. Not even on the surface. She wasn't very good at faking it.

  “I think you want people to think you're happy.”

  She cocked her head to the side, regarded me curiously. No one else's gaze made me feel as awkward, as naked as hers, and I wasn't the one wearing just a towel!

  “That's a pretty bold assertion, don't you think? I mean, look around – I'm filthy rich, I'm talented, I'm hot, and I can get any woman I want. If that doesn't make a person happy, I don't know what will.”

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug. Who was I to argue with her? She obviously knew her own emotions.

  But to my surprise she crossed the room to me, her walk and expression one of annoyance. That towel must have been suspended against her body with superglue or something, because it made no attempt to fall.

  “Okay what?” she challenged.

  I didn't know what she expected from me. Sometimes I got the feeling she just wanted someone to argue with, and I happened to be around more often than anyone else.

  “What makes you the expert on happiness, huh? What are you, twenty-four? You haven't lived enough to know anything. Come back to me when you're my age.”

  “Okay.” I was fully aware that responding in this manner for a second time would infuriate her, but I couldn't stop myself.

  She bit her lower lip, bit back the fury, I could see it in her eyes. “All right, humor me. What gives you the impression that I'm not happy?”

  Was this another trap, or did she really want to hear the answer? Did she want to know that when I looked into her eyes, those large blue opals, I saw a dullness that had been years in the making? That every morning when I saw her, when I woke her, it was as if she was disappointed in seeing another day? That life seemed only to bore her, not excite her – that she knew it never could again?

  “The women, the money, lots of people have that, but it doesn't change anything. They're still the same people underneath. And if they're miserable, no amount of cash or sex will change that.”

  Her laugh was without humor. “Typical nonsense from the poor and the undersexed. I like my life just fine, thank you.” She poked me in the chest when she said it, though not hard, and kept her eyes on mine. “And I don't need a little girl to tell me I'm doing it all wrong.”

  “I didn't say you were doing it wrong, just that you're not as happy as you're making out.”

  “Perhaps you should focus on your own life instead of worrying about mine.” Even before she said it I knew where she was going, what she would resort to. Frustrated, there was only one weapon she could use to put me right back in my place. “If you're not careful you could get to thirty without popping that little cherry of yours. And if that happens, don't expect anyone to be turned on by it. Because a thirty-year-old virgin isn't endearing, it's just sad.”

  Sex, sex, sex. That's what it always came down to with her, as though she knew no other topic. It was as if sex defined her. Once again an overwhelming sense of pity overtook me. This persona may have been what she'd now become notorious for, but for the first half of her career she wasn't anything like this. The band had blown up by the time she hit twenty, propelling the four members to stardom seemingly overnight. Autumn Anders became a pinup, an inspiration to young girls the world over. A wild-child in name only – her on-stage persona – but a pleasure to be around, interview, meet accidentally on a night out. And then the tragedy happened. Many newspapers over the years had said that Autumn had died along with Nancy Dunn, the love of her life. Looking at her, seeing the woman in action, I was of the same belief.

  “If that happens then so be it,” I said tartly. “If no one wants to touch me because I waited for the right person, then they're not worth it.”

  She shook her head. “So naïve. It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.”

  “There's nothing pathetic about believing that the world isn't inhabited solely by shallow people who just want to get me into bed.” Now it was my turn to grow frustrated. “I want the happily ever after.” I shrugged defensively, sensing that I may have been pouting too.

  I expected her to laugh, or at least shake her head again and tell me for the millionth time that I was a foolish, idealistic child, but instead she just stared at me. It was probably all in my head, but I thought I saw a flicker of acknowledgment in her face, as though some of what I'd said resonated with her.

  Then it was gone. “Yeah, well good luck with that. It doesn't exist.” She finally stepped away, but not before I got a glimpse of her pain, shrouded but not entirely concealed by her cynicism. “What appointments do I have today?” It was back to business – a safer topic for both of us.

  I fetched my diary from my purse and flicked t
o the right date. “Nothing this morning, but your recording session at the studio starts at twelve this afternoon. Then at seven you're supposed to be having dinner with a promoter for the Aid for Aids fundraiser.”

  “I need you to book a table at The Rose Garden. They'll tell you they don't have any tables, so just drop my name. That should take care of it.”

  I made a note. The Rose Garden was perhaps the swankiest restaurant in San Francisco, and naturally the hardest place to get a table. Jess and I had tried once, for her twenty-sixth birthday, when I first moved here. They practically hung up on me when I tried to book last minute, as though I was insulting them by even attempting. But when Autumn went back upstairs, and I got on the phone to them, mentioning just as they were about to tell me to go to hell that it was for my client, Autumn Anders, the change of tone nearly knocked me for six. It always came down to who you knew, or, in Autumn's case, who you were.

  SIX

  “Does this outfit scream, For the love of God, we've been dating for two months, take me already?” Jess stepped in front of the television and gave a twirl, her black skater dress twisting around her. The chest area left nothing to the imagination, which was precisely the look she was aiming for. In contrast to her, I was already in my pajamas, a blanket around my shoulders, preparing for a Friday night of bad television and take-out. Which was how I'd spent most of my Friday nights since moving to San Francisco.

  “I think if you go out wearing that dress, Colin won't be the only one vying to take you.”

  “As long as someone does. I'm like a cat in heat right now!”

  I slapped my hands over my ears. “Too much information.”