The Calendar Game (The Alpha Series Book 2)

by Andie M. Long

  'Can we use our own gardens, or those of our parents?' asks one student.

  'No. We want you to find an independent client. Your own garden doesn't count and a parent is likely to go along with whatever you want. The course requires you follow a client's request and therefore overcome obstacles that a usual client will present. You will be doing a four thousand word dissertation before the end of July on how you managed the project and overcame any such obstacles.'

  There's a collective groan from the students who were hoping for an easy ride. They obviously don't have parents like mine. I think the first time I made my parents proud was when I got my Pride of Britain award. They seem to forget that although my use of martial arts rescued myself, Col and Stella from harm, I had actually been held hostage in the first place. I wondered what it would take to get their attention.

  It certainly hadn't happened while I was young. My mother was always busy arranging social events, and my father was always working. He got his Assistant to interview for the hired help. I had a Yorkshire Nanny for five years before they noticed I'd started saying words like bollocks and shit. My father's assistant was given a formal warning and from then on my nannies were proper ladies. I still swear like a fishwife, but with the accent of my class (pronounced cl-arse).

  My parents are proud I'm doing the course as they thought I'd never hold down a job, but they’ve had their own Gardener for years. I have absolutely no idea who I could ask. Maybe Col's got a secret mansion? I spend the next two hours daydreaming that Molly from Happy Morning is my new best friend and lets me redesign her garden.

  Wednesday 8 January 2014

  Oh my God. I am here in the studio. My make-up has been done. It's so thick, but apparently it's needed for High Definition television. They've curled my hair gloriously. I want to take the hairdresser home with me. The Floor Manager wanders over to me—a frazzled man called Art, with messy grey hair. I fan myself with my hand.

  'So, Ronnie. Are you clear about what you are going to be asked about?'

  'Yes. The circumstances surrounding my Pride of Britain Award and a general chat about martial arts.'

  'Spot on. It's a brief eight minute piece. Good luck.'

  I beam at him. 'Thank you.'

  I'm miked up and have an earpiece in case they need to prompt me. I feel like a spy. Someone touches up my lipstick. Mission LipGlossable. I smooth down the skirt of my peach chiffon shift. The fake tan I applied to my legs last night has given them a healthy glow, enhanced by my Stuart Weitzman glitter court shoes. As they go to an ad break I'm escorted to the sofa, where both Gil and Molly nod at me and say welcome. I'm disappointed they are being briefed over the script so I can't chat to them.

  Then the ad break is over and it's my turn to be interviewed.

  Gil speaks to camera. 'So it's the New Year and people are taking on new fitness regimes. The latest opinion polls have suggested that women need to protect themselves more in terms of self defence. Here at Happy Morning we are launching the Warrior Workout, a series of Martial art classes across the UK. The hope is that our female viewers will get fit, while becoming more aware of their personal safety. Our guest this morning is Ronnie Huntington-Jones, who knows all about the need for self-defence. She won a Pride of Britain Award in two thousand and twelve for her part in saving herself and friends from a kidnapper. Welcome Ronnie.'

  I try and stop my lip from trembling. 'Thanks Gil.' My heart is thudding in my chest. I feel like I could go for a run and I don't run.

  Molly speaks next. Oh my God, Molly is speaking to me. I love her hair. I love her make-up. I want her to be my new best friend.

  'So, Ronnie. Could you take us back to that time? I believe you were imprisoned in a cafe and tied up?'

  'Yeah, only that time it wasn't for fun.'

  Molly's eyes widen, 'Oh-kay. So what happened next?'

  I realise I'm bouncing my leg rapidly against the sofa and stop. 'Well, my best friend was being blackmailed. Myself and my boyfriend were tied up to chairs in the cafe.' I look directly to camera, 'That's The Riverside Cafe at New Providence Wharf.' I look back to Molly. 'Then my friend was brought in. The man holding us was intending to kill us.'

  Molly's voice drops. 'That must have been a very frightening experience. How did your knowledge of martial arts help you escape?'

  'Well I tricked the kidnapper into thinking I was going to sh-, was interested in him sexually, and then when he came near me, I performed a Ninjutsu chair hold. Then I performed a rear naked choke to render him unconscious. Unfortunately for him it wasn’t the kind of naked he'd been expecting.'

  'Wow, that's amazing. Forgive me Ronnie but you're such a petite, slim woman. Where did you learn all these moves?' asks Gil.

  'At a mixed martial arts class in Chelsea. I totally worshipped the Trainer. He was amazing. I attended all his classes until the injunction. Hopefully he's watching the show now, seeing how his classes helped me. Confirm that I was paying attention to something other than his bottom, although it really was a fine arse.'

  I notice Gil listening to his earpiece intently. He sucks his top lip before speaking.

  'That's great Ronnie. So, before we give viewers the information about where classes are being held, can I just say how nice you are looking today. Do you and Molly have the same hairdresser? Your hair's exactly the same shade.' He lifts up his glass of water from the table and takes a sip.

  I fondle a piece of my hair. 'Oh no. My hair is natural, Gil. Though my ladygarden is dark.'

  Gil splutters.

  Molly sits up straight and smiles at the camera. 'Let's see what Warrior Workout is all about and how you can join in…'

  Molly and Gil are in a fit of giggles. I don't know what's got into them, but I've seen clips of them laughing at their Italian Chef Nino on YouTube, so I know it happens often.

  'Thanks Ronnie. That was great,' says Gil and bursts into laughter again.

  Art comes running over. 'Get it together guys. The social media hub has exploded. Hashtag ladygarden is trending already. Keep her on. We'll delay the next guest until after the ad-break.'

  I'm staying on? Why is ladygarden trending? Shouldn't the warrior thing be trending?

  Molly pulls herself together. 'So, it was quite a year for you Ronnie, two thousand and twelve. You were admitted to Rehab for a time, weren't you?'

  Fucking TV Researchers. No-one’s supposed to know about that. 'Yeah.'

  Gosh, what shall I tell them?

  'We heard it was for alcoholism. Is that true?'

  I open my hands on my lap. 'I was admitted for alcoholism, but luckily I was found to just have an addictive personality. I'm pleased because I didn't want to give up peni.'

  'Peni?' Gil's chin wobbles.

  'Yeah. Cocktail. Cock-tail. Get it? Two words for penis. I call the plural of penis, peni. So if I want a cocktail I tell my friends to get me a large peni.'

  I hear Molly whisper 'This is gold,' under her breath. What is she talking about?

  'So you were discharged from Rehab and went on to survive the kidnapping. Have you had therapy since?'

  'No. I haven't had any further therapy, although my therapist was a lovely lady. I'm fine. The period in rehab did me more harm than good.'

  'Why was that?'

  I've gone right off Molly. I thought she was nice, but now I feel like I'm on Judge Judy, or one of those Political programmes I see bits of on a Sunday morning when I'm trying to catch up with Hollyoaks.

  'Because somebody tried to kill me in there.'

  There's silence. In my ear I hear 'Thanks Ronnie. We're going to move along to the next guest after the break'.

  They cut to the ad break.

  'Oh Ronnie. You are a scream. Thank goodness you didn't name the Rehab place on our show. We'd be sued. I'd get some good PR if I were you because I think the press will be mad for an exclusive,' says Gil.

  'But I don't want to talk about it.'

  'You should have thought of that before you just to
ld one point two million people through live TV,' says Art. 'Anyway, thanks. We'll be in touch. You were very popular today. I don't think it's the last we'll be seeing of you.'

  'So we have less time with the next guest now, right?' asks Molly.

  'It's only that conceited dickhead off the sports channel. We'll cut his VT out. Just ask him about his latest mag appearance, let him plug the autobiography and you’re done.' Art starts to walk away and gestures towards me. 'Follow me, Ronnie. I'll take you back to the dressing room.'

  I’m going nowhere. I'm frozen to the spot as a bloke dressed in ripped jeans and a tight khaki tee swaggers into the studio. The tee is tight across his toned pecs. His face all chiselled cheekbones and pout. He winks at Molly before his gaze stumbles on my own. He comes to a halt. The next guest—to my horror—is Harry Taylor; ex-footballer, and most likely the man who tried to kill me in rehab.

  Harry recovers his composure and takes his place on the sofa. I follow Art to the green room for refreshments. There's a screen where I can watch the rest of the show. Images from that night, limited as they are, flash through my head; my therapist Rebecca smacking me about the face, my being put in an ambulance, whispers, pitying looks. Being told I tried to kill myself, when I know I didn't, but no-one but Stella believed me. Harry, my fellow resident at the time, was vulnerable to Arnie Gregory's blackmail. He had a reason to kill me, if only to save himself. I need to know. I vow that one day. Somehow. I'll find out.

  I sit on the sofa and look at the screen as if in a trance.

  'So Harry, sorry about the delay in getting you on here this morning.'

  Harry places a hand on his thigh, drawing attention to the muscles hidden under his trousers and the bulge in his pants.

  'No worries.' He says with his Scottish drawl. 'I've met Ronnie. I know how captivating she can be.'

  'Really?' Gil's ears prick up. 'How do you know her?'

  'We were in rehab together. She's a good kid.' He looks into the camera. 'We'll have to have a reunion.'

  'Shame a romance didn't strike up in there. That would have been a good one to tell the kids,' laughs Gil.

  'Aye, it sure would have been.' Harry's smile makes his mouth twist up at the corner. 'Maybe we can work on it after the show, eh, Ronnie?' He says to the camera and winks.

  I'm shaking. Teeth gritted as I watch him charm the nation. Luckily not for long as his time is up quickly. Unfortunately, I remember where he'll be headed next.

  Here.

  'Ronnie.' His accent pronounces it Ron-eh.

  He comes rushing in and throws his arms around me. His strength means that despite trying to get the hell away from him I'm locked in a warm embrace.

  As he lets go I scoot backwards about six feet.

  'You alright? Your face is tripping.'

  I scrunch up my nose. 'What the fuck are you talking about, Harry?'

  'You look fed up. You should be happy now you're not in rehab. No kidnappers trying to kill you.'

  'What about you? Do you want to kill me?'

  Now he scrunches his face up.

  'You had a snifter or something? I don't get you, hen.'

  'Someone tried to kill me. While I was in rehab. Overdosed me on pills. You're prime suspect as Arnie's bitch.'

  Harry gets right up into my face and strokes his finger down my cheek. I see a pulse tic in his own and hold my breath.

  'Ronnie, it's never been drugs I've wanted to put inside you.'

  Christ, his voice alone could make a woman come. I look from his finger to him. My heart’s trying to hammer its way out my chest.

  'I've never laid a finger on you. More's the pity.'

  I feel disloyal to both myself and Col as the space between my legs get damp. My breath comes in short bursts.

  'We need to catch up Ronnie. I can't have you thinking the worst of me. Come to lunch. You choose the place. I'll tell you about myself and that bastard, Arnold.'

  I nod my head. I want to know what he has to say. That and I want to suck on that finger of his.

  Oh fuck.

  I choose The Botanist in Sloane Square. This is my Chelsea haunt of choice due to its name. It suits my new career path. The restaurant is bright and open plan. It reminds me of a conservatory with its wide square windows opening out like shutters, bringing the outside in. It's a cool day today though, so the windows stay closed. We walk across the wooden flooring and take a seat on cream cushioned wooden chairs, which we pull up against our small circular table. There's a bank of illuminated pictures across one wall, and I'm distracted by the sight of fish and insects staring out. I like the plant pictures, but the others are really off putting.

  'Is this alright then? You look a bit freaked out,' asks Harry.

  I take a deep breath. This is all too much for me right now. Harry is a full-on, in your face, walking sex God.

  'I'm just going to pop to the ladies. I won't be a minute.'

  I walk into the bathroom and head for the mirror. I realise I'm still wearing the glaring TV make-up. I look totally overdone. Luckily, I'm never out without my accessories. I dig into my bag and pull out cleansing wipes.

  Face clean, I move onto my Benefit Hello Flawless compact, followed by L'oreal bronzer, then eye and lip make-up courtesy of Urban Decay. I brush through my hair, getting some of the spray out. That's better; a glowing Ronnie. I wink at myself in the mirror. Come on, girl. You're more than a match for Harry Taylor. Play him at his own game.

  I bounce back to the table. I come in here loads and now I'm going to act like it. He's on my turf now. My middle name’s not Chelsea for nothing.

  'I'll have a Porn-Star martini, please,' I tell the waitress, then give her a beaming smile.

  Harry sits back in his seat, looking at me and the menu.

  'Hmmm, how come the beer menu isn't as interesting? An Amstel for me, please.'

  'Certainly Sir. Are you ready to order?'

  'Can we have a couple more minutes?' I ask her.

  'Of course. I'll just deal with your drinks order.'

  The waitress wanders away.

  'This is the first eatery in years where the waitress hasn't offered herself as part of the menu,' says Harry.

  'I don't eat in places where the staff offer their own speciality sausages or fish.'

  Harry guffaws and slaps his hand against his thigh. 'Ah, Ronnie. We really should be together. Imagine how wild a couple we'd be.'

  'You can forget that right now, Mr Taylor. I have a boyfriend.'

  He cocks an eyebrow. 'Really?'

  'Yes. Really.'

  'Hmmmm.'

  'What does hmmmm mean?'

  'I'm not gonna say.'

  God, he is such a flirt. The waitress returns.

  'I'll have the eight ounce Longhorn beef burger with the smoked Cheddar, bacon, aioli, tomato chutney and French fries,' I tell her.

  'What's aioli?' asks Harry.

  'It's a Provencal sauce, Sir, made of garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and eggs.'

  'Make that two then. Can't have her reeking of garlic on her own.'

  The waitress smiles. 'Yes Sir. Will that be all?' She regards both of us.

  'Thank you. Just some water for the table, please,' I add.

  She nods and walks away.

  'What difference does it make to you whether or not I've had garlic?'

  He moves his chair nearer mine. 'Well, I want to get to know you better. We didn't have much chance in rehab.'

  I'm one of the only people who knows that Harry was admitted for sex addiction and not the prescription painkiller addiction his PR statement indicated.

  'I don't think your therapy worked.'

  'No? I can keep it in my trousers now—if I want to.'

  I cock an eyebrow. 'Really?'

  'Yeah. Just that most of the time, I don't want to.'

  I roll my eyes.

  We sit conversing in idle chit-chat until our food is brought to the table.

  'So what have you been up to since you left rehab
?' asks Harry.

  'I've been doing a Garden Design Course.'

  Harry laughs out loud. Other patrons of the restaurant look at him.

  I bristle. 'I'm really good at it.'

  He wipes his eyes. 'Oh my, this I have to see.'

  'I'm one of the best in my class. I'm about to start my final exams. I've changed lately. Not that anyone seems to take me seriously.'

  He sucks on his top lip. 'Oh, I'm sorry Ronnie. You can't blame a guy. You were the only person in rehab to have thirty bottles of nail polish confiscated.'

  'I didn't know how long I was going to be there.'

  'So tell me more about your projects. I am interested, honest.'

  I put my cutlery down. 'I've to do a vegetable garden project and a bedding plant one. I've got to find someone who'll let me create a bedding scheme for them.'

  'What? Let you loose in their garden?'

  'That's right.'

  'You can do mine.'

  'What?'

  'I have a huge home. There's loads of space for you to do a project. What do you think?'

  I hesitate, 'Well ...'

  'Always wanted you in my bed. Just didn't think it'd be a flower one.'

  'I still need to hear about Arnie.'

  'If I tell you about Arnie, will you come and do my garden?'

  I think about it. Who else am I going to ask? 'Okay then.'

  'Great.' He smiles and beckons over the waitress. 'I'm going to need another Amstel here.' She nods.

  ‘It's not a pretty story, pet.'

  Oh dear.

  'I came seeking the bright lights of London.' I watch as all the light dims out of his face. 'I'd been signed for Arsenal. I was cocky as fuck. I got off my face one night and this girl led me back to her place. I barely remember it. I didn't know that she'd set me up and recorded my every move. From then on I was in Arnie's pocket. Blackmailed into helping when he needed some girl putting in her place.' He looks at me. 'You aren't included in that Ronnie.'

  For the first time I see a glimpse of a different, haunted side of Harry.