The Wrong Girl

by Foster, Zoe

  Jack was on set way too early for his segment – the talent generally rocked up five minutes before go time – but Lily was impressed that he wanted to be around and soak it all in. Not that there was much for him to do until the cameras were on him – the rehearsal recipe was a breeze. He’d chosen it himself: grilled salmon with a fennel and mandarin salad, and as with every show, Dale had chopped, prepped and laid out all the ingredients and utensils.

  Jack, Lily, Dale and Eliza had at least done a brief run-through earlier, sorting out timings, and ingredient placement, where Jack would stand in relation to Rob, which camera he would be addressing, and making sure Jack remembered to ‘talk to the camera, not the food’, but Lily could feel Jack’s nerves vibrating through the floor; he was clearly terrified. She’d written his script directly from his recipe, and made it as simple as possible so that he understood that all he had to do was cook the meal, and explain how he was doing it in a friendly way to Rob, and his new best friend, the camera.

  Suddenly, Jack looked up.

  ‘Hey, the salmon will take a little while to cook, and I reckon I might run out of things to say. What was I supposed to do if that happens?’ Not even the fact that he was whispering could mask his nerves.

  ‘That’s when you switch to the salad.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right.’

  He went back to his script and made a note.

  Lily smiled at him, feeling oddly fond of this new, vulnerable version of Jack. Much nicer than the abrupt kettle-stealing one. Feeling generous, she went on.

  ‘If you ever feel like you’re running out of things to say, just talk us through an ingredient. Tell us its history, what else it’s great in, any surprising facts about it. Anything. Works every time.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He didn’t even look up. Lily tried not to feel embarrassed.

  The voice of Terry ‘Grimmo’ Grimstead, the floor manager, boomed through the set. ‘One twenty seconds until food. Kitchen set?’

  ‘Kitchen is set,’ Lily hollered, quickly tidying the bowls and wooden spoons before leaving the set to watch offside with Dale. Normally she’d ask if Jack was okay, if he needed anything, but his vibe was one of leave-me-alone, so she did.

  One of the sound guys ran over and quickly attached a mic to Jack – way too late in the piece, in Lily’s opinion – and Rob sauntered over to the set, ready for action. Jack and Rob seemed to get along well, which was good, and Lily hoped some of Rob’s confidence and playfulness would rub off on her nervy new chef. She wanted Jack to do well, she realised. She needed him to.

  ‘Ten seconds!’ Grimmo began to bark the countdown.

  And it was on. Rob was his usual fun self, and was genuinely trying to make Jack feel as comfortable as possible under those harsh lights. Jack stuttered and messed up his words when he was introducing the dish, and constantly blocked the overhead cameras from showing the food, but after a couple of minutes he loosened up and the segment and chitchat started to flow more easily. Jack was definitely behind in his timings, but that was why rehearsal was so crucial. They would finetune it later. He also forgot to turn the fish, Lily noticed, and watching him slice up his mandarin while he talked down to the chopping board, it was obvious he wasn’t TV-trained. She tried not to panic about her amateur new charge, and rather, see it in a positive light. After all . . . there was something refreshing and adorable about that innocence, right? He wasn’t over-explaining everything and coaching the viewer to the point of being patronising, which so many chefs did. You really did feel like this nice, handsome, nervous stranger was just teaching you how to cook some salmon.

  Sensing Jack’s errors would not be going unnoticed, Lily looked over at Eliza, who was chewing her thumbnail as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She had forgotten how much was riding on this for Eliza – Jack was her choice, after all. Lily threw her a faint smile and Eliza did her best impression of one back.

  Grimmo was signalling five seconds to go, and Jack, running behind, had frantically grabbed his vinaigrette to pour on the salad, only he knocked over the small jug in his haste, and dressing spilled over the white bench and onto the floor. He looked up at the camera like a deer in the headlights, while Rob – rather unfairly, Lily thought – laughed uproariously.

  ‘240 until news,’ Grimmo yelled.

  Rob patted Jack on the shoulder and told him not to worry, a shitty rehearsal ensured a perfect live show, then vanished out the fire exit for a cigarette. Jack, clearly rattled by his accident, and the pace and energy of live TV in general, wiped the sweat off his furrowed brow and set to work cleaning up his mess. Lily couldn’t help but feel bad for him. And herself: they had a lot of work to do before Monday.

  7

  Lily took a look at Simone’s outfit and physically clamped her teeth onto her tongue to stop herself from saying anything. Her flatmate was wearing denim shorts that were masquerading as underpants and while they were attempting to cover her bum, they seemed more interested in sneaking up towards her rib cage. She’d teamed them with a white cropped singlet that exposed the top of her toned belly, and heavy black boots. The shorts were forgivable at, say, a music festival or in the year 1983, the top was better suited to a gym class, and the shoes were far too heavy for the look.

  But this was Simone, and Simone was not one to be told. Plus, to be fair, with her body and hair, no one was really looking at the boots.

  ‘Where you off to?’ Lily asked lazily from her position on the sofa, where she was reading a book written for thirteen year olds, but which Team Adult had greedily snatched for themselves and quickly made into a bestseller.

  ‘The Royal for a drink with Grace and Skye. They have DJs tonight, it’ll be fun, plus the weather is so yummy, the beer garden will be pumping . . . You should come!’

  Lily’s eyes sailed back down to her book. She’d worked so late last night, and all week, she was buggered. She didn’t have the energy to go out.

  ‘Nah, you go ahead.’

  ‘Okay, Lil? You need to stop being such a nanna. You’re young and cute and it’s summer and we can help each other swat away all the boys who fall in love with us, because we’re not interested in them anyway.’

  Lily peered up at Simone, who, in the interest of understatement, was adding huge silver hoop earrings to her outfit.

  ‘You saying you need my guard because you’re a chance to falter?’

  Simone turned around quickly.

  ‘Ha. As if. I’m smashing this, babe. Have had, like, three guys try their best on me this week; even that Dylan guy from the races last year who I actually could genuinely like – did I tell you he imports those amazing spongy yoga mats I love? I had no problem whatsoever knocking them back.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. They’re banging down the door but I just heroically shoo them off.’ Lily went back to her book, shaking her head.

  ‘Hun, you can read your books on a Saturday night when you’re seventy. But now? At this age? You should go out. Plus, it’s what this thing is all about – enhanced womanhood, baby! Feeling the feminine power! A girls’ night out is perfect for that. So, go get dressed. Come on.’

  Lily couldn’t say why she really didn’t want to go, which was that Sim and her friends would be off their faces in a few hours, and not that fun at all. Plus, going out with models required a certain level of sartorial confidence that Lily simply didn’t possess. She looked down at her old black shorts and singlet for proof, and then back up at her friend, standing there with her hands on her hips, all earnest and righteous, and sighed.

  ‘Wear something of mine if you like, because you’re not wearing that,’ Simone said.

  Lily closed her eyes and her book. ‘Okay, okay, just for one drink.’

  ‘Yippee!’ Simone clapped, jumping up and down so that Lily was treated to the sight of her lacy bra. ‘There’s a gorge white dress on the back of my door that would look so hot on you. Go try it on while I pour us a cheeky rosé.’

  The Royal was filthy with summer-loving fle
sh-barers. All the beautiful people seemed to have agreed to come out for a drink at once, and finding a chair, let alone a genetically imperfect specimen, was impossible. Lily was used to feeling invisible next to Simone, but add her model mates Grace and Skye, and she may as well have been one of the empty glass collectors. As she waited at the bar for a drink, she looked down at the tiny white dress she’d borrowed and felt pleasantly relieved she’d at least done that much. Her hair was needing a wash and therefore suitably scruffy and just-woken-uppy for this cool-kids crowd, and the simple smudge of eyeliner on the outer corners of her almond eyes did a decent enough job of giving the impression she’d made some effort. Couldn’t go as far as heels, though, and seeing everyone else in sandals and thongs, Lily was pleased with her decision.

  Simone was on a mission: after two glasses of wine at home, she was now sharing jugs of margaritas with the girls, and her volume was increasing in direct proportion to her sipping pace. Lily knew how this night would end; when Simone went out, she went all out. She quite often didn’t return til the next evening, having enjoyed a bender with the girls, or a new beau, or whoever was in town and up for some fun and a five-star hotel room. But Lily tried not to judge; Simone was twenty-six and successful and gorgeous and enjoying her life. Good for her. Plus, she evened it all out by being a virtuous chia-seed crunching, meditating monk through the week.

  Lily was not averse to going out every now and then, but was more likely to get sloppy on a good red with her mother at a restaurant, or to hit a dingy pub with Alice and drink beer and play pool all night. She was an extremely messy drunk, and it served her well to remember it, and more crucially, contain it. Simone, on the other hand, could return home after twelve hours of partying – ready for a Xanax and a cup of tea – and still look sensational.

  ‘Lily!’

  Lily closed her eyes, knowing that when she opened them, Pete would be beside her. She thought she’d feel a rush of anxiety, seeing him for the first time since their falling-out, but she felt a strange sense of calm. She opened her eyes and, sure enough, he’d pushed his way through the loud mesh of people and was standing to her right.

  ‘Thought it was you! But then I thought, Lily don’t wear dresses . . . Anyway, what’s up?’

  He’d started his sentence babbling excitedly, but by the last word he’d slipped into a serious, soft voice that was barely audible amid the boozy ruckus, and, quite frankly, it was stomach-churning to Lily. Seeing him in the flesh, eyes glazed, hair a mess, breath thick with alcohol, it was absolutely clear she’d made the right decision to cut him.

  ‘I’m great, Pete. Really good. You?’

  ‘Oh, lah-di-dah! I’m well, thank you, Mrs Over Polite,’ he said in a mock-fancy voice. ‘How ever do you do?’ He laughed and took a sip of his beer, his pinky poking out in an aristocratic fashion.

  Lily said nothing, and looked over his shoulder as a signal she was ready to move on.

  ‘Saw Sim in the beer garden, thass’why I went looking for you. Geez, she’s got her pissypants on tonight, hasn’ she? Good thing, I s’pose, since she forgot to wear actual pants.’

  Ordinarily Lily would’ve joined in for a gentle teasing, but tonight she prickled, and felt defensive. SHE was allowed to pay out on Sim, but who was he to? He wished he could get a girl like Simone, or a glance or even a look of disgust from a girl like Simone.

  ‘Yeah, well, we’re celebrating.’ Lily said, not entirely sure why. She didn’t need to justify anything to Pete.

  ‘Oh yeah? She marrying one of those rich fuckwits?’

  He said it jokingly, conspiratorially, but everything that fell from Pete’s mouth was intensely irritating to Lily. Perhaps her PMS had arrived early, but she felt unusually compelled to punch him. Or maybe she had finally come to terms with the fact he was a jerk, after having experienced the extent of his jerkiness firsthand, and now all she could see when she looked at him was the word ‘jerk’ floating above his head, like an unfortunate halo. She squinted at him in disgust.

  ‘That’s nine-fifty, please.’ The busy and distracted bartender slapped her glass of white wine on the bar and held out his hand to snatch Lily’s ten-dollar note.

  ‘That’s fine, thanks,’ she said to him, picking up her drink and turning around, nudging her way carefully through the dense wall of people in line for a drink.

  ‘Heyheyhey, what’s the Geoffrey Rush?’ Pete exclaimed as he scrambled to keep up with Lily.

  She faced him as soon as there was some space and a bit more quiet.

  ‘Pete, I don’t really want to talk to you, okay?’ The frustration Lily had successfully concealed on her face was screaming through at 100 decibels in her tone.

  ‘You’re still pissed at me? Jesus! Lil, so we slept together, big deal, I would never have gone there if I’d known you were gonna be such a sook about it.’

  ‘Oh, go fuck yourself!’ she hissed bitterly.

  Pete visibly recoiled, then, only seconds later, true to Pete form, his face rearranged into an indignant mask.

  ‘Okay, you know what, Lil? I’ve apologised and apologised but honestly you are overreacting. Chill out for once in your simple little life.’

  ‘Okay, YOU know what? Don’t ever talk to me again,’ Lily said, eyes blazing.

  Pete looked at Lily, shocked and wounded. No one ever spoke to him like this – he was the world’s best conversational cowboy; there was nothing he couldn’t charm his way out of.

  With one final look at her ‘friend’, Lily turned and walked away.

  She could feel adrenalin whooshing through her body; her hands were shaking. She wasn’t quite sure where that had come from, but it felt right. Now she had closure on Pete. And, if she allowed herself some flattery, she’d given him a serve that was long overdue, and maybe, just maybe it would inspire some kind of change in him. But more likely he would fuck himself up on drugs, drink too much and wear his misery and fury proudly, like a ratty old biker jacket. Lily inhaled deeply, and whistled her breath out through her lips. She took a long sip of her wine and began patiently navigating the pushy maze to Sim and the girls.

  A bottle of Moët had somehow manifested in front of the three girls when Lily arrived back at their spot, as had four flutes – three being put to good use.

  ‘On the house! Don’t you love it?’ Sim said, as she messily, rapidly poured a glass of champagne for Lily.

  ‘What she means,’ said Grace, a tall, lithe brunette who had the deepest, richest, most breathtaking olive skin, and the lightest green-blue eyes Lily had ever seen, ‘is that Ed, the guy who runs the joint, is totally smits with Skye, and he’ll be sending over bubbly all night so she’ll finally blow him.’

  Lily nodded, shooting a knowing smile to Skye, who was grinning with a ‘What can you do?’ expression on her gorgeous little pixie face.

  As the four girls laughed, and Grace smoked, and Skye and Simone bopped to the house music that dominated the venue, Lily could imagine how it might feel hanging backstage at a Victoria’s Secret show, only with a pub full of men’s lascivious glances and outright stares added to the mix. She’d be a reporter, or dressing-gown hanger-uperer, obviously.

  She could hold her own with these girls, Lily thought, puffing up her chest ever so slightly and painting a huge smile on her face. She might not be a model, but she looked okay in her little dress. And anyway, she wasn’t looking for male attention, she reminded herself. She was just here to have fun and, as Simone said, be young and cute and single.

  8

  When Lily woke up the next morning, head heavier than her entire body and mouth feeling as though it was filled with a handful of dust, Simone was nowhere to be seen, heard or smelled. Lily recalled leaving the girls on the dance floor, a wild, sweaty, mess of people, with stabby pointed fingers and warnings of doom if Simone acted on any of the several million advances she’d had from men during the night.

  ‘I’m FINE, Lil! Don’worry, I know! Not evena kiss or a phone numba or even a tex’mess
age!’

  ‘I’ll kiss you, babe!’ Grace had yelled, before giving Simone a big open-mouth kiss. Sim returned it theatrically, of course, because that’s what margaritas, cocaine and champagne mixed with a penchant for exhibitionism leads to. Two models enjoying a bit of showy girl-on-girl action was immediately noticed by the ring of men (pretending not to deliberately position themselves) around the girls, and a chorus of cheers and whistles and no doubt boners exploded. This only encouraged them to keep going.

  As Lily had made to leave, the girls finally broke apart and laughed hysterically, dancing. Grace was approached by a dishy young guy in some serious denim-on-denim, whom she kissed on the lips as a hello before going in for some R’n’B-style grinding with him. Lily knew where their night was headed, and that Grace’s boyfriend was about to have his idea of monogamy challenged yet again.

  Lily had waved to Skye, who was rolling her eyes, and as she walked out of the pulsing hotel into the warm summer air, she felt the first twinge of missing men. It would be nice to have a little dance-floor pash, she thought to herself as she looked for a cab. Or to be going home with some gorgeous guy for some fooling around. She sighed heavily and jogged towards a cab with its light on. She could do this, she confirmed to herself. She was just drunk and toey. The man-detox was the Right Thing to be doing.

  In the harsh morning light, Lily was feeling far less invincible. She looked at her phone through glazed eyes. There were three missed calls from Mimi. Why? Lily thought. It’s Sunday morning. That’s not when your mum calls. Not once and not three times.

  Collapsing on the couch with the movie channel on and a fizzing Berocca in hand, Lily checked Facebook on her phone. She wondered if Pete had written anything to her or on his wall after their spat last night – it was very like him to post a dramatic, cryptic status update, the kind favoured by hormonal teenage girls, when he was angry at the world. But she couldn’t get into his page. She refreshed and tried again. And then it dawned on her: he’d unfriended her. She dropped her phone on her lap and shook her head. He was a complete child, Lily thought. It had all happened for a reason, she realised, sipping the revolting, cloudy orange soup in her hand. She was meant to sleep with him and be let down by him so she could move on, and stop thinking about him as though they might have a possible future. A blessing can come in many different forms, Simone constantly said.