“No one’s calling me Man—”
Janie shoves her phone under my face. Lit up in full colour is an image from the video. It’s dark and blurry, but it’s there, with the header Janie just described in bold black font over the top.
Wow. I’ve officially made it. I’m a meme.
Suddenly, the plane jerks forward and we speed down the runway. I brace against my seat, my fingers tight over the armrest. My heart pounds like I’ve just taken a hit, only it’s fear driving me now, not adrenaline. Fuck I hate flying. Fuck I hate flying. Fuck I hate—
“It’s okay.” Janie’s gentle fingers squeeze my arm.
I shake her off and close my eyes tight, my head down so no one else will see.
And then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. The plane plateaus, the tension that has my shoulders around my ears stops, and we’re flying.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and turn my situation back to the problem at hand. “Okay. So maybe some people are calling me Manwhore Masters. What am I supposed to do about it?”
“We just need to manage the situation from here on in, and you being squeaky clean while hard at work with the gorgeous Mikaela is going to help that. We’ll get some media shots of you doing things that’ll play a nice contrast to your sluttiness—you know, maybe we can get you slabbing mud bricks at a local orphanage. Hugging a monkey.”
“Those things have rabies.” I shudder.
“You will kiss the monkey if I damn well say kiss it.” Janie narrows her eyes, and a flash of anger darkens her irises. It’s the gaze she’s given me since we were kids, from that first time I stole her Barbie doll and wouldn’t give it back. It means she’s about to kick my ass unless I listen to her, and so consequently, I do.
“I will kiss the monkey, smile for the cameras—”
“And keep your dick in your pants for the rest of the two-week shoot.”
I sigh. “It’s not like I—”
“Tate …”
“And keep my dick in my pants for the rest of the two-week shoot.”
“Good.” Janie pulls her silken sleep mask down over her eyes. “Now quit talking. I need my beauty sleep.”
Taking my phone, I stretch my arms above my head. I need the money and fame this movie will bring so Janie can have her kid in comfort. So that we can raise this kid right, without the dickhead father of the baby, instead of risking it getting thrown into the same corrupt system we were.
I’m doing this for Janie. For Janie and her child.
Alone.
Chapter Eight
Madison
Convincing Yoko to let me go on the yoga sabbatical takes next to no work. She’s thrilled I’m going on a retreat. She’s probably worried I’ll make another mess if I stuck around.
“Courtney worked far ahead of time.” Yoko nods to the colour-coded files piled on my desk. “She was preparing for this trip. It makes sense that you go.”
“Thank you, Yoko.” I smile, and the skin around my eyes stings with the movement. Too little sleep—too many tears. Or maybe too much booze at lunch.
“I heard about what happened with your partner. I’m very sorry. This trip really will be for the best.”
I pull back. “You heard?” How has word spread so quickly? Sure, media is a relatively small industry, but—
“Tina the intern heard you cancelling your wedding while I was out.”
I glare at the girl wearing some kind of hessian bag, and she smiles sweetly back. Bitch probably bathes in placenta cream every night.
“And then while I was out … I saw this.” Yoko places The Daily, our state-wide newspaper, in front of me.
I frown. “What about this?”
Yoko flicks the pages to the gossip column, and points to a small piece of text under the industry gossip column.
Which fashion wannabe, tipped to become the new deputy editor of Lola, has instead taken a career dive? If only her relationship with her fiancé wasn’t going down, too—on another woman.
I feel sick. Oh, no.
Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
“You’re doing very well keeping it together, Madison.” Yoko places a small, wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “I think this retreat will really help you, though. And keep some of the media spotlight off of us. We don’t want this kind of attention being brought on Live Well. You understand.”
Wow. Somehow I have managed to already bring disgrace to my new position.
My mobile rings, and I leap at the chance to remove myself from this awkward conversation without so much as glancing at the name on the screen.
“Hello, Maddison speaking.”
“When were you going to call?”
I slap my hand against my forehead and slump into my chair. “As soon as I got home, Mother.”
“Is it true?” Her voice is shrill, and torture against my pounding head.
“Sure is.”
“Oh! God! Henry!” She sounds as if she’s swallowed a baby lamb, and it’s bleating from her mouth.
Seconds later, the phone clicks and the background noise echoes. Speaker phone. Fan-bloody-tastic.
“You know how much we loved Mike. Why did he leave you?” Mum asks.
I glance around the office. Tina looks a little too interested in the conversation, so I lower my voice. “He found someone else.”
“Why?” Dad blares.
“Was it the …” Mum pauses, and sucks in a breath. “Was it the sex?”
“Mum!” My hand flies to my mouth.
“Having an open sexual relationship is very important these days,” Mum continues. “I read about it in Lola.”
“You need to be physically invested to make a relationship work.” Dad’s voice is gruff, and if I wasn’t too busy wishing for the floor to cave in and me to fall the five flights to a certain death, I’d be laughing.
“Our”—quick glance to Tina, who is now on the phone—“our sex life was fine. He just … he needed a break. Time. He found someone else. And so I left him.” I swallow down my sobs over that subtle lie, hating that it hurts. Anger. I need to let my anger be stronger than my hurt. I can’t bleed tears on that arsehole, and certainly not in my new place of work, where I’ve already reached the lowest of lows.
“Oh, our dear girl …” Mum says. The phone line trails off into silence, and as I battle my own tears, I hear a sob from the other end of the line.
“I’ll be okay, Mum,” I say. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” Her voice is upbeat. “It’s your bloody father.”
“I really like Mike,” he says, his voice breaking, and I rest my head in my hands. The thought of my tough Aussie father cracking over my relationship meltdown is hard to handle.
“Dad, it’s going to be all right,” I say.
“Is it?” His voice is hoarse.
“It’s okay, love. I’m sure we’ll still see him at Christmas.” Mum soothes.
Wait, what?
“At Christmas?” My voice is so shrill Tina looks up from her phone call.
“Yes, dear. Surely your little tiff won’t mean that he won’t come ’round at Christmas.”
Silence.
My heart pumps at a zillion miles an hour. My head throbs, and suddenly the idea of deep breathing and yoga doesn’t seem such a far cry from what I desperately need. I lower my voice. “Mike will not be coming to Christmas dinner. We. Are. Broken. Up. And. He. Cheated. On. Me.”
Mum clicks her tongue. “But he’s come every year since you two were in high school together, love. It won’t be Christmas without Mike there.”
“God help me,” I mutter. “Mum, Dad, I gotta go. I’m working on a new magazine now, and there’s lots to do.”
“Does it have any good articles on fixing broken relationships?” Mum asks pointedly.
“No. It’s a health and lifestyle magazine. You know—yoga, organic eating …” Placenta cream.
“Yoga?” Dad asks. I can picture him cocking his head to the
side, stroking the stubbled grey whiskers that line his chin. “Do they have any karma sutra-style articles in there?”
“I’m hanging up the phone now. Love you both.” I disconnect the call before either of them can say anything else.
Strangely, despite my pain, I have a small smile on my face.
***
If the government want to move further into the interrogation department, I’d highly recommend they command all suspects to pack their lives into boxes. Separating what’s mine from yours from ours is like pulling apart the veins from a person and then re-plaiting them into something new. Something different.
Cardboard boxes that used to house fashion magazines are now stocked with my clothes, cosmetics, shoes—well, the ones that don’t already have their own boxes, of course. Which is really only two pairs.
With each new item I pluck from the wardrobe, each new jar I pull from the bathroom, I pretend it belongs to someone else. I pretend that this isn’t really mine, and that I’m not slowly dismantling everything I know. I didn’t realise how much even these little things would hurt, deepening the wound in my chest. A knife twists. I’ve got a Mike-shaped hole in my heart.
No. I am stronger than this. I won’t let him tear me apart.
“Do you remember when we bought this?” Mike strolls into the room, twirling a sun hat on one finger, and tears me apart. I stiffen. He’d said he wouldn’t be home until after seven. “We were on holiday in Thailand. And that little old lady invited us in for lunch?”
“I’ve never had a stir-fry like it since.” I meet Mike’s eyes. Hurt slams into me like a child falling from a skateboard—hard, fast and with no brakes. My hand shakes as I place the belt I’d been rolling into a box. “You … you have to leave.”
He shakes his head. “Mads, I—”
“Just give me this,” I say. “I need this time. By myself. Alone.”
Mike holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay.” He steps backward. “Are you okay? You don’t look great.”
I blink tired eyes up at him. While staying at my parents’ house, I haven’t slept more than four hours in a row—not since he cheated on me several days ago. Every time I close my eyes, my usual relaxation technique—imagining the wedding and our honeymoon together—hasn’t worked. When I do sleep, images of Mike and his blonde lover dance before my eyes. In my head, she’s a sexual gymnast who likes watching sport and eating burgers. She never goes to work—she sits around at home and cooks. Naked.
Bitch.
“Have you been sleeping okay?” Mike steps closer, concern etched lines on his forehead.
“Just leave.” My voice shakes a little, and I hate it for doing so. Inside, I rant. Get out, you bastard. I never want to see you again.
“I’ll see you tonight at the end-of-year Isogawa party though, right?”
“I’ll be there.” I’m not going.
One strong hand wraps around the doorframe. Fingers that have circled my back, teased between the sheets and wiped away tears.
Fingers that were wrapped in some blonde’s hair.
“You know we are going to have to co-exist, Mads. It’s a small industry. You can’t hide from me forever.”
And with those prophetic words, he leaves, the front door softly snicking closed on his way out.
I’m a kettle on the boil. I go from hurt to angry in the space of a few moments, pressure bubbling through my blood. I pick up a shoe box and throw it. It slams against the wall with a solid thud then falls to the floor. One lone red shoe tumbles out of the box, falling across the carpet and leaving its soul mate behind.
I’m just like that shoe.
Oh my God. I’m comparing myself to a stiletto.
I’m pathetic.
“Is everything okay in there?” Mike’s voice comes from the front door.
Shit.
“Fine.”
“Okay. I’m really going this time.”
The door closes again, and I realise I’m not just like that shoe. I’m a whole freaking empty closet.
My ex-fiancé heads out to the Isogawa end-of-year soiree. There’ll be food, drinks, networking and arse-kissing. It’s where I should be. It’s a world in which I belong.
I purse my lips to stop the tears and place the pieces of my life in cardboard.
It’s a life I’m putting on hold.
When I’ve gathered my items for storage, and I’ve placed in a big Louis Vutton the clothing I’ll take to the island with me, I stand up, stretching my arms over my head. The boxes are all stacked to the left of our king-sized bed, waiting for the removalist from the storage company to come and take them away. I wrap my French-tipped nails around the handle of my bag and pull it along after me as I walk through our—Mike’s apartment for what will be the last time for a long time. Maybe even ever.
When I get to the front door, I do the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I take my engagement ring from my finger, and leave it sitting on the island bench. Not wearing that piece of gold that ties me to him makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
I hate that he did this to our beautiful relationship.
And I hate that without him, I’m naked.
Chapter Nine
Tate
Eighteen and a half hours is a long time to spend on a plane thinking. You can decide a lot of things in 1110 minutes. Make a lot of plans in 66,600 seconds.
I decide to try get in touch with Shade.
I haven’t spoken to her in years, and while a part of me freaks at the thought of someone from my past impacting my present, I know I gotta do it.
When the pilot instructs the cabin crew to prepare for landing, I glance over to Janie. She’s asleep, judging by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and the small girly snores that escape her lips. I take my phone out and shoot a quick video. Brotherly love …
We move through the clouds, and my hands clench on the seat. My heart races at light speed, and I focus on breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“Tate, quit digging your nails in,” Janie murmurs in her sleep voice. I look down. My hand is gripped around her wrist.
“Sorry.” I release my fingers. The plane dips as turbulence shakes us, and I cling on. Why the hell do people fly? Who even invented planes? What’s wrong with boats? Boats are safe. Boats are—
“Here.”
A small silver hip flask lands in my lap, and I look back to Janie with a frown. “You smuggled alcohol on board?”
“Sometimes even nerds break the rules if it means they get to keep the claw marks from their arms.” Janie smiles.
I twist the screw cap from the flask and tip it up, the whiskey burning a path down my throat as I swallow. The plane jolts and I drink the rest of it. Because why the hell not?
When we land, a car takes us to a marina where a boat is waiting.
As soon as the car door opens, a wave of heat smacks me upside the head. Then, the noise does.
“Tate! Tate! Tell us why you did it.”
“Tate! Is Mikaela ever going to forgive you?”
“You’re a manwhore! You don’t deserve her.”
“Slut!”
“We hate you.”
The mechanical whir of camera lenses winking at me is the drum-line to their audio assault. I cringe and freeze. It’s supposed to be quieter here. It’s supposed to be paparazzi-free.
“Keep walking.” Janie’s at my side, her cool hand around my wrist. She steers me through the wall of security to a gleaming white speedboat docked and waiting to take us to Indahnya island, a small private “slice of paradise” just an hour-and-twenty-minute-boat-ride from mainland Bali. It ill just be our hotel, a second wellness retreat, and a small shanty town. Not a press pass in sight.
Bliss.
I focus on the future—the two-week shoot ahead. Just as my foot hits the wooden pier, pain stabs me in the back of the head. “Shit.” I press my hand to my head to stop the sting. Liquid seeps
over my fingers, and I bring them around to my face, certain it can’t be blood when—
Bam.
Another, smack-bang in the same spot as the first.
Then, the stench. Rotten. Foul. Revolting.
“They’re throwing eggs.” Janie pushes me forward, but I usher her in front of me. There’s no way my pregnant sister is getting caught in this crossfire. We rush down the dock and onto the boat, with only three more eggs connecting with their target.
“Welcome aboard, Mr Masters,” a short round man, whose red face pops in contrast to his white shirt, says.
I glance down at my own egg-covered shirt. “Is there a shower on this thing?”
There’s not. Of course there’s not. So I spend half an hour in the boat’s bathroom. Thankfully, most of the shit is on my shirt, and I ball it up and trash it in the can under the sink. Then I run the faucet full bore and shove my head under the water, trying to get all the yolk from my blond hair. When I’m confident most of the stuff is gone, I head back up on deck, ready to dry my torso in the sun.
I don’t miss the stares a few of the women gathered near the balcony’s edge give me as I stretch out on the sunlounge. They linger on my chest, the nipple ring that glints in the sun, then narrow in on the V that points right to my cock. I angle my body slightly toward them, clench my abs for maximum impact and slowly lick my lower lip. Look away, ladies.
I close my eyes, ready to soak up the sun. The redhead. Yeah. God, I’d love to take the redhead first. Legs that go on for days will soon be wrapped around my waist. I’ll run my hand up that short white skirt, grazing along her panties before I—
Smack.
My eyes shoot open.
“What the hell, Janie?”
She stands above me, arms folded across her chest. She nods at the tube of sunscreen that just made impact with my chest and now lies on the boat’s deck. “Use it. The sun here is more powerful than it is back home.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You know there’s only one sun, right?”
“It’s to do with the ozone layer, asshole. Now lather up.” She turns to walk away.
Fame (Not Like The Movies #1) Page 5