03 Heller's Girlfriend - Heller

by JD Nixon

  “Are you okay?” Wanda asked with concern, noticing my expression.

  “Yeah. Just gave myself a fright,” I laughed uncertainly.

  Thinking of Heller made me check my phone. Text messages from Dixie, Daniel and Niq, but nothing from Heller or from Will. I swallowed my bitter disappointment. Maybe I should just run off with another man? That might prompt the pair into actually remembering that I existed.

  Wanda and I spent the evening watching a rerun of Speed on telly, mutually agreeing that there were much worse ways of filling a couple of hours than watching Keanu Reeves save the city. For example, I could have been talking to Yoni. Or Heller. After the movie finished, Wanda stood up, yawning.

  “What’s happening tomorrow?” I remembered to ask.

  “Let’s see. A photo shoot with a women’s magazine in the morning. In the afternoon she’s presenting an award at a performing arts college, and in the evening she has a live interview. We’ll have to go to the studio for that. Busy day.”

  “Sounds like it. I’d better let our security manager know.”

  She waved goodbye while I rang Clive and explained Yoni’s itinerary for the next day. He grunted when I’d finished and hung up.

  I trundled out my bed and set it up, before changing into my usual pyjamas of boxer shorts and singlet top. I was about to climb into bed when Yoni’s bedroom door opened and Trent came out, dressed only in Yoni’s flimsy, beautiful silk bathrobe.

  “Nice look,” I teased. His smile was sheepish.

  “Couldn’t be bothered putting my gear back on just to grab some water,” he explained, giving a little twirl in the robe, before heading to the bar, opening a bottle of spring water and gulping down half the bottle. He flopped down on the sofa, sitting in that casual way men have. I was presented with the experience of seeing much more of Trent Dawson than I’d ever expected or wanted.

  “Mr Dawson! Put them away! Please!” I screeched in revulsion, clapping a hand over my eyes. He looked down, then quickly crossed his legs and adjusted his bathrobe, blushing in mortification.

  “Sorry,” he apologised immediately. “I forgot I wasn’t wearing anything else. God, I’m so sorry. How embarrassing.”

  “Lucky you weren’t on camera,” I joked, trying to make light of the situation.

  “Might get me better ratings,” he joked back, recovering quickly, an appealing twinkle in his eye. He really was a very attractive man. I couldn’t remember now why he had such a notorious reputation.

  “Might make your ratings worse too,” I said cheekily. He grinned at me and noticed my rollaway.

  “You sleep out here? On that? Isn’t there another bedroom?”

  I didn’t want to complain about my client, so remained silent.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “You are a hard nut to crack, Tilly. Oh, sorry, that’s probably a bad analogy after what you just saw.”

  I giggled at his stupid joke. He was about to say something else when Yoni poked her head out of her room.

  “Trent!” she screamed shrilly. “I need you. Now!”

  He raised his eyebrows and half-smiled. “Guess I better return.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Night, Tilly.”

  “Night, Mr Dawson.”

  He smiled. “Call me Trent.”

  I smiled back, but didn’t take him up on his offer, watching as he entered Yoni’s room again.

  I was grumbling to myself, trying to make myself comfortable on the lumpy rollaway when my phone rang. It was Heller.

  “I thought you’d forgotten about me,” I mock-sulked.

  “Matilda.” He sounded stressed. “Not you too? Please.”

  “Sorry Heller, I was just joking. Have you had a bad day?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, why did you ring me then? Because that’s what I do – I talk about things.”

  He laughed reluctantly. “I wanted to make sure that everything is okay. Clive told me tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “We had a bit of hassle with the paparazzi today, but we managed.” I paused a beat. “I saw a TV host’s wedding tackle tonight.”

  Silence. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest with you, to be honest. Did you let this ‘tackle’ anywhere near you?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “No way! I told him to put it away.”

  “That is sometimes good advice for a woman to give a man.” He sighed wearily. “I miss you, Matilda. This place is always so empty without you here.”

  I laughed. “You have hundreds of people around you.”

  “But it’s never the same without you.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon.” And I hung up, smiling to myself. It’s always nice to be missed. I snuggled into the horrible bed and fell asleep quickly.

  Chapter 22

  As usual I was up before everyone, going through my self-devised workout routine, and taking a shower before ordering enough breakfast for three. As I was on the phone Wanda walked in, so I changed the order to four. When it arrived, Wanda and I ate our food and finished before we even heard a peep from the other two.

  Trent was the first to emerge, showered and dressed properly in his clothes this time, I noted with relief.

  “Morning ladies,” he said charmingly. He settled down to dig into his breakfast while I put the bed away and changed into my uniform. Wanda disappeared to finalise the small details of the day’s activities. Yoni eventually appeared, silently picking at half a piece of dry toast and half an apple for breakfast, then drank three cups of black coffee. I wondered briefly if she’d swallowed any of the revolting medicine and red pills this morning or whether having Trent with her had tempered her drinking. Then I worried that Wanda hadn’t even told her about the day’s events.

  I approached and waited for her to finish what I thought was a very boring story about herself when she finally deigned to notice me.

  “What?” she demanded rudely. She obviously wasn’t a morning person. Or a lunchtime or evening person either.

  “Do you know what’s happening today?” I asked.

  “I have no fucking idea. Why don’t you people keep me better informed?”

  “It’s not my job to do that, Ms Lemere. I’m here for security only,” I ground out through gritted teeth. “I’m telling you as a courtesy.”

  “Well then, don’t just stand there. Tell me,” she ordered. I told her the full itinerary for the day.

  “You have to tell me this stuff earlier!” she ranted and made a move with her cup as though she meant to throw her coffee on me. I clutched her wrist firmly.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned. “I’m not prepared to let you treat me like that.”

  She let go of the cup and it clattered back onto the saucer. Glaring at me, she shoved back her chair and stalked into her bedroom. Trent threw me a wry smile and trotted off after her.

  I made myself scarce while Yoni and Trent bid their fond farewells to each other. I wondered how long their casual relationship had been going, and reasoned that it was probably years, considering their relaxed affection. When I had the courage to return to the lounge room, Yoni was nowhere to be seen and Trent was about to open the door to leave. He stopped to talk to me, a sly smile spreading over his face.

  “I think I might ring you one day, Tilly Chalmers. I hope my little fling with Yoni doesn’t put you off any proposition I might make to you in the future? I’ve known her for years.” All that was said in a presumptuous way, as if he automatically assumed that I’d be flattered to hear from him again. I glared at him with scorn.

  “Of course not. It wouldn’t matter to me how many millions of women you’d poked before you hit on me. It would still feel so special to me,” I retorted, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

  He was smart enough to pick up on it. “Whoops, guess I blundered there. In my defence, can I just say that working in my industry, you kind of expect everyone to be a player? That’s how we roll. We all screw each other. It
’s our favourite type of networking.” He shrugged disparagingly. “I think it would be kind of nice to spend some time with someone who’s not in the industry, not a player.”

  He did sound sincere when he said that, but remembering his reputation as an unrepentant love-rat, I held the door open for him and politely wished him a lovely day.

  “I am going to ring you,” he threatened. “I find you very interesting. An attractive young woman working in such a macho business? I’m burning with curiosity to hear your story.”

  I didn’t know how he planned to ring me. I certainly wasn’t going to give him my mobile number.

  He sighed at my silence. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I? I haven’t impressed you at all. I’ve offended you and even worse, I’ve accidently shown you all my best bits first up. Now you have nothing to look forward to.”

  I couldn’t help myself but laugh at his audaciousness. “You’re no shrinking violet, are you?”

  “Fortune favours the bold, Tilly,” he said, and winked at me before sauntering away towards the lifts, whistling.

  In the hallway he passed the stylist arriving to attend to Yoni. I let her into the suite and she scuttled off to the second bedroom to find her client. Wanda stepped out of the lift that Trent was about to enter, but he didn’t seem to notice her.

  “Trent had the biggest smile on his face. I guess his night with the hag was . . . um . . . productive?”

  I shrugged, not very interested. “Suppose so. I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I turned indignant. “Do you know she tried to throw some coffee at me this morning?”

  “No! She’s such a bitch. I hope you put her in her place.”

  “Let’s just say that I don’t think she’ll try that again,” I admitted modestly.

  Her phone rang and she took the call, making final arrangements for the photo shoot this morning. While she was occupied, I spared a minute to ring Will to let him know I was expecting to be free this Friday evening. No answer – diverted to voicemail. Damn! He was so hard to contact lately. I began to worry that he was shy dialling me. But why?

  Wanda had arranged for the photo shoot to take place in one of the hotel’s beautiful gardens. When we arrived down at the private courtyard garden, the magazine staff were already present. The stylist pushed Yoni’s clothes rack to the garden’s gazebo and commenced fussing with the clothes, preparing them for the speedy changes required between photos. Wanda spoke to the journalist about the questions that would be asked, banning any mention of Yoni’s broken marriage or her drunken YouTube video. She then discussed lighting and location with the photographer. She was very efficient and organised, making requests in a polite professional way. Despite her personal attitude to Yoni, she cared enough about her job to do it properly. I couldn’t understand why Yoni didn’t appreciate her more.

  Yoni preened in the gazebo, disengaged with the entire situation. I stood back from the action, keeping a careful watch on the perimeter of the garden. Clive had sent a couple of men to support me during the morning, the rest of them due to arrive when we left the hotel after lunch.

  I smiled evilly when Farrell and another man I didn’t know stepped out into the garden.

  “Hello Hugh!” I shouted heartily, waving from across the garden, causing everyone to turn in surprise to check out the sudden commotion. He glared at me ferociously and stood as far away from me as humanly possible in the small space. He didn’t look as though he liked me even a little bit today.

  Yoni appeared from the portable change room, a stunning vision in a very tight ruby red evening gown. The journalist asked her some soft questions while the photographer busily snapped her, leaning up against the ivy-draped high brick courtyard wall. Then Yoni changed outfits and hair styles and they did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I was bored out of my brain watching her simper and model for the camera. Stifling a yawn, I idly perused the garden, my attention captured by a flash over the top of the brick wall. Without raising an alarm, I dashed over, not wanting to scare the intruder away. I sprang onto the wall, gripping the top of the fence with my hands and pulling myself up, using the uneven surface of the bricks as a foothold for my boots. At the same time the paparazzo popped up again from the other side of the wall to take another photo.

  I scared the living daylights out of him when he saw me, and he turned to jump down from the rubbish bin he’d dragged over to use as a platform. I seized the collar of his shirt to stop him. He struggled to free himself from my grasp, shoving his palm into my face and forcing my head backwards. I bit him on the fleshy part of his palm. He yelled in pain, snatching his hand away.

  I struggled on the fence, my whole body weight supported on one elbow, my other arm clutching his shirt, my feet gripping tenuously to the wall. The man was better positioned than me, having surer footing by standing on the bin. He wriggled vigorously, fumbling with his buttons, planning to leave me with nothing but his sweaty, food-stained shirt as a memento of his visit.

  I thrashed around to pull myself higher so I could lean over and attempt to grasp some part of his body. I wasn’t fussy – could be his hair or his nuts for all I cared – as long as I stopped him from escaping with his camera. The photo shoot was an exclusive deal with the magazine, and I’d almost dropped in shock when Wanda told me how much Yoni was being paid to do it. They wouldn’t appreciate any similar photos turning up in other magazines to spoil their exclusive.

  I heard a grunt behind me. Farrell and the other man scaled the wall either side of me, making it look easy, each grabbing the man by one arm. In the ensuing scuffle, the paparazzo shoved me fiercely in the face again. I lost my tenuous grip on the wall, tumbling backwards to land painfully in a clump of rose bushes. As I stood up, the thorns ripped cruelly into my exposed arms and neck.

  The two Heller’s men roughly hauled the paparazzo over the wall where they all landed on the ground in an awkward heap, just missing the rose bushes. The paparazzo sprang to his feet and ran through the garden, shooting photos indiscriminately as he did, hoping to catch a photo of Yoni in amongst them. I chased him, bringing him down with a tackle that would have had Dad leaping to his feet cheering if he’d seen it on TV. Farrell confiscated the camera as the other man dragged the paparazzo to his feet. He protested wildly in very foul language as Farrell tapped on the camera’s menu to delete the photos. Then Farrell politely handed the man back his camera and they both escorted him out of the hotel.

  “Nice tackle!” admired the magazine photographer. “I hate those pap maggots. They’re always trying to ruin our exclusives.”

  “Are you all right, Tilly? That looks painful,” asked Wanda, noting the scratches on my arms and neck, some of which had started bleeding.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured, suppressing my grimace of pain. I dusted down my uniform and hoped it hadn’t been torn as well. My hands and elbows were stinging from the brick wall and my knees from the tackle. A nice, hot bath sounded like a good idea right about then.

  Farrell and his mate returned to the garden. I walked over to them to debrief, rummaging in my pockets for some tissues to mop up the various trickles of blood. Farrell regarded me with detached contemplation.

  “Not a bad effort there, Chalmers. I’d give it a C plus. You need more work on your upper arm strength.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you need to work on your speed some more. I thought you were never coming to help,” I snapped back at him, not in the mood for any analysis of my security style.

  “You also need to work on your landing skills. And I think you need some lessons in mastering rose bushes.” Both men laughed.

  “Thanks, but if I wanted to avoid painful pricks, I’d stay away from you two!” I huffed, and stalked over to stand by myself on the opposite side of the garden. I glowered at them for the rest of the shoot. Thankfully it finished not long afterwards and we trooped back to the suite again. Farrell offered to accompany us so that I could cle
an up after my tangle with rose bushes. I accepted ungratefully, still annoyed with him. But on the bright side, I did manage to call him Hugh fifteen times on the short journey to the suite, earning myself the evil eye from him the entire way.

  I left him to look after Yoni, who immediately disappeared back into her room. My eyes watered with pain as I took a shower, my skin stinging. In a fresh uniform with the worst scratches patched up, I carefully inspected my dirtied uniform. The material appeared to have survived my tangle with the rose bushes, so I chucked it into the corner of the bathroom, a very bad habit of mine.

  Farrell departed when I came out again, my effusive thanks ringing in his ears. I’d dropped at least another ten Hughs during our short conversation, so was pretty satisfied with myself. I felt positive that he was beginning to crack. I was going to win this battle. I could smell victory.

  We barely had time to snatch a light lunch before it was time to bundle Yoni into the limo. She was due at a performing arts college where she would present a high achievement award in drama during a ceremony. The scrum outside the hotel wasn’t as unruly this time; perhaps the paparazzi were on their lunchbreak?

  Yoni was greeted with warm enthusiasm by the staff and students of the college. Once again, a few sympathetic hand-picked journalists were in attendance for her visit. Her short speech amused and charmed the audience. She presented the award to the overwhelmed student, posing patiently for a hail of photos.

  Afterwards, back in the limo she guzzled champagne and bitched about the college’s principal, a fifty-something strong-minded woman.

  “What a fucking dragon,” Yoni complained, spilling champagne on her designer pants in her hurry to refill her glass.

  We both ignored her. I looked out the window while Wanda studied her nails.

  “Are you bitches listening to me?” she screeched.

  Wanda shot her a sullen look and I flicked her a disinterested glance before resuming my window gazing.