by Foster, Zoe
‘Honey, I’m sorry. I jus—’
‘You’re a fascist,’ Mads said, half-smiling. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I hear it’s genetic.’
Abby slumped in her seat as she felt the energy of the table soften. ‘How wonderful that we all love each other again. Roll credits.’ Abby took another sip from her water and a sparrow nibble of her hash brown, more as a token nod to food, her old friend and comforter, rather than for nutrition or taste.
‘Well, old sexy heel here has to head. I’m going to the cinema with Dyl.’
‘What you seeing?’ Abby asked, flirting with the idea of inviting herself along, before realising that involved moving from this table, something she wasn’t interested in just yet.
‘His choice. Something arthouse I’d say.’ She sighed and threw $20 on the table as she stood. ‘Have a good day, you seedy tarts. Try not to fall asleep at the wheel yeah, Abs?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, straightening up in her chair. ‘Don’t be so morose.’
As Mads walked out, Chels slapped Abby on the arm. ‘Hey! What happened with the kid last night? Did you let him stay over? You did, didn’t you … you like-like him!’
Abby smiled with closed eyes, shaking her head. ‘So wrong. You are so, so wrong. In fact, he no-showed.’
‘Shut UP! He didn’t!’
‘I hate when you tell me to shut up, and yes he did.’
Chelsea’s hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes were smiling.
‘I can’t even be bothered to make up excuses to make me sound like less of a loser. He didn’t arrive, then I fell asleep on the lounge at midnight, and when I woke at three, I saw a text from him sent at quarter to two, asking if I was still awake.’
‘What a d-bag. Well, he’s obviously out of the race.’
‘I was annoyed, but I’m not now. He was just sex, and it’s more my ego that’s hurt than my feelings. No manners, the yoof of today.’
‘He’ll text you today, you realise. Or email you tomorrow.’
‘Good on him.’
Chelsea’s attention had waned and she was applying fresh gloss and gathering her phone and keys. ‘I need some cleanser and foundation, wanna come to DJs? Come on. What else are you going to do, wallow in your hangover at home? No. Come with.’
Chelsea’s battering ram persuasion was too exhausting to fight against. Abby put her money on the table, picked up her bag and tried to figure out how she could stop her eyes from feeling like they were coated in olive oil.
16
It was there, waiting for her when she got home from an epic shopping trip that had started with a new Giorgio Armani lipstick, some Bobbi Brown foundation and bronzer, then morphed into a new pair of ballet slippers and a skirt, then a full body massage at the Thai massage place, then an enormous bowl of gooey, sweet Hokkien noodles, then a grocery shop. How she had done all of that when just blinking had been a struggle, Abby did not know. She also did not know how much money she had spent. And finally, she did not know what to make of the note that had been slipped under her door by a certain twenty-two year old.
It was written on proper notepaper, which was impressive, because it meant that he’d arrived with the note, instead of writing it on a receipt he’d found in his car.
Garfield,
I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night. We went to a horrible new club (“Darcy’s – encouraging drink-spiking since 2005!”) and there was no phone reception down there, and after drinking my body-weight in whisky I lost track of time. When I checked, it was after 1 as my pathetic text early this morning confirmed.
I messed up. I know. I’m sorry. Bad form. Forgive a guy?
M.
It was completed with an illustration of a small Garfield. And it was adorable. That he had left a Real Life, hand-written note, instead of calling or texting, was commendable.
Abby sat down on her bed, dumping her shopping bags on the floor, momentarily getting excited about what lay inside them again, and re-read the note. He had outstanding handwriting, she decided. He was a designer, she supposed, of course he did.
She flopped back onto her soft, mint green sheets and grinned. She had a funny feeling he had just earned himself redemption, but Abby was so stubborn that knowing he’d written that note wanting redemption made her not want to give it. She’d let it simmer for a bit.
It was amazing how a little note revived a girl’s spirits, though. Abby even toyed with the idea of a glass of red wine as she ran herself a bath, despite the fact her hangover was still lingering by the door, sipping on tea, unwilling to leave. A crazy thought entered her mind: what if he came around tonight? They’d both be hungover, but maybe that was better. Less expectation. Less drunken fumbling. No, wait; the drunken fumbling was the best part. It was the sweet nectar that heralded the arrival of fantastic, non-emotional, non-vanilla sex. And hang on, since when did random men get a Saturday Night In invite? You had to earn that. That was boyfriend-girlfriend gear. All cosy, shunning the world, the natural night of the sofa snuggle and the DVD … No. No, no, no. What was she thinking? They hadn’t even had a proper hook-up yet. She would have to hold tight. And besides, he wasn’t just going to weasel his way back in that fast; now he could experience some of his own delayed gratification.
Still, she thought, as she undressed, it was nice to feel wanted. And to regain the power. She’d text him, perhaps, that would be enough. As she sat in the bath, gripping her phone and praying she didn’t drop it in the jasmine-scented water, she sent her response. She secretly hoped for a flirty text rally as she hit send. That would be the perfect end to the day.
Nice note. Not as impressive as sky writing, but better than a text, I suppose.
Satisfied she’d been playful without being too forgiving, she relaxed into the bath and waited for her phone to vibrate on the windowsill. She loved her bath so much; it had been a gamechanger when she’d looked at the apartment, perched under a large windowsill, with views over the hills and down to the city. It had a dazzling vista, and with the dim lighting of a few candles, and the window thrown open, she had an incredible view of a million glittering stars. It was truly her oasis, she often lay there wondering if she would ever find a man to lie in here with her, and gaze up at the evening sky with her. She knew that at the rate she was going – one-night stands and fuck buddies – it wasn’t that likely in the near future, but she’d get there. Once she’d sorted Allure out, and had some more time, she’d be able to focus more on attracting a man who wasn’t inappropriate, dull or twelve.
Bbbrmmmt. Abby snatched up the phone and read the text from Marcus which was lit up on her screen.
I deserve that, I suppose.
What was that? There’s nothing to respond to there! That was a horrible response from him! Oh please don’t let him be a shitty texter. It was such a crucial element of hooking up. How could he be, when he was so wordy and clever? Bad texting was akin to being bad in bed; such was the power of a good SMS.
Abby placed the phone back on the sill in disgust, just as it started vibrating with a call. She checked the screen; Marcus. Oh God no. He was a talker. Abby wasn’t, it reminded her of being at work. Abby much preferred the control and highly edited parameters of texting. Calls were too on-the-fly, too personal, too intimate. And she hated unknown numbers with a passion usually reserved for perpetrators of public flatulence.
She let it ring out, knowing exactly what was coming next. Bang. And there it was; the text that accused her of screening. So predictable.
Cat got your tongue? Or in your case, have you got your tongue?
Fine. She’d play along. And win.
I can’t chat. In the bath. Don’t want to drop my phone in.
She smiled self-righteously. Ah yes, the ol’ bath line. The finest and most powerful texting ammunition a lady could use. It immediately threw men off-guard, because now all they’d be thinking about was your body naked and wet. She’d possibly used it a little early in the piece, but this was a booty call, not
a boyfriend. The filthier the better.
Silence. Silence. Silence. Abby waited twenty minutes, and got out of the bath. Was he still playing? Or was he on Facebook chatting to girls his own age? Whatever. She didn’t have the energy to care, she decided. He could chase her from now on; she was weary already and they hadn’t even managed an authentic hook-up.
Bbbrmmmt.
Before the phone could even finish vibrating, Abby clutched it in her hand.
I’m at your front door. You cannot send a text like that and not expect immediate action.
Abby’s heart began thumping, the sound of blood rushing through her head suddenly akin to the roar of a jet. He could not be serious. She cocked her head to try and hear anything at the front door. She didn’t want him at her door! No! Too much! This wasn’t the plan! He was meant to write back something disgusting and they’d rally from there! Jesus, the hide! Now she was scared to walk through her own house, lest he really be there, and she had to open it and awkwardly tell him she wasn’t interested in guests, not even handsome ones with perfect-sized man bits.
Bbbrmmmt.
Gotcha. Did cross my mind, though. When can we try for Your Place, V2.0? Monday night? Come on. I’ll make it up to you.
Abby sighed an epic sigh of relief, and rolled her eyes. Little jerk. She didn’t have the power longer than twenty minutes before he thieved it back, and she didn’t like it. He should be a breeze! He was supposed to idolise and respect her, she was the older woman; he was meant to be chuffed to score her!
Abby sloppily slip-slopped through her skin care regime and pulled her skimpy nightie over her head; it was polyester and made her sweat midway through the night, but she kept forgetting to buy a new one. Plus it had fake tan stains on it. Gorgeous. After putting all of her delicious new purchases away, Abby looked at her bedroom and wondered if it was time for a rearrange. Mads was mental about feng shui, and was always banging on that if you wanted to attract love, you needed to not have your bed facing the door, and to put lots of red around. Abby’s bed directly faced the door, and as her colour scheme was soft duck-shell blues and grey and mint and white, she was as likely to put tacky red ornaments around the room as she was a Miley Cyrus poster.
What about if I bring a bottle of the best pinot you’ve never tried and some olives and some cheese? Is that a more tempting offer? Say, 8? I’d suggest a proper dinner date, but I know you’ll hit ‘deny’.
Abby read Marcus’s next effort a few times and smiled. He was pretty cute, she decided. He possibly didn’t deserve the ice out just yet. What the heck, live a little, Vaughn.
Make it 8.30.
She still had to make sure he knew who was boss.
Monday in the office was the equivalent of a minor car accident. No one was seriously injured, but there was definitely some damage.
It started with Pete, Natasha’s caveman boyfriend, sending Abby a threatening email along the lines of: you bad lady, you make Natasha dress in slutty clothes, make men look at her, Natasha not work for you anymore.
Abby chose to not respond to his uneducated, vitriolic tirade, a decision that was roughly as hard as choosing between a cyanide smoothie or patting a docile calf. Natasha would come to her if she really was leaving.
The next treat came in the shape of Angie telling Abby that she had been offered the job of singer with a (legitimately impressive, successful and moderately famous) DJ called Matchstix. Of course she had. She was irresistible to look at, would look terrific in glittery bikini tops, and could actually sing. Duh. He wanted her to sing several tracks on his new album, star in the film clip of his new song, ‘Stop Dancing’, and then tour the UK festival scene starting late April, Angie told Abby excitedly.
Despite Angie’s age and level of hierarchy in the company, it was highly entertaining to watch as she told, not asked, Abby that she’d now be taking Fridays off. Oh well, thought Abby, she knew her worth. Good on her. It had taken Abby another ten years to figure hers out.
The third slice of awesome pie came via Rob, who said that in order to be able to warrant the (‘immense and hopefully justified’) amount going towards the new website, one staff member had to be made redundant by the next payroll, and new premises, cheaper, smaller, new premises, were strongly advised. As soon as possible.
Abby sipped on her third latte of the day, a horrific idea given the circumstances and level of stress already hissing and bubbling away in her gut, and a sure way to send her off the edge of coping and into the sea of minor breakdown, and tapped her pen frenetically on the desk.
Well, Angie, the one staff member she didn’t want to leave had kind of solved the first issue by getting all famous and sneaking off. Which actually, she realised, left her with an even more irritating problem, which was that she still needed a PA-type role, not two bookers, so not only would she have to let go either Charlotte or Siobhan, she’d have to hire another junior … Or would she? Did she really need an office administrator type in the brave new web world? Could she handle it herself, like when Allure first started, and it was just her and her laptop at her kitchen bench? Abby wouldn’t know what she’d need until the site was functioning and she could comprehend the actual workload. What a mess. Chicken or the fucking egg.
Maybe, Abby thought delicately, as though the idea were a spoon of piping hot soup, maybe she should get rid of all of the office staff and could hire an equal a few days a week, someone who could replicate her role in the company, that is, look after clients, find new girls, book girls for jobs, then book new girls when those girls cancelled, and go along to events that needed client sycophancy, or a watchful eye. That actually sounded like the most intelligent idea – a business partner. Who this person was and which horrible job they were in that they needed saving from was anyone’s guess. Abby would have to pay them well because the role was so senior, and she’d need to trust them, obviously. But it could make life a lot easier, a shared responsibility. And with only two staff, and small premises, the profits would be greater. Yes! It was good. Really good. Rob-would-be-pleased good.
Abby wobbled her head side-to-side, mouth pursed, as she did some rudimentary numbers in her notebook. It made sense. She’d ask Rob his thoughts immediately. She knew his first question would pertain to how exactly she was going to locate this magical gypsy, but he could calm down. She would find them. And anyway, he should be happy that she had not only already sent Angie on her way/allowed her to go, but was thinking of Rob’s favourite picture in the whole world, the Bigger one.
As for the office space … Could she move it into her spare room? She’d always resisted, on the grounds she didn’t want to take her work home with her, but that was complete horseshit because as long as her phone was on, she was working. And if it was just her and one other person, well, why not? Her home was neat and stylish enough to entertain the occasional casting, so that was no issue, and she would just meet clients in restaurants and cafes, like normal people did. The more she thought about it, the more Abby felt like a wanker for even having a big, showy city office. It was such a dick-swinging move, such a false symbol of wealth. It was appropriate for a company who needed to host a lot of meetings and have a powerful, impressive base, but Allure was not that company. Allure was a company that did almost everything remotely – all the girls were booked via phone or email, castings were rare these days, and clients were either regulars, or word-of-mouth recommendations, or they called after a quick perve on the website. Few meetings were booked for her boardroom, as beautiful as it was.
Allure, Abby decided, was about to grant her the four-hour work week, which was the premise behind a book her brother had given her last Christmas and which she’d thought was a preposterous idea. Now it seemed not only feasible, but possible. In truth it was probably going to be more like a fifteen-hour week, but even that was an astonishing concept to Abby, who’d been working twelve-hour days for the last three years at least.
Rob,
I’ve got an idea. And if it does
n’t light your fire, your wood must be wet because it’s absolutely, brain-bendingly perfect …
17
Marcus was polite enough to wait until they’d had a glass of wine and a small cow-full of extravagant cheese from regions that were impossible to pronounce before he kissed Abby.
He’d brought a very impressive selection, especially given his age. Abby was mostly eating Doritos on white bread when she was twenty-two, a result of either marijuana or poverty or both. Abby presumed he came from wealth, and that if he wasn’t still living at home with his well-liked chiropractor father (handsome, late fifties) and glamorous private-school-teacher mother (just on fifty, stunning, probably European), he would be there every weekend for a brunch featuring not only quince paste, but fig and tamarind also.
They had been sitting on stools at her breakfast bar, politely scoffing the delicious spread he’d brought, Abby awkwardly filling in the space a very quiet Marcus was leaving by babbling about her desire to buy the semi they sat in, all the while utterly preoccupied by the fear of leaving crumbs around her mouth, and Marcus constantly drawn to Abby’s mouth, which in his mind was the perfect shape, and begging to be kissed. So he did. He simply stood up, walked around to Abby’s side of the bench, and kissed her, just as she was explaining how she’d never liked blue cheese, but actually this one wasn’t so bad and where was it from, because she’d never had one tha—
The kiss was equivalent of finally being given permission to enter the best, most incredible party you’d ever witnessed after standing in a queue for forty-five minutes making small talk with someone you didn’t know very well.
Abby was intensely grateful Marcus made the first move. For some reason, possibly because of a lack of tequila in very small glasses, she was all twitchy and nervous around him tonight, and couldn’t for the life of her figure out how they were going to make the transition from Chit Chatty People in the Kitchen, to Primal Beasts in the Bedroom.