by Roxy Wynn
I fantasized about breaking each one of those disgusting pink fingernails and shoving them up her nose.
Walking back into the kitchen in a daze, I wondered what I had done to deserve that. Was I an ax murderer in a past life or something?
I looked to my best friend for help and found her helping Tiffany clean the cookie depositor by shoving little bits of dough into her mouth.
“Let me guess,” she said laughing. “Someone requested an elaborate sculpted cake but only has a fifty dollar budget?”
“Nope,” I said, my heart thumping hard in my chest. “That was Eli and his new wife wanting custody of Bailey.”
Chrissy began coughing when a tiny piece of cookie dough lodged its self into her lungs. “You’re shitting me.”
“Afraid not.”
I stood with my hands grasping the sides of the wooden prep table, trying my best to hold back the rage that was boiling inside me.
“Oh, and they want child support since apparently, I’m a rich person.”
Chapter Two
Alfie
“You shagged the Prime Minister’s wife?” Oliver yelled, throwing the newspaper down on his desk, furious.
He had every right to be angry, but antagonizing Oliver had become something of a pastime for me, and I had to hide my smirk behind my hand. Making the vein of rage pop out of my oldest mate’s forehead was something I looked forward to every day.
“Listen, Mate, she wasn’t even that good of a shag,” I countered, trying and failing, to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“I don’t care how good of a shag she was! Do you have any idea what this will do to your image?” He pointed at the small black-and-white photo of the Prime Minister in the corner of this morning’s post. Covering the rest of the page was a photo of Marilyn and I escaping her high priced flat in the city after a night of debauchery.
If he had seen the picture a year ago, he’d have loved it and laughed with me over the absurdity, but now that he was my manager and making money off of me, my extra-curricular activities had become his business.
“Listen, Mate, my image is of no importance to me. You know that.”
Oliver’s office had floor to ceiling windows overlooking downtown L.A. making the sunlight impossible to avoid. I slunk down in the leather chair and pulled my cap over my eyes. If he was in a better mood, I might close my eyes and have a nap while he yelled. But as it was, he was furious.
“You may not care about your image, Alfie, but I do.”
“Can you keep it down a bit?” I whispered, rubbing my temples. "Some of us had a late night enjoying the company of Swedish flight attendants.”
Oliver picked his phone up and ordered his secretary to bring in a pot of tea. “… And aspirin,” he added, noting the bags under my eyes, before hanging up the phone.
After a moment, the large vein in his forehead became less noticeable, showing he had been doing his breathing exercises, just as his doctor ordered.
“Alfie, you and I have been mates for a long time, but I’m your manager now. I need to think about your future and my own. The more money you make, the more I make. You see how that works? How could you ask your oldest mate to lose money?”
Bastard always knew how to make me feel like shit.
I hung my head while he went on. “The late nights, the partying, the women… it looks terrible. You have young fans out there who idolize you. Teenage girls with posters of you in their bedrooms. You don’t want to be this,” he pointed to the blurry photo again. In it, my hair was standing on end, my tie loose, and Marilyn hanging off of me, laughing.
“Come on, Mate, we had a lovely time,” I said, trying to remember the exact events of that evening. “… I think.”
“Well too many lovely times out on the town getting pissed look bad to the record companies. Your first album is doing well, but if you keep pulling stunts like this, I’ll have a hell of a time selling you.”
“Then don’t sell me, Ollie. Let me fade into obscurity like Elvis,” I said, waving my hand. The throbbing in my head was interfering with my ability to antagonize Ollie, and I couldn’t have that. “Where the hell is that aspirin?”
“Elvis did not fade away into obscurity,” he said, raising his voice again. “Elvis died, fat and alone on the loo. He was the king of Rock-and-roll, you’re the pauper at best.”
I winked at him. “You know, you’re cute when you’re angry.”
There it was, that vein threatening to pop out of his forehead again. I guess I still had it after all.
Luckily, his gorgeous, leggy secretary showed up in the nick of time, saving me from the verbal lashing I was about to receive.
“Hi Alfie,” she said with a girlish smile. When she set the tray down on his desk, she bent over in front of me, giving a marvelous view.
Mum used to tell me I was a handsome lad, and once girls started chasing me, I knew she was telling the truth and not just saying it because she’s my mum. Now that I was a famous rock star, they flocked to me like flies to honey.
“Hello Shelley,” I said, appreciating the exquisite view of her sculpted posterior. She wore a tight black skirt that had a slit up the side showing off her toned legs. Like every woman in Los Angeles, she planned to be an actress, and with legs like those, I had no doubt she would go far.
Oliver sat behind his desk, watching our flirtatious exchange with a frown.
“Thank you, Shelly. Can you get in touch with Smith and see if you can get the number of that woman he used to find his Russian pop star?”
“Of course, Mr. Kelly.”
Turning to me again, she gave me a wink before leaving the room. Her hips sashayed from side to side like she was trying to hypnotize me.
“Well, isn’t she a fit little tart?” I said to Ollie. “Tell me, where did you find that one again?”
Oliver eyed me with a wry expression.
“Leave her alone, Alfie. She has been an excellent secretary and I won’t have you engaging in any activities with my staff. She’s off limits.”
I couldn’t tell if he was blushing or if he was so angry with me his face was turning red. If he was blushing…
“Wait, Ollie, tell me you’re not shagging her?” I slapped my hand down on his desk, erupting into laughter. Suddenly, I was very much alert.
“Alfie, let’s get back to business. You are at a crossroads in your musical career. You can either ride the success of your first album and Music Makers appearance, take your small royalty check and go back to Manchester to spend the rest of your days partying, or you can step up and make something of yourself. They gave you a contract for one album, and because you are a lucky twat, you’ve seen a lot of success from it. Let’s show them Alfie Lane is the next Paul McCartney.”
“I never cared for The Beatles…”
“Codswallop!” he yelled.
Ignoring him, I sipped my tea. As the Earl Grey and aspirin began clearing the cobwebs from my brain, I wondered if Oliver was right. Music was the most important part of my life, and I hadn’t produced anything lately. As lovely as the women and parties were, I had to admit they were taking away from my ability to write. There was another album inside of me somewhere just begging to get out.
“What about Thom Yorke?” I asked.
“From Radiohead?”
“Yes. Radiohead, brilliant band. I want to be the next Thom Yorke.”
“I don’t care who you emulate, just get your head out of your arse.”
Perhaps Ollie was right. Each sip of the strong tea made everything just a wee bit clearer. I studied my reflection in the back of my teaspoon. The bloke who stared back had bags under his eyes, and an unkempt appearance. If mum saw me, she would lose her ever-loving mind. The parties and late nights in L.A. had taken their toll. I was a mess.
A charming mess, but a mess.
Writing and performing had always been my passion; I couldn’t imagine doing anything else, but recording Station Girl had been a nightmare. The pro
cess was nothing at all how I imagined it would be. The record company treated me like an amateur, assigning a producer who made me sound like a twat, with autotune and dance beats. None of it was my style.
It may say Alfie Lane on the cover, but the album wasn’t me.
I wondered if people heard the real Alfie Lane if they would even like him. What if the autotune dance beats were what they preferred?
“How do we get around the visa issue?” I asked, bringing up the other large roadblock to signing with a record company. "I’ve overstayed my visa already. All the back-and-forth takes time.”
Ollie sighed. “I found a way around it, but you’re not going to like it.” He took a bite of the biscuit Shelley had included with his cup of tea.
I did not get any biscuits with mine. Maybe Shelley didn’t fancy me as much as I thought she did.
“As long as you don’t ask me to marry some bird from the states, I think we’ll be fine.” Laughing at the absurdity, I reached over to his plate and stole the rest of his biscuit, popping it into my mouth.
He wasn’t laughing.
“Oliver?”
He didn’t move a muscle.
“Ollie? Christ! You’re taking the piss?”
Autotune I could handle, fraud I could not. Swallowing the last of the dry biscuit, I stood and began pacing in front of his massive desk.
He stood quickly, putting his hands out to calm me. “Alfie, let’s think about this. Getting married can be great for your image.”
“Fuck the image, Mate. I’m not marrying anyone. No way!” The room spun, and not in a fun too much to drink way. This felt like a bad trip. Was it getting hotter?
“Alfie, be reasonable. Think this through before you ruin your career.”
Bollocks, he had a point. When Oliver had advice, it was in my best interest to listen. Like an older brother, he cared for me and wanted to see me succeed. The man wasn’t stupid, and he wouldn’t tell me to do something that wasn’t for the best, no matter how ridiculous it sounded.
Would he?
“You’re having a laugh, right?” I asked.
“I have an offer right now, for two more albums and the potential for a world tour. It’s more money than either of us have ever dreamed of, but they are hesitant to proceed with this man.” He pointed to the cover of the post.
“They want to know that they are investing money into someone who won’t embarrass them. No one wants to gamble, especially on some nobody from Manchester.”
In a perfect world, there would be no record companies to dictate your every move, just people releasing music however they wanted.
I stared out the window at the beautiful sunny California day, and my headache returned. Of all the places to be stuck in the United States, it had to be a place where the sun never stopped shining.
What I would give for a cool, cloudy day.
“How does it even work? Do I get to pick her?”
“Of course,” he said, with a smile just beginning to form on the corners of his mouth. “And it doesn’t mean you’re off the market either. In the business you are expected to live the rock star life, they just want to know you aren’t going to make a fool of yourself. And shagging Marilyn Eldridge was foolish.”
With my back turned to him again, I considered the offer. Keep partying and go back to my home, tail tucked between my legs, or stay in the states, marry a stranger and possibly become a legend. Become Thom Yorke.
“I didn’t even shag her,” I said quietly, turning back to Ollie.
“You didn’t?”
“Of course not. We went to her flat and listened to Connie Francis. She put a pink feather boa on me and painted my toenails. She’s an odd duck, that one.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Will she know it’s a sham? The girl you want me to marry? I won’t do it if I have to pretend I’m in love with her. I may be a bastard, but I’m not a lying bastard. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“Of course she’ll know.” He put his arm around my shoulders and led me back to the posh leather chair. “There’s a woman in Louisiana that puts people who have a mutual need together. It worked beautifully for my associate, Smith. He needed new talent, and his wife Priscilla needed to get out of Russia. It was a win, win. They have a baby on the way now.”
“Maybe I could find a way to make it fun,” I said, more to myself than to him. Getting married would make mum proud. She wouldn’t have to know it was fake.
“That’s the spirit. I’ll make the call and get all the details. In the meantime, I want you to go back to your flat and get a good night’s rest. In the morning, get to work on your next album.”
Imagining myself settling down was crazy. Being with one woman for the rest of my life? How do people even do it?
And what about the woman, what would her story be? Would she feel as backed into a corner as I did? I’m happy to help, but I didn’t want her to feel like a prisoner.
I took one last sip of my now cold tea and stood. “Call me when you have all the details.”
Oliver nodded and picked the phone up. What happened to common courtesy? Where I’m from, you say goodbye to someone when they leave. Especially when it’s your dearest mate.
“Shut the door on your way out,” he bellowed as I stepped over the threshold.
I turned back and gave him a grin. “Sure thing, Ollie. I’m just going to pop over to Shelley’s desk on my way out to give her a heartfelt thank you for the tea and then I’ll be on my way.”
Shelley looked over at me and winked, when I turned back to Oliver, he was seething.
If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.
Chapter Three
Sarah
I climbed to the top of the ladder with a very fragile cake topper in my hands, holding my breath.
Please don’t let me drop this. Chrissy is pregnant and hormonal. She WILL kill me.
Luckily the banquet hall was quiet while we worked on the cake setup. Besides murmuring from the caterers in the kitchen, we had complete silence, a pleasant change of pace from the usual pre-wedding commotion. There was nothing worse than loud noises when you were standing in a reception hall decorated with naked Cupid statues.
Couldn’t they at least drape something over his bits and pieces? This is a family establishment, for Pete’s sake.
“What are you gonna say to the judge when he asks about the custody?” Kenneth asked, distracting me from the naked man-baby.
“I don’t know, Kenneth,” I said, making my way down the ladder. “Maybe I’ll just tell the judge the truth. Eli ditched his newborn son for a Chalupa… and possibly a Choco Taco. You think that’ll work?”
He reached his hand out to help me down, but I smacked it away.
I may be fun-sized, but I’m not helpless.
“Momma went through the same thing with my daddy when I was Bailey’s age.”
“Your dad left you for a Chalupa too? That’s oddly specific.”
“No, ma’am, my daddy left for another woman.” He straightened the decorative strip of fabric on the table and took a picture of the enormous cake. “He fell in love with a Minnesota Dairy Princess and ran off with her one night. When they got back to her home, her daddy chased him off with a shotgun.”
“Jesus…”
“And when the girl’s boyfriend found out?” he whistled. “Let’s just say daddy came home real quick looking to get back into mamma’s good graces.”
I stared at him for a moment, wondering what the hell that had to do with my situation. “Kenneth, how are you a well-adjusted human being? Your family stories are bizarre.”
He shrugged and began gathering our equipment. I stacked the cake toolkit and all the empty boxes on the rolling cart while he closed the ladder and tucked it under his arm. Our third cake delivery as a team was a resounding success.
“Why does everyone care about father figures so much?” I asked. “We are in the Deep South, and everyone values family units, I get
it. But why force a child to see their deadbeat sperm donors?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Sarah,” he said, jogging ahead of me, to open the door.
“Between the internet and female urination devices, women can handle every aspect of raising boys all on their own.”
“I agree, ma’am, none of it makes any damn sense.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment like he had a question he was afraid to ask. “Your ex, he didn’t ever… lay a hand on you… did he?”
Bless his heart.
“No,” I shook my head. “He didn’t do anything like that. But he was responsible for me having Bailey in the front seat of his Camaro. We didn’t even get inside the hospital.”
Kenneth’s mouth dropped open. “That’s awful.”
“Yup. He was watching the game with his friends and didn’t feel like taking me to the hospital. By the time my water broke on the living room floor, it took his friend Chucky barfing in his lap to get him to move his ass. When we pulled into the hospital parking lot, Bailey was half-way out. He was screaming. I was screaming. Giving birth with no epidural was the single most terrifying experience of my life. They say women forget that pain, but that is a bunch of bullshit.”
He stared at me with his mouth hanging open, horrified. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“I’m not,” I said, shrugging. “Eli gave me the best present anyone could ask for. I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything, Bailey is my world.”
I clapped my hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “Be right back, I need to go grab a check from Calloway. I know she’s lurking in the shadows being a creep somewhere.”
Walking back into the air-conditioned venue, I searched the room. The sunshine outside was so bright, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim room.
Mrs. Calloway was an odd woman. The first time we met her, she was all sunshine and roses, pretending to be the mother of a bride who needed a wedding cake on short notice. After the wedding was over, we found out what her real deal was.
