The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “You’ll make sure of that?”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, honey. I know you’ll get me exactly what I want.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Belinda gave him a twirl in her red satin dress. It dipped to a V in her cleavage and clung tight and smooth to her waist before flowing out. She’d washed her hair so it was thick and luscious and she was again the dynamo redhead.

  They’d finished in the lounge and crept out – scooting past the kitchen, as if one glance could give away what they’d been up to. They then lay on her bed, touching and laughing, making sounds of adoration.

  She got up from him reluctantly, told him that even though they were staying in, the plan was to dress for dinner – after all, he had come to the apartment of three very glamorous ladies.

  When he saw her in that dress, it was a heart-somersaulting thrill. He actually felt the breath tumble in his chest.

  In her wardrobe she had a number of his old suits, and she pulled out the one she considered most princely, an elegant black two-piece, and a white shirt. She said it reminded her of moody monochrome adverts, of a man like Clay staring at something interesting, and yet maybe distressing, at the middle distance. It was for that exact same reason that Clay disliked it. It didn’t feel like him, it felt like the outfit a younger, cooler, more pretentious man would wear. But nonetheless he agreed, and she dressed him with excitement.

  He sat on the bed, his wrists resting on his knees, in exactly the position she’d have posed him. She stood before him, hands on hips, legs slightly apart.

  They didn’t touch – they burned with gas-heated passion – but were not allowed to caress or grope or feel. She’d spent too long on her hair, her make-up, her nails, on getting her hips and lips and tits just the way she wanted them, to spoil it with a quick bunk-over before dinner. She couldn’t allow any creases in her dress or smudges in her rouge.

  Right then, he didn’t care about any of that. He wouldn’t have cared in what kind of bedraggled state he took her to dinner, he just wanted to have her. But he knew – had learnt after much trying and failing in the rodent maze of their relationship – that, if attempted, he’d get a sharp electric shock and wouldn’t even receive cheese later.

  He stood slowly and offered her his arm. She took it with a smile and a half-curtsy, and then he escorted her gently all the way from her bedroom, through the yellow hallway and into the dining room which glowed red.

  The walls and ceiling were painted a full and rich shade of scarlet, while the carpet was a blooming cherry that at first glance seemed to offend by clashing so horrifically with the walls. The first time he saw it his eyes were forced shut by the merest glance; when he opened them again though, he realised that in a crude and unscientific way, they actually did complement each other. They shouldn’t, but once acclimatised, he saw there was no other shade of carpet which would so stylishly match. Across the walls were framed posters of would-be impressionist masterworks, where the artist had given the colour red a starring role. And at the centre of the room was a large mahogany table, that reflected the surrounding shades and seemed to radiate crimson.

  Belinda’s hair and dress gave her possession of that room; she walked in at her shiniest, brightest and most desirable. Abigail and Judy had lit it for mood, two candelabras on the table and side lamps in the corners, the bulbs ruby.

  Judy was sitting at the table already, surreptitiously eating a bread roll – knowing she was naughty to fill up on carbs before the meal. She wore a stunning pink party dress that dropped from her bust to her knees. Her hair was straight and crisp to her naked white shoulders, so that she resembled a beautiful teenager from the fifties. She jumped up as they entered.

  “Oh Judy,” said Belinda. “You look absolutely magnificent!”

  “Thank you! You look so beautiful! That’s your premiere dress, isn’t it? That’s the dress you’re going to wow them with at the premieres.”

  “Yes,” nodded Belinda. “And that’s your premiere dress.”

  “This is my Royal premiere dress. This is the one I’ll wear in front of the King and Queen and the handsome princes.” Judy looked so proud. “Until that point, nobody outside these doors sees it.”

  They hugged in their highly practised way, careful not to crimp or upset any of those spontaneous touches so immaculately prepared.

  “And Clay,” said Judy, “you look so handsome.”

  Belinda took his arm. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

  “Oh Belinda, why can I never get a man like him?”

  “We’ll find you one. Don’t worry, we’ll get a good one for you.”

  Clay blushed to match the wine and the walls, but his voice was unaffected. “What are we having?”

  “Ah, it’s a secret,” said Judy. “Have a seat. It won’t be long now. Clay, you sit there and Belinda you sit opposite him. Would you like any wine? Red is probably best. Red is best to complement you, Belinda.”

  They had a selection of wines along the sideboard, and Judy picked one and poured him out a large glass, filling it to the brim. He thanked her. She poured Belinda’s glass, stopping barely half-way up, before treating herself to a mere splash. “Boys are thirstier than girls,” she explained.

  They clinked their glasses together, then Clay took a sip and it slipped down smoothly. He smiled at his hostesses. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Belinda. “You don’t know how glad we are to have you back.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again,” Judy smiled. “It’s great that you’re still so big and strong.”

  The door burst open and Abigail entered triumphantly – her spoils a silver platter on which lay a roast piglet with a red apple in its mouth.

  Abigail stood proud and magnificent before them. She was wearing a pair of Cuban heels, skin-tight black trousers, a bright sequined blouse of many colours and a bolero jacket with the collar turned up macho. Her hair was pulled to a pony-tail and she had little in the way of make-up, although her lips were an exotic brownish-red. “Olé!” she yelled.

  The piglet was small without much meat, but looked scrumptious. The rich red apple glowed in its mouth and its skin shone roasted brown. Abigail danced it to the table and waved her hand over her head flamenco style.

  If they’d been as successful as they’d hoped to be – as successful as they sometimes thought they were – now would have been the moment the servants appeared carrying the vegetables and sundries. Unfortunately, every Hollywood feast they attempted was still going to be cut-price. They refused Clay’s offers of help, insisting he was the honoured guest. And so he got to sit there nursing a large glass of wine, watching the incongruous sight of three incredibly beautiful women – at their most striking – each carrying hot dishes with their hands swaddled in tea-towels.

  Once the food was served, they sat savouring the aromas. Abigail, despite doing most of the work, was supremely nonchalant. She hooked her thigh over the arm of her chair and stared out smug and satisfied.

  The piglet was placed Clay’s end of the table. Beyond it were dishes of peas, carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, radish, red cabbage, tomatoes and deep red sauces and dark brown gravies.

  Abigail gave a flick of her pony-tail. “Mister Clay,” she said, “would you please do the honours?”

  He nodded and took a healthy gulp of wine. She handed him the knife. There was an odd expression on her face, as if she wanted him to prove how good he was with it. His strong hands were dexterous as he carved the tenderest meat.

  Belinda wolf-whistled and the three of them laughed, but even that didn’t bump his concentration. He sliced off enough delicious white flesh to serve four plates and they were passed around. He then gave an embarrassed half-bow and sat to a round of applause. Abigail clapped slowly, but seemed impressed.

  They took his plate and loaded it high, piling it with the wonderfully fresh looking greens and reds,
dousing it with his choice of gravy. The steam rose and his nostrils twitched. The ladies served their own plates, taking a petite selection of each vegetable.

  Judy poured more wine and filled Clay’s glass to the brim again, then gave lady-like splashes to her flatmates and to herself.

  And there they sat, the food mouth-watering, the wine rich and ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Abigail cleared her throat and, as if she was the patriarch of this little artificial family, held her glass high with a perfect smile: “Here’s to Nick Turnkey!”

  All four glasses were raised, though Clay was the only one in genuine mourning. He could understand why Abigail didn’t like Nick – after last night she of course had her reasons – but the gloating look on her face almost gave a sour taste to the food. What if she’d wanted him murdered?

  He took a long sip and watched the ladies eat, little Mmmm’s rising up as the tastes touched their lips.

  Clay held his fork still, hovering over a succulent slice of pork. “It’s a shame he’s dead.”

  “Of course it is, honey,” Belinda cut off a tiny piece of broccoli to chew on. “It’s a shame for anyone to die in that way.”

  Judy scrunched up her face. “I didn’t like him – but I’m still sad he’s dead.”

  “We’ve not lost anyone important, have we?” Abigail took a sip of wine, then swished the red liquid round in her glass. “Regardless of what you thought of him as a man, he was never someone who was going to achieve a great deal. He clearly thought he was, with those tapes and the way he forced that guitar into your face – but really, he’d achieved all he was ever going to. He’d been born a failure and lived a failure and was never going to die any way different no matter when he went.”

  He stared at her. “Does that matter though?”

  “Well, if you’re a normal person, no. If you’re just normal you get your husband/wife, mortgage, three kids – and you’ve achieved your lot.” She held her glass up and swished the contents around, a thin smile on her face as she did. “But, if you have aspirations of being an artist, you should attempt to make something of your life beyond the norm. Even if you’ve absolutely no talent – like our late friend Nick Turnkey – you still crave success so you can prove something to yourself. In those terms, you’re a failure if you don’t see your name in lights at least once, and since he never did he must have known – at the end – that he died a loser.” She took a gulp of wine and then grinned at Clay. “The problem for him was that no matter how long he lived, he’d always have died a loser.”

  Clay eyed her across the table, glass in her hand, trying to stay nonchalant. What if Abigail had wanted him dead? What if she was happy he was dead because she planned it? It was the same with Raymond, Clay thought. The first night Clay was back she said how much she hated him. And Raymond died too. What if she was behind it somehow? What if she did it? But that was insane. How could she possibly beat a man to death? She wouldn’t open a tin if she thought it might damage her nails. Surely murder was beyond her.

  She couldn’t have killed either of them, and even if she had, that wouldn’t explain his dreams. It was just a crazy theory that didn’t make sense.

  He didn’t want to stare, so had a few mouthfuls of food and chewed as his thoughts flew. She was beautiful, she was hard and callous – but a murderess? He took a heavy gulp of wine. “It’s still wrong though,” he said.

  Belinda glanced a little meanly at him; she clearly thought he was being slow on the uptake. “She isn’t saying it’s right, honey. But she’s correct that he wanted to be famous and successful, and now he never will be.”

  “But murder victims get their own fame,” he interrupted. “They get their photo in the papers.”

  “They get their photo on page eighteen,” she told him. “They don’t get any lasting fame unless there’s something special about them – and there was nothing special about Nick. Besides, by his own standards, he must have died knowing he’d failed, and I guess we should feel sorry for him.”

  “I didn’t like him,” said Judy emphatically. “I know it’s a horrid thing to say, but when I first heard the news I thought ‘Oh good!’ I know that’s a terrible thought, Clay, but after the way he behaved last night, I’m glad I never have to see him again.”

  “You can’t honestly expect us to be paid-up members of the Nick Turnkey memorial society.” Abigail took a gulp of wine and encouraged him to do the same. He raised the glass to his lips, but just took a sip. She continued: “It’s a terrible thing when somebody gets murdered, but we’re not going to pretend to be too upset. We’re all trained to cry on demand, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort in his case.”

  “And you never liked him either, honey,” said Belinda. “Let’s be fair.”

  Clay nodded and finally took a bite of the pork; it was marvellous, seeming to dissolve on his tongue and tingle backwards. Would Abigail behave like this if she’d actually done it? Wouldn’t she act more upset to throw people off the scent? His eyes fixed her across the table. “It’s still a terrible thing.”

  “It’s a terrible thing when anyone is murdered,” said Abigail. “Even Nick Turnkey.”

  And what about Belinda and Judy? Surely Abigail couldn’t murder two people without them knowing, without them having some part in it even. He knew that Belinda wouldn’t do it; surely Judy wouldn’t, either. It was all nonsense, all crap. His mind was tired and stressed; none of what he thought made sense.

  He smiled at Abigail. She actually smiled back.

  They ate. Clay, after turning his food around aimlessly, now chewed zealously. He piled his fork with the mix of vegetables, each one a treat and present for his stomach. He helped himself to more of the rich red sauce.

  “What about Raymond?” he asked, his mouth half-full. “Why did you all hate him so much?”

  “We didn’t hate him,” said Belinda.

  “I liked him!” said Judy. “When we first knew him, I thought he was one of the sweetest guys. He was so kind and considerate. I know he changed afterwards, and was a lot meaner then – but in the beginning, I really liked him.”

  Abigail sat back in her chair. “I don’t know. I think that meanness was always there and a lot of the niceness was just a front. I used to think – I never said it to anyone but I used to think it – that there was something dark and spiteful in him. And as time went by, he proved me right.”

  “What did he do, precisely?” asked Clay.

  “He became successful,” said Belinda. “And then he cut his old friends who weren’t so successful. You remember, honey, you were there; we always used to talk about helping each other when the moment arrived – well, the moment arrived for him and he just abandoned us.”

  Clay shook his head. “He didn’t abandon Toby and he’s not successful.”

  “But he’s also not an artist.” A sneer stretched across Abigail’s face. “He was no threat to Raymond.”

  “We heard there were three great female parts in his book,” said Judy. “Three super-duper roles any actress would want. We heard one was blonde, one was brunette, one was redhead – and he didn’t even make sure we went up for those roles. He didn’t even let us be considered.”

  “So you see, darling,” said Belinda, “he wasn’t really our friend at all. Friends do friendly things, they help you out. They don’t let roles you should have played go to Flower Honeysuckle and two strangers. Imagine – Flower Honeysuckle, the lead in a TV drama? She’s barely an actress. I liked Raymond, but the moment he became successful, the moment he didn’t need us to fuel his ideas and creativity – he just pretended we didn’t exist.”

  “Look! Look!” Judy jumped from her seat. She dashed to her bag on the floor and wrestled out a magazine. It was one of those bright and shiny show-biz mags that gave the impression celebrities are better than real people whilst making fun of the outfits they wear on their Sundays off. Clumsy fingers flicked through until she found the right place, then dropped i
t to the table. There were blurred paparazzi shots of a young, willowy celeb going shopping. She was dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and baseball cap. One of the photos was taken as she bent over and looked in a jeweller’s window, and you could see her thong. Judy pointed at it, breathless.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “That is Jemima O’Connor,” said Abigail. “She’s the new flavour of the month – but it won’t last. She’s allegedly going out with Josh McCartney.”

  Belinda pouted. “I don’t believe that. I don’t think he’d touch her.”

  “Who’s Josh McCartney?”

  “Oh Clay,” said Belinda. “You really are out of it, aren’t you? He’s a film star. A tall and handsome proper film star.”

  Judy was still bouncing on her heels, but managed to get her words out: “She’s going to be in Raymond’s thing!”

  “What?”

  “I heard it today. She’s playing one of the leads, along with Flower.”

  Belinda curled her lip and crinkled her nose in disgust. “You see, honey, that’s the kind of friend he was. He has casting approval on a TV show and he gives a role to this trollop.”

  “Look at her!” Abigail sneered. “Has she no class?”

  “Maybe he thought she’d be good for the role,” said Clay.

  “Better than us?” asked Belinda. “Please, darling, really. The man was just a bastard. The moment he became successful he turned his back on the people who’d supported him, the people who were his friends and deserved some kind of reward.”

  “Yeah, bastard!” Judy crumpled the magazine and threw it back towards her bag.

  “He was only successful in the loosest sense though, wasn’t he?” said Abigail. “He used to tell us he was writing these great important books, about – I don’t know – various tedious things. But look how he actually ended up making his pennies – writing trashy horror under a fake name.”

  “He was still successful though.” Clay took a big gulp of wine.