The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy)

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  ‘Be that as it may, MNC love him, and the show. Everyone is talking about it over in London. The buzz in NYC must be incredible.’

  Henri had seen two newspaper articles since quitting two days ago, after which she stopped reading the stupid dailies. There was some cheesy publicity shot of her brother hugging a giant plastic ‘10’; the headlines in both cases were something along the lines of: ‘London’s naughtiest DJ scores big time in New York.’

  Pig.

  ‘So, what are you going to do now, Henri?’ Ashley sounded bored. Since Peter had stayed on, her agency still got its cut from the MNC job, so she wasn’t feeling particularly enthusiastic about having to deal with the other Prime. Or the ‘deserter’, as the agency staff were probably calling her.

  ‘I was hoping you might have some leads for me? Back in London.’

  Given her roach invested digs, Henri was eager to get back to her cosy Hampstead pad ASAP, particularly as it would be Peter-free for months.

  ‘Don’t you remember why we concocted the New York plan in the first place. Peter has made London a no-go zone for you guys.’

  ‘But I’m not with Peter now. Surely there might be something for me as a solo act. That’s what the MNC job was supposed to be, remember?’

  ‘Henri, to be honest, I am all out of ideas. Perhaps you could do a little digging yourself. Maybe it’s time to try something else?’

  ‘Yes, like TV. Surely you’ve got some contacts?’

  There was a muffled conversation and then Ashley abruptly said she had to go – problems on the set of some soap.

  ‘Keep me in the loop, Henri, and if I hear of anything, I will be on the phone to you in a blink.’

  Hanging up, the agent left Henri on the line, staring at the phone.

  In a blink. What the hell did that mean anyway.

  God, she didn’t need Milne & Wright to get on in this business.

  She’d virtually put that MNC deal together all on her own.

  She could do it again.

  She’d said no to the offer of dinner in a dark Italian place in Soho, but later, after the show, had suggested they go for a drink in a bar not far from his hotel.

  Peter was feeling uncharacteristically nervous – the Blonde Bullet was dressed particularly provocatively that day – tight dark skirt, navy shirt and her usual severe topknot, and he had the distant feeling that he was not in charge of this arrangement in any way.

  When they arrived at the bar she insisted on paying: ‘I’ll charge it to MNC.’

  For once, Peter didn’t feel hungry. He was, however, overwhelmingly horny and strangely lacking in confidence, so proceeded to slam back a number of shots of whisky to regain control of the situation.

  Eva was unimpressed. ‘You need to slow down,’ she told him.

  Ah, that was better. Suddenly, she was beginning to sound like all the other girls he had ever dated.

  ‘Why don’t we order some nachos or something?’ He said, winking at her and grabbing a bar menu. ‘You could use a little meat on those bones.’

  Two days later, Henri was having severe doubts of ever working again, in any capacity.

  She’d pounded the pavement nonstop for the last forty-eight hours, pressing the palms of anyone she could track down with a minor degree of clout in TV or radio in New York. Unfortunately, the story of her stellar rise and demise at MNC had spread like wildfire.

  ‘Who leaves a show that is the biggest thing on radio – in the country?’ was the question on everyone’s lips.

  And Henri had to admit, when put like that, her actions did seem ridiculous.

  Peter kept calling to check on her, to ask her to come back, but after a while she just let the calls go to voicemail.

  There was no point.

  She wasn’t going to be a sex worker of any sort.

  Of course, it was difficult to mention the sex aspect of the whole thing to a prospective employer – she didn’t want them to think she was loopy. But the downside was they thought she was loopy anyway, because there was no justifiable reason for walking away from ‘Ten Reasons’.

  Finally, she’d heard of a job going at a small commercial station in the Bronx, but when she arrived, the tall guy with a tight afro and a sullen expression told her the job was DJing reggae, and if she could name five reggae artists, he’d let her audition.

  ‘Bob Marley?’ Henri had said.

  ‘That’s one.’

  ‘The Whalers?’ She’d suggested.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get out.’

  Peter woke to the sound of the shower running. It was sad that Henri had moved out, but it must be admitted it was rather liberating having the whole place to himself. Sex on his own turf, instead of having to pay for a hotel room, or run the gauntlet of some girl’s overly floral flat in the dark of the early morning.

  ‘Eva?’

  He tried to recall the events of the night before, but the pounding in his head indicated that it was a futile endeavor.

  She appeared in yesterday’s clothes, topknot newly arranged. Last night she had taken her hair down – he could remember that much.

  And she looked a lot different.

  Right, time to make the speech: ‘It was nice but . . . ‘

  Hang on. Looking at her, Peter felt the oddest inclination – to try to get her to stay.

  Bloody hell? What was wrong with him.

  Eva grabbed her bag. ‘Look, Peter, this was nice, but I don’t think we should do it again.’

  And now he felt disappointed. Probably, hopefully, because she had managed to get there first.

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ he told her. It was a lie. Well, not completely.

  ‘Yes,’ she shot him a brief smile. ‘I’ve no doubt you were.’

  And then she was gone.

  Peter didn’t want to think about it all anymore – his head was too sore for that – so he called room service and told them to bring his usual – the works.

  After all, he had a $1 million contract.

  He could afford it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The difference between listening to a radio sermon and going to church...

  is almost like the difference between calling your girl on the phone

  and spending an evening with her.”

  Dwight L. Moody, American Evangelist.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, HENRI WAS just about out of cash, and hope. Apart from the open-ended return plane ticket, paid for by MNC, she had little to show for her trip to America, and the thought infuriated her.

  If she went home now, she would be letting the situation defeat her.

  As well as putting herself in harm’s way of sighting that bastard Rodney on the tube or in the City or, God, even in Hampstead, where they all had lived prior to the breakup. In his typical selfish style, Rodney had only moved a few streets away from the Primes’ apartment, which gave the possibility of a ‘bump into’ an uncomfortable veracity.

  Sinking into the booth at a smart bakery-cum-coffee shop on Fifth Avenue, Henri picked up a discarded local paper and perused the Wanted ads. Waitress, waitress, waitress, hooker, waitress, erotic dancing, waitress. Hmm. Not a lot of choice for someone who wasn’t a waitress, was there?

  Especially if that someone was a virgin.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ A smiley girl, Henri put her age at about twenty, popped into the booth opposite her.

  ‘Er, sure?’ Henri looked around. The place was half empty. The girl must be one of those nutters.

  ‘I think I recognize you. You’re the sister from that radio show, aren’t you? Ten Reasons to Say I don’t?’

  How on earth would she recognize Henri? After all, she’d only done one-and-a-half shows, hadn’t she?

  ‘Really? How come?’

  The girl pushed over a glossy industry magazine, TalkItUp. There they were, on the cover, in that stupid publicity shot taken right before Peter upended the tray of donuts all
over X.

  Henri ran her hand over the picture. They looked so happy. Well, Peter was no doubt on a sugar high – and as she knew, about to come crashing down off it – and she was, well, she was basking in the success that they were sure would follow.

  And now, here she was, in a café, reading through Want ads for hookers.

  ‘I’m not working on that anymore.’

  ‘Wow, that was quick, what happened?’

  Henri changed the subject. She really didn’t want to discuss her private life, work or otherwise, with a stranger.

  ‘How come you’re reading that, anyway?’ Henri pointed to the magazine. ‘Are you in the business?’

  ‘Well, I want to be. I’ve set up my own station – in my garage. I live out in Queens, and the neighbors complained till Dad found some acoustic panels, but I’ve got about 2000 regular listeners, and Dad’s going to buy me a full power commercial license for my birthday next week. Right now I’ve only got a low power local one.’

  So pretty, and a geek.

  ‘Oh, how, um, enterprising.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you can’t get work, you make work, that’s what my Mum always said.’

  ‘You’re a bit young to be running a radio station, aren’t you?’

  The girl, corkscrew curls bouncing as she spoke, laughed. ‘I’m twenty-two. Everyone always thinks I’m a teenager. I suppose when I’m older I’ll appreciate looking younger. Right now, it sucks.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was Henri’s age. For some reason, Henri found the thought depressing. She was competing for jobs with people like this girl. Boppy, happy adults with a Peter Pan persona. Beside her, Henri felt like a tired, wash-up hag.

  They stared at each other for a minute, and Henri wished the girl would bugger off and leave her in peace.

  ‘Raelene Morris.’ She held out her hand.

  Shaking it, Henri offered her own moniker.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Raelene cocked her head at the magazine again.

  ‘Oh right.’

  The girl looked over at the open newspaper. ‘You looking for a job?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to go back home right now, guy troubles.’

  Raelene nodded knowingly. ‘They suck, don’t they?’

  Casting her mind back to the many innuendos her brother had shot at her over those words, Henri smiled. ‘They sure do.’

  ‘Listen, you could work with me, at my station. We might be able to get something started, you being famous and all. Then we’ll both have a job.’

  Henri laughed. From MNC to a garage in Queens. She didn’t hate the thought of bumping into Rodney so much as to take up an offer like that. Better off at home, pottering about in her parents’ garden, doing nothing, rather than subject herself to the inevitable ridicule that would come from Henri Prime working at an amateur gig in a garage. In Queens!

  ‘That’s a kind offer, but it takes a long time to make money from these things. And I really need a proper, paying job now.’

  The girl looked confused. ‘But didn’t you get something from your MNC show? Says here they paid you $1 million.’

  ‘That was just a year’s contract. And I broke it. So they gave it all to my brother.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  She didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘Like that show though. Everyone I know listens to it.’

  That little fact Henri didn’t appreciate hearing.

  ‘Well, thank you, I suppose.’

  ‘So you need money?’

  ‘Yes, and I really don’t know how to be a waitress.’ Nor did Henri want to do that. She’d gone from being a star to a nothing in less than a month. It hurt. It really hurt.

  ‘I might have an idea. It doesn’t pay much, but accommodation and food comes with it.’

  Hmm. ‘And what is it, exactly?’

  ‘Bingo calling, down at our local community hall. The pastor who runs it is trying to draw in larger crowds, and he is looking for ‘a name’,’ Raelene made quote marks in the air, ‘to front it.’

  Bingo! ‘No offense, but I don’t think it sounds like me.’

  ‘Poor Pastor Paul, that’s what everyone is saying. He had one of the Golden Girls hooked until she realized it wasn’t actually going to be on TV.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to help, Raelene, but . . .’

  ‘Think about it. Pays $200 a week, and all the Cheerios you can eat. Plus, you get to live with the pastor and his wife. Nice house, they’ve got, too.’

  ‘Um, yes, sounds lovely, but I’ll have to pass.’

  Looking disappointed, Raelene handed over a card. ‘

  New Radio Network, Queens.

  Raelene Morris.

  Director.

  ‘Think about it. If you change your mind, either about the job or the station, call me.’

  As Henri watched the pretty girl sashay off to the admiring glances of every man in the coffee shop, she wondered if this was people called being at rock bottom.

  Tucking the card into her wallet, Henri shook her head at the offer.

  Bingo.

  No way.

  Even if she was a believer, of sorts, but there was a limit. And living with clergy was it!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE KNEW SHE SHOULDN’T DO IT, but she couldn’t help torturing herself by listening to Peter’s show.

  The new timeslot allowed him to bring his full ‘potty mouth’ repertoire to the fore. And boy did he indulge in the privilege. Henri hadn’t heard so many expletives since her brother had caught his hand in the juicer back home, ten years ago.

  ‘You gotta tell her to fuckin’ get over it, man,’ Peter was yelling at some poor unfortunate boy, who was the subject of ‘Ten Reasons’ that day.

  The story went that this boy, Hector, from Arkansas (obviously the show was more widely syndicated than anyone expected), had an affair and his fiancée found out. Hector loved her, and the affair was a simple one-night stand, but the fiancée, after saying she had forgiven him, was now making his life a living hell.

  Hector, apparently concerned that he was marrying a shrew, wanted out.

  And Peter Prime was clearly on his side.

  ‘So, now, it’s Reason Number Seven, from Justine in Ohio. Hi Justine. What’s your reason for dumping the fiancée?’

  ‘If she’s holding out sex-wise; if that’s the reason he went out with another girl, then she’ll probably never want to do it again once they get married. She might be frigid or something. You can’t marry someone like that.’ Then Justine suggested that Hector give her a call. She was, apparently, meaty and matey. Whatever that meant.

  A contrived and ridiculous burst of recorded applause, including a number of woo, hoos, followed Justine’s rant.

  Peter added his own two cents’ worth: ‘Yeah, you don’t want to marry someone who is going to keep her legs crossed every night, mate.’

  Hector agreed that wouldn’t be good. ‘After all,’ the boy said, ‘Makes you feel less of a man, if she doesn’t want it.’

  Idiots. Henri snapped off the programme. No use doing this to herself any more, was there?

  But as she turned over and tried to sleep, she could help but wonder if Rodney had ever felt that way. Less of a man.

  If he did, he could have talked to her about it.

  Instead of sleeping with someone else.

  But what, a little voice in her head asked, would you have done about it?

  Certainly not what he wanted.

  Yet another day of traipsing about in vain, looking for work. There were any number of lowly paid jobs about, but she was so radically overqualified that even when Henri dropped her own high standards and applied for a couple of jobs, first as a shop assistant and then a waitress, the owners had asked if it was some set-up for TV?

  Not much of a set-up, she wanted to say, if they guessed it straight away.

  She’d asked her mother to transfer what little money she had left in her UK account to the US one. All the money she and Peter had ear
ned previously had gone into paying off some of the gigantic mortgage on their Hampstead flat, and Peter had told her that he planned to pay off the rest of it with his ‘Ten Reasons’ money.

  ‘He didn’t have to,’ her mother told her. ‘Because that flat is half yours. It was a gesture.’

  And Henri appreciated it, but it didn’t really help her unless she moved back home, and because of Rodney, that was hardly going to happen.