Mother was hardly sympathetic. ‘Rodney is already dating someone else, Henrietta, so forget him. Come home, you’ll find something else back here. No matter what that stupid agent of yours says.’
‘I just can’t,’ Henri had told her, ringing off quickly before she began to weep. How on earth could things have gone so wrong?
She was beginning to think that if it wasn’t for the sex thing, her life would be a lot better.
But that would mean deserting her values. She wasn’t about to do that.
As if to prove it to herself, she wandered around until she found a small church, and ducking inside, she sank into a pew and began to pray.
‘Are you alright?’ A priest was standing next to her, and Henri noticed that she was no longer praying, but crying. The collar of her white blouse was drenched with tears.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not Catholic.’
‘And a long way from home, judging by that accent.’ The gangly man, with a deeply-lined face that betrayed an obvious worship of the sun alongside God, sat down next to her. ‘That’s okay. I’m happy to listen, even if you don’t believe in God.’
Henri groaned. ‘That’s the problem, father. My belief in God, well, not God exactly but right and wrong, has totally and utterly derailed my life. And I know what you are going to say – that it’s supposed to be that way, that I’ll get my rewards eventually – but I just don’t believe it anymore. It’s as if life is trying to tell me my values are rubbish.’
‘My dear, sometimes life is not telling you anything, except that you have to be patient. Perhaps you’ve already made the right choices, you just don’t know it.’
‘Or, I keep making the wrong choices, and until I change my ways, I’ll be unhappy.’
The priest patted her arm. ‘I have a feeling it will all work out for you. Just be open to new experiences. Now, if you excuse me, if have confession.’ He pointed to a line of elderly women, sitting in a row a few pews behind them. ‘Trust me, God will not desert you. You are right about that.’
Be open to new experiences. She hoped that didn’t mean what she thought it did! Or maybe she just had sex on the brain, thanks to her evil prat of a brother. Sinking back into the hard wood of the bench seat, Henri pondered the priest’s comments. If not sex, what other new experiences was she not open to? Poverty? Tick! Humiliation? Tick! Loneliness? Tick!
Opening her wallet, the card from Raelene Morris stuck out from behind the Visa. Had she sunk as low as to call up Raelene and take that job as a bingo caller?
What other option was there?
A new experience? Calling bingo was more nightmare than new experience. No way could she go from premier radio star to that.
But if not that, what?
Over by the doors of the confessional, the priest smiled at her.
Giving him a sad one in return, Henri realized she had two choices.
Either bingo, or go back to London.
What a pathetic selection to choose from.
Peter called and threatened to reveal the name of her secret childhood crush (Tony Blair, the ex-prime minister) live on air if she didn’t phone him back. Sighing, she sat on her lumpy little bed in her nasty little hotel room, and dialed the number.
‘Thought that would get you!’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Henri snarled, noting that he picked up after the first ring, something he never did. Peter had a theory that women liked men who were bastards, and in spite of his jovial, easy going nature (random acts of donut violence aside), when it came to his girlfriends, he turned into a raving commitphobe who could never be tied down.
‘Come back to work, Henri,’ Peter whined. ‘It’s no fun without you. Now that the show’s a success, everyone is so damned serious about everything. They even started replacing the donuts with crappy muesli bars. I told them muesli gives me wind, and then there were just apples. Apples! You know how I feel about fruit.’
‘The same way you feel about marriage. But nothing’s changed, Pete, I am not going to be associated with sex on air.’
‘God, you are so melodramatic – there is no sex on air. Although, that is a damn good idea. Imagine, the first hump to be broadcast on a Top 10 rating programme?’
‘I don’t want to. And sorry, but I am not coming back. So if this is the reason for your call . . .’
‘Um, no. It’s not. Well, not completely. Rodney rang, said he couldn’t get hold of you.’
‘Obviously. I am not talking to him.’
Peter coughed uncomfortably. ‘No, well, that’s why he called me. He needs to tell you something.’
‘He wants sex without marriage, what else is there to tell?’ Henri really didn’t want to be having this particular conversation.
‘No Henri, you don’t get it. It’s a courtesy call.’
‘What?’
‘To tell you he is getting married.’
‘What!’ Apparently, he’s met the woman of his dreams; a woman who does give out on the first date.
When she voiced her opinion to Peter, however, there was more subtle clearing of the throat. ‘Look, there’s more. The person he’s going to marry, it’s Ashley Milne.
‘Our agent?’ The leggy brunette with the huge tits who used to be my good friend.
‘Well, technically, she’s only mine now, but yes.’
‘I bloody introduced them.’
‘And Rodney feels really bad about it. Wanted to explain, but–’
Henri couldn’t hear anymore. How could she go back to London now? Ashley knew everyone in the business so it would be difficult looking for work without the added humiliation of Rodney and that bitch laughing at her attempts over their morning bonk.
‘I’ve got to go, Peter.’
‘Hen, come back. It’s so bloody boring without you.’
But the tears had started and Henri could verbalize once again how much she didn’t want to join Peter in his nightly mockery of relationships.
Especially when the only decent one Henri had ever had was well and truly dead and buried.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HENRI STOOD AT THE CORNER of two narrow intersections in Queens, and wondered how the cars managed to get about without knocking into each other.
She couldn’t quite believe how low she’d sunk – agreeing to meet Pastor Paul and discuss a job that involved pulling balls out of some glass contraption, and saying ridiculous things such as ‘legs eleven’.
So much for her dream of hosting a TV talk show – a nice clean programme, complete with celebrity guests who had more interesting things to discuss that indiscriminate shagging and boob jobs.
Hooked over her arm was a large carryall which she’d purchased when her stupid designer suitcase had broken as she dragged it down the stairs of her hotel.
It was a stripy blue one and added to the feeling that she was living someone else’s life – a refugee fleeing a maniacal dictator, perhaps? – although in her case it was a cheater boyfriend and bitch of an ex-friend and agent.
Not the same, she knew.
New experiences, hah? She wanted to go back to that church in Manhattan and tell the priest this wasn’t what she had in mind. She felt like good old Job, but for the life of her, couldn’t work out why God was punishing her like this.
A couple of cars honked her – she was dressed down in jeans, trainers and her blue blazer, but her hair was loose and in spite of her recent losses, Henri actually looked healthy and tanned. Must be all that sitting around in coffee shops, eating muffins.
She crossed the road and then, finally, she saw a narrow steeple with a silver cross attached. Heading towards the small building, which was little more than a shed, Henri turned on the spot, looking for the door of the Pastor’s residence, which is where she was supposed to go. God, if that was the church, the bingo hall was probably no bigger than her rank hotel room.
How many more mistakes was Henri going to make with her life until she learned.
She’d spoken at length t
o Pastor Paul at length about the bingo job, after contacting Raelene to ask if a casual arrangement might be possible. Henri needed a job, and a distraction, and Pastor Paul’s wife needed a break from calling the bingo, particularly as she was pregnant with her third child.
‘Just for a month or so, until you find someone else.’
Oh well, there was always Australia. She’s hadn’t humiliated herself there, yet.
‘Are you lost, dear?’ Weirdly, the question came from a little girl who looked about twelve.
‘Do you call everyone dear?’
‘I like to see their reaction. You’re clever; you just called me on it. You’d be surprised how many people just smile as if I were retarded or something.’
The kid was petite and blonde, with a pixie-like face that, together with the scrunched up hair, needed a good wash. Her hands were almost black with some sort of oil.
‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Repairing bikes. I do it for money.’
‘Really, that’s enterprising.’
‘Dad says so.’
‘Is you dad by any chance the pastor?’
The girl nodded. ‘That means you are the bingo lady.’
Henri grimaced. ‘Never been called that before.’
‘You don’t have bingo wings like the last one though?’
‘And what are they, exactly?’
‘Flab on the underside of your arms – you know, when you get old and wear sleeveless tops.’
‘Ugh. Well, I’m only 26, so I’m glad I don’t have them yet.’
The two of them stared at each other for a moment.
‘So, I don’t suppose you could take me to the pastor’s house, could you?’
‘Sure,’ the girl said. ‘Follow me.’
The perky pre-teen led Henri past the small building with the silver cross, and in through a hedge.
Wow!
A huge white building, this time with a magnificent wood and gilt cross, stood in the centre of a large grassed area. Beside it, there was an equally impressive home, complete with trailing vines of purple fragrant flowers (Henri had no idea what type, but recognized them from home). A wrap-around verandah supported the structure, and on it sat one of those stereotypical American outdoor chair swings usually seen on reruns of The Gilmore Girls.
‘This is incredible. You’d never know it was here. Particularly in a suburb like this.’
The girl smiled. ‘Did you think the dress shed was the church?’
‘Dress shed?’
‘Yeah, it’s actually for Sunday School, but when I was little I thought it was where Dad got ready for church, and called it that. Mum and Dad thought it was cute. Lame, hah?’
‘So your dad is-’
‘Pastor Paul, yep!’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Amy.’
Henri shook her hand solemnly. ‘Henri Prime.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘Dad said you had the chance to be a big star but you turned your back on it because it wasn’t what God wanted.’
‘Oh.’ That was one way of putting it.’
Suddenly, a young man, about Henri’s age, jumped off the verandah and headed for a beaten-up van. With a shock of dark hair and the same huge baby blues as Amy, the man was possibly one of the best-looking guys Henri had seen since landing in New York.
Wait a minute? ‘That’s not your dad, is it?’
Amy laughed. ‘Are you joking? That’s my stupid brother Jess. He’s supposed to be studying law but he dropped out and now he hangs about, working at some pizza place, and driving Mum and Dad mad.’
Henri calculated that for Amy’s mother to have given birth to Jess and be pregnant again, she had either started having kids in primary school, or Jess was Amy’s half brother.
‘Yeah, his mom died. Then Dad married my mom.’
‘That must have been terrible for him?’
‘He was little. It was a long time before Dad let himself fall in love again. At least, that’s what he says.’
The little girl must have noticed Henri’s steady appreciation of her brother’s rear as he pulled a huge sack out of the back of the van.
‘He’s single, you know. Well, at the moment.’
Embarrassed at being caught out, Henri shook her head. She knew he had to be a player. Anyone who looked like him couldn’t help but be, could he?
‘To be honest, Amy, I am not really looking for a relationship right now. It’s part of the reason I left London.’
‘Dad said you left London because you got a huge radio show here.’
Hmm. This family clearly discusses everything, don’t they? ‘Yes, but there were lots of things that influenced that decision.’
‘Like a boyfriend.’
‘Yes, like a boyfriend.’
A booming voice saved Henri from any more questions. ‘Well, this must be Ms Prime! Welcome, welcome!’
Henri turned to find a larger version of Jess. Paul Calinko’s twinkling blue eyes and square-jawed good looks were unusual for a pastor. And for someone who must have been at least fifty. In fact, the only factor that distracted from Pastor Paul’s movie star looks was a rather expansive tummy. That tummy made Henri feel immediately at home – it reminded her of her brother. She suspected, however, that unlike Peter, Pastor Paul’s paunch wasn’t due to the over-consumption of alcohol.
‘Pastor Paul, thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.’ The word stuck in Henri’s throat. It was hardly an opportunity, was it? If Peter or her parents or, God, Ashley and Rodney discovered what she was up to, she would be the laughing stock of the radio industry. Then that glossy magazine would be running another cover story, but for a very different reason.
Amy tugged at Henri’s sleeve. ‘All my friends love your brother. Is he as bad as he seems?’
‘Amy! Leave Henri to get settled before the questions start. Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping, Henri. I see you’ve met Jess too.’
Jess looked over and scowled at Henri. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in meeting her. Under his gaze Henri felt a weird rumble in the pit of her stomach. Gosh, he was hot, and he knew it.
So not Henri’s type.
After Rodney, she was going to focus her attention on men who were more cerebral and sensitive. The good looking ones were always players, and she had enough of crying over men who walk away because of her views on sex before marriage.
‘Um, yes. Amy has been very helpful.’
Pastor Paul led the way up into the house. Inside, it was as beautiful turned out as the exterior suggested – stunning turned woodwork, all painted in a smooth ivory; wood floors so polished that the sunlight from outside bounced off and onto the walls in numerous places, giving the whole place a homey, but slick appeal. The total effect was one you might see in a posh home-living magazine.
‘You two have a beautiful house,’ Henri told the father and daughter as they made their way upstairs to her room.
‘That’s my wife, Em. She used to be a buyer for a big store in Boston. Don’t know why she settled on me, with all her talents.’
Looking into his lovely blue eyes, and smiling in response to his huge grin, Henri had a fair idea.
At one time, if Rodney had wanted to marry her, Henri might have agreed to go and manage a rubbish dump with him, had he asked.
Forget him, Henri reminded herself.
He was with Ashley now.
Marrying Ashley.
And he had never wanted to marry her.
‘Henri?’
‘Oh sorry, I was miles away.’
Pastor Paul’s understanding eyes were unblinking. ‘We’ve all been there.’
He was standing at the doorway to a lovely room decked out in white and blue.
‘This is the guest room,’ Amy said
‘It’s beautiful!’
Emily Calinko, wife of Paul, mother of Amy, appeared. A large, buxom woman with Amy’s jolly smile and a lighter pair of blue
eyes to those of the rest of her family, the tiny woman bustled about in the room, opening windows and thumping the bed to check for cats.
‘The cats enjoy lying under the covers,’ Em said. ‘Can be a bit of a shock, to find something licking your neck at night!’
‘I love cats,’ Henri replied.
‘Then you’re one of us!’ Amy snuck her small hand into Henri’s.
This place seems perfect. Strangely perfect.
‘Thanks so much for having me,’ Henri smiled at the petite woman. She had the feeling it would not be difficult to like Emily Calinko.
‘Dinner at six. Why don’t we leave you to get settled – we can discuss the bingo then.’ Pastor Paul put a gentle arm around each of the Calinko girls, and led them, protesting from the room.
‘But I want to know about Peter Prime,’ Amy whined jokingly.
‘Peter Prime?’ Em asked.
‘My brother,’ Henri had to admit.
Apparently, both females were interested in what Henri’s famous brother was really like.
Rude, Henri wanted to say. Weird a religious family listened to Peter’s show, of all things.
The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy) Page 17
