A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  ‘I think she was hurt. Some of that extra weight was muscle. She was putting in a lot of training for that show.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Melanie. The public rushed out in sympathy for Rachel. That negative publicity boosted sales of her swimsuit line through the roof.’

  ‘You can’t mean that Rachel piled on the pounds deliberately?’ Our Rachel wouldn’t stoop to that. She doesn’t seem the sort.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What you don’t seem to realise is that publicity is always good. Whether it’s sweet or nasty isn’t the point, so long as you stay in the media eye.’ Derek drops his voice. ‘And media coupledom could have some excellent benefits for you personally.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think the acting offers dropped off when Angelina stole Brad from Jenny Aniston? You think she got less magazine covers and fewer headlines? Of course not. Made her more popular than ever. Catapulted her into the big-time.’

  My resolve wavers when Derek uses words like catapult and big-time and magazine covers. I steel myself. I can’t let Winston and Derek dictate my personal life or I’ll be reduced to nothing more than a Sportzgirl puppet.

  ‘Liz Hurley was a complete nobody until she hooked herself to Hugh Grant and wore that dress…now she’s a household name,’ says Derek.

  ‘I can’t have an affair with Rico Black,’ I cut him off. ‘I hardly know him. I don’t even know if I like him.’

  ‘So what? You pretend. Go out with him a few times. Be seen at dinner, in a few quiet wine bars, walking on the beach, meeting the family, that sort of thing. Think of it as acting a role. Most of this reality TV stuff is contrived, anyway. I’m sure you know how to fake it, Melanie.’

  ‘Derek, I can’t. I already have a boyfriend.’ I steal a look over at Jack’s car.

  ‘No-one’s asking you to break up with your boyfriend. Keep him out of sight for a few weeks. Promise him whatever. What does he do, anyway?’

  ‘He’s a teacher.’

  ‘Maybe he can teach a few more flipper ball classes, do some extra crossing duty. So long as he stays out of sight. It’s your career on the line here. Geez, Melanie, unless he’s some kind of selfish bastard, he should understand. This is about you and your future.’ Jack is not selfish. ‘What bloke doesn’t want his girlfriend to realise her dreams?’

  ‘He does!’

  ‘He should be supportive.’

  ‘He is!’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, should there? All you have to do is tell him. Keep it quiet from your family and friends though. We don’t want them telling the media the relationship between you and Black is staged.’

  I look Derek in the eye. Launch my last arrow. ‘Derek, it’s not going to happen. Even if you were able to convince me, you’ll never get Rico Black to agree. It takes two to tango.’

  ‘Rico’s all for it.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘He’s keen as Listerine. I think Rico Black has a little thing for you, Melanie.’

  I think of Rico hosing down his muddied torso, rivulets tracing exploratory trails over his bronzed muscles. I might be blushing. My face feels warm. I could do with a good dousing myself. Derek is already striding off in the direction of his silver beamer.

  ‘Good, that’s all settled then,’ he shoots over his shoulder. ‘I’ll let you and Rico sort out the details.’

  39

  For the last two days I’ve tried to mention the Rico proposal to Jack, but I haven’t found the right moment. I know, I know, I should’ve told him in the car on the way home from the Rotorua mud run, but I couldn’t find the right words. What exactly is the best way to tell your boyfriend you’re planning to conduct a public affair with a Jake Gyllenhaal look-alike? I could’ve spilled the beans later that evening when I was wrapped up in his man-size dressing gown and dining on pumpkin and feta pasta, but I chickened out again. I did consider telling him last night after our game of Monopoly at Shane and Kelly’s (every now and again we have a Games Night to keep down babysitting costs), but for the first time in his life Jack managed to purchase all four railway stations plus Mayfair and Park Lane. I didn’t have the heart to spoil his evening with Derek’s ultimatum.

  Not that the present timing is any better since I’m prone, crossword in hand, my feet in Jack’s lap, and he-of-the-exquisite-touch is rubbing my feet in firm penetrating strokes with peppermint foot cream. If I distract him now there’s a chance he might stop, which would be tragic. On reflection, it doesn’t have to be right now. A few minutes either way won’t matter. I concentrate on the remaining blanks in my crossword.

  Twelve across. The clue is furtive. A six letter word. Ending in a T.

  COVERT? No. SECRET. I fill in the spaces.

  Three down. Delay. Thirteen letters.

  POSTPONEMENT. No too short. PROCRASTINATE.

  Fuck it! Even the crossword is dropping hints now. I absolutely have to tell him. I lay the newspaper and my pencil on the side table.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Pressure too hard? Sorry, babe. I’ll back off.’

  ‘Nooo…’ He goes on massaging the ball of my foot with the perfect amount of pressure, achy but nice.

  ‘Jack. Derek-and-Winston-are-making-me-date-someone-else-as-a-promotional-ruse and I-hope-you-don’t-mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Derek and Winston are…’ Jack stops rubbing and pushes my feet away. Tuck them under me, I hunch myself up against the armrest.

  ‘I heard what you said, Mel. What I can’t believe is that we’re discussing it. How can you even consider going along with a suggestion like that?’

  ‘But Derek and Winston say…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what Dumbass and Winnie say! They can’t make you have an affair.’

  ‘They can. Derek’s as good as told me. It’s not as if what they’re asking is illegal. And if I don’t, I’m out of a job.’

  ‘Then tell them to where to stick their bloody job!’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘I don’t believe this. Who is it then? Sione?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It can’t be Simon because he’s married. Even Dumby and Witless wouldn’t stoop that low.’

  ‘It’s Rico.’

  He’s quiet for a moment. ‘It figures.’

  ‘Jack.’ I lean in and place my hand on his. ‘Are you jealous?’ He jerks his hand away.

  ‘No! I’m bloody well not jealous. Just furious!’ He is. The crease between his eyebrows has deepened into a stony frown. ‘They can’t ask you to do this, Mel.’

  ‘I already said yes!’ I yelp. Jack sighs, a deep breath as if summoning up the patience to deal with an unruly class.

  ‘Of course, you did. So what do you have to do? Go running with him? Eat off his plate? Be seen with him at his family’s beach bach at Foxton?’

  ‘I think what Winston and Derek have in mind is a little more public than Foxton.’

  ‘The two of you cosying up in clubs and bars?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Kissing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe some.’

  ‘Mel!’

  ‘It won’t mean anything though, Jack. He doesn’t mean anything to me. You know that. It’ll just be playacting. We have to think of it as a role, a part in a drama.’

  ‘Are there any nudity clauses in this role, Mel? Any raunchy sex scenes in the script, with Rico as your leading man?’

  ‘No! Of course not! It’s extra publicity for Sportzgirl, that’s all. Please try and understand, Jack.’

  ‘I can understand why Sportzgirl want you to do it and I damn well see why Fancypants Rico wants in. What I don’t see is how it gets you ahead, Mel. Are you sure this isn’t your way of telling me you want out of our relationship, because if it is I’m happy to take the blame. No need to dream up some cock and bull story. If you want to call it off, you only have to tell me. I’m a big boy now, Mel. I can take it.’

  ‘No, Jack. That’s not it. It’s nothing to do with
you and me. I don’t want to give up this shot. Please…’

  ‘How do Doofus and Waldo see my role in all this? Let me guess, I’m supposed to pretend to be your brother or your work colleague?’

  ‘Something like that. Look, Jack it isn’t for long. A couple of months. We’ll have to be careful, that’s all, be more discreet when we’re out together, park my car in your garage when I stay over, so the paparazzi doesn’t realise you and I are a couple.’

  ‘But we can tell Janeen and Shane, our families, the people we care about, right?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘No? I see. I don’t like it. It’s dishonest.’

  ‘I know.’ I suck in a mouthful of lightly-pepperminted air. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

  ‘You’re determined to do this then?’ I nod. There’s that deep sigh again.

  ‘Okay, I’ll go along. For you. Because you’re asking me to. But,’ he holds up his hand as I’m about to propel myself into his arms. I halt myself mid-launch. ‘Just so we agree, there’ll be no kissing.’ I sit back on my heels and nod. ‘And absolutely no nudity.’

  ‘No nudity. Right.’

  ‘And you will consult me before making any further pacts with the devils.’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Strangely, now I’ve got Jack to agree, I’m not sure whether to be pleased. How can he be okay with me dating another guy even if it is pretend? And what was that about it being a trick to make us split up? What if that’s what he wants? Oddly disconcerted, I pick up the newspaper, and still hugging my side of the couch, my knees still tucked under me, I contemplate the blanks.

  Four across. Discombobulate. Seven letters.

  CONFUSE. No. PERTURB. No, doesn’t fit with eight down. FLUSTER. No. TURMOIL. No. TROUBLE. There, that fits.

  ‘Hey, you. Why’re you way over there on that side of the couch?’ Jack says.

  Immediately, I soften. What was I thinking? Jack loves me. He understands.

  Lowering the paper, I tilt my head to the side. ‘But Jack,’ I say in sugary tones, ‘you said no kissing. And no nudity. And definitely no pacts with devils. I’m just making sure I keep to my side of the bargain.’

  ‘Get over here, you ninny.’

  Ben Nielson of Revenir

  cordially requests the company of

  Melanie Short and Jack Roberts

  to celebrate the launch of

  ‘Fit, Phat Food’ by Charlie Tyler

  6:30pm May 30, Villa Rose Winery, Snodgrass Road

  Mr Tyler will gladly autograph copies of his new book.

  Black tie

  40

  This Sunday there’s only me, Bryce, Mark, Scottie and Fran at Road Runners. We’ve decided on a shorter run, 9km around the boardwalk, because this is Fran’s first run with the club since she injured herself in February. The boys decide to go out fast, leaving Fran and I at the rear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Fran, wondering about this woman who can hold her own with the club’s excess testosterone. I like her immediately. She’s lively and down-to-earth and she doesn’t take any back-chat. She doesn’t stop talking either, which is entertaining if you are running with her.

  We hang back, nursing Fran’s recovering calf which is firmly wrapped in overlapping layers of clay-coloured Sparadrap. She has two young children, both boys under five. In her other life, before children, she was an emergency nurse, so she got used to running at odd times of the day to accommodate her shift work. These days she works only one afternoon shift a week, keeping her registration valid and ‘her hand in.’

  ‘Darryl, that’s my partner, he’s a practice nurse in general practice so his hours are more regular. He’s supportive of my running though, which is great. He gets the kids up and makes their toast on Sundays, although it’s a miracle if the beds get made. He might be new-age, but he’s a mere man, after all,’ Fran grins. ‘And if ever he’s not supportive, I’ll be asking him if he wants his girlfriend to look like the Vicar of Dibley. Because that’s what happens if I stop running, I balloon out something terrible. It’s been a disaster, this injury: I put on three kilos in the first three weeks, still eating-to-run. So frustrating! I hate not running. I’m like a frumpy, grumpy old bear come out of hibernation.’

  I’m still assuring her she looks fine, and no, I can’t see a second roll starting to hover around her tummy, when we reach the clearing at McCardle’s Bush. We stop briefly to stretch our muscles using the park sign for support. The boys circle back to meet us and we set off again, the boys charging off again. ‘It’s nice to finally have another female runner join us though,’ says Fran. ‘We always joke that Mark scares them off. And Karl with his silly farting. They’re like a bunch of overgrown schoolboys. You do realise they’re all harmless don’t you? When they get to know you, they’d do anything for you.’

  ‘Oh, I think they’re lovely. They’ve already given me heaps of advice about running.’

  ‘Hrmph!’

  ‘No, no, they’ve told me heaps of things. Although, some of it did seem a bit suspect.’

  ‘I can guess. To be fair though, what those boys don’t know about running probably isn’t worth knowing. I know diddly-squat about marathoning compared to them. I’m the club marathon-baby. Ran my first marathon the year before Conrad was born and the guys pulled me through it, kicking and screaming. I’ve managed to do two others, but it’s a big time commitment when you’ve got kids. I’ve breastfed both mine, and it can be problematic if you’re out on a two hour run and it’s time for your baby’s feed! So while I learned a whole heap of things about running from the boys at the club, there’s some stuff they couldn’t possibly know…’

  ‘Like how it feels to run on the first day of your period?’

  ‘See, now that’s the kind of stuff you only share with a woman runner. How has it been? Cramps?’

  ‘It’s been okay. Harder to get motivated.’

  ‘Don’t I know it! But once you get out, you start to feel better. It’s one of the mysteries of running. There’s a theory that women athletes perform better during their periods. Higher levels of testosterone.’

  ‘You think next month I could take on Bryce and Mark for speed?’ We can see the men turning back now as we pull up to the water fountain on the south-eastern end of the inlet.

  ‘Ha! I wouldn’t go that far! I suspect the theory’s designed to keep women going no matter how lousy they feel.’ I make a noise in agreement as I slow for the water stop. I must introduce Fran to Janeen. They’d go together like hokey and pokey. Watered and refreshed we embark on the last section of the route where grasses graze the boards.

  ‘So you ran while your children were babies? That must’ve been difficult.’

  ‘Was it ever! Manufacturers have yet to cotton on to the need for the maternity-strength running bra. I don’t suppose Sportzgirl does one, do they?’

  Not likely!

  ‘We’re primarily fashion sportswear really...’ I’m ashamed to be the spokesperson for a company that isn’t interested in providing a product for real runners like Fran.

  ‘Thought so,’ Fran says, like the counsel who’s coerced the witness into confessing something incriminating. ‘In the end, I got some help from a specialist lingerie store. The woman there fitted me with an iron-lung bra. It looked like my grandma’s corsets, and supposedly prevented up to ninety per cent bounce. Cost me an arm and a leg. The idea is to plaster your boobs to your chest wall. I could hardly breathe once I was straitjacketed into it! And I had to handwash it after each use! How ridiculous is that? – but I figure that iron-lung bra cost me less than the boob job.’ She laughs.

  We reach the turnaround point at Judea. I let Fran go first as we cross the traffic bridge. On the other side, I quicken my pace to catch her up.

  ‘Fran? Since we’re talking underwear, can I ask what you wear under your compression pants? I’ve tried everything. I thought a thong would be the thing, being small and inconspicuous, so I tried them and…’

>   Fran pulls a wry smile. ‘Travel did they?’

  ‘Ohmigod, Fran, they rode up my bottom until I had the mother of all wedgies. It was horrendous. I made the mistake of wearing a lace one, and it scratched and itched like crazy. I must’ve looked like a rap dancing Snoop Dog! Thank goodness I didn’t try them on a filming day or there would’ve been national coverage of my misfortune.’ Fran laughs heartily. How does she do that and still breathe?

  ‘You want to know my secret?’ she says. “Don’t wear any.’ I must look a little shocked. She explains: ‘My tights go straight in the washing machine the minute I get home. It’s not as if I save them in the laundry basket for another couple of wears. It’s simple. No undies, no wedgy.’ She chuckles. ‘Melanie, it’s so refreshing to have another woman in the club. Makes a change to share some battle stories of my own.’ I agree. There are some things you just can’t discuss with the boys. ‘Moving on from underwear to outerwear, your jacket is gorgeous, Mel. Is it from Sportzgirl?’

  ‘No, this is a one-off original. My girlfriend, Janeen, made it for me. She’s a fantastic seamstress.’

  ‘She a runner too?’

  ‘No! Janeen thinks I’m off my rocker.’

  ‘But she obviously knows runners. It’s a pity it’s a one-off because I’d buy one. It’s stunning.’

  ‘It’s practical too. It’s got these little pockets here and…’

  But I don’t get any further because next minute I’m stung on the lip by a bee.

  ‘Ooow!’ My mouth was open at the time and the barbed beastie flew right in, didn’t like the look of my tonsils and backtracked straight out, but not without stinging me on the bottom lip. ‘Oow!’ I stop running and dance about crazily, my hands over my mouth.

  ‘Melanie, what is it?’ Fran must think I’m unhinged, jumping about like Ferdinand the Bull.

  ‘Bwee!’ I shriek.

  ‘On your face?’ Then I remember Fran is an emergency nurse. I nod urgently.