by Heidi Lowe
Strummed
by Heidi Lowe
Published by Heidi Lowe Books, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
STRUMMED
First edition. June 28, 2015
Copyright © 2015 Heidi Lowe
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
OTHER BOOKS BY HEIDI LOWE
BLURB
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ONE
As soon as I woke up that morning I knew it was going to be a bad day. I'm not psychic or anything – at least I don't think I am – but I always get this sense of foreboding at the beginning of a dreadful day. It's like the universe warning me to prepare myself.
“The rent's increasing at the start of next month,” my roommate and best friend, Jessica, announced as she trotted into the kitchen that morning, still wearing her bathrobe and slippers. She drained what was left of the orange juice from the carton before taking a shot at the bin, skillfully getting it in on her first try. “Am I seriously for real?” She beamed, always managing to look surprised by her skill, despite taking the same shot every morning with different bits of junk.
I rolled my eyes at her and bit into my toast. “By how much?”
“A hundred bucks each. You're good though, right?”
“I'll have to be, won't I?” I said dully.
“Because if you're not, I can cover it for a couple of months until something else comes up.”
“I couldn't ask you to do that...again.” It was bad enough that she'd covered the full rent for two months, back when I'd first moved out here five months ago. I suspected she would have continued paying indefinitely if it came to it, just to have me around. Just so I wouldn't be forced to return to our home town, “the place where dreams go to die”, as she often put it. “Besides, something will come up. I'm going down to the agency later to see if they have someone new for me.”
She must have heard the disillusionment in my voice because she said, smiling reassuringly, “It really won't be long, you know. I've got a sixth sense about these things. The perfect client is waiting for you right this second. The stars will align, bringing you together. You'll see.”
I burst into a laugh. “Let me guess, I'll meet a tall, handsome stranger who'll whisk me off to the Caribbean to pamper me and cater to my every whim?”
She shrugged, looking at me with a mock-serious expression. “Thinking positively, Elle, that's the key.”
“No, going to law school after college instead of traveling across Europe, hostel-hopping and wasting my life was the key. Where was your sage advice three years ago?”
“Trust me, you dodged a bullet. Law isn't any more certain than what you do. TV, movies, they like to glamorize it.”
I knew what she was doing, and I loved her for it. It didn't matter one iota that she was lying through her teeth just to make me feel better. Truth was, she loved her job, and if the stories she told me were true, about the types of people who strolled into the law firm she worked at, the TV shows and movies didn't do that world justice. Although she said being a junior associate at a pay-what-you-can law firm didn't pay very well, it was a million times better than what I did.
What I did...
I sighed just thinking about it.
Have you ever noticed how dull and miserable everything around you starts to look when you're in a bad mood? It's like your mood warps your surroundings so that they resemble the way you feel. That was how it was when I stepped into the Green Pines Agency later that morning, drenched in rain from a sudden, almost freakish rainfall that seemed to stop as soon as it started, but only once it had soaked my clothes right through.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist said when I opened my mouth to say hello. She gave me an appraising look as she eyed my wet clothes and hair.
“I actually work here. Well, not here exactly, but... I'm a personal assistant. It's Elle. Elle Bowman,” I said, trying hard not to sound too offended that she'd forgotten who I was. I'd been at the agency three months, passed through those doors at least half a dozen times.
Her expression remained unchanged. “Are you here to see someone, or...?”
“I was just checking in. Wanted to see if any new clients came on the books.” To beg for scraps. I felt like dropping to my knees and bawling, telling her all about how I'd screwed up my life, and how I was now destined to be an assistant – a lackey catering to the rich and pompous – as a daily reminder of my poor choices. Maybe if I mentioned the rent hike she'd take pity on me, put my name forward when a new client called the agency looking for a PA.
When her face didn't change, didn't soften, I knew there was no hope of extracting any sympathy from her. I didn't remember her being this cold the last time I came.
“We give all our assistants a call if we need them. You didn't have to come all the way down here.” She returned to whatever she was doing before, probably browsing her Facebook page or something, as though I'd already moved on.
“Is Cynthia here? I'd really like to speak with her.”
She sighed loudly and dramatically, wanting me to know I was putting her out because, shock! horror! I was making her do her job. She picked up the phone, her long, colorful nails now looking like claws as she glowered at me.
I sat down as far away from the desk as possible, not wishing to hear the disparaging remarks I imagined she was making about me to Cynthia. The company's logo and slogan stared back at me on the wall opposite; a huge, leafy tree above the words Green Pines – We put the personal in assistants. Even though I'd seen it several times I had to stifle a laugh yet again at how lame it sounded. The company had been trading for a mere two years, so a change was soon likely.
Two years. One would think that such a new company would have better customer service. I wondered if it was just me, or if the bitchy receptionist had the same attitude to the clients.
“She'll be with you shortly,” she called out moments later, not bothering to look my way, her eyes already back on the screen.
Had I known that shortly would translate to twenty minutes, I probably would have stayed in bed, which, looking back with hindsight, would have salvaged my day and changed the course of my life.
“Lee, is it?” Cynthia, the manager, came charging over to me in one of her power suits, exuding way too much energy. She looked like the sort of woman who knew how to get what she wanted, and didn't take crap from anyone. The type of woman I aspired to be one day. But wait. Lee? She just called me Lee! Not her too! She was the one who'd interviewed and hired me! Was I really that forgettable?
“No, it's Elle. Bowman.” I stood up to shake her hand. “You gave me Faruk Ozan, remember?” Maybe if she didn't remember me she might remember him. He was a hotelier and one of the richest men in Turkey. He'd come to San Francisco for three months on business, with the view to opening a new spa hotel. Despite Jessica's insistence that I carry pepper spray in my back pocket at all times, “because these Turkish millionaires have a thing for hot, young American girls, and don't like it when you turn them down”, he'd been a perfect gentleman. The best first client a newbie could have asked for. Back then I didn't know the first thing abou
t being a personal assistant. He'd had the patience of a monk, and didn't snap at me when I screwed things up – which I did constantly. His tips alone paid a month's rent.
But the glory days were now over, and I was back to square one.
“Oh, right, of course. Elle Bowman. Hi.” She didn't remember. “What can I do for you, Elle?”
Just as I went to speak, the doors burst open and a sobbing girl ran in.
“Honey, what's wrong?” Cynthia caught her in her arms, giving her a motherly hug as the girl wailed into the shoulder of her expensive Italian jacket.
“She's...she's a monster!” was all I could make out through her tearful shrieks.
Cynthia led her over to the desk, pulled a handful of tissues from a box behind it and handed them to the crying girl. She was younger than me, I could see that. Maybe twenty-one or two. But something had had the effect of reducing her to a mere child. Who was this demon and why was she so powerful?
“Tell me what happened.” There was something in Cynthia's voice, a hint of impatience maybe, which made me think that she'd dealt with this sort of thing before, that it was a common occurrence in this business. The look she exchanged with the receptionist was suspicious, as though the two of them were thinking the same thing.
“She's a slave-driver,” the girl sniffed, wiping at her runny nose and eyes. “She made me do every menial task she could think of, then she'd stand over me and watch me, laughing to herself. She sent me to the shop at four in the morning, and then when I came back all the doors were locked and I couldn't get in! She threw some sort of sex party, invited a bunch of her friends, and told me that if I wanted to keep my job I would service them however they saw fit. It was horrible!” She burst into tears again, or at least she made all the right sounds of someone extremely distraught. As I looked a little closer, however, I couldn't help but notice that no new tears were flowing. What was that all about?
“Sex parties?” The receptionist shook her head with disgust. “I told you it was a mistake putting her on our books. I knew she would be nothing but trouble.” She folded her arms across her chest and proceeded to look as sanctimonious as she could behind her desk. “This is the third one this month, Cynthia. We've had difficult clients before, but this one takes the cake.”
“Who is she?” My question was ignored.
“We're two years old – we're not in a position to turn away business,” Cynthia explained levelly. “Sex parties, you say?”
The girl nodded and sniffed. “She's just as horrible as everyone says. I refuse to go back there.”
“It's all right, no one's going to make you.”
I looked at the receptionist then at Cynthia, wondering if I was the only person who wasn't falling for this act; but clearly I was. Her tears were fake, for God's sake.
“We're practically the only agency who'll give her the time of day. Don't you wonder why that is?” the receptionist went on.
“And there I was thinking it was because of the outstanding service we provide,” Cynthia said.
“Who is she?” I asked again, louder this time. Everyone turned to look at me.
“That bitch Autumn Anders,” the girl said, eyes slits of hatred. “The lead singer in that crappy group Autumn in Summer.”
It must have been the hatred talking, because calling one of the hottest rock bands of the last fifteen years 'crappy' was nothing short of illogical. And this was coming from me, someone who didn't even listen to rock music. Everyone who was anyone knew about Autumn in Summer; they were one of those bands that had at least one song that appealed to every kind of person, no matter their musical tastes.
“You're saying the lead singer of A-in-S was forcing you to take part in orgies?” The skepticism was heavy in my voice and, I suspected, my face. The whole world knew about the infamous Autumn Anders and her antics, but pimping her staff out to her friends, that was too far out there even for her. Rather foolish as well, for someone with her name recognition. Didn't she think it would get out? Besides, from the things I'd read about her, a more believable scenario would have involved Autumn pimping herself out to her friends before she let anyone else have the fun! Beautiful women were her passion, perhaps even more than music.
The girl glared at me. “I'm not making it up. That's what happened.”
“Are you calling her a liar?” the receptionist piped in. Why were they ganging up on me all of a sudden? I'd simply asked a question.
“Come on, no one's calling anyone a liar. Lee's trying to get a better picture of the situation.”
“Right, that's what I'm doing.” I decided not to remind Cynthia that my name wasn't Lee. I didn't want her turning against me too. “Maybe you misunderstood her. Maybe it isn't what you think. Maybe it wasn't a sex party...”
“I know a sex party when I see one,” the girl spat. I felt pretty stupid then. I say stupid things like that when I'm nervous, speak without thinking, that sort of thing. Over the years I'd upset a lot of people inadvertently because of it. No filter – a terrible affliction.
“I just think–”
“Yeah, we know what you think. You think just because she's a celebrity she wouldn't do something so immoral. Pathetic.” The receptionist shook her head. “If you're so certain she's a nice person why don't you work for her? You're out of a job right now, aren't you?”
“Well, yes, but–”
Cynthia cut me off, her eyes sparkling with renewed animation, scaring the crap out of me. “That's actually not a bad idea.” She looked me up and down, not once but twice, her grin widening by the second. “You've certainly got the right look. She likes them prissy.”
Prissy! Since when had I become prissy? Better yet, what was that supposed to mean?
“W–wait a second, I–”
“The dark hair, dark eyes, that prep school education look. I think she'll like you.”
This was bad, very bad. If I didn't get myself out of this I would become the next tearful assistant charging through the Green Pines Agency doors, having become Autumn Anders's latest victim.
“But, but she doesn't like anyone. She's one of the most difficult people in show business,” I pleaded. Now that it was about to be my neck on the line, I'd suddenly remembered how awful this woman was. Karma really was a bitch, and she went by the name of Autumn Anders.
Cynthia chortled. “Difficult is putting it mildly. You don't get the nickname Asshole Anders for being a nice person! But assholes are people too, and they need assistants. She'll probably want to meet you asap. Is tomorrow good for you?”
Yesterday, today, tomorrow and every other day of the week would never be good, not if it meant working for that woman. Had there ever been a good story printed about her in the papers or magazines (kiss-and-tell stories of her sexual prowess not included)?
It came as no surprise to see, through the corner of my eye, the receptionist and the old assistant grinning wickedly, spitefully, as though they were enjoying watching me squirm.
“I don't think Autumn and I would be a good fit,” I said weakly.
“Help me out here, Elle.” Oh, how convenient that she remembered my name when she wanted me to give my soul to the devil! How nice of her. “Everyone wins. There's no one else available, she needs a personal assistant, and you need a job.”
Funny, I didn't see it as a win. Not for me, anyway. But she was right: I needed a job, fast.
“Who knows how long it'll be before we get a new client?” she added, to drive the point home, as if it were necessary. “You might get on like a house on fire.” She patted me on the shoulder, offered me an encouraging smile that only made my stomach churn, because I could see right through it. When she looked at me she probably saw the next sobbing assistant to use her shoulder as a tissue.
“So, I got a new client,” I announced later that evening. Jessica had barely stepped into our apartment when I delivered the news.
“Yay!” she shouted, throwing her arms in the air. When she didn't see me join in
with the celebration, her smile faded. “Not yay?”
“I think I'm cursed, Jess. What evil thing did I do in my past life to deserve this torture?”
She sat with me on the couch, and gave me one of her Looks, you know, the ones that make you feel about five years old. “What happened?”
I told her all about the wailing assistant, about the sex parties, about the meanness, omitting the name of the culprit. It still hadn't quite sunk in for me.
“Wow, she sounds horrible. What's her name? Anyone famous?” Her eyes twinkled with excitement.
“She's pretty famous,” I said, downplaying it.
“Ooo, a guessing game. Okay, is she an actress?”
I wasn't in the mood for games; I was far too uneasy about starting my new job the following afternoon. Besides, this particular game could go on indefinitely, seeing as there was a long list of celebrities who this could have applied to.
“It's the lead singer from Autumn in Summer, all right. No need to guess.”
Jessica's pout at me destroying her game didn't last very long, and morphed quickly into a frown.
“Wait, didn't she die, like, eight years ago? Fell down the stairs or something?”
I rolled my eyes. “Well obviously not. That was the other girl in the group. Her girlfriend.” It shocked me to discover that I knew even this much about a band I didn't listen to.
Recollection came to her then. “Oh, you're talking about the crazy blonde who's always getting arrested, huh? Has a rap sheet as long as the Golden Gate Bridge! Seems like she would be a lot of fun at a party, but I wouldn't want to work for her.”
“You're not making me feel any better.”
Jessica laughed. “I'm sorry. Can't you get out of it? I mean, is it even safe?”
