The door, Serena remembered; the garage wasn’t big enough for the passenger door to completely stretch out its metal hand. Brent too had forced her nicely onto the driveway, before she dragged him by the collar with both hands inside.
Tabitha shook her head.
“Sorry babe but I think tonight its three strikes and you’re out.”
The other two strikes hadn’t surprised Serena. To the contrary, she was happy to get them off her potential bedmate list. They were Duane and Tyson from her college years.
In the pit of her heart Serena had hoped maybe both had dropped off the face of the earth. You never know, with the power of wishful thinking and all. But no, they had both picked up the telephone when Serena tapped in the once-precious numbers. Not that she’d ever called them before but she remembered the figures as if combinations to a bank safe nonetheless. Maybe because once upon a time the digits had stared at her from the bedside cabinet for a full four weeks - or at least until her period arrived.
Serena was even less surprised that Duane and Tyson had never moved on. Eight years later, they were both still cut from the same cloth. Sharing smelly cramped flats with eight other guys, eating cold pizza every night and in their spare time, they probably cultivated the same gardens – marijuana plants needed love just like daffodils you know.
“They sound like twins,” Tabitha had observed, earlier on in the night.
“Yes unfortunately,” Serena groaned. “You remember them, don’t you? The two big bull shite artists.”
“So why even bother?”
“You never know, maybe they’re now big gorgeous dickheads.” Serena shrugged. “Then I wouldn’t mind so much.”
Except Serena should’ve known the chances of a drug experimentalist looking good a decade later were slim. Honestly from the look of Duane, their first stop, you’d have thought his eyes had disappeared into his skull. All that remained were thin razor-sharps slits, leaving little scope for his dirt green pupils to navigate by.
“What the hell is that guy on?” Tabitha exclaimed, staring at the paper bag in his hand. Serena assumed it was the bottle shop Duane was returning from.
Tabitha hadn’t even noticed the eyes; all she could see was his profile which hid at least fifty per cent of Duane’s patheticness. Before them was a slouched shrunken man who looked like he used a cardboard box for a bed. Dreadlocks obviously eradicated the need for a brush and Serena was sure if you dared to run your fingers through his wiry beard, you would without a shred of doubt bump into a creature or two.
“Um, he did a bit of mushrooms and dope back then.”
“A bit? Are you frigging sure? It looks like he’s swallowed a truck load of the stuff every day since.”
“I don’t know,” Serena replied, embarrassed. How the hell was she supposed to know? They’d only spent one night together, and even that was a drug-fuelled blur.
“Forget about this one. Even I, with little standards, can see this type will leave you in the gutter.”
“Would that be my ex’s actual home you are speaking of?”
Tabitha laughed. “It could be worse Serena; it could be a lot worse.”
Actually it probably couldn’t be. In comparison, their second prey, Tyson, had seemed like a half-God. He scored himself the first point by having the decency to dress himself in jeans and not tracksuit pants. I know, I know; it should go without saying that a boy is going to be wearing jeans but after the shocking state of Duane, Serena didn’t know what to expect.
Anyway Tyson had passed the first test, fashion-wise – but only by a slim breath. Speaking openly, nothing turns a girl off sooner than a vicious flannel shirt or high neck skivvy. Tyson wasn’t wearing either of the two but he was wearing orange which in Serena’s eyes was just as bad. She decided to forgive the faux pas; the shirt itself wasn’t so bad and it wasn’t his fault she had an aversion to all things horribly bright. Maybe it simply reflected his bright sense of humor.
Then again maybe not. Could she just be delusional after all the impatient waiting and hiding in the car like a terrorist? Serena hadn’t known what to expect when she’d invited Tabitha on this cruise mission.
“Here,” she’d said yesterday, slamming a scrap of paper with three addresses on the table. “This is all I have for now, three boys who have never moved.”
“How you know they haven’t moved?” Tabitha had asked.
“Because…” Serena had smiled slyly.
“You didn’t?”
“I did.”
At the time Serena had been immensely proud of herself. The master of many voices, she had picked up the phone and asked to speak to so and so in a commanding voice. The recipients had all been edgy, who wants to know?
“Just tell them it’s market research.”
Beep, beep, beep, the phone invariably lost its connection then.
Thank gosh. All she needed was a confirmation and the plans were set. Seeing their names on paper though – Brent, Duane and Tyson - hadn’t been very exciting though. They reminded Serena of times when she regularly drank too much and wore too short skirts. Her mom had called it her “finding herself phase”; Serena reckoned it was more like the losing it stage.
She had lost her nuts with Tyson long ago and a part of her was still petrified of him. He had grabbed her thin wrists and stapled them both to the bedpost with a thick heavy scarf. Then pulled off her skirt and used it as a blindfold. It was Serena’s first dip into the world of sado-machoism, a place where passion was with intertwined with pain, where heat mingled with sporadic shivering.
At the time, the fact she was scared excited the hell out of her. Moving through fear, that was what it meant to be alive. Another part of Serena however thought Tyson to be a psycho loony, who should be locked behind bars. He was cute but even cute could sometimes be eerie. He was the type that made you think a secret video camera was hidden in the closet, and that in his spare time he surfed the net for child pornography.
“So why are you bothering?” Tabitha asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Well kinky can be good. Right?”
“Don’t try and convince me, girl. You need to convince yourself.”
Serena had paused, watching his figure from the house with three similarly dressed friends (only in yellow and green). It was like seeing the Wiggles in slow motion, only a younger version of the group.
“I think,” Serena started, taking in a deep breath. She couldn’t really afford to be too picky but something deep inside gnawed at her with this one. ”I think Tabitha, with this one too I’m going to have to give it a miss…”
“Uh oh.”
Markie lifted his head from the paper.
“Uh oh, what?” He asked Rick who was sitting on the couch with the sports pages spread about.
“I’ve just realized you’re in dog poop,” Rick chuckled, leaning over David Beckham’s pretty boy face.
“Because his team lost again? Don’t think so,” Markie replied, shaking his head, “those boys are made of steel.”
“I’m not speaking about soccer; I’m speaking about your break.” When he said the word break, Rick flicked two imaginary inverted commas down through the air.
“What about it?”
To Markie, there was absolutely nothing wrong with his situation. Still high from last weekend’s lay, he felt younger and fuller of energy than he had in years. Drinking passion and raw sex from Biffy must have been just the elixir his body was craving.
“Well how often did you and Serena get up to it before?”
Markie cringed.
Oh great. Rick was going to attempt his ‘let’s-confess-what-we-do-in-the-bedroom” talk. Again. Ever since they were in high school, Rick had pestered his friends to swap experiences as if football cards. While other boys were more than happy to do it, Markie was the quiet type. He liked to keep things like that – intimacy, sexual experiences, love - to himself, rather than sprinkle it around the field for feed. The rare moments he had divulg
ed left his memories cheapened and charred.
“We did it often enough.”
“Two, three, four times a week?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Why state actual numbers?
“How many women did Serena say you could sleep with?”
“Just ten, I have another nine to go.”
“And how many weeks do you have left.”
“As of today its eleven weeks and one day.”
Rick smiled and kicked back his feet.
Markie saw what his friend was getting at. How mate are you going to go from regular sex to shrapnel? If you sleep with all ten in the space of two weeks, you’ll have to spend the rest of the jail term in celibacy. Suddenly it was all a matter of timing, something Markie wasn’t crash hot at. As a businessman, he was used to getting what he wanted now. From hereon he’d need to tread carefully.
“I can do it Rick,” Markie decided. “Save the action for Saturday nights and rest of the time, take care of myself.”
“Whatever you say,” Rick smiled. Or was it the same snide smile as before? Either way, it read I so glad I’m not in your shoes friend.
Who was Rick to talk though? To date, the man had slept with only fifteen women, apparently. Fair enough Markie only had three up in his sleeve, Serena included, but in the space of twelve weeks, he’d be giving Rick a run for his money. Markie however kept these comments to himself.
After all, he knew what it was like to have your ego bruised.
One thing Markie didn’t know too much about was the art of picking up. He didn’t fall into the category of picker-upperers, unlike ninety per cent of the male population.
“Because you’re a pretty boy, like that Beckham,” Rick snorted.
“Go to hell.”
There were insults one could take and there were ones you couldn’t.
“But it’s true. Look at how you and Serena got together.”
He was speaking of their first acquaintance, the infamous fairytale moment. If you asked any ordinary bloke where they’d met their girl, they’d tell you stories about slobbery pashes on a dance-floor at the blue-light disco or better still, a wink across a beer garden. Markie and Serena had met on more conspicuous terms. Whilst both traveling on the Orient Express during a whirlwind tour of Europe the strangers found had themselves habiting the same sleeping car – the number 3544.
Strangely enough when he first laid eyes on her, he felt a jolt of history together as deep as the 3544. The aforementioned car happened to be stored during the depression at St Dennis and Paris and during the war the car was kept at Limoges where it was used as a shady brothel. Markie didn’t know all this at the time – he only decided he cared when he saw Serena sitting there with an open book and a head full of history.
Even before he heard her speak, Markie had been mesmerized. The girl before him was beautiful. She had caramel hair and jade eyes, which looked like a pond with random rocks thrown in. Her body was petite and slender, like a mini supermodel but there was definite cleavage, of the FHM variety. In those first moments of study, Markie hadn’t been able to pinpoint from where this young woman could have sprung from. She looked European, but where in Europe he couldn’t say. She looked French but without the snooty nose, German without the milky skin, Russian without the lost soul. He waited until the suspense was almost killing him before he approached her.
“Pardon Madame, parlez vouz anglais?”
Markie figured that this was the safest, given they were in France, on their way back to Paris. From experience he’d learnt the French didn’t take too kindly to other languages being spoken in their country and just in case she was French he didn’t want to offend her.
“Oui,” the pretty young girl had grinned, closing the book.
Out of curiosity – he couldn’t help himself, Markie had taken a peek. Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, he whispered out loud, disappointed somehow.
“You speak English?”
The girl nodded.
“Where are you from, if I can ask that is?” Right about then Markie had bent down to her level, causing stop traffic in the corridor.
“I’m from America, San Francisco to be more specific,” she said, her soft eastern voice willowing away with the sights.
“Shit! So am I.” Markie hadn’t meant to swear but it’d come out before he could stop it.
“Where in Frisco exactly?” he had asked, almost holding his breath.
“Fisherman’s Wharf,” she replied as if it were just next door and not on the other side of the world.
“Really? I live at Haight-Ashbury.”
While they weren’t exactly adjoining suburbs, Markie took if as if they were neighbors. The meeting felt like fate and in the grand scheme of things it fell perfectly into place. Here was a woman he could befriend, travel with, share with his heart and soul. But sadly, at the time Serena wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She was on a trip and the only thing on the books was an unattached good time. So that night, before they disembarked the train in Paris and drifted off in opposite directions, the two quietly undressed and momentarily became one. A quick parting gift, she had said. The hot sweaty sex on a smooth sailing vehicle was Markie’s idea of heaven. Leaving her at the end of the journey was not.
Other boys would have put the experience down to a good time. “Forget about her,” they had all said, when Markie arrived back from Paris alone.
But he couldn’t. There was something about the softness of her skin and the way she smelt like fresh jasmine petals that kept him searching and searching. He had almost given up, after a year, with nothing more than a first name – Serena – and suburb to go by. He had almost lost hope. That is until one rainy winter day when he ran into Starbucks in search of a quick caffeine fix and bumped into the love of his life.
Back then, Markie would never have believed this. If you told him that in five years time he’d be giving away the very thing he fought so hard to find.
Chapter 6
Serena was relieved on Monday to go to work. Spending the weekend with Tabitha had done her head in and made her painfully aware she was at least momentarily once again single.
Serena had never liked being single. Sure in her younger days she’d put on a brave face, saying how much she loved being able to watch Melrose Place with a tub of ice cream and drink milk straight from the bottle but the truth was Markie was her savior. Before him, she’d never known the cuddly warmth of a secure relationship. She’d never understood the concept of spooning and real giving and unconditional love, despite being the ripe age of twenty three. Love and life thereon felt like a gift to treasured, to never, ever to let slip away.
Indian giver, Serena grumbled on the way to the studio, thinking of the confused bastard. Not that she really minded being thrust back into the world of The Rules; this was just an experience, an opportunity to kick back, to be completely selfish and carefree. She’d long ago given up on the idea of a predictable environment where nothing ever changed or nothing ever grew.
Serena slowed down as she drove into the lot and blinked her headlights so that the boom-gates began their ascent almost automatically.
“Hiya Steve,” she called out, waving to the African American car park attendant.
“Good morning Miss Serena,” he winked back. The steam from his coffee was curling up into the crisp morning air.
One could barely call it morning though. The sun was only just peeking like the top of a head on the horizon. The only thing which hinted at its presence was the pink and gold splash across the inky blue sky. Serena loved that about coming to work, the way she got to beat the sunrise and the way Stevie acted as if she were a movie star herself. Most importantly it took her focus off Markie, wondering what he was up to and whether he’d taken anyone else yet to bed. For some reason Tabitha was under the crazy illusion it was never going to happen. Markie would see one naked girl and come back running to her.
“Because he loves yo
u.”
“He’s still a man, Tabitha.”
“Yes, but he’s a man that loves you.”
You could see now why Serena was so eager to get to work. At least here at work she could escape it all. She parked her old BMW (don’t be impressed, it was only about fifty years old) in the spot allocated for crew, wrapped herself up with a cream scarf and began the brisk walk to her nearby trailer. Inside Champagne and Violet were already there, smoking cigarettes and pouring fresh coffee into their mugs. Just to satisfy the question that probably jump straight into your mind, Champagne was in fact apparently the hair stylist’s ‘real name’. Serena hadn’t yet confirmed what she meant by real – real by birth or real by change on deed poll, but either way she was stuck working with a beverage and flower in the make-me-look-bloody-good department.
Violet was the dutiful assistant she and Champagne got to share. Having recently graduated from beauty school, the girl was adept – sort of –at both doing hair and makeup. Any overflow and Violet was on call to attack with her dryer or foundation sponge.
“Hey girlfriend,” they both said when Serena’s boots finished clunking up the metal steps.
“Hey,” she replied, letting out a puff of air and dumping her heavy makeup case near the leather chair. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“The usual,” Violet replied, pointing up to schedule sheet. “Only four extras and the rest of the cast is the same.”
Serena smiled.
What did she mean only? Each actor took a good thirty five minutes to get through make-up and forty five to get though hair. And that was on the better days. Once they were done, usually about ten o’clock, Serena got to finally have a breather and lounge about the set or trailer, playing cards and backgammon, while waiting for any emergency touch ups. More often than not the fingers were clicked by unsatisfied fading beauties that couldn’t live with less than an inch of the muck or macho males who within minutes melted under the fire of a camera. We wouldn’t name any names here but both types were the bane and livelihood of Serena’s existence. Both would keep her here from five am to six pm for the next three months.
The Numbers Game Page 5
