“Not exactly,” he replied with a smirk. “I decided to travel instead. I figured if I have to live in the U.S earning pittance, I might as well do it on the streets of Spain and France.”
“You worked in Spain?” Serena’s mouth fell wide open.
That was her only big regret in life; never stopping to work in any of the countries she had visited whilst traveling. She had always planned to but one thing quickly led to another and then came her movie industry break and Markie; before she knew it her passport was void of a working visa. Serena would’ve killed to have lived in any one of the gorgeous European cities she had visited, even London in a worst-case situation but Markie’s argument always was ‘why travel the world when you haven’t even seen half your country?’ His extreme patriotism made Serena feel like a traitor, for all she remembered was the old adage: Life is a book and those who never travel read only one page.
“Among other places,” Jasper confirmed. “The past four years I spent abroad, doing everything from being an English-speaking tour guide to toilet cleaning and dusting off statues at art galleries.”
“The latter must have been a favorite,” Serena commented enviously. This was the second time today she felt a violent stab of jealously. All of the sudden, her news: her venturesome leap into the world of film as a make-up artist sounded bleak in comparison. Incredibly, Serena was actually jealous of someone who had cleaned toilets!
“So you ended up in Ibiza…” she continued, prodding Jasper along. This was her way of showing him she didn’t care that much. So you led a thrill-seeking life and stuffed enough exciting memories into your knapsack to last ten lifetimes, big deal. I’m sure it wasn’t always a bed of roses.
“Yeah I moved to Ibiza last year. An opportunity came up to help manage a new nightclub over there.”
Okay so maybe it had been picture perfect.
“Things were going real great until about three months back when I got shot. Ibiza ain’t the best when it comes to medical technology so once my condition stabilized they flew me back to Frisco. And here I am.” Jasper’s opened his arms wide.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down for a minute and reverse. You got shot?”
Jasper nodded. Then he lifted up his shirt to reveal a messy scar to the far right of his belly button. You could tell the doctors had done their best to patch it up but still, a wound is a wound, even when repaired.
“I’m lucky to be alive.”
“I can see that,” Serena agreed. “Who in the world shot you?”
“Just a crazed rival nightclub owner who couldn’t stand to see his business falling in the popularity stakes. Happens all the time.”
“I don’t know what’s more painful, the shot or the fact you had to leave glamorous Ibiza.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Jasper clicked his tongue. He obviously sensed Serena’s current dissatisfaction with their beautiful city. “Frisco ain’t so bad”, he insisted. “The good thing about it here is being close to family and friends. You don’t know how many times homesickness almost made me hijack a plane home.”
“I guess I don’t,” Serena said wryly. Her life in the last five years seemed awfully bland in comparison.
“So how about you?” Jasper asked probably sick of talking solely about himself (and rightly so). “Last I heard you were dropping out of college.”
“You heard right,” Serena replied. “And life since then has been a non-stop breath-taking roller coaster ride.”
That’s what they tell you to say isn’t it? When you have nothing gripping to share, lie through your teeth - in the nicest possible way.
“How about a boyfriend?”
“What about one?” Serena blushed. Now they were heading towards dangerous territory.
“Do you have one?”
“Well,” Serena said vaguely, “Before I answer that can you ask you a question?”
Jasper wrinkled his brow.
“Sure go ahead. Ask me another.”
“Okay,” Serena paused for a sec. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
It came out as stupid as it sounded, as if she was interviewing Jasper for a biography because she had no life of her own.
“No, I don’t,” he replied, “Does it make a difference? On whether you have or don’t have a boyfriend?”
“No difference,” Serena shook her head, “I’m newly single either way.” There you go, her complex relationship didn’t sound nearly so complex anymore. What was the point of going into details like breaks and shakes when it just complicated things? She didn’t owe Jasper overly personal information, for God’s sake, she wasn’t sure yet whether he even deserved any at all.
“Good…” Jasper smiled, cocking his head to the side.
He was trying to win her over. This head tilting was just one of the many moves Jasper picked up during his travels, tested and proven on countless European beauties. Serena wondered how many women Mister World Traveler himself had slept with over the past five years. Fifty? A hundred maybe? Did it really matter? At last check Jasper’s count was very similar to Markie’s when she’d had him.
Serena wondered now if - let’s just say hypothetically – Jasper’s numbers had skyrocketed up to two hundred, whether she would’ve gone neurotic with jealously like Markie had and insisted on stupid things like breaks and making up the numbers. Maybe or maybe not.
For now though, it was best to keep Markie out of the picture, as punishment to both the boys.
“By the way, you never told me why you dumped me that day?” Serena started.
This was the only question that needed answering before she could even think about taking the next step. Serena could not wait to hear Jasper’s excuse…
He paused, looking at her with his soft, deep artist’s eyes. Then he took her by the hand.
“Listen Serena, I know I screwed up once before but I’m not going to screw it up again.”
Now it was her turn to say feck, feck, feck.
Chapter 10
If Markie was anything he was a good friend. So he did as Rick asked and avoided sleeping with Lola for the next twenty-four hours. In fact, he went one better than that and kept away from the event altogether.
“Let’s say we just go out tonight and get totally plastered,” Markie suggested to Rick. Why not? It was Friday, no school tomorrow plus they held tickets to a swanky new alcoholic beverage launch. Vemon: the latest in vodka and lemon combined. They could do worse than that you know; the alternative events were a hair replacement therapy bash or a “Jam is the new Ham” PR do.
“With or without Lola?” Rick asked, testing his luck.
But Markie held his ground.
“Why don’t we leave work behind for a change?”
It was times like this Markie was thankful for the linen closet featured in his office. The last thing he wanted to do was go home first; back home the house was giving him the evil eye. It hated him, hated Markie with a vengeance, he’d decided. Why else would the dishwasher, dryer and iron all break down on the same day? Why else did it smell of damp and mould and feel like a meat freezer even though fall was fast approaching?
The house obviously missed having a women’s touch. It missed Serena. Markie still hadn’t gotten around to finding that cleaner to come in. He rationalized that a messy place felt cozier, less sterile. The more crap that piled up, the less likely he was to remember that Serena was gone, off at Tabitha’s who was no doubt taking his girlfriend to hell and back.
Speaking of hell, it wasn’t very pleasant being around Lola anymore. His subordinate made Markie’s temperature rise at least a hundred degrees whenever she came into close proximity. After delegating her to assist Rick from hereon, Markie figured installing a set of blinds to the office’s windows wasn’t a bad idea. Sure it went against the company’s open-door policy, but privacy is privacy. He got Lola onto organizing it right away.
“So who’s gonna be at this shindig?” asked Rick, who was waiting obediently by the passenger door. He was us
ing his own car less and less every day.
“Does it really matter?” Markie replied, as he pressed his automatic key and opened the door. “As long as we can unwind and drink up then things are in check.”
“What happened to the no shenanigans rule?”
Rick smirked. Markie was not sure why. Two months before Rick had ridiculed the term shenanigans. He had thought Markie’s theory on managing directors having to be a bit sedate was both old-fashioned and childish. People either respected you or they didn’t, Rick explained. The fact that they were human, that they liked to drink and have fun, was more of a plus rather than strike against their reputation. Of course back then Markie had thought otherwise. Flirting and picking up chicks did not register as decent, highly regarded behavior in his or anybody else’s language.
So they had been forced to come to a simple compromise: no more than five beverages at any event and no soliciting on the premises. Nothing to say they couldn’t take their private party elsewhere though. If one wanted more to drink, then they were free to head out to the nearest bar. These two rules, with a touch of discretion had worked well for Rick, and it hadn’t been an issue for Markie while with Serena. Drinking and womanizing weren’t his style. Now apparently they were.
“The same rules should still apply,” Markie replied. “Though I can’t see why we can’t bend them a little. Five double shots of Venom surely equals five drinks, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rick nodded. Unmistakably he loved these rare glimpses of Markie’s reckless side. “We won’t solicit in the building either; we’ll just take the girls outside” Because a party launching an alcoholic beverage would definitely be a good breeding ground for prospects.
That night Rick and Markie pulled up outside Hotel Lux at eight o’clock and after flashing the invite (a mini-yellow glass bottle with Venom slashed across it), Markie allowed the valet to do his job.
“Okay,” Rick grinned, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s see whether this party is all it’s hyped up to be. Let’s see if we can finally get Markie laid again.”
“Right,” Markie replied, a bit annoyed he had to adjust his package for the tenth time today. One mention of sex and his damn thing wanted to come out and play.
It got worse as they walked into the grand hotel. Ballroom Sky, where the event was being held, was a smallish room, maybe five hundred square feet wide, with a skylight, which seemed miles away. Staring back at them through the casement glass were about a million stars, all which looked as shocked as Markie and Rick were. This was because the room had been decorated as the inside of a bottle, or the inside of a Venom bottle to be more specific.
Bizarre as it sounded, there it was: a glass dome which eventually narrowed out to a narrow top grazing against the skylight. Machines parked in the corner were pumping out bubbles at the rhythm of the heartbeat while women wrapped in yellow cellophane and little else were weaving their way around man-made waterfalls whilst holding trays of Venom. Here and there a man dressed as a lemon paraded around trying to look enticing.
“Which agency won the contract again?” asked Rick, shaking his head.
“Henderson and Co.,” Markie replied glumly.
Even though they missed by a slim bit, both he and Rick knew The Zoo could’ve done one hell of a superior campaign. Jesus, there was no way anyone could have done worse.
“Look at it this way, at least the client gave us the opportunity to have a laugh.”
“At their expense…”
“Exactly.”
Really Markie and Rick should have been grateful. It wasn’t every day another agency’s client handed you tickets to their launch…albeit reluctantly. But Lola had gone straight to the client and begged, cried, done almost everything bar show her tits to score the tickets for the boys.
“It’s for research purposes, remember” Markie reminded Rick. “So let’s go do some research and see how much we can score tonight.”
“I’m with you, boy,” Rick teased. He then followed Markie through the delectable crowd.
Back on the set of “Never, Ever Again” Serena was starting to feel the effects of staying in a confined space for long periods of time. Thirteen hours a day wouldn’t be so bad if there was a shopping centre or massage parlor nearby but alas, none were available. The closest Serena got to any form of therapy was her daily dose of conversation with Champagne and Violet.
Ordinarily Serena wouldn’t have given these girls the time of day. They were spelt trouble, with a capital T. They were rude, crude and had gotten their trailer nicknamed the Trampervan, despite only good behavior coming from Serena. At first Serena had screamed for mercy, it was bloody unfair she got lumped into the easy stereotype by association. But such was the movie industry; birds of a feather flock together, like attracts like etcetera.
Luckily listening to Violet and Champagne’s Jackie Collins-type adventures was a gratifying experience for Serena. And a very grounding one too. What better way to get your mind off relationship troubles than to listen to similar tales of shagging and getting ignored the next day… Or hearing about the prick who said he’d call but didn’t, preferring instead to distribute videos of their rendezvous to the crew. It made Serena feel normal, even if it was among the abnormal.
“So which bastard’s ego shall we destroy today?” Champagne asked.
“How about Barry’s?” Violet replied, giggling in her typical nineteen-year-old, everything is a ball way.
Over the past two weeks, the pair (hair stylist and assistant) had taken on a more defined big sister/little sister role. This was because the amazingly juvenile Violet thought Champagne was cool and held her up on a pedestal. Bear in mind that at thirty Champagne was what some young people might prefer to call ‘over the hill’. Then again most other thirty-somethings were also married, had babies and a mortgage to boot so ‘over the hill’ for them was an apt description. Champagne however held none of above, and as such enthralled Violet. They were like two peas in a pod.
“She’s like a blooming flower,” Champagne sighed, patting her protégé’s empty seat. “Give her sunshine and she will grow, forget to water her and she will rot.”
It was funny how people went all philosophical when their subject disappeared to the toilet.
Getting back to this ego deflating game, Champagne and Violet had taken it upon themselves to play God on the film set. It was an executive decision made the morning after the videotape episode, which had enraged Champagne. She wasn’t even in it. Instead Violet had fallen for the “I’ll make you a star” line, dealt out to her by the producer’s brother. It had almost gotten her kicked off the job; because as one knows rule number one on the set was do not fraternize with the family of the cast or crew members. Women especially got jealous; they were possessive and dangerous bitches when provoked (the producer in this instance was unfortunately a woman).
Champagne and Violet figured if men can drivel out of their asses then women should be able to do it too. Really why was it that woman were so often forced to keep their mouths tapped shut, lapping abuse in the form of criticism, neglect and insincere flattery? Why was it that men got to be vocal with their concerns while women had to swallow them? The answer was because woman allowed it to happen. Women allowed themselves to be doormats, geishas, losers, and thus got treated that way. It was time to end that self-fulfilling prophecy, even if it resulted in temper tantrums, curses and evil nicknames the likes of Trampervan.
The girls decided that every day they would write a list which divided the male crew into one of four categories: the bush pigs, fairies, angels and puppets. At night Champagne and Violet would revise the list, adding any new insights, insults and the like, before printing it out and attaching it to the trailer’s corkboard. The actresses loved it, especially Cindy Glass; the men hated it, even if they made it to the lucrative angel list (at the moment it bore only the director’s name; the girls didn’t want to get onto his bad side as well). At long last, for the first
time ever the girls and boys on the set were been treated exactly the same; like pieces of meat.
Then one day it happened. Like it had to happen.
“What is up with you?” Champagne demanded, when hair and makeup were complete for the day. “I know you prefer the “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies” routine but really your quiet stance is starting to really piss me off.”
Serena shrugged. Oh crap. She was secretly hoping to cruise through the next three months pretending everything was all right. Lately she was even getting good at it- when V and C asked her about love Serena just imagined it was the same time last year. What did we do on the weekend? Oh we flew up to Las Vegas and gambled away our savings. Last night? Oh I made a delicious vegetarian lasagna and washed it down with Dom Perignon.
Okay so maybe her memory was a tad adventurous but the girls believed her most of the time. The beauty with V and C was that when they didn’t believe her, when they knew she was lying, they still thought it was funny. Serena’s made up stories (once they got squeezed out) were almost as hilarious as Violet and Champagne’s real life ones.
“Okay, okay,” Serena sighed, when she figured V & C wouldn’t give up. They were looking at her the FBI does when waiting for someone to confess to heinous crime. Her fingerprints were on the knife, her dress was completely bloodstained and soon witnesses would be popping out from behind every rock. Just tell them, the voice in her head said. Tell them about stupid Markie’s one last request. What’s the worst that can happen, other than them dragging her out on one of their nightly crusades after work? Yet that no longer seemed so painful anymore.
“It begins like this,” Serena started and ten minutes later the weight was released off her shoulders.
As predicted, Champagne and Violet took Serena out for a wild night on the town.
The Numbers Game Page 10
