by Judy Nunn
‘Mr King?’ It was Tran. ‘I can see you? Please?’ She made as if to step out from behind the palms but Alain signalled for her to stay where she was. He darted a look up the end of the driveway where Brian Hopgood was stationed in his gatehouse office.
‘Stay where you are. I’ll get the car.’
Trying very hard not to break into a run, Alain walked briskly to the Mercedes waiting in his VIP parking space and drove down the drive to the main doors.
He parked the car so that it was masking Tran from the gatehouse, got out and walked around to the boot.
‘Get into the passenger’s seat,’ he muttered, opening the boot and pretending to look inside. ‘And make sure that the man up there doesn’t see you.’
Tran ducked into the car. Alain slammed the boot and glanced in the direction of Brian Hopgood, who looked up, caught his eye and waved. Damn! He couldn’t have seen anything but he’d be wondering why Alain had driven back to the front doors.
Alain strode into reception. ‘Get my secretary on the phone and remind her I need that report first thing in the morning, will you?’ he barked to the receptionist. Then he turned on his heel and left.
‘Keep down,’ he hissed to Tran as he got back into the car.
She glued her tiny body to the car seat, gripping his upper thigh for support. As she did so, her hand brushed his penis. Surely it wasn’t an accident, he thought, glancing down at her. But it was impossible to tell with her face turned away, cheek pressed against the car seat, black hair strewn across his leg.
Alain chose the exit lane farthest from the gatehouse. From there it would be impossible for Brian to see below the window level of the car. He acknowledged the man’s wave as the boom gate was raised and he drove through.
He waited until they’d turned the corner nearly half a kilometre down the road.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said.
The girl slowly raised her head, her chin gently touching his thigh, her hand once again brushing against his penis. This time Alain was sure it was no accident. He shivered in anticipation.
Her breasts were still gently touching the car seat and her back was straight as she looked up at him. She was as supple as a cat, he thought.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was the merest whisper, her eyes deep with gratitude and her hand stirred slightly as if asking a question.
Alain now had a rock-hard erection and he could feel himself starting to quiver as he nodded to her.
He kept his eyes on the road ahead. The girl unzipped his fly. As she withdrew his penis, he clenched his teeth and gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles turned white. He was on the verge of ejaculating.
But he didn’t. Tran was an expert. She brought him to the edge time and time again, and knew just when to stop and how to stem the tide enough to start all over again.
By the time they reached his apartment block, Alain was on fire. Even during the fifteen floor elevator ride the girl didn’t leave him alone.
Once inside his apartment, Tran continued to take control. She undressed him, then undressed herself, kissing him, stroking him, caressing him — never speaking, except for tiny whimpers and moans. She gestured for him to lie down and then, assiduously avoiding his genitals, she started to massage every inch of his body. Not just with her hands — with her breasts, her tongue, her groin.
Finally she turned her attention again to his penis, locking it between her vice-like thighs and sliding up and down against him. And when she opened her legs and slid him into her, Alain’s orgasm was more powerful than anything he’d ever known before.
He lay gasping and dizzy as the girl rolled off him. He barely noticed her get up from the bed and leave the room. He barely noticed her several minutes later when she returned with a bowl of warm water, soap and a flannel.
She made gently shushing sounds as she washed him, tenderly, rhythmically, until he was lulled into a blissfully deep sleep.
Friday had not been a good day for Liza. She’d accepted with equanimity her dismissal from Channel 3 — she’d more or less expected it. But the following day, when she tried to line up alternative work, the general reaction from within the industry took her by surprise. She was met with a succession of refusals.
One editor, with whom she’d had a particularly good relationship in the past, was honest enough to give her a straight answer. ‘If I offer you a job, Liza, I can kiss goodbye any story on Edwina. She’s the hottest television property in this country right now and she’s promised to give us an interview.’
It appeared that after twelve months of refusal, Edwina had suddenly decided to play ball with every magazine in town and was agreeing to give interviews to all and sundry with the one proviso, a ban on Liza Farrelly.
‘I can give you some straight freelance stuff if you like,’ her friendly editor suggested tentatively. ‘No by-line and no individual style. But frankly, I think you should go back to newspapers. Edwina doesn’t carry as much weight with the press.’
Liza hung up the receiver, looked at her hand and tried to ball it into a fist. She couldn’t, and the pain was intolerable. So much for newspapers. Newspapers wouldn’t employ a secretary for her like the channel had and magazines would. Edwina had certainly been busy, she thought.
Liza tried to quell her rising hatred. Emotionalism was unproductive; she must be clear-headed to plan her counter-attack. And she certainly had the ammunition – it was just a case of when to fire the guns.
Liza decided to lie low for a while. Logie time would be as good as any. The darling of Australian television would certainly be the headliner then. Top of the bill in both magazines and press. That was when Liza would strike.
Davey rang the channel on Friday to say that Edwina was unwell and would not be coming in to the studios.
It was uncharacteristic of Edwina, Alain thought. And she certainly hadn’t sounded ill when she’d insisted on Liza’s dismissal the day before. But what the hell, it was yet another nail in the coffin of ‘The Glitter Game’. Picking up ten scenes in next week’s heavy taping schedule would cause chaos.
Besides, Alain couldn’t be bothered trying to figure out her motives — his mind was preoccupied with other matters.
Tran had brought him coffee in bed that morning and scrubbed his back in the shower. ‘Tonight? I stay?’ she’d asked as he was about to leave.
Alain tried to look as if he were giving the question serious consideration but the thought of a repeat of last night’s performance allowed for only one answer.
‘All right,’ he said finally, telling himself he’d kick her out on Saturday morning.
There was the minor dilemma of letting her stay in the flat while he went off to work but he decided, so long as she couldn’t get to the safe, there really wasn’t much else of value. He locked the study door and left.
Due to Sandy’s efficient and highly professional direction, and the tireless labour of the girls in the coordination department, Edwina’s absence on Friday wasn’t nearly the production disaster Alain had expected. New schedules were drawn up incorporating ten scenes which were to have been shot the following week and Sandy blocked the actors’ moves and camera shots on the spot.
Mandy, Sidney, Greg and Vicky were the actors to cop the added workload and, except for a bit of a grizzle from Sidney at having to swat up on extra lines, they handled it beautifully.
Most of Edwina’s scenes had been with Paul who now discovered he had the day off and was extremely relieved. He assumed that Edwina had reported sick because she was scared to face him the day after his attack. Well, she was damn right to be scared, he thought. He himself wasn’t sure how he’d react to being confronted by her — the mere thought of her made him feel sick with anger. At least now he’d have three days to regain control of himself. But if he ever got her alone again …
He rang Jamie and arranged to have him bring the twins around on Saturday.
Friday’s ‘state of emergency’ rescheduling meant that the p
roduction girls had phoned direct. Agents had been by-passed while frantic questions had been flung at the actors: ‘Can you get in two hours earlier and stay three hours later? … Can you handle the lines for scenes such and such if we fly them in the afternoon and you have lunchtime to look at them?’ Agents, money, overtime, special considerations — all could wait till the crisis was averted.
As a result of this, it was Friday lunchtime before Vicky remembered she was booked for a store promotion that afternoon and she’d never make it because she and Simon had five scenes on the trot. What the hell, Rosa would probably bill the channel for the full fee, the cancellation being due to the lack of rescheduling notice given and Vicky hated store promos anyway. She rang her agent.
‘Oh, Vicky, hi,’ Dee answered. ‘I tried to ring you an hour ago but they told me you were in the studio. I bet it’s chaos out there.’
‘Oh, they’ve told you all about it, have they?’
‘You’re joking,’ Dee laughed. ‘Disaster means the agents are the last to know. They rely on the actors’ old “show must go on” mentality to get them out of the shit. No, Davey rang to say Edwina wasn’t going in. Well, I mean gulp, gulp, at that bit of info, and when I rang the production office to say how terribly sorry we were that our client was so mortally ill, they told me they were rescheduling.’
Vicky smiled and shrugged an apology to Simon who was waiting to go to the canteen with her for lunch. Dee always rabbited on when Rosa wasn’t there, particularly with the younger clients, but she was good enough at her job.
‘Anyway,’ Dee continued, ‘I cancelled this afternoon’s promo and I warned the channel that Rosa would probably bill them for the full amount.’
‘She’s not in, then?’
‘No. She hasn’t been in all day. But she often doesn’t come in on Friday if she’s worked late on Thursday. She says Friday’s a lousy business day, anyway, everyone living for the weekend and knocking off early. It’s a bit of a bastard for me though. I mean, I’ve got to —’
‘Thanks a lot, Dee. Gotta go — we’re on a short lunch break.’ Vicky hung up the phone, gave a mock wipe-of-the-brow and grabbed Simon’s hand. ‘Let’s eat!’ she said. ‘I’m starving!’
Simon had taken as little dope as possible that morning. A half-line first thing and a quick top up in the loo at tea break. If he snorted another half-line after lunch, the afternoon should go as well as the morning had. Vicky was in the palm of his hand, and tomorrow … Well, it looked as if tomorrow everything would work out exactly as planned.
They worked hard over lunch, running lines and discussing scenes. As they were about to return to the studio, Vicky said to him. ‘So, when do we see the car? You pick it up tomorrow, don’t you?’
‘Yep. But you’ll have to wait till next week. Gotta big weekend.’
Vicky nodded, happy for him. ‘Is it red?’
‘Wait and see,’ he grinned back. She’s panting for me, he thought. Well, tomorrow, baby, tomorrow.
Saturday morning Alain again experienced one of the most erotic encounters of his heavily indulged life. Because he didn’t have to dash off to work, he was able to give Tran free rein. Go for it, baby, he thought, as he lay back and surrendered to the pressure of her hands and the texture of the oil.
Friday night had been exciting but exhausting and, in the sated aftermath of Saturday morning, he would have been quite happy for her to leave quietly without disturbing him. But, as he drifted in and out of sleep, aware of her hands and her mouth and her sleek black hair drifting across his groin, Alain didn’t want Tran to go. Ever.
So she wanted to be his slave? Fine. She could move in with him. Just so long as she behaved herself. Just so long as there was no talk of bringing family out from Vietnam. Just so long as she kept well out of his public life. Where was the harm? He’d even pay her a healthy allowance. After all, he’d be saving a heap on massage agencies.
They didn’t talk about it much. Alain gave her a hundred dollar bill and ordered her a cab. He figured that she’d either be back with her gear in an hour or he’d never see her again. Either way it didn’t really matter.
So why was he trying hard not to stare at the front door two hours later? he asked himself as he paced the kitchen with his fifth cup of coffee.
He stopped. The door opened and Tran stood there, tiny and lost, a battered suitcase in each hand. She smiled shyly. Alain smiled back. He couldn’t help it.
Vicky woke up happy that it was Saturday. She always liked Saturdays.
A large plastic bag full of washing sat by the front door, and a shopping list lay on the bench which separated the kitchenette from the bedsitting room.
In the seven months since ‘The Glitter Game’ started, Vicky’s life style had altered very little. She continued to live in the same Darlinghurst bedsit, with a bathroom down the hall, while her weekly pay cheque was deposited via the Rosa Glassberg Trust Account directly into a high interest-bearing deposit account. A small allowance found its way to Vicky and, although this was twice her previous income, it only allowed for the added luxuries which most people considered necessities.
For the first time she could remember, Vicky was enjoying the bite in the air and was actually looking forward to midwinter evenings locked up in her cosy bedsit. Her new electric fan heater would be turned up full blast and she’d curl up in bed with her new electric blanket and watch herself on her new television set. Roll on winter, she thought gleefully.
Each month Vicky would go to the bank and look at her account statements. At the end of the first year of ‘The Glitter Game’ she figured she’d have enough for a deposit on a small flat. Each Saturday afternoon she’d walk around the inner-city areas which boasted the cheapest real estate and fantasise about which would be her dream home. Her choice was always a cute little stone cottage or a tiny terrace house with iron lacework balcony but she knew she’d never be able to afford them. No, her future probably lay in the groundfloor back flat of one of the unimaginative red brickwork blocks of apartments but it wouldn’t really matter. It would be her own! It would be a dream come true!
Vicky pulled a large soft wool beanie low over her brow. It was a gawdy green and red and gave her a clownish look but she’d found that, with some form of hat and a pair of dark glasses, she managed to escape recognition for the most part. The main trick was to concentrate on where she was going and what she was doing. By paying no attention to others she called less attention to herself. She’d observed Mandy and Sidney skulking around corners and darting furtive glances at people in a bid to go unrecognised. It meant they always were, of course. It took Vicky a little while to realise that Mandy and Sidney wanted to be recognised.
She locked the door, slung the laundry bag over her shoulder and bounded down the wide, central stairway to the street.
Simon had parked the yellow MG well out of sight in a small lane behind Vicky’s apartment block. He was quite sure it was an unnecessary precaution. He knew exactly which direction she’d take as she came out of her front door.
He’d been leaning against the brick wall three doors down from Vicky’s for nearly an hour when she appeared, turned right and headed up the hill towards Oxford Street and the shops. Simon decided to follow her on foot just to ensure she stuck to her itinerary. When she’d finished at the supermarket and was queuing at the chicken shop, he’d dash back, get the car and be accidentally cruising past in his new MG as she was walking home. Perfect timing to give her a lift home with her shopping bags.
Sure enough, just before she got to Oxford Street, she dumped her laundry at the laundromat. A slight change in procedure — she didn’t put it in the machine herself but arranged for the attendant to do it for her. She looked at her watch and nodded, obviously telling the girl what time she’d collect it, then popped into the milk bar next door and came out sucking on a chocolate heart. Then she turned the corner into Oxford Street. But instead of going into the supermarket, she crossed the road and waited at the bus st
op.
Shit, Simon thought, as he dashed off to get the car. He wouldn’t be able to make a right-hand turn into Oxford Street, he’d have to go around the block, and what if a bus came along in the meantime? But when he drove round the corner he saw that she was still there.
‘Want a lift?’
‘Simon!’
‘Hop in.’
A girl in the queue three people ahead of Vicky had recognised her. She nudged her boyfriend and whispered, ‘It’s Jodie!’
‘But where are you going?’ Vicky asked, keeping her back to the girl and her boyfriend.
‘Wherever you’re going.’ Simon patted the dashboard lovingly. ‘I’m taking her for a spin. Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘And that’s her brother, whatsisname,’ the girl hissed, pointing at Simon. Several other people in the queue were starting to stare. Three cars had pulled up behind Simon. One of them tooted.
‘She’s not red,’ Vicky grinned, ‘but she’ll do. Annandale OK?’
Before Simon could open the passenger door, Vicky had swung herself over the side of the open convertible and snuggled down into the seat beside him. ‘Actually, I prefer yellow,’ she said as Simon revved up impressively. ‘Red’s too aggro.’
‘You live around Darlo, do you?’ Simon asked casually.
‘Yep. Palmer Street.’
The wind grabbed at their voices and they had to yell to each other. Vicky was in danger of wearing her chocolate heart so she hurled it at a passing rubbish bin and missed. Then she pulled off her beanie before she lost it. She was exhilarated and loving every minute of the drive.
‘What’s in Annandale?’ Simon yelled.
‘Do you know Nelson Street?’
Simon nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Head there and I’ll show you. Number 88.’
Number 88 had a ‘For Sale’ sign up and there was an ‘open for inspection’ placard on the footpath outside. The moment Vicky saw the cottage she fell in love with it. And the moment she saw it, she also knew that it was way out of her league. She wasn’t too disappointed — it was all part of the fantasy game that happened every Saturday.
