by JD Nixon
“Do you know what she said to me? She said that my last movie was disappointing! Disappointing! The fucking bitch! As if she would know the difference between a good movie and a . . . a . . .” She struggled to think of a suitable analogy. “. . . and a piece of shit,” she ended lamely, taking another huge gulp from her glass.
“It was a piece of shit,” commented Wanda with bored blandness. “Don’t you remember that one critic even called it execrable? Saying it was merely disappointing is being kind.”
“Shut your mouth, you ugly dog! What the hell do you know about art?”
“More than you do! At least I didn’t make a total ass of myself in a guest appearance on a movie show confusing Ingmar Bergman with Ingrid Bergman.”
“It’s a common mistake. They sound the same,” she sulked. “Who even knows who they are? And who cares about them anyway except that bunch of nerdy movie assholes?”
“How about you stop trying to impress people by pretending that you’re interested in anything in life other than where the nearest liquor store is?”
“How about you do me a favour and fuck off?”
“Settle down, please,” I interrupted wearily, tired of their endless bickering.
Each settled into huffy silence just moments before we arrived back at the hotel. The men formed their protective barrier around us again and we did the celebrity shuffle towards the foyer.
Halfway there, turbulence stirred to our right and one of the Heller’s men stumbled, falling to his knees. Into that breach a dozen cameras appeared, flashing at us with unbearable persistence. A person stepped over the man and entered into our little protective inner circle. Not paparazzi, I thought immediately. No camera in sight.
“Yoni! Oh God, I love you so much!” a thin voice shrilled. A tiny woman with ratty hair and a wrinkled face tried to thrust a bunch of wilted hand-picked flowers into Yoni’s hands. She recoiled in disgust from her fan. I stepped forward putting myself between Yoni and the woman.
“You need to step away from Ms Lemere now, ma’am,” I warned her, subtly forcing her backwards away from Yoni. She looked up at me in anguish.
“But she’s my daughter,” she cried plaintively, crushing the flowers against her chest.
“I am not your daughter,” Yoni denied contemptuously. “Get her away from me.”
The woman’s face crumpled in distress. “I’ve seen every movie you’ve ever made. I’ve written to you every single day. Don’t you recognise me?”
“Get her away from me!”
I butted up against the woman again. The men were busy dealing with the paparazzi who were taking advantage of the breach in our cordon. The downed man found it difficult to right himself, crushed and trampled by the billowing crowd. Everyone shouted and screamed at Yoni, pushing us around, asking her questions and trying to attract her attention. It was bedlam. It was alarming. It was terrifying.
“Time to move on and to leave Ms Lemere alone,” I advised the elderly woman.
“You never even answered one letter,” she shrieked, dodging around me. “Not even one!”
“Get her away from me! Now!” Yoni screeched, genuine fear entering her voice.
The intruder’s adulation turned to rage at Yoni’s disinterest. “I told you what I’d do if you didn’t start answering my letters. I need to get your attention. I need some time alone with you so I can tell you how I feel.”
She reached into her oversized handbag and pulled out a gun, aiming it right at Yoni. Yoni and Wanda screamed in terror.
Holy shit! None of us was expecting that!
With no time to think, I grasped the woman’s arm and forced it upwards until it was pointing towards the sky. She pumped the trigger and a couple of shots rang out, frightening the crowd, which scattered screaming in every direction. The men, including the man who had fallen and finally made it to his feet again, grabbed Yoni and Wanda by the arms. They virtually lifted them up and forced their way through the crowd, rushing the two women towards the hotel. That left me to struggle alone with the crazy woman.
It sounded heroic, but she was small and elderly and I was more afraid of breaking her arm than fearing any danger to myself. Why are elderly people so aggressive these days? I puzzled momentarily, hardly believing I was having another run-in with one so soon after tangling with Ancient Elvis.
I was much taller than the woman, so I reached above her head and secured the weapon from her easily. Then I gently clutched her arm and guided her through the remaining crowd into the foyer of the hotel. I asked the reception staff to ring the police. In my opinion, a gun waved recklessly around like that in public was not a matter to take lightly, even if the gun would probably turn out to only be a replica.
I sat with the woman until the police arrived, even buying her a cola and a packet of salt and vinegar chips from the bar off the foyer. I asked hotel security to deal with the paparazzi trying to take photos through the vast glass plates of the foyer. A couple of man-mountains in dark suits successfully moved them on, but they were soon back, like some indefatigable swarm of locusts.
By the time the police arrived, I’d been joined by four of the six men, the other two left behind in the suite to guard Yoni. After initial interviews with everyone, the two police officers decided to take the woman back to the station for further questioning. She would probably be charged with something, but I think we all realised that she was unbalanced. When I handed over the gun to them, the amusement they’d shown at the thought of this frail, small woman being any real threat dried up.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “It’s just a fake, isn’t it?”
“Nope,” replied the sergeant. “It’s the real deal. Where did she get that?”
“Oh God! I thought it was a replica.” I rubbed my face, troubled by the fact that I’d been wrestling a person with a real gun. “She could have shot one of us.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. All’s well that ends well.”
“I guess.” I looked at her. “I don’t suppose you know my brother? He’s a detective. Brian Chalmers. He works homicide.”
“Nah,” she said, hitching up her pants. “I don’t socialise with the plain clothes. They all think the sun shines out of their arse.”
I laughed. “Sounds like my brother, all right.”
We parted on friendly terms and they escorted the woman to their patrol car while the five of us made our way upstairs.
Chapter 23
Even though it was luxuriously spacious, it was a crush in the suite’s lounge room with six huge security men trying to squeeze into the same finite space. Wanda was sitting on the lounge with a man on either side of her, tightly jammed between them, beaming with unrestrainable happiness. Yoni was nowhere to be seen, hopefully drinking herself to death in her bedroom.
“All sorted now, Miss?” asked one of the men. “The mad granny fully subdued?”
Nobody said anything, but smirks rippled through the room.
Oh, I get it, I thought to myself glancing around at them. They all considered the whole incident to be a huge joke. I decided to dissuade them of that fallacy.
“That was a real gun she had, you know. She might have been a mad granny, but she was a mad granny with a gun. She could have shot someone.”
“Or she could have gummed them to death. She didn’t have many teeth,” said one. The men chuckled, slapping his hand in appreciation of his towering wit.
I blasted them an all-encompassing withering glance, but I couldn’t argue – she hadn’t had a lot of remaining teeth.
Hands on my hips, I stood before them with sparks flying from my eyes. “Maybe one of you might care to explain how she was able to breach the impenetrable barrier you formed with your strong, manly muscles?” And yeah, my tone was probably a little snarky.
One of the men flushed with embarrassment. I didn’t feel too sorry for him though – he’d just been the one laughing the loudest. “Someone tripped me over. It was one of
those bastard photographers, I think. I fell like a tree. Sorry, Miss.” That was nicely and genuinely said, so it would be churlish to stay miffed.
I relented. “It’s not your fault. Those paparazzi are weasels. They’ll do anything to take a photo,” I said, and he visibly relaxed. He was probably worried I’d be tattling at the soonest opportunity to Heller about his misadventure. I couldn’t understand why the men would think that, except for that stupid persistent rumour that I was Heller’s woman. Heller had plenty of women, but I wasn’t one of them. That was entirely my choice, so why did I feel so regretful about it?
I told the men they could all leave and flopped down on the lounge next to Wanda.
“Sorry to spoil your man sandwich,” I smiled.
“It was the most attention I’d had from a man for ages,” she pouted. “You have good-looking workmates.”
“I’m forbidden from noticing. It’s in my employment contract.
She laughed, but a shriek from Yoni’s bedroom quickly spoiled her mood. She stood up grudgingly. “The Creature from the Vodka Lagoon’s calling. Better see what it wants.”
I took a moment to ring Will, wanting to know if he was available for Friday night. Still no answer. What the hell game was he playing at? Was he okay? Was this his way of teaching me a lesson about not being there for him enough? I left him a message telling him to ring me back as soon as possible.
Wanda soon returned, rolling her eyes as a stream of obscenities followed her out. “God, she’s snippy today. Must be due for her period or something. Not that she can have a period.”
My own periods had been rare and spontaneous since my accident, so of course I was interested. “Really, why not?”
Wanda lowered her voice. “She used to be a man.”
My jaw dropped to the ground. “No! Really?” It was the best gossip I’d ever heard.
Wanda’s face instantly scrunched with remorse. “No, not really. Sorry Tilly, it was just my mean little joke. I didn’t think you’d take it seriously.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid.
She sighed. “I wish it was true though. I’d be rich after selling that secret!”
“Would you sell it?” It was hard to imagine doing that to someone.
Her half-smile was wistful as she shook her head. “No, I’d never do that to her, no matter what a bitch she is. Stars like her don’t have a lot of people they can trust in their lives. There’s always someone wanting to sell their story and make a few quick bucks out of them. Her first husband wrote a tell-all book and this latest one looks as though he’s heading down the same path. I made sure she signed an iron-clad pre-nup with him, so he has to make his money off her another way other than a divorce settlement.”
That made me sad. It would terrible to live a life where you couldn’t trust anyone to share your real self with – not even your own husband.
“But anyway,” she said heartily. “Enough about the old bitch. What do you want to do for the rest of the afternoon?”
We whiled away the time playing games of virtual tennis on the in-house console system. We didn’t hear a peep from Yoni the whole time. Wanda returned to her room for an hour to make some phone calls and I read the newspaper, which was still lying unopened on the coffee table. Didn’t look as though Yoni was much of a one for keeping abreast of current affairs. Wanda joined me for dinner, and we ate while watching TV.
I nearly choked on my poached chicken breast when I saw the first story on the news. Filling the widescreen TV was a photo of Yoni, Wanda and me just as the mad granny started shooting. It must have been taken by one of the paparazzi.
Wanda and Yoni were huddled to one side, fear creasing their faces as they looked over their shoulders, the arms of the Heller’s men around them, urging them forward. You couldn’t identify any of the security team; there were only back and side shots of them, although the Heller’s uniform was distinctly visible. But there was no mistaking me, smack bang in the centre of the photo, one arm reaching up to secure the gun from the granny. My other hand was on her shoulder close to her neck, appearing as though I was strangling her, while one knee was raised as I reached up, as though I was also simultaneously kneeing her in the stomach. I had a ferocious expression on my face while the tiny woman, who was barely half my height, carried a look of intense fear and pain.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed loudly with dismay. “It looks like I’m beating the crap out of her! I barely laid a hand on her.”
One newsreader solemnly tutted at the extreme force employed by celebrities these days to protect themselves from their own devoted fans. The other expressed their insincere hopes that the elderly woman was recovering from the terrible injuries caused by yet another over-zealous security officer.
My phone rang immediately. I really didn’t want to answer, knowing whom it would be.
“Matilda. Talk to me now.”
“I didn’t hurt her! That photo’s very misleading. It was all resolved peacefully. She had a real gun, Heller. She could have killed one of us.”
“I’m not at all happy about this negative publicity.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that. You’d better get on the phone to the press then and sort it out. I didn’t do anything wrong! Ask the police. When they took that woman away she was perfectly fine. I even bought her a packet of chips!”
The conversation continued for another minute, but the conclusion was the same – I was in trouble with him yet again. That Employee of the Day award was looking less likely with every assignment I had.
Of course the current affairs programs went ballistic about it. Luckily for me though, others came forward to refute the brutality claims, including Granny herself.
To the envy of his competitors, Trent Dawson scooped everyone, managing to corner an exclusive interview with the Granny’s nervous and embarrassed son. Stammering with stage fright, he apologised for the incident, telling Trent that his mother had slipped the confines of her nursing home (and not for the first time) to make her way to Yoni’s hotel. But he wasn’t able to even guess at how she’d laid her hands on a real gun, though admitting that she’d always been a crafty and resourceful person. He further confessed that she’d been obsessed with Yoni since her first movie about being an adoptee. His mother had been forced to give up her first baby as an unmarried teenager and the character in Yoni’s movie bore the same name that she gave her lost baby. And all that addled in her mind to Yoni being her daughter. But what her son could say decisively was that his mother had spoken of how kind both the police and I had been to her and had certainly not been injured by anybody. She’d even told him how I’d bought her favourite flavour of chips for her to eat.
One of Trent Dawson’s reporters also scored an impromptu interview with the police sergeant, waylaying her as she made her way into the station. She strenuously denied that Granny had been injured in any way by either the police or by Ms Lemere’s security team. He followed that with a recorded phone interview with Heller where he emphasised that his staff always adhered to the highest levels of professional behaviour, pointing out that his security team had efficiently disarmed the woman and protected Yoni as they’d been hired to do. But his coup was a phone interview with Yoni praising our quick actions and firmly stating how satisfied she was with the Heller’s team and how much she would recommend us to others. And wow, wasn’t that a complete surprise?
Trent Dawson wrapped up by addressing his audience gravely. “I’ve actually met the young lady at the centre of this media beat-up. I can assure viewers that she is a polite and respectful professional who has been ensuring that Ms Lemere stays safe from the paparazzi during her visit. And as for myself, I would be more than willing to have her looking after me at any time.”
I laughed at the cheek of the man, but couldn’t stop thinking about how decent that was of him. He was a big star and didn’t have to take the time to stick up for a nobody like me, especially on national television. And especiall
y when I hadn’t been all that polite to him.
Of course, my phone rang immediately – Heller wanting to know what that was all about. I assured him it was nothing and confirmed that it was Mr Dawson’s tackle I’d had the misfortune to see. He was mollified that the story had matched my own version of events, sighed over how much trouble I was and rang off, leaving me reasonably confident that today wasn’t going to be the day he’d give me my marching orders.
I checked my watch. It was time to get Yoni moving again. Wanda braved up to the task, rapping on her door as she entered Yoni’s bedroom.
A scream had me on my feet, flying into the room.
Wanda stood at the foot of the bed, her face pale and one hand clamped across her mouth. Her eyes were full of panic and shiny with unshed tears. “Oh God, Yoni. Not again.”
Yoni lay face-down, naked, and sprawled across her bed, a pool of vomit trickling from her mouth, the sheets stained with urine and shit. There were pill containers scattered on the bedside cabinet and a bottle of vodka had fallen to the floor nearby, its contents leaking onto the woollen carpet.
“Call an ambulance! Now!” I ordered a motionless Wanda. She was transfixed with fear, tears running down her face. “Wanda? Call an ambulance!”
“She wouldn’t want –”
“I don’t give a shit what she’d want. Call an ambulance. Now!”
I carefully dragged Yoni off the bed onto the floor to give me a firmer surface on which to work in case I needed to perform CPR. She was still breathing, but her pulse was faint. I used a clean part of the sheet to wipe the vomit off her mouth and rolled her into the recovery position, so that she wouldn’t choke on any more vomit.
She didn’t look very good, her skin gray and clammy. There wasn’t much I could do for her except monitor her breathing and heartbeat while we waited for the paramedics. I rang Clive to explain the situation, wanting to make sure that there would be some men to accompany the paramedics in and out of the building.
After Wanda rang the ambulance, she hovered near us and I was surprised by how distraught she seemed. But her usual efficiency kicked in and she soon had her phone out cancelling the TV interview planned for the evening, lying convincingly about Yoni’s sudden tummy bug. Then she moved around the room, picking up the pill containers and the vodka bottle.
