Derailed (19 page)

The turnout is amazing, and the Darling Harbor venue is breathtaking. The food is fabulous, and clearly, judging by the attention I receive from everyone, I am the centerpiece. Not one to disappoint, I work the room, light it up with my
joie de vivre.
As usual, every man in the room hounds me for a dance. Everyone of
worth
, I hasten to add. I’m not complaining; it’s intoxicating to brandish such power.

Finally, it is time for the formalities, for me to give thanks, and for me to receive the accolades I so deserve. I believe they might actually name the building after me.

I nip into the bathroom to quickly re-touch my make-up, then brace myself for the avalanche of praises coming my way. Bet Bradley is going to be impressed. 

When I get on stage, Arena hands me a page with the names of people to thank and takes her place next to me. Next to her is a basket full of vouchers we hand to people who have contributed toward WIN’s new premises. We are not equals in any way, shape or form, so I should always be standing in
front
of her. Surreptitiously, I take a step forward.

Arena thanks me for my efforts and as expected, a round of applause follows. I give a slight bow before I take the mike from her. “It has been an honor working with WIN, and yes, I have exceeded the target I set for myself. But…I have to say that I am truly blessed to be in a positon where I can exercise my influence to help those in need. What use is my power, money, or influence if I fail to put it to good use?” This time the applause is thunderous. I smile and give a little bow. Flashbulbs explode in my face. I freeze for the cameras. Hope one of these photos makes it to the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper. I hand the mike back to Arena, ready to do some serious drinking. Tequila shots. It is time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Arena says, “it isn’t often that we see families who can work together and produce results that are outstanding and deeply appreciated.”

Families? What the hell is she talking about?

“So, without further ado, I call upon the
other
Mrs. Murdoch, the
original
one, a famous and rather creative author.”

What the fuck!

“She’s had her fair share of ups and downs, and she’s one of WIN’s protégés. She, ladies and gentlemen, is living testament that women can bounce back and perform miracles when they have a helping hand.”

Suddenly, to my absolute horror, to the sound of Akon’s “Dangerous,” Rival appears in a short black Gucci shift that shows off every curve in her body. Her net ankle boots and her silver jewelry look like they have been put together by some gay stylist. Although her ensemble does lack a certain
je na sais quoi.
As she meanders through the crowd, the spotlight falls on her. The attention whore beams, clearly lapping up the limelight.

What. The. Fuck!
Which rock did she crawl out from under, and how the hell does she feature here? On a night as auspicious as this? On
my
night? Sucker punched – that’s how I feel right now.

SCARLETT

Bradley, who looks a mess – bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, crooked tie, claps and whistles as Rival dances her way toward the stage. My husband, who
didn’t
clap when I walked up to the stage, claps for his ex-wife! I am so fucking embarrassed. Then, Ritchie claps, followed by Arena, and soon everyone in the whole fucking hall is clapping for the slut, and the room shakes from the applause. I really don’t get it – she’s a druggie, a criminal, a former jailbird, and they are applauding her? Mad, that’s what these fuckers are. Seriously.

Spurred on by the attention, the bitch pauses to smile at Bradley before she sashays on, carefully putting one foot in front of the other like Catwoman. Even though I want to tell everyone to shut the fuck up, I restrain myself and instead, I force a smile and also join in the clapping. Feebly.

Once on stage, Rival reads from a page.

“I have made a lot mistakes in my life. I have misjudged, miscalculated, and in the words of George W. Bush, misunderestimated.”
People laugh at her middling joke.
“
In the process, I have lost everything near and dear to me. Sure, at times, I felt like I was treated unfairly and that people took advantage of me…”

That is such a dig at us. I mean, even Bradley is looking at the floor right now.

“…I hold no grudges. I have learned to accept my losses and take responsibility for my actions. I was a woman in need, and it was Arena Shaw from WIN who found me in a mental hospital and rescued me. I was lost, forgotten, and she put out her hand. At first, I slapped it, angry and hurt at the world, but she refused to give up on me, and here I am today. Whole.”

A round of applause follows. 

“It is my mission in life to follow her example and help other women like myself. I have learned that donating money is one thing, but donating your time is priceless. Living in Australia, a person’s time is by far more valuable than money. I am a living cliché – if I can do it, so can you. Let’s raise our glass to the women of WIN.”

“Hear, hear!” Bradley says.

I feel like screaming. I feel like shoving that microphone down her throat. I feel like pushing her and her effulgent aura off the goddamn stage. I feel like beating Bradley on the head with a champagne bottle, and most of all, I feel like wrapping an electrical cord around Arena’s throat and pulling it until her body falls lifeless.

SCARLETT

The formalities are over and everyone is dancing. Except me. The evening has disintegrated. Arena the bitch has set me up. The other Mrs. Murdoch? The
original
Mrs. Murdoch? How dare she? How dare she think she can equate me with Rival and publically humiliate me? I vow to make her pay. I will contact the Australian taxation office anonymously and ask them to investigate her charitable activities. Demand that she opens up her books to them. I will spread a rumor about WIN – they abuse children – something like that.

I look around for Bradley. Where the fuck is he? I spot him guffawing with Bear, Arena, Ritchie, and Rival, his hand resting lightly on Rival’s shoulder. Urrgh! His face is ruddy, his tie has now disappeared, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. Just for one night, can’t the fucker drink less? Must he let everyone in on his secret, that he is one step away from being a drunk?

For a few moments, I fight to control my fury. Then I saunter up to them and put my arm around Bradley’s waist. “Great evening, right, Arena? Everything went according to plan, didn’t it?”

“Yes, absolutely,” the conniving whore, who has thus far been impervious to my charm says. “Everything’s perfect.”

I wait for her to go on, to say something along the lines:
All thanks to you, Scarlett. If it wasn’t for your brainchild, we would not be able to raise this much money.
The bitch doesn’t.

“Let do coffee this Wednesday at Bookends,” I say. “I want to discuss another fund-raising venture.”

“Oh, okay, then,” she says, before they resume their conversation and ignore me.

Yes, it’s time to teach her a lesson similar to the one I taught Martin Hand Job.

“Hey Scarlett!”

I whirl around and look into the face of Rodney September.
Oh God, not him!

“You promised me a dance for every ticket I bought, remember?” He flings out his pudgy arms. “I’ve come to claim all five dances.”

I groan. This is all I need right now. “Sure, Rodney,” I say through gritted teeth and allow the obnoxious Danny Devito look-alike to lead me to the dance floor.

“Ask me how old I am?” he says as he jerks me around the dance floor. 

With an inward sigh, I look at the dwarf and ask, “How old are you, Rodney?”

“Sixty-nine.” With a laugh, he slaps my arse. “Sixty-nine, get it?”

“Eh…”

“It’s my favorite number.” He wriggles two bushy, white eyebrows.

Why, I’m not sure, but Rodney believes he’s God’s gift to woman. Even though he’s bald as a newborn baby (“I have hair, but in all the wrong places,” he always boasts), has bags under his eyes that remind me of scrotums, hair growing out of his nostrils and ears, and sports a white, sparse beard. Even though he is known for his lewd jokes, his arse-grabbing, and his inappropriate and indecent comments to young women, he believes he’s Don Juan. Even though at his age only his arteries can get hard, he believes he does not need sexual enhancement drugs. But he’s an influential fucker, and other businessmen do as Rodney says. You don’t ever want to get on the wrong side of Rodney. In fact, he’s responsible for more than twenty-five percent of my ticket sales. 

“Where is your lovely wife tonight, Rodney?” I ask his shiny, spotted head.

“Oh, I left her at home so I can be naughty,” he says with a lascivious wink, then throws his head back and guffaws at his joke.

“Ah.”

“Besides, her hemorrhoids are playing up again. She has to go back to have them snipped.”

Talk about overshare.

As we dance, he looks up at me, a lecherous look on his face. Suddenly he presses his stomach against my thighs. “Can you feel it?”

“What?”

He wriggles his eyebrows and presses harder against me, his bean bag stomach now squashed against my thighs. “Now?”

“Eh…”

He presses harder. “Now?”

Fuck! I feel like grabbing a wine glass off of one of the tables and smashing it on the gnome’s head.

After four such dances, a series of lecherous looks and about twenty more repetitions of
now can you feel it
? I say, “Rodney, my husband is going to divorce me if I don’t pay him any attention. I have to take a break. But see that woman there?” I point to Rival. “She’s been eyeing you all evening.”

His head jerks around to look at Rival. “The original Mrs. Murdoch? Really?”

“Oh, yes, Rodney.” I lean in and whisper, “Rumor has it that she’s a nymphomaniac who’s into older guys.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Take me to her then!” he says, grabbing my hand and jerking me toward Rival and her gang of gronks.

I laugh and cement myself next to Bradley as Rival graciously accepts his dance request and allows him to lead her to the dance floor.

Then halfway through the dance, Bradley start to walk toward the dance floor.

“Where you going?” I ask.

“To rescue Rival. She looks uncomfortable.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He looks at me, opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t. With a shrug, he walks away.

Bastard! Did he rescue me when I danced four songs with that horny poltergeist?

To make matter’s worse, Bradley cuts in and dances with Rival.
Four
songs – that’s how many they dance. It’s an effort not to grit my teeth. It’s an even bigger effort not to glare at them. When I see them slow dance, I lose my shit. I’m going home. Fuck Bradley, fuck Arena and her dumb WIN, fuck everyone – I’m not going to stand here and be humiliated!

I storm out off out the hall, and as I’m about to exit, something catches my eye. The look on Ritchie’s face – his eyes are hooded, his lips are pressed together, and he keeps glancing toward the dance floor. My footsteps flounder as I follow his steely eyes to Rival and Bradley giggling and dancing. My eyes swing back to Ritchie – it’s not just anger on his face, it appears to be…jealousy. That’s right,
unadulterated
jealousy. I’m absolutely certain of that. What confuses me though; why would Ritchie be jealous of Rival and Bradley dancing?

Intrigued and even curious, I delay my exit and hover around, my eyes fixed on Ritchie. Moments later, Ritchie strides outside and paces. A short while later, the song ends. Rival and Bradley saunter back to their posse. Rival looks around and cranes her neck. Is she looking for Ritchie? When she sees him outside, she casually strolls into the garden and up to Ritchie. After a quick glance behind her, she puts her hand on his arm. He shrugs it off. What the…? Something’s up. After another nervous glance behind her, she pulls him behind a pillar. Their voices are muted, but they’re arguing for sure.

What the hell is going on? I have to know, so I creep up to them. The arguing has stopped. Imagine my utter surprise when I see them kissing. Not light, friendly kisses, no – my husband’s best friend has Rival pinned against the pillar with his body, his tongue deep down his ex-wife’s throat. I’m dreaming. This can’t be happening.

But it is. Ritchie and Rival are having an affair! Seldom am I knocked for a six, but today I am. Rival and Ritchie…

After I get over my surprise at the duplicitous duo, the evening takes on a golden shimmer and my smile is similar to that of the Mona Lisa’s. There is no way I am going home after this. I plan to stay and keep an eye on these two, and I simply can’t wait to break the news to Bradley. First, I plan to eat, drink, and be merry. Very merry. I walk up to the bar and order four tequila shots. “For my friends,” I say to the barman.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Murdoch.”

I slam all shots, causing the barman’s eyes to bulge. “For my
invisible
friends,” I explain before I head over to the dance floor. 

Ritchie and Rival, sitting in a tree…

Random Seduction Tip

Your eyes are key in the initial stages of seduction. You have to lock eyes with your mark, hold his gaze for five seconds, avert your eyes, return for a shorter gaze, before you avert them again. When you return for a grand finale, your gaze this time must be accompanied by an enigmatic smile. (Remember it isn’t a staring contest, so your eye-contact has to be fairly brief to avoid intimidation.) By the time you smile at your mark, he will be in your thrall. Do not be disconcerted should you fail to receive a reciprocating smile from your mark. He will be far too busy trying to figure you out to return your smile. Be patient, for in due time he will reward you with a smile that will warm the cockles of your heart. Patience in seduction is a prerequisite, remember? Of course, mascara and eye-liner is always a must in seduction, while eye drops for clear, dazzling eyes are highly recommended.