Heller's Revenge (9 page)

To my joy, there was one gem of
an email. It was from my best friend, Dixie, a petite and perky
Malaysian-Australian, with enchanting black eyes, a cute black
pixie hair cut and the biggest libido I’d ever known in a human
being. There was an attachment to her email and I opened it
cautiously, well aware of her penchant for forwarding naked photos
of men she had conquered and snapped with her phone while they were
slumbering in post-coital bliss. I angled my monitor to ensure that
Niq, who did his distance education schooling in the same general
office area as Daniel and me, wasn’t able to view the photo. It had
a high probability of falling into the porn category.

The photo was taken in a hotel
room. I realised with a jolt that I recognised the man asleep on
the bed. He was a high-profile rugby league player with a
notoriously sordid reputation for involuntary sexual encounters
with women in nightclub toilets. Scrutinising the photo, I noticed
he was much less endowed than I’d imagined, given his reputation.
Perhaps that’s why he had to force himself on drunken women so
regularly?

I sent Dixie a quick email back:
That’s a teeny peeny! How did you meet him? How did you manage
to do him in a hotel room and not in a nightclub loo? And is it
true that size doesn’t matter!!?

After hitting the send button, I
deleted the photo from my computer. Heller was not amused by
Dixie’s behaviour and I’d promised him that I would ask her to stop
sending me such photos. I
did
ask her to stop, but she still
kept sending them anyway. And to my shame, I have to admit that I
did keep looking at them as well.

Chapter 5

I retired early that night,
cooking myself a simple dinner – a small dish of garlic prawn
fettucine with basil, cherry tomatoes and wilted English spinach
leaves, washed down with a few glasses of a crisp and tasty
sauvignon blanc. Heller provided us with an excellent pantry
located on the sixth floor and everything was free! Have I
mentioned that I love living in the Warehouse?

Nicely loose from the alcohol, I
watched TV in my pyjamas, sprawled on my white lounge with indolent
inelegance. But when the nation’s leading current affairs program
People’s Pulse
came on, I sprang up with vested interest.
The show’s host was Trent Dawson, a sleazy celebrity with a
reputation for being a love-rat and the story he introduced was
titled, ‘
City’s Foxiest Fighter?
’

“No, no, no,” I prayed to
myself, fumbling for the remote. It was too late. The YouTube
footage beamed from my TV and I watched in horrified petrification
as my butt, barely encased in those tiny panties, broadcast to
approximately 2.8 million viewers, my mother and father but two of
them.

I turned up the volume.

“– now generated over two
million views on YouTube. It appears, contrary to what the fashion
gurus’ want to tell us, that men
do
appreciate a real woman
with delicious curves. And perhaps it’s every man’s secret fantasy
to be bruised up by a tall, masked woman in lingerie?” Trent Dawson
smirked. “So who is this superhero wonder woman who saved Jenna
Mackenzie from a crazed fan? Who recognises her? Contact me on
email or Twitter or Facebook if you think you know her.” He leaned
closer to the camera, his brown eyes intent. “I
want
to
interview that woman. Help me, viewers. One of you has to know who
she is.”

I switched off the TV, stomach
sinking. My phone rang immediately. I knew who it was.

“Matilda.”

“It wasn’t me,” I said, invoking
the Bart Simpson defence. “It doesn’t even look like me. I was
working at the show, but I was in my uniform the entire time. The
mask is confusing everyone.”

There was a deliberate silence.
“That’s good. You keep saying that if anyone asks.” Another
silence. “I’m going out now. Good night, my sweet.”

“Night Heller.” My turn to be
quiet. “Have fun with Jenna.”

His low, growly, sexy chuckle
made my stomach flip. “I will, but not as much fun as I could have
with you, Matilda.”

He hung up, leaving me
palpitating over that little comment for a while until sleep
finally claimed me.

The next morning I watched TV
while I ironed, nearly burning a hole in my cargo pants when the
show’s vacuous and bouncy female host interviewed Jenna Mackenzie
live in the studio. It was her last media appearance in the country
before she was flying out to Milan for yet another fashion parade.
Jenna purred her way through the friendly chat with the sycophantic
host, her lips redder and more bee-stung than I remembered, her
eyes dreamy. Her contented and languorous mien virtually screamed
out to the world that she’d spent the previous evening indulging in
an orgy of sizzling sex with a smoking hot stud. As I flicked off
the TV, I mercilessly quashed the familiar sharp burn of jealousy
and faced the day with a determined bright smile plastered onto my
face.

The rest of the week passed
uneventfully. Clive allocated me a small assignment for a couple of
days, acting as companion to the wife and daughter of an interstate
businessman in the city to negotiate the sale of a large
residential development. I was glad for the new job, tired of
dodging Heller so I didn’t have to hear about his night with Jenna.
There’s only so much a woman can bear.

At our first meeting, the client
confided that his wife was mildly agoraphobic and exceedingly
nervous about leaving her comfort zone by visiting a different
city. He wanted someone with her during the day while he was
occupied with business, but didn’t think it was fair to hand that
responsibility over to his teenage daughter. I could only agree
with him.

His wife, Clare, was a timid,
insipid woman, with pale skin, pale gray eyes and pale blonde hair.
She wore neutral, virtually colourless, clothes. It was a curious
effect, almost like camouflage as she blended into every
background. Her daughter, Zoe, was a bright and pretty
blonde-haired young lady, more confident and extroverted than her
poor mother.

On the first day, I took them to
the city zoo, which they enjoyed despite Clare’s anxiety in the
press of the crowd. With a huge effort she managed to endure the
visit, distracted somewhat by the animals, Zoe supporting her by
constantly holding her hand. At lunchtime I ended up clutching
Clare’s other hand as we battled through the raucous crowd at the
zoo cafe to find a spare table. It was simply too much for her
though, and she began to panic, her breathing laboured and her
forehead shiny with perspiration. I led them both outside to a
sheltered, quieter spot, returning to the fray by myself to collect
some food for us.

The next day I took them on a
harbour cruise in the morning, which was more manageable for Clare
because there were less people around. She even seemed to relax for
a while, her interest captured as we floated past all the expensive
harbour-front houses, even though she probably owned something
similarly grand back in her home city. In the afternoon we wandered
around the botanical gardens. A keen gardener, Clare mustered some
enthusiasm during our meanderings, and I caught a glimpse of the
vivacious woman her phobia was stopping her from being. Afterwards,
we loitered at the gardens’ cafe, sipping tea and munching on cream
cakes, while eyeing off the handsome barista. Or maybe it was only
me doing that?

When the handsome barista moved
his attention to a larger-tipping customer, I suggested some
activities to the two women to fill the remainder of the day. Clare
indicated she wasn’t up to visiting the city’s museums or doing any
shopping, so I didn’t push. Instead we took a leisurely stroll on
the harbour front before I delivered them back to their hotel and
handed them safely to the client. They were flying out first thing
in the morning and were planning on an early retirement that
evening. Clare and Zoe professed such genuine gratitude for my
services that I was embarrassed. With their assurances that they’d
had a marvellous time ringing in my ears, I left them feeling more
as though I’d performed a public service rather than my job.

I know – it seems unbelievable
that I get paid to do that sort of work, doesn’t it? It sounds like
an easy way to make a living, but unfortunately not every
assignment I do is as tranquil and pleasant as that one. And I was
about to be reminded of that disagreeable truth soon enough.

Back at my flat, my dinner eaten
and my dishes washed and dried, Dixie rang me to complain about her
evening with the league legend.

“He might have won best player
awards, but there was no award from me for best stayer, that’s for
sure,” she divulged.

“Oh no,” I sympathised. “Not a
‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ type of guy?”

“You’ve got it! Not just a
quickie, but a complete fucking lack of awareness about a woman’s
needs. It was like, I’m done, thanks bitch, now what’s on TV?”

“What a jerk!”

“He’s an utter arsehole!
And
he carried on as if I should be grateful that he even
gave me a shag in the first place, even though I’ve had more fun
with my little finger!” She paused and I heard her taking a huge
swig of wine, probably the cheap and nasty cask wine that had been
our mainstay when we’d lived together. I contemplated my glass of
expensive white wine with not a small amount of guilt. “I’m
thinking of posting that photo on Facebook. Let everyone see how
tiny he really is. What do you think?”

“Only if you’re not going to end
up being sued, Dix,” I cautioned.

“Wouldn’t care frankly. I’ve got
nothing for him to take and it would be worth the publicity.”
Unlike me, Dixie still harboured hopes of cracking an acting
career. “And besides, footballers are
always
having skin
shots of themselves passed around. They’re used to it.” She thought
for a moment. “Hmm, maybe I should sell it to one of those shows
like
People’s Pulse
? That Trent Dawson is a bit of a hottie.
Do you think I’d get to meet him if I did?”

“Don’t know, babe. He probably
has researchers to do all that kind of stuff. But promise me that
you’ll think about it some more before you do anything,” I
asked.

“S’pose,” she reluctantly
agreed, before taking another swig of wine, brightening. “Hey, did
you see that superhero chick on YouTube? I sent you the link.” She
laughed. “How does someone with an arse that big ever get to be a
model anyway?”

“I didn’t think it looked
that
big,” I protested weakly. “Maybe it was just the camera
angle? Or that lingerie she was wearing? It was pretty bitsy.”

“All I can say is that she
showed some real balls by flashing that mountain of flesh around in
public,” she snickered.

“I bet she didn’t want to do it,
but she probably didn’t have any choice. People have to do all
sorts of horrible things in their job.”

“I guess.” Bitterness flooded
her voice. “Like making lard-burgers for lard-arses.” Dixie
reluctantly worked for a multinational fast food chain in a
twenty-four hour shop on the red-eye shift, leaving her time for
auditions during the day.

“No luck with new gigs?”

She sighed heavily. “No. Only
the usual crap that Kristo finds. God, he’s such a creep! Now he
expects me to hump him just because he got me a dead body role in
the next series of
Dissection
. I really need a new
agent.”

I tried to be supportive. “But
still, that’s a fairly popular show. Mum loves it and so do all her
friends.” That was actually a lie because Mum had told me it was
the worst forensics show she’d ever watched on TV, managing to be
simultaneously gruesome
and
boring. “You’ll get a lot of
exposure from doing that.”

She wasn’t in the mood for
support. “I’m just a dead body, Tilly, not a fucking star. No need
to wet yourself over it.”

Her snarkiness stung me – I was
trying to be a good friend. “Well, you know you could always get a
real job, Dixie,” I suggested tartly. And by God, wasn’t I the
superior, mature one now, with the responsible job? Dixie didn’t
appreciate my attitude. Not one little bit. And looking back on it,
I couldn’t blame her.

“Well, fuck me, Tilly Chalmers.
Congratulations! You’ve just turned into my mother!”

“Dixie –” I pleaded, regretting
my hasty words.

She hung up on me.

As soon as I replaced my
receiver, cursing myself, the phone rang again. It was my mother,
and there’s karma biting me on the butt.

“When are you going to visit
again, Tilly? We haven’t seen you for a while.” Without even
drawing a decent, separating breath, she added, “And please bring
that lovely Mr Heller with you again.”

“I don’t know, Mum. I’m very
busy at the moment with work,” I snapped, harsher than I meant,
still agitated from my phone call with Dixie.

“Tilly? What’s the matter,
honey? You sound a little upset.”

“It’s nothing,” I sighed.

“We never see you anymore. Your
father was only saying that this morning.”

No one does guilt quite like
your mother. “How about when I find some free time, I’ll take you
and Dad out for dinner?” I thought of my brothers. “With Sean and
Brian as well? Maybe even with my new boyfriend, Will. You’ll love
him. He’s very sweet.”

“Not Mr Heller?” She couldn’t
hide her disappointment. Mum had a soft spot for Heller. And his
muscles.

Instant irritation swelled up
inside me. “No, Mum! I said
Will
, not Heller.
Will!
He’s lovely! You’ll love him!”

Pointed silence at her end, then
unmistakable frostiness. “Well, Matilda Ann, I can see that you
don’t want to chat to me today. Perhaps you should ring me when
you’re feeling a little bit more polite.”

She disconnected.