Heller's Girlfriend (31 page)

“That is sometimes good advice
for a woman to give a man.” He sighed wearily. “I miss you,
Matilda. This place is always so empty without you here.”

I laughed. “You have hundreds of
people around you.”

“But it’s never the same without
you.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.” And I
hung up, smiling to myself. It’s always nice to be missed. I
snuggled into the horrible bed and fell asleep quickly.

Chapter 22

As usual I was up before
everyone, going through my self-devised workout routine, and taking
a shower before ordering enough breakfast for three. As I was on
the phone Wanda walked in, so I changed the order to four. When it
arrived, Wanda and I ate our food and finished before we even heard
a peep from the other two.

Trent was the first to emerge,
showered and dressed properly in his clothes this time, I noted
with relief.

“Morning ladies,” he said
charmingly. He settled down to dig into his breakfast while I put
the bed away and changed into my uniform. Wanda disappeared to
finalise the small details of the day’s activities. Yoni eventually
appeared, silently picking at half a piece of dry toast and half an
apple for breakfast, then drank three cups of black coffee. I
wondered briefly if she’d swallowed any of the revolting medicine
and red pills this morning or whether having Trent with her had
tempered her drinking. Then I worried that Wanda hadn’t even told
her about the day’s events.

I approached and waited for her
to finish what I thought was a very boring story about herself when
she finally deigned to notice me.

“What?” she demanded rudely. She
obviously wasn’t a morning person. Or a lunchtime or evening person
either.

“Do you know what’s happening
today?” I asked.

“I have no fucking idea. Why
don’t you people keep me better informed?”

“It’s not my job to do that, Ms
Lemere. I’m here for security only,” I ground out through gritted
teeth. “I’m telling you as a courtesy.”

“Well then, don’t just stand
there. Tell me,” she ordered. I told her the full itinerary for the
day.

“You have to tell me this stuff
earlier!” she ranted and made a move with her cup as though she
meant to throw her coffee on me. I clutched her wrist firmly.

“Don’t even think about it,” I
warned. “I’m not prepared to let you treat me like that.”

She let go of the cup and it
clattered back onto the saucer. Glaring at me, she shoved back her
chair and stalked into her bedroom. Trent threw me a wry smile and
trotted off after her.

I made myself scarce while Yoni
and Trent bid their fond farewells to each other. I wondered how
long their casual relationship had been going, and reasoned that it
was probably years, considering their relaxed affection. When I had
the courage to return to the lounge room, Yoni was nowhere to be
seen and Trent was about to open the door to leave. He stopped to
talk to me, a sly smile spreading over his face.

“I think I might ring you one
day, Tilly Chalmers. I hope my little fling with Yoni doesn’t put
you off any proposition I might make to you in the future? I’ve
known her for years.” All that was said in a presumptuous way, as
if he automatically assumed that I’d be flattered to hear from him
again. I glared at him with scorn.

“Of course not. It wouldn’t
matter to me how many millions of women you’d poked before you hit
on me. It would still feel
so
special to me,” I retorted, my
tone dripping with sarcasm.

He was smart enough to pick up
on it. “Whoops, guess I blundered there. In my defence, can I just
say that working in my industry, you kind of expect everyone to be
a player? That’s how we roll. We all screw each other. It’s our
favourite type of networking.” He shrugged disparagingly. “I think
it would be kind of nice to spend some time with someone who’s not
in the industry, not a player.”

He did sound sincere when he
said that, but remembering his reputation as an unrepentant
love-rat, I held the door open for him and politely wished him a
lovely day.

“I
am
going to ring you,”
he threatened. “I find you very interesting. An attractive young
woman working in such a macho business? I’m burning with curiosity
to hear your story.”

I didn’t know how he planned to
ring me. I certainly wasn’t going to give him my mobile number.

He sighed at my silence. “I’ve
really fucked this up, haven’t I? I haven’t impressed you at all.
I’ve offended you and even worse, I’ve accidently shown you all my
best bits first up. Now you have nothing to look forward to.”

I couldn’t help myself but laugh
at his audaciousness. “You’re no shrinking violet, are you?”

“Fortune favours the bold,
Tilly,” he said, and winked at me before sauntering away towards
the lifts, whistling.

In the hallway he passed the
stylist arriving to attend to Yoni. I let her into the suite and
she scuttled off to the second bedroom to find her client. Wanda
stepped out of the lift that Trent was about to enter, but he
didn’t seem to notice her.

“Trent had the biggest smile on
his face. I guess his night with the hag was . . . um . . .
productive?”

I shrugged, not very interested.
“Suppose so. I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I turned
indignant. “Do you know she tried to throw some coffee at me this
morning?”

“
No!
She’s such a bitch.
I hope you put her in her place.”

“Let’s just say that I don’t
think she’ll try that again,” I admitted modestly.

Her phone rang and she took the
call, making final arrangements for the photo shoot this morning.
While she was occupied, I spared a minute to ring Will to let him
know I was expecting to be free this Friday evening. No answer –
diverted to voicemail.
Damn!
He was so hard to contact
lately. I began to worry that he was shy dialling me. But why?

Wanda had arranged for the photo
shoot to take place in one of the hotel’s beautiful gardens. When
we arrived down at the private courtyard garden, the magazine staff
were already present. The stylist pushed Yoni’s clothes rack to the
garden’s gazebo and commenced fussing with the clothes, preparing
them for the speedy changes required between photos. Wanda spoke to
the journalist about the questions that would be asked, banning any
mention of Yoni’s broken marriage or her drunken YouTube video. She
then discussed lighting and location with the photographer. She was
very efficient and organised, making requests in a polite
professional way. Despite her personal attitude to Yoni, she cared
enough about her job to do it properly. I couldn’t understand why
Yoni didn’t appreciate her more.

Yoni preened in the gazebo,
disengaged with the entire situation. I stood back from the action,
keeping a careful watch on the perimeter of the garden. Clive had
sent a couple of men to support me during the morning, the rest of
them due to arrive when we left the hotel after lunch.

I smiled evilly when Farrell and
another man I didn’t know stepped out into the garden.

“Hello Hugh!” I shouted
heartily, waving from across the garden, causing everyone to turn
in surprise to check out the sudden commotion. He glared at me
ferociously and stood as far away from me as humanly possible in
the small space. He didn’t look as though he liked me even a little
bit today.

Yoni appeared from the portable
change room, a stunning vision in a very tight ruby red evening
gown. The journalist asked her some soft questions while the
photographer busily snapped her, leaning up against the ivy-draped
high brick courtyard wall. Then Yoni changed outfits and hair
styles and they did it again.

And again.

And again.

I was bored out of my brain
watching her simper and model for the camera. Stifling a yawn, I
idly perused the garden, my attention captured by a flash over the
top of the brick wall. Without raising an alarm, I dashed over, not
wanting to scare the intruder away. I sprang onto the wall,
gripping the top of the fence with my hands and pulling myself up,
using the uneven surface of the bricks as a foothold for my boots.
At the same time the paparazzo popped up again from the other side
of the wall to take another photo.

I scared the living daylights
out of him when he saw me, and he turned to jump down from the
rubbish bin he’d dragged over to use as a platform. I seized the
collar of his shirt to stop him. He struggled to free himself from
my grasp, shoving his palm into my face and forcing my head
backwards. I bit him on the fleshy part of his palm. He yelled in
pain, snatching his hand away.

I struggled on the fence, my
whole body weight supported on one elbow, my other arm clutching
his shirt, my feet gripping tenuously to the wall. The man was
better positioned than me, having surer footing by standing on the
bin. He wriggled vigorously, fumbling with his buttons, planning to
leave me with nothing but his sweaty, food-stained shirt as a
memento of his visit.

I thrashed around to pull myself
higher so I could lean over and attempt to grasp some part of his
body. I wasn’t fussy – could be his hair or his nuts for all I
cared – as long as I stopped him from escaping with his camera. The
photo shoot was an exclusive deal with the magazine, and I’d almost
dropped in shock when Wanda told me how much Yoni was being paid to
do it. They wouldn’t appreciate any similar photos turning up in
other magazines to spoil their exclusive.

I heard a grunt behind me.
Farrell and the other man scaled the wall either side of me, making
it look easy, each grabbing the man by one arm. In the ensuing
scuffle, the paparazzo shoved me fiercely in the face again. I lost
my tenuous grip on the wall, tumbling backwards to land painfully
in a clump of rose bushes. As I stood up, the thorns ripped cruelly
into my exposed arms and neck.

The two
Heller’s
men
roughly hauled the paparazzo over the wall where they all landed on
the ground in an awkward heap, just missing the rose bushes. The
paparazzo sprang to his feet and ran through the garden, shooting
photos indiscriminately as he did, hoping to catch a photo of Yoni
in amongst them. I chased him, bringing him down with a tackle that
would have had Dad leaping to his feet cheering if he’d seen it on
TV. Farrell confiscated the camera as the other man dragged the
paparazzo to his feet. He protested wildly in very foul language as
Farrell tapped on the camera’s menu to delete the photos. Then
Farrell politely handed the man back his camera and they both
escorted him out of the hotel.

“Nice tackle!” admired the
magazine photographer. “I hate those pap maggots. They’re always
trying to ruin our exclusives.”

“Are you all right, Tilly? That
looks painful,” asked Wanda, noting the scratches on my arms and
neck, some of which had started bleeding.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured,
suppressing my grimace of pain. I dusted down my uniform and hoped
it hadn’t been torn as well. My hands and elbows were stinging from
the brick wall and my knees from the tackle. A nice, hot bath
sounded like a good idea right about then.

Farrell and his mate returned to
the garden. I walked over to them to debrief, rummaging in my
pockets for some tissues to mop up the various trickles of blood.
Farrell regarded me with detached contemplation.

“Not a bad effort there,
Chalmers. I’d give it a C plus. You need more work on your upper
arm strength.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you need to
work on your speed some more. I thought you were never coming to
help,” I snapped back at him, not in the mood for any analysis of
my security style.

“You also need to work on your
landing skills. And I think you need some lessons in mastering rose
bushes.” Both men laughed.

“Thanks, but if I wanted to
avoid painful pricks, I’d stay away from you two!” I huffed, and
stalked over to stand by myself on the opposite side of the garden.
I glowered at them for the rest of the shoot. Thankfully it
finished not long afterwards and we trooped back to the suite
again. Farrell offered to accompany us so that I could clean up
after my tangle with rose bushes. I accepted ungratefully, still
annoyed with him. But on the bright side, I did manage to call him
Hugh fifteen times on the short journey to the suite, earning
myself the evil eye from him the entire way.

I left him to look after Yoni,
who immediately disappeared back into her room. My eyes watered
with pain as I took a shower, my skin stinging. In a fresh uniform
with the worst scratches patched up, I carefully inspected my
dirtied uniform. The material appeared to have survived my tangle
with the rose bushes, so I chucked it into the corner of the
bathroom, a very bad habit of mine.

Farrell departed when I came out
again, my effusive thanks ringing in his ears. I’d dropped at least
another ten Hughs during our short conversation, so was pretty
satisfied with myself. I felt positive that he was beginning to
crack. I was going to win this battle. I could smell victory.

We barely had time to snatch a
light lunch before it was time to bundle Yoni into the limo. She
was due at a performing arts college where she would present a high
achievement award in drama during a ceremony. The scrum outside the
hotel wasn’t as unruly this time; perhaps the paparazzi were on
their lunchbreak?

Yoni was greeted with warm
enthusiasm by the staff and students of the college. Once again, a
few sympathetic hand-picked journalists were in attendance for her
visit. Her short speech amused and charmed the audience. She
presented the award to the overwhelmed student, posing patiently
for a hail of photos.

Afterwards, back in the limo she
guzzled champagne and bitched about the college’s principal, a
fifty-something strong-minded woman.