Heller's Revenge (3 page)

One by one, Jules gave the women
the go-ahead to launch themselves out onto the stage, watching
anxiously from a gap in the curtain. He greeted them each on their
return with a backhand compliment –
Beautiful posture, my
darling, but maybe a little too slow? Wonderful stepping, my lover,
but perhaps next time a little more ladylike
?

My heart thumped louder as the
queue shortened, until it was my turn.

Jules turned to me with a fake
smile until he realised it was me. “Oh, you. Get out there! And
remember to
walk
, not lope. You’re a goddess, not a
beast!”

People pushed me forwards and
suddenly I was launched through the gold curtains onto the catwalk
by somebody’s unkind hand in the middle of my back, making an
inelegant entrance from which I battled to recover. And that’s when
I wished I was fast asleep in my cosy bed dreaming the
naked-at-work dream and not experiencing it. Then I remembered my
parents’ wise words to always take pride in my work and do the best
job I could. So I threw back my shoulders, pushed out my chest,
flung my hair with attitude and strutted down that catwalk in those
dangerously high heels, swinging my hips as best I could.

But of course I was
embarrassingly bad compared to the other women and could hear the
cruel sniggers and derisive comments from the audience even from
where I perched above them. As I stood at the end of the catwalk,
striking a pose that nearly dislocated my hip, troubled about the
creeping wedgie that made walking increasingly uncomfortable, I
regretted my recent career choice. My amused colleagues,
unfortunately able to recognise me under my mask, only confirmed
that regret. Life had been
so
much easier when I was
unemployed and starving.

“Turn! For Christ’s sake,
turn
!” hissed Jules from the gold curtain, loud enough for
everyone else in the vicinity of the stage to hear as well.

So I turned and headed back
towards the gold curtain, my mind consumed with that wedgie and
worried about everyone judging the size of my butt. When I returned
to the safety of the dressing room, Jules confronted me.

“I said
goddess!
Not
fucking gorilla!” he bleated. “You are ruining me!”

I wondered briefly if I was
wearing enough silver chain to strangle the little jerk, but before
I could test that theory, the remaining women awaiting their turn
distracted him and the moment passed. I lurked backstage,
discreetly remedying my wedgie, until it was time for Jenna’s grand
entrance. Applause thundered around the audience at her appearance
and continued through her four presentations. Watching from the
sidelines, I was impressed at how efficient and well run the
backstage area was, and how quickly Jenna was able to change
clothes with the help of the minions.

After Jenna’s return from her
fourth solo walk, the backstage erupted into a frenzy.

“It’s time for the finale,
ladies,” Jules agitated, clapping his hands again. “Places
everyone. Quickly!”

We were arranged in two equal
straight lines, side-by-side, ready to trail behind Jenna, who was
resplendent in an over-the-top red set complete with huge extended
red wings fixed to her back. After a mad scramble, I found my place
in the middle of the right-hand line. The models standing with me
didn’t seem very happy about being relegated to the most
inconspicuous place, probably preferring to have been allocated a
spot at the beginning or end of the line. But I was grateful to
blend in.

A tumultuous roar greeted
Jenna’s return and she graciously waved at the crowd to the left
and to the right as she strutted down the stage, the rest of us in
her wake. The plan was for us to remain in place, either side of
the catwalk, to flank Jenna when she pirouetted at the end and
returned backstage. We’d been given bags of red rose petals to
throw over her when she passed us.

Tony stared at her mesmerised,
as if he’d never seen a lingerie-clad climactic angel before. I
searched for my other two colleagues and found them in a similar
hypnotised state, goggling at the stage, paying no attention to
their surroundings.

Men!
I smiled to myself.
Luckily nothing was happening.

And that was when I noticed the
fracas at the door.

Chapter 2

I anxiously craned my neck
around the models to see what was going on. It appeared as though
someone, a man, was trying to push his way into the show without an
invitation, only to be told by one of the store managers to clear
off. But the interloper refused to leave, his voice growing louder
and louder, becoming increasingly argumentative. The outer layer of
the crowd began to notice the disagreement between the two men,
their concentration straying from Jenna’s finale to the more heated
performance behind them.

My two workmates at the back
were much closer to the action than Tony and I, but their eyes were
glued to Jenna, oblivious to everything else going on around them.
I tried to catch their attention but it was no use from this
distance. I centred on Tony instead and as the troupe of models
passed by him, I leaned out from my line of women and looked in his
direction.

“
Psst
,” I hissed as
quietly as possible. Random members of the audience glanced up at
me in surprise, thinking I was summoning them. But unfortunately,
not Tony. His focus was one hundred percent on Jenna, not me. I
tried again. “Tony.”

Nothing.

I raised my voice a little. “Hey
Tony!
Psst!
”

More nothing from Tony. He
wasn’t even looking in my direction, his head tracking Jenna’s
progress. The other women in the line with me shot me dirty looks
and elbowed me roughly, whispering at me fiercely to shut up.

Shit!
From my vantage
point on the stage I could see that the fracas threatened to
quickly escalate into a full-blown brawl as the insistent, and
possibly drunk, interloper tried to force his way into the room.
Then I realised that I recognised him – Frankie Hazzard, a former
celebrity host whose game show,
Rate My Date,
was once the
most popular program on TV. People had queued for hours to be in
the audience during its heyday, and had even held
Rate My
Date
parties at their own homes.

The show threw two contestants,
strangers to each other, together for an awkward (and the producers
hoped sordid) night, including dinner with much alcohol provided,
and then afterwards . . . No one ever knew what would happen
between the couples, which lent the show its frisson of
anticipation.

Back in the studio the following
evening, each of the pair had to rate the other on the prospect of
them ever going out together again. That score was then compared
with the audience’s judgement of their suitability and probable
staying power. It was a cruel premise that could have easily
crushed the self-esteem of any number of contestants, particularly
as the producers cynically tried to combine the least likely pairs
– gym junkies with couch potatoes; devout religious people with
ex-porn stars; bohemians with wannabe Gordon Gekkos. But Frankie’s
award-winning witty banter and toothpaste-ad smile kept the show
the right side of light-hearted and it was a firm family favourite
in my house when I was a kid. Especially popular were the scenes
where the two contestants entered a hotel room holding hands and
the door closed slowly behind them as they both winked boldly at
the camera.

What were they doing in
there?
I’d wondered in my childhood innocence, noticing my
parents nudging each other and snortling together during those
particular episodes. I didn’t know what the contestants were up to,
but I knew it had to be something great, judging by the
corresponding audience reaction the next evening and the
contestants’ coy glances at each other. I decided then that I
wanted my fair share of what I called ‘behind the hotel door’ when
I grew up, whatever it was, and strangely enough I’d never changed
my mind about that.

But alas, the public is fickle
and
Rate My Date
drew less and less of an audience share
each year until it was axed in favour of a home renovation program.
These days it was the butt of jokes as a prime example of just how
awful TV shows could be. Frankie went on to present a number of
other shows, none of which captured the glory of his first, and
each of which was eventually, and mercifully, axed as well. He’d
dropped off the TV screen and the last I’d read of him in a gossip
magazine was that he’d been done for drink-driving and was now
singing for a living in RSL clubs up and down the east coast,
belting his songs out to pensioners more interested in winning on
the pokie machines than listening to corny old show tunes.

I guess like me, Frankie hadn’t
received an invitation to the show and that sealed his social
kiss-of-death in this city, but the difference between us was that
he cared.
But as if he hadn’t already realised that his star had
not just waned but had self-imploded years ago
, I thought as I
watched him push the manager aside and barge into the room. And
despite the manager’s lack of muscularity, as well as his obvious
aversion to both making a fuss in front of the guests and having
his hair mussed, he was trying his hardest to deter the unwanted
guest with commendable diplomacy.

Time for a professional to
step in
, I decided. But seeing that my colleagues could not be
distracted from their carnal cravings, it was up to me instead.

Not allowing myself a chance to
reconsider and attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, I
slipped out of formation at the moment when Jenna slowly spun
around in her spectacular costume, captivating everyone. I quickly
sidled to the edge of the stage, climbing down carefully in the
heels. Once on the ground, I kicked off my shoes thinking that I
surely would break both my ankles if I tried to move one more
centimetre in them. Skirting the guests and desperate not to draw
any attention to myself, I dashed to the door.

Frankie was becoming
increasingly obstreperous, shoving against the poor flustered
manager who gamely blocked his path. Frankie cursed him in a
continuous, slurred stream that only confirmed my suspicions about
his advanced state of intoxication. He was totally plastered,
unsteady on his feet, his skin suffused with an unappealing mottled
red that spoke volumes of his ongoing love affair with the bottle.
His face was more lined than I remembered and his hair, although
suspiciously retaining its boyish brown colour, didn’t look as
though it had made any contact with a brush for a few weeks. His
shining white teeth were now stained yellow and his jaunty cravat
and elegant, expensive pearl cufflinks couldn’t detract from his
frayed and stained dress shirt, crumpled trousers and scuffed
shoes.

In a discreet but increasingly
strained voice, the manager asked him again to leave the premises
without causing any further trouble. I had to hand it to him for so
far remaining polite, despite the fact that his hands were shaking
and a sweat had broken out on his upper lip at the thought of Jenna
Mackenzie’s show being disrupted by a pissed has-been. Not to
mention a pissed has-been who might possibly still be interesting
enough to pique the media’s interest.

On reaching the two men, I
stepped up to Frankie and placed a gentle restraining hand on his
arm.

“Sir, you heard the gentleman
here. This is an invitation-only event and I’m sorry, but if you
don’t have an invitation, you can’t enter this room. It’s time for
you to move on.”

Both men goggled at the sight of
me, more than a touch surprised to be confronted by a masked,
lingerie-clad voice of reason. And I guess that I probably did look
a little less authoritative than your average security officer. But
I couldn’t help that and I had a job to do.

Frankie swayed and blinked
bloodshot eyes at me, before rubbing them wearily. “Oh shit, I
really gotta give up the booze. These dreams are getting weirder
every day.”

“It’s not a dream, sir. I’m
real.”

He lifted his head to the
heavens. “Well, thank you God for granting me at least
one
of my fantasies before I die.” I thought about that for a moment
and had to concede that being manhandled by a tall, young woman in
lingerie might turn some men on. Shame for him then that I had no
intention of manhandling anybody, unless it was absolutely
necessary.

“Shouldn’t you be up on stage?”
criticised the manager. “You know, doing your job?”

“This is my real job,” I
countered coolly before turning back to Frankie. “Come on, Mr
Hazzard. Let’s call you a taxi and get you off back home.”

His face brightened immediately.
“You recognise me?”

“Sure I do,” I smiled. “
Rate
My Date
was one of my parents’ favourite shows.”

He jerked his head towards the
manager. “This arsehole didn’t recognise me.”

“I still don’t,” the manager
finally snapped, his temper flaring. “As far as I’m concerned,
you’re just some crazy hobo who’s wandered in off the street
looking for a free feed and somewhere to take a piss.”

“Who you calling a hobo?”
Frankie demanded.

“You. Hobo.”

“Arsehole.”

“Hobo.”

“Arsehole.”

I sighed. “All right, enough
with all this witty banter. I’ll call a taxi and see Mr Hazzard
safely on his way. You’re not here to make a fuss, are you, Mr
Hazzard?”

“I want to see Jenna,” he said
simply. “She’s my niece.”

“Bullshit,” muttered the
manager. I shot him a look warning him to zip it.

“Jenna’s busy working,” I told
Frankie.

“Jenna’s always busy working,”
he replied sadly, all his belligerence deserting him. “Every time I
ring her she’s too busy to talk to me. I’ll wait. It’s been a long
time since I’ve seen her.”