The Hating Game (18 page)

‘
It was,’ Mattie said. ‘
I sold it last month.’ God, she missed that car.

‘
Well, it was registered under your name at the time of the offence. Now, do you have the one hundred and twenty pounds, or should I start removing some of your goods?’

‘
But wait!’ Mattie cried as the woman pushed past her and started eyeing her flat. ‘I never received those warnings!’

‘
Yeah, right. That’s what they all say.’ The bailiff whipped her thick braid over her shoulder. ‘Is this your address?’ She shoved another white paper under Mattie’s nose.

‘
Er, yes, but I don’t remember seeing them . . .’ Mattie’s voice trailed off as something in her mind’s eye recognized the Westminster City logo. She’d just thought they were more reminders of her overdue council tax bill. Her brain had completely blocked out the ticket she’d got by returning to her car just one minute after the parking meter had run out. Despite threatening and insulting the parking attendant until he’d started snivelling, he still hadn’t let her off. Wanker.

‘
So what will it be? Cash or goods?’ The bailiff was tapping her f
oot briskly and smirking at Mattie.

Mattie stared back
, her mind running through her bank accounts. She was already
over
her overdraft in her business account; she’d be lucky if she had enough to cover the mortgage in her personal one; and her credit cards . . . forget it. She’d used every bit of her personal credit and equity to keep the business afloat. Nothing remained.

She scanned the room, unable to believe it had really come to giving a bailiff h
er possessions to pay a bill for such a paltry sum. One hundred and twenty pounds had never seemed such a big deal before. Mattie could remember when she’d blown that sum in one night with some pricey takeaway Thai food.

‘
Goods, I guess,
’ Mattie mumbled.

The bailiff cracked her fingers and Mattie winced. ‘One hundred and twenty pounds . . .’ the bailiff said as she circled the room. ‘Do you have an old laptop or something? That might do it.’

‘
There’s no way you’re taking my computer!’ Mattie scooped it up and held it against her chest.

The bailiff shrugged. ‘Hurry up and give me something, then.’

‘
What, do you have an appointm
ent at the barber?’ Mattie asked. But the woman remained stony faced.

Mattie
went into her bedroom and over to her jewellery box. She’d never been one for jewellery, so most of what she’d accumulated had been from Kyle. As soon as they’d split, she gathered it all up, shoved it in a sandwich bag and put it into her safety deposit box at the bank. Out of sight, out of mind. She pushed aside a jumble of old tangled necklaces. What was that? Light flashed on a creamy white stone set in a slightly tarnished silver band.

Mattie swallowed. It was the ring her father had given her on her seventh birthday. Mattie remembered rubbing her thumb across the opal, fascinated by the feel of the stone. The ring had been too big
for her skinny fingers back then, but now . . . Mattie grabbed it and tried it on. It fit perfectly, and the cream of the stone set off her colouring. She turned her fingers back and forth, admiring the way the light reflected off the opal.

Would it be worth one hundred and twenty pounds? She slipped it off and looked at the band. There was a kind of mark on the inside; it must be real silver. But something caught in her heart when she thought of handing it over to the bailiff. Mattie slammed the jewellery box closed and went back out to the lounge. ‘Take the television,’ she said to the bailiff, who was pacing back and forth.

The bailiff shrugged and eyed the plasma screen. ‘Fine. But it’s probably worth more than what I need.’

Mattie waved a hand. ‘I don’t care. Just take it an
d get out.’ Kyle had bought it when he’d first moved in, insisting he wouldn’t watch anything on Mattie’s tiny aging set.

The bailiff pulled the plug
and heaved it onto her shoulder. ‘Here, sign this.’ She shoved a form at Mattie, who scrawled her name on it.

How ironic, Mattie thought as she sank down onto the sofa, staring at the blank spot where the television had once been. A reality TV star without a TV. She shook her head. God, this was the pits. How could Jess even ask if she
really
needed to do the show?

She had no choice – it was
The Hating Game
or broke.

*

A few hours later,
Mattie rode in the car on her way to whatever delights awaited with Giovanni. She looked out the window, turning from Nate and Ram. After the earlier episode with the bailiff, she was in no mood to deal with Tweedledee, Tweedledum or a stupid idiot whose only aspiration was to appear on TV. Being forced into a too-tight corset and another miniscule skirt – despite her protests and empty threats – didn’t help matters, either.

She looked over at Nate who was
busily examining the production schedule on a clipboard as if his life depended on it. ‘Tell me what’s happening today,’ she snapped.

Nate
looked up at her, a hangdog expression of fear on his pie-like face. God, she could just slap him! Anger flashed through her and she gripped itchy fingers in clenched fists.

Nate cleared his throat. ‘Um, you’ll find out in a second. Right now we should probably do a few questions about your relationship with Giovanni.’ He nudged Ram who was snoring beside him, softly despite his sizeable bulk. ‘Ready?’

Ram
jumped and jerked the camera to his shoulder. ‘Ready.’ He focused in on Mattie.

‘
T
here’s really nothing to tell,’ Mattie said. ‘I went to Italy, we met, we fucked, I came home.’

Ram snorted and Nate’s cheeks flushed. ‘We can’t use profanity be
fore nine p.m. and this will air at eight. Do you think you could say that again, um, without fuck?’ He slid away from her as if she might hit him.

‘
Oh, for God
’s sake,’ Mattie huffed. Wet men like Nate probably preferred
making love
to fuck, but the reality was that she and Giovanni had fucked. There’d been no love involved. The only real time she could say she made love had been with . . . No, she wouldn’t think about that.

Thankfully she was saved from repeating her answer by their arrival at a battered
building just off Whitechapel.

‘
We’ll get the clips later,’ Nate said to Ram as they got out of the car.

‘
Where are we?’ she asked. There was no sign and the rusted aluminium facade of the building gave nothing away.

‘
Just hang out here a sec
,’ Nate said. ‘I’m going to check and make sure everything’s set then we’ll bring you through. Giovanni will explain what you’ll be doing today.’ An expression Mattie couldn’t quite read flashed across Nate’s face. ‘Ram, stay here. I’ll give you the signal when we’re ready.’

Ram nodded and lit a cigarette as Nate disappeared inside.

Mattie turned towards him. ‘Is this all you do? Just follow instructions? Can’t you think for yourself?’

Ram took a drag of his cigarette.
‘Look, lady, just ‘coz you’re angry about sommat or other don’t mean you can take it out on me. If you want to get your teeth into something, get a bone and chew on it.’

She opened her mouth to let loose a stream of words but Ram
turned on the camera and focused in on her. ‘They’re ready for us.’

Mattie smoothed her corset
and tried to tug down the skirt to at least a level where it covered one full butt cheek. She pulled open the door and entered the fluorescent-lighted foyer, which reeked of sweat and rotten eggs.

Giovanni was leaning against the wall
, jutting his hipbones out underwear-model style. ‘
Ciao, bella. Va bene
?’

Despite the anger
curling through her, she couldn’t help grinning at the cheesy greeting. It was the first thing he’d said to her when they met, back when she’d been feeling anything but
bella.
Giovanni’s words that night in Italy had made her smile then, too.

He leaned down and gave her a kiss, his stubble scraping against her cheek.

‘
So, what do you have planned?’ She tried to sound excited for the camera.

Giovanni grinned
. ‘You gonna love it. We gonna do the . . .’ He paused for dramatic effect and Ram brought the camera in even closer. ‘Mudwrestle!’

Giovanni slid an arm around her waist and tugged her up against him
.

Mattie extricated herself from the bear grip. ‘You must be joking. Who
mudwrestles
, anyway? Other than demented women trying to turn on equally demented men who actually get off on that sort of thing.’

Giovanni shrugged. ‘De-mented? I donna understand thatta word.’

‘
Oh, forget it.
Nate!’ she bellowed. Magically Nate seemed to have disappeared, but Spaz was sitting nearby, whispering something into a mobile phone.

‘
BAZ!’

He sighed and snapped the phone shut.
‘Oh, hello, Mattie. You made it.’ He leered at her corset and skirt combo. ‘Nice.’

‘
Nice for a prostitute,’ Mattie spat. ‘You do realise I’m not going to mudwrestle, don’t you?’

Baz cocked his head. ‘Actually, no. No, I don’t realise that, at all. You’ll do what we tell you to do. Know why? Because, remember, we have a stand-in ready to go the instant you refuse to do something we ask. Don’t think we won’t drop you.’

‘
You wouldn’
t dare throw away everything you’ve spent so far,’ Mattie said, staring into his beady eyes. Even a network as big as X-ACT couldn’t chuck out three days’ worth of production costs, could they?

‘
Wanna bet?’ Baz jerked his chin upwards, smiling gleefully.

Mattie le
t out a puff of air in disgust then turned away. Bloody hell! He was bluffing, she was sure – almost. Gritting her teeth, she reasoned that at least mudwrestling wasn’t pole dancing, although it wasn’t that far off.

Nate reappeared from whatever hole he’d squirmed into. ‘
Mattie, we need you to put this on.’ He threw her a bikini that looked better suited for a belly dancer than a mudwrestler. It jangled like a tambourine in her arms.

Mattie prodded it with one finger, shaking her head as it jingled in response. ‘Nate, seriously.’

‘
What?’ Nate’s face was open. Given his looks, shaking a tambourine was probably the most action he’d get all year, Mattie thought. God knows he wouldn’t be shaking his booty.

Baz elbowed his way between them. ‘We don’t have time for this. Ram, follow Mattie into the changing room to get a few interior shots. We’ll meet you in the main ring in ten.’

‘
Righto,’ Ram said, chomping on his gum and eyeing Mattie’s barely covered rear.

‘
Back off, Ram,’ Mattie said as she swung around to face Baz. The ratings-hungry producer mightn’t give a toss about her, but maybe he’d care about the reaction of the female audience segment when they saw her kitted out like a stripper. She shook the costume in the air, grimacing at the noise it made. ‘You know, any female watching this will be up in arms! You can’t just expect a woman in this day and age to strip off and exploit her sexuality on live telly.’

Baz rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mattie, it’s not live, and Giovanni’s stripping too.’ He took her shoulders and swivelled her in the direction of the changing room. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? People
love
to watch this kind of stuff. They lap it up!’

Mattie opened her mouth to respond but a memory stopped her: Jess, laughing over an episode of last year’s hit reality show,
Rockin’ Royals
. The show took a group of B-list royals and tried to make them into a rock group. In one episode, Lord Gerrard of somewhere-or-other was made to dress up like a condom and serenade a Soho street just as the bars were letting out. He’d been set upon by the crowds and one over-enthusiastic drunk bloke even tried to snog him! The normally sympathetic Jess had chortled with delight as she recounted the event. Baz was right. People did love this stuff.

Mattie sighed and
walked into the tiny ladies’ changing area. The tiles were cracked and it was freezing. ‘Don’t get too excited,’ she said to Ram, still following her. ‘You’re not going to see anything.’

Ram snigger
ed. ‘I’ve seen it all a million times. Anyway, don’t worry. I like mine of the put-up-and-shut-up variety.’

‘
If they’re with you they probably don’t have enough brainpower to form thought
s, anyway,’ Mattie said, shuffling into a narrow cubicle where she knew Ram couldn’t follow.

S
he pulled on the belly-dancer outfit, creating a symphony of noise. Jesus Christ, she thought, unable to keep the smile off her face at the ridiculousness of it all. She jiggled back and forth, covering her ears as the noise of the bells echoed off the cubicle’s bare walls.