The Numbers Game (8 page)

“Shit! So
am I.”  Markie hadn’t meant to swear but it’d come out before he could stop it.

“Where in
Frisco exactly?” he had asked, almost holding his breath.

“Fisherman’s
Wharf,” she replied as if it were just next door and not on the other side of
the world.

“Really? I
live at Haight-Ashbury.”

While they
weren’t exactly adjoining suburbs, Markie took if as if they were neighbors.
The meeting felt like fate and in the grand scheme of things it fell perfectly
into place. Here was a woman he could befriend, travel with, share with his
heart and soul. But sadly, at the time Serena wasn’t looking for a boyfriend.
She was on a trip and the only thing on the books was an unattached good time.
So that night, before they disembarked the train in Paris and drifted off in
opposite directions, the two quietly undressed and momentarily became one. A
quick parting gift, she had said. The hot sweaty sex on a smooth sailing
vehicle was Markie’s idea of heaven. Leaving her at the end of the journey was
not.

            Other boys
would have put the experience down to a good time.        “Forget about her,”
they had all said, when Markie arrived back from Paris alone.

            But he
couldn’t. There was something about the softness of her skin and the way she
smelt like fresh jasmine petals that kept him searching and searching. He had
almost given up, after a year, with nothing more than a first name – Serena –
and suburb to go by. He had almost lost hope. That is until one rainy winter
day when he ran into Starbucks in search of a quick caffeine fix and bumped
into the love of his life.

            Back then,
Markie would never have believed this. If you told him that in five years time
he’d be giving away the very thing he fought so hard to find.

Serena was relieved on
Monday to go to work. Spending the weekend with Tabitha had done her head in
and made her painfully aware she was at least momentarily once again single.

Serena had
never liked being single. Sure in her younger days she’d put on a brave face,
saying how much she loved being able to watch Melrose Place with a tub of ice
cream and drink milk straight from the bottle but the truth was Markie was her
savior.  Before him, she’d never known the cuddly warmth of a secure
relationship. She’d never understood the concept of spooning and real giving
and unconditional love, despite being the ripe age of twenty three. Love and
life thereon felt like a gift to treasured, to never, ever to let slip away.

Indian
giver,
Serena grumbled on the way to the studio, thinking of the confused bastard. 
Not that she really minded being thrust back into the world of The Rules; this
was just an experience, an opportunity to kick back, to be completely selfish
and carefree. She’d long ago given up on the idea of a predictable environment
where nothing ever changed or nothing ever grew.

            Serena
slowed down as she drove into the lot and blinked her headlights so that the
boom-gates began their ascent almost automatically.

“Hiya
Steve,” she called out, waving to the African American car park attendant.

“Good
morning Miss Serena,” he winked back. The steam from his coffee was curling up
into the crisp morning air.

            One could
barely call it morning though. The sun was only just peeking like the top of a
head on the horizon. The only thing which hinted at its presence was the pink
and gold splash across the inky blue sky. Serena loved that about coming to
work, the way she got to beat the sunrise and the way Stevie acted as if she
were a movie star herself. Most importantly it took her focus off Markie,
wondering what he was up to and whether he’d taken anyone else yet to bed. For
some reason Tabitha was under the crazy illusion it was never going to happen.
Markie would see one naked girl and come back running to her.

“Because
he loves you.”

            “He’s
still a man, Tabitha.”

“Yes, but
he’s a man that loves you.”

            You could
see now why Serena was so eager to get to work. At least here at work she could
escape it all. She parked her old BMW (don’t be impressed, it was only about
fifty years old) in the spot allocated for crew, wrapped herself up with a
cream scarf and began the brisk walk to her nearby trailer. Inside Champagne and Violet were already there, smoking cigarettes and pouring fresh coffee into
their mugs. Just to satisfy the question that probably jump straight into your
mind, Champagne was in fact apparently the hair stylist’s ‘real name’.  Serena
hadn’t yet confirmed what she meant by real – real by birth or real by change
on deed poll, but either way she was stuck working with a beverage and flower
in the make-me-look-bloody-good department.

            Violet was
the dutiful assistant she and Champagne got to share. Having recently graduated
from beauty school, the girl was adept – sort of –at both doing hair and
makeup. Any overflow and Violet was on call to attack with her dryer or
foundation sponge.

“Hey
girlfriend,” they both said when Serena’s boots finished clunking up the metal
steps. 

“Hey,” she
replied, letting out a puff of air and dumping her heavy makeup case near the
leather chair. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“The
usual,” Violet replied, pointing up to schedule sheet. “Only four extras and
the rest of the cast is the same.”

            Serena
smiled.

            What did she
mean only? Each actor took a good thirty five minutes to get through make-up
and forty five to get though hair. And that was on the better days. Once they
were done, usually about ten o’clock, Serena got to finally have a breather and
lounge about the set or trailer, playing cards and backgammon, while waiting
for any emergency touch ups. More often than not the fingers were clicked by
unsatisfied fading beauties that couldn’t live with less than an inch of the
muck or macho males who within minutes melted under the fire of a camera. We wouldn’t
name any names here but both types were the bane and livelihood of Serena’s
existence. Both would keep her here from five am to six pm for the next three
months.

“Sit in,”
Serena motioned to Cindy Glass as she entered the trailer. Once the le chic
movie star slid into place, Serena threw a silver apron over her and Velcro-ed
it at the back.

“Nice
weekend?”

“So, so,”
Cindy yawned and that was that.

            This was a
good thing. Unlike most make-up artists in the industry, Serena was a
non-talker on the job. She didn’t idly gossip about who was banging who on the
set and who ate what for breakfast. It was what got her the work time after
time.  The ‘stars’ wanted her because they felt comfortable around her; they
relished the silence and intuitively knew she could be trusted. Not that they
were stars in Serena’s eyes; most of the time Serena felt sorry for the wildly
insecure bodies strapped in her chair. No doubt they had enough money to buy
new breasts and a few million dollar properties, but how little did count when
it came at the expense of one’s privacy, when one’s every move was being
scrutinized and evaluated by the press: the good, the bad and the evil. The
little delicacies we commoners enjoyed, like getting pissed and pigging out at
McDonalds at three A.M, were a mystery to the famous.

“So what
did you and Markie get up to on the weekend?” Champagne asked. Obviously she
was a talker, a chatterbox in the literal sense of the word.

            Serena
froze at the question. Crap. Usually Champagne didn’t give a damn about what
she got up to outside work hours. In fact Miss Hair probably didn’t care now
but was rather asking the question merely as a pre-emptor to a monologue of her
own adventures (think abseiling and mud-wrestling).

“Cat got
your tongue?” she said, pulling a bobby pin out of her mouth and using it to
secure a curler.  She had Baby Malone down in her chair.

“Maybe,”
Serena smiled - anything to avoid the question. What else was she supposed to
say?
Oh I have no idea where my boyfriend was this weekend. You see, I gave
him this pass that lets him have sex with nine different women and now I don’t
know where he is. As for me, well I spent Saturday night hiding and spying on
ex-lovers from inside my car.

“Okay,
mystery girl,” Champagne whistled, “If that’s how you’re going to be, fine.
From now on I might just keep my escapades also to myself. “

“Is that a
promise?” Cindy muttered from below, whose eyes were still closed shut.

“No,”
Champagne huffed, “it most certainly isn’t.” Within seconds, she filled the
empty break with new stories of her night out with the best boy.

“Big dick,
he has,” she insisted, “felt like I was sleeping with a donkey.”

            Of course
last week Champagne compared the assistant director’s balls to a bull. There
was absolutely nothing one didn’t hear within this trailer. They had started
principle filming for “Never, Ever Again”, a slapstick comedy about a girl who
does all the things she vowed never to do again, about three weeks ago. If all
went according to schedule – and with tough nut producer Marie on the cards, it
surely would - the wrap party would by coincidence take place on the same night
as Serena’s intended confrontation with Markie.

            So Serena
had more reason than one for the movie to finish. But for now she was okay with
it – the long hours, the stress, as long it got her through the day.

The art of picking up
women:
Markie
noted that as yet no such literary classic has appeared on the bookshelves - a
shame because right now he could do with some good ole humble advice. His own
technique seemed obsolete, an outdated practice of simply being himself.

“Don’t
even think of going there,” Rick insisted, shaking his head. “You’re looking
for a woman to screw, not bring home and pretty up your empty nest.”

            This was
where Markie realized men and women were completely different. If push came to
shove, a man could go out at night, hook up with a complete stranger and screw
her brains out. Then in the morning, like all good boys who leave a tidy mess,
they were competent enough to slip out the door without saying goodbye.

            It didn’t
take a fool to work out that different thoughts flicked quite rapidly though a
women’s mind. To the contrary, they awoke up feeling quite distraught by the
rumpled sheets on the empty side of the bed. When they gave away the hoochie,
they usually gave away their hearts and souls at the same time. They thought
“this guy is the one”, my future husband, the one for whom I will bear
children. No matter how drunk a woman was or how out of her mind, there always
existed this element of hope: that last night’s ‘making’ love was the beginning
of the end; that the search for love was finally over.

            Markie
didn’t want to tread on any of these hearts. He wanted to get out there, do his
thing for three months and leave without an irrevocable trace.

“So you
need to go for a different sort of woman,” Rick explained.

Markie
raised his eyebrows. “Exactly what sort of women?” In his head he was
envisaging all sorts of Divine Brown mutations.

“Well you
want an easy woman.”

“As
opposed to a hard one?”

Rick
nodded his head. “You know the type; the ones that suck up more time than
they’re worth.”

            Not
really. Unfortunately after five years of no use, Markie’s radar system had
become a bit defective. So he asked Rick to explain and Rick was more than
happy to oblige.

“An easy
woman is easy enough to pick. She’s the one who’s dressed in little more than a
handkerchief. She’s either got the cleavage or legs on show but usually it’s
both.  Her feet are encased in either one of two options: knee-high screw-me
boots or four inch heels and their face is caked in that crap they call
foundation with lots of eyeliner and red, red lipstick.”

“You sound
like you’re describing a hooker, Rick,” Markie said in disbelief. “And I see
more of those outside clubs than inside them.”

            “Okay,
okay,” Rick sighed, “So I painted a kindergarten level picture. In case the
more obvious suspects have been snapped up by faster dimwits, just keep your
eyes on the girls who keep their eyes on you. That’s a sure fire sign she’s
interested.”

“But what
if she’s of the nice, can’t-hurt variety? How will I tell them apart?”

            “Markie,
Markie, Markie,” Rick tut-tutted. “Isn’t it obvious? You want for her to
approach you. That way she can’t blame you for nothing the next day. The good
girls, they never come your way. They might sit and pass off signs as loud as a
May-Day fire but at night they go home and cry into their pillows about what could
have been.”

“And?”
Markie asked when Rick stopped.  This was good, good riveting stuff.  If only
he had a notebook with him.