Page 42 of Two Wrongs
‘The story, it’s old,’ Bea responds enigmatically.
‘Yeah, but the night is young. Okay, maybe not too young.’ She squints at the watch on her wrist. ‘Lord, am I getting old? Ten o’clock used to be the beginning of a good night, not the end,’ she groans.
‘We’re all getting older. Believe me; it’s better than the alternative.’ Bea pauses a moment before stretching like the cat that’s snagged the cream. ‘And you’re never too old to make up. And we make up a lot, he and I. Long distance does have its perks.’ It takes me a moment to decipher her statement, her accent renderingperksome other word. ‘The sex is explosive, and we make time to meet in places we might not ever visit otherwise.’
‘Yeah, like an airport bathroom,’ Fin says, sniggering.
‘One time!’ Bea says though a ferocious blush. ‘And for your information, we’re meeting in Barcelona next week.’
‘I like your positivity.’
‘He’ll be there because I, my friends, am playing the long game.’
‘While he’s playing your fuck boy?’
‘Only in the bedroom,’ she responds, lightning quick.
‘Is he a doctor as well?’ I pipe up, keen to move on from sex talk before it descends into something more... communal; not that Fin and I currently have anything to share. At least, I know I don’t.
‘Pilot,’ Bea responds, gaze flicking to her wristwatch. ‘Anyone mind if I catch the evening news.’
From her position on the floor, Fin tilts her head in my direction. ‘She breaks out in hives if she doesn’t get to see any sort of news or current affairs programme before bed.’
Chuckling good-naturedly, Bea protests. ‘Youtry spending as many hours as I do at work—essentially a large concrete box filled with artificial lighting—and not need some connection to the greater world.’
She points the remote at the TV set into a recess on the wall, and the TV springs to life, the background music dimming now.
So we watch the news; the good and the bad going on in the world, though mainly the bad, and I suddenly feel sad. So, so sad. Story after story of murder, theft, and hate. A refugee crisis. A child’s unnecessary death. The murder of a policeman.
‘God, the human race is so shitty.’ I don’t realise I’ve spoken until both women turn their heads. It’s about then that I also realise my cheeks are wet. I’m crying... at the plight of someone I don’t know in a place I’ve never been.
‘You okay?’ Fin asks. She knows tears are a rare outbreak for me.
‘I think I must be hormonal or something.’ Tears continue to course down my face, faster than I can wipe them with the back of my hand.
Fin hands me a box of man-sized tissues, and I immediately bury my face in a handful.
‘Oh—happier news! My new favourite actor, don’t you know. Last weekend, I insisted Fin and I Flixnet and chilled.’
‘There was no chilling in this connotation,’ returns a laughing Fin. From her position on the floor, she reaches up to pat my knee. ‘If I were that way inclined, I’d be batting for my girl here’s team.’
‘Thanks, I think.’ My words come out weak and watery. ‘Actually, no, not thanks. You’ve had your hands down my brother’s pants, and I’m sure that makes it incest or something.’
‘Ew!’
‘Now, that is someone whose Carlos I’d like to get my hands on,’ says an awestruck Bea.
Fin begins to explain. ‘Bea has a kind of strange habit of, er, identifying certain parts of the male anatomy with different names. For a brainiac,’ she says, pointing at her roomie, ‘you’re pretty stinkin’ cute. I really hope I’m behind you the day you accidentally request a scan or catheter for a patient’sCarlos Wang.’ Fin barely gets the final words out before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Not that I’m not paying attention because as I emerge from the almost pillowcase sized tissues, the TV and the entertainment news takes my whole focus.
My God. Dylan.
I still find it surreal to see him on any sort of media, partly because I make a point to avoid anything that might have even the barest whiff of him. But God, he was made for the screen. And as he stands there on the red carpet, waving at fans and posing for the paparazzi, I can’t help but stare at him in all his perfection. His flawless smile, his dark, shining hair. The way he wears his tuxedo like it’s something sexual. Only, he isn’t perfect. Not even aesthetically. Though not that anyone from this perspective could tell. From his slightly sharp bicuspid on his left side to the tiny scar adorning his strong jawline, he’s not perfect.Yet he absolutely is.
The newscaster mentions the name of the movie—it’s not one he’s starred in, but the woman on his arm? That’s a different story.Georgia Reynould. We’ve met. All one-hundred pounds of her. And most of those pounds are attributed to her blonde hair.It’s a good job she’s light on personality.A little mean, certainly, or maybe she was just asserting her star status when we met.She was his co-star—love interests, in fact—inTrauma, the movie he’d just finished filming before we broke up.The wrap party I left early, drunk and crying and with another man.The same woman who’d made the belittlingjust a hairdressercomment. She of the condescending manner and superior attitude. A superior attitude that no one out of the business gets to see.Because that’s not going to sell her vegan recipe book or her line in yoga wear.And there she is, the fake snake, with her hand on the arm of my man.
He’s mine on a technicality; at least, until our divorce comes through.
‘She looks like a coat hanger wearing a dress and a wig.’ Bea’s words bring me from my bitter recollections. While Hollywood thin, she’s actually quite beautiful. Outside, at least.
