The world’s next beloved women’s fiction phenomenon — part 2
It’s morning, I’m totally hungover and — argh! I’m super late for work! I’m always late for absolutely everything! Also my hair’s a mess in the morning! And I say embarrassing things in front of my parents sometimes! And constant invitation mix-ups mean I wear inappropriate outfits to social occasions!
Nick Luke Chris Smith used to say he found my lateness and hair and awkwardness and outfits endlessly charming. Then the sun would shine through the window and cartoon deer came and ate nutritious seeds from our hands as Un Homme et Une Femme played in the distance and flowers happened.
Urgh, no, cannot think about Nick Luke Chris Smith. No way, Emma.
(“Your name is Jenny”, Amy texts me.)
No way, Jenny. I’m an independent woman now. I depend on me. I depend on me. Tell me what you think about me. Tell me how you feel about this. Always 50/50 in relationships.
Damn it, Jenny, thinking about relationships again!!! Why am I so man-crazy?
Doesn’t help that Amy totally went home with a complete hottie last night. They had this incredible spark, it was almost instantaneous. She just saw him in the bar, marched over, grabbed his face, kissed him, pinned him down, stuffed a sock into his screaming mouth, broke his arm and both legs, picked him up, threw him over her shoulder, and off they went. It was so saucy.
But not as saucy as that mysterious Manic Sex Preacher, that Fleetwood Sex, that Elvis Sexley, I spoke to…
No, no, no! Get over it, Emma!
(My phone pings with an email from Amy: “It’s Jenny.”)
I’m never going to see him ever again, so I might as well forget about it. Nope. That man I spent ages describing and fawning over will never reappear in my life.
I’m running so late that I accidentally wear mismatching shoes, fall into a well and conjure up a small hurricane in Addis Ababa. I wish I weren’t so bloody clumsy.
I’m pretty broke right now, so for breakfast I just buy four cappuccinos and a muffin basket instead of my ideal hog roast. I would make breakfast at home, but I keep precious sparkly lipsticks in my oven.
I walk into the office, and immediately I know there’s something not quite right here. People seem nervous, agitated. There’s a strange sense of unease. There are slashes of startling crimson paint streaked along the walls. One man is curled up in foetal position in the middle of the room and a woman keeps shrieking “THE END IS NIGH!” and setting fire to people’s hats.
No, something just isn’t quite right.
“Hey, Madam McFourEyes?” I whisper to the receptionist. “Is something going on here?”
“Oh, Jenny!” squeaks Madam McFourEyes, and weeps into her frumpy outfit which has primroses and cats and other frumpy things on it. “You missed the announcement!”
“What announcement?” I probe immediately, because I believe there is no way Madam McFourEyes will bother to elaborate on her ambiguous statement unless I ask her to.
“The announcement that the magazine’s been taken over!” she squeals.
“What announcement that the magazine’s been taken over?” I ask straightaway, because Madam McFourEyes probably thinks that I’ve already acquired all the information I need and thus isn’t planning to tell me anything further after she’s had the time to take a breath.
“The announcement that the magazine’s been taken over by a big publishing conglomerate!”
“What announcement that–”
“The manager came down this morning,” she bleats. “He said that the magazine’s been bought by Brad Chad Dean Hart, the infamous playboy billionaire! He plans to take over and redo the whole thing!”
I clench my fists. “Not on my watch. I love this lovely little independent magazine, damn it! I love its mediocre staff and its huge financial losses. I love its harassment culture and its many, many lawsuits. When I see that intrinsically evil Brad Chad Dean Hart, I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him!”
“He’s due to arrive any moment!” squawks Madam McFourEyes.
Suddenly, the lift trills out behind me. I turn around. The doors open slowly, so slowly that my lips dry in vicious anticipation and Madam McFourEyes knits a scarf.
And then…
Oh.
My.
GOD.
“Goodness gracious,” whimpers Madam McFourEyes.
“OH MY DAYS!!!” remarks Jazz Hands from the other side of town.
It’s him. It’s Sextin Timberlake. It’s Sexie Wonder. It’s the Sex Pistol.
Sex… Pistol. Sex… Sex Pistol. Sex Pistol. “Sex” Pistol. Sex–
“Well,” he utters softly. “What a pleasant surprise this is. Much like the pleasant surprise it will be for us all when the workers of the world unite in revolt against their oppressive chains.”
He is wearing a gorgeous red t-shirt with the words “MUST CRUSH CAPITALISM” charmingly emblazoned across it.
“Sex!” I cry out in alarm, because I’m awkward.
“FIERCE!!!” approves Jazz Hands from the plane he is boarding to Canada.
“You know,” Brad Chad Dean Hart croons majestically, “I completely forgot to ask you your name last night. I was just so distracted by the erratic way your limbs were flailing about and hitting people, I lost my mind. Much like I lose my surplus labour value to the vagaries of the capitalist system.”
“Aren’t you a billionaire? Who’s just bought our magazine?” Madam McFourEyes cheeps feebly.
“I need the money for avocados,” he hisses back with dazzling power.
“Emma,” I breathe, slowly, the world around me grinding to a halt as I gaze into his splendid eyes. “My name is Emma.”
(A carrier pigeon speeds through the window, bearing a message from Amy: “IT’S JENNY.”)
“Jenny,” I breathe, slowly, the world around me grinding to a halt as I gaze into his splendid eyes. “My name is Jenny.”
Brad Chad Dean Hart smiles. “Well, Jenny, how about it? Come out with me sometime? We could do dinner, a movie, a live reading of The Communist Manifesto?”
Oh man, oh man, oh man! I can’t fall for this man! He’s a rich and evil man! And I was supposed to be sex-free! I was supposed to be living a life of sculpture classes and celibacy, like Madam McFourEyes!
“I was a prostitute for forty years,” chirps Madam McFourEyes.
But I can’t help myself. Brad Chad Dean Hart is like no one I’ve ever met, and before I know it, I’m nodding: “Yes. I’ll go out with you sometime.”
“Well, then,” he smiles muscularly. “That’s two things I have to look forward to: my date with you, and the inevitable rise of the proletariat.”
“UH-OH!!!” ponders Jazz Hands from Nova Scotia.
Uh-oh, indeed.
To be continued…
