“Now, either I am going to get my message across or I am going to make a complete and utter prat of myself by speaking to an empty room, or worse still a full room, but possibly not the person I want to hear me. Here goes. Jim, please speak to me. This isn’t going to work if you won’t take my calls and discuss things. I am sorry for reacting the way I did, but there are some decisions I need to make for myself. That doesn’t mean I won’t discuss them with you or value your opinion and input, but I do need to make my own decisions about my work.”
She waited, allowing just long enough for him to respond, he didn’t, so she continued.
“I have thought about what you said and I can see your point about the L.A. studios, but I don’t fully understand why. My whole life has been spent having people use me. They have disregarded my feelings—no, worse than that, they didn’t even consider my feelings, only their own. After the last few days, all of those occasions are in the forefront of my mind, plaguing me. Which is why I said you should look elsewhere for your lucky seven. If you have changed your mind about us and think you’ve made a mistake with me then at least tell me. Don’t just ignore me and cut me off.” She allowed her voice to falter a little.
She paused again, but this time it was to gather herself, to rein her emotions in, to keep them in check. If her tears began to flow now, she didn’t doubt she’d be totally incapable of getting all the words she had in her head out and she needed to say them, for him to hear them.
“Look, this is stupid, and I know I started it but I am twenty-one-years-old so I think I’m allowed to make juvenile mistakes, but what’s your excuse for your juvenile behaviour? If I don’t hear from you I will assume you have changed your mind about me and I will of course return your credit card, which is still sealed in its envelope and a cheque. You should advise Mr Stewart to direct his bills to me with immediate effect. But I love you, really, I do and the idea of anyone else being lucky seven makes me sick with sadness and jealousy,” she said, the tears no longer a threat as they began to trickle down her face as she hung up.
The ball was now firmly in his court and she would wait and see what happened, but she wouldn’t be contacting him again. She did have a little self-respect left and a little more self-preservation.
Her phone beeped and as she looked at it with high expectations she was disappointed as she saw the message was from Lucy.
Great. Now she had got a long lonely evening to look forward to. She could text Gerry, he would come over.No, really bad idea, Tash. Yes, Gerry would come rushing over and read far more into it and that would be unfair of her to lead him on, or God forbid get drunk and end up having a bit of a fumble or more because Jim would never forgive that and more than anything she wanted Jim. So, no Gerry. Maybe she needed to be alone. After all if Jim ended things or had already accepted her ending of things she would need to get used to spending evenings alone.
She could feel she was about to cry again, so did what any self-respecting girl nursing a broken heart would do; she put on immature pyjamas and watched a chick flick in bed with ice cream and wine.
Tasha was almost at the end ofDirty Dancingand halfway through a bottle of wine when she spoke along with the film, “Nobody, puts Baby in the corner,” she said and then began to cry. She looked at the empty ice cream tub. “They’ll put me in the bloody corner and leave me there because I will be too drunk and fat on ice cream to get out of it.”
She needed a Johnny to her Baby and she thought she’d found one in Jim, but apparently not. She was just about to pour another glass of wine when she thought of number six. Jim had said she’d had a drink problem before he married her, but had she or had he driven her to it, with his kinky ideas and rules?
None of them had been able to live up to his ideals:
Number one, Sara, the mother of the children. She had managed to remain friends, but they had the kids to consider, Maisie had confirmed that.
Number two and her bitter, barren womb had not remained a friend.
Number three, Maddie the porn star, who had committed several of the worst offences, letting other men see her, touch her, shag her. Although he had said none of them had been unfaithful so maybe not and of course she had done the unthinkable and messed with the children’s heads and feelings. No friendship there.
Number four, the accountant who wouldn’t shag him, so he married her and then she had been a big disappointment. Had she been conservative in her sexual appetite? That would not have suited Jim at all. Surely she’d never have been able to resist James Maybury when he was in full sexually predatory seduction mode. She herself had only resisted for hours and that had taken some doing, but number four was only seen in passing, maybe at studio things, whatever they could be, or in the supermarket. Did Jim go to the supermarket? Who knew? But another one to seemingly disappear.
Number five, Amanda, secretary to wife to P.A. and seemingly more than happy with her latest role. He obviously trusted her a great deal. He liked her, but seemed to be able to view her as someone other than his ex-wife. Indeed, he seemed to forget she’d ever been his wife.
Number six, depressed, crazy alcoholic, suicidal, how the fuck had he ended up with her? Maybe she was into the kinky stuff too, or just too pissed to object.
She giggled as she thought of their conversation earlier when he’d said about anal sex, and when he had first mentioned it in New York and had said about it being pleasurable. How did he know? Had the six done it? Sara didn’t look the sort, but they had been young and together for eight years so maybe. Number two, unlikely, unless that’s why she hadn’t got pregnant. Tasha laughed out loud at that notion. Number three, God yes, definitely. Number four, no. If she hadn’t shagged him within a month she was unlikely to take it up the arse. Amanda, she didn’t look the sort at all, no, she didn’t think so. Number six, maybe it depended on how drunk she was.
She laughed again at her own observations and as the closing titles rolled up the screen she leapt up and changed the DVD and put inMy Girl. She really was depressed if she was resorting to a pair of eleven-year-old best friends who were perfect together until he got stung by bees and died. It always made her bawl like a big baby when he died. Proper shoulder heaving tears and snot bawling.
She began to sing along with The Temptations or whoever it was and as she got to thewhat can make me feel this waybit she put her face in her hands and sighed loudly at the mess she was in. Her phone at the side of her bed rang. She snatched it up ready to have an argument if someone was trying to sell her windows or utilities, or get her the compensation she was owed from a car crash she’d never had.
“Hello,” she snapped.
“Tasha, don’t hang up please,” said Jim.
She smiled. As if she would do that. She was desperate to hear from him.
“Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.
“If sitting in bed drinking cheap wine, eating ice cream, watching chick flicks and flitting between hysterical laughter and crying is fine, then yeah, perfect.”
“I’m sorry for not replying to your messages. I was a jerk, but you flipped, baby. You dumped me then disconnected. I was shocked, and really mad at you, but I still shouldn’t have ignored you.” He sounded contrite.
“So, where does that leave us?” Tasha asked, scared of the possible answer.
“It leaves us here, talking, unless you have had enough of this fucking, crazy bastard?” His voice held amusement now.
