Heller's Girlfriend (32 page)

“What a fucking dragon,” Yoni
complained, spilling champagne on her designer pants in her hurry
to refill her glass.

We both ignored her. I looked
out the window while Wanda studied her nails.

“Are you bitches listening to
me?” she screeched.

Wanda shot her a sullen look and
I flicked her a disinterested glance before resuming my window
gazing.

“Do you know what she said to
me? She said that my last movie was disappointing!
Disappointing!
The fucking bitch! As if she would know the
difference between a good movie and a . . . a . . .” She struggled
to think of a suitable analogy. “. . . and a piece of shit,” she
ended lamely, taking another huge gulp from her glass.

“It
was
a piece of shit,”
commented Wanda with bored blandness. “Don’t you remember that one
critic even called it execrable? Saying it was merely disappointing
is being kind.”

“Shut your mouth, you ugly dog!
What the hell do you know about art?”

“More than you do! At least I
didn’t make a total ass of myself in a guest appearance on a movie
show confusing Ingmar Bergman with Ingrid Bergman.”

“It’s a common mistake. They
sound the same,” she sulked. “Who even knows who they are? And who
cares about them anyway except that bunch of nerdy movie
assholes?”

“How about you stop trying to
impress people by pretending that you’re interested in anything in
life other than where the nearest liquor store is?”

“How about you do me a favour
and fuck off?”

“Settle down, please,” I
interrupted wearily, tired of their endless bickering.

Each settled into huffy silence
just moments before we arrived back at the hotel. The men formed
their protective barrier around us again and we did the celebrity
shuffle towards the foyer.

Halfway there, turbulence
stirred to our right and one of the
Heller’s
men stumbled,
falling to his knees. Into that breach a dozen cameras appeared,
flashing at us with unbearable persistence. A person stepped over
the man and entered into our little protective inner circle.
Not
paparazzi,
I thought immediately. No camera in sight.

“Yoni! Oh God, I love you so
much!” a thin voice shrilled. A tiny woman with ratty hair and a
wrinkled face tried to thrust a bunch of wilted hand-picked flowers
into Yoni’s hands. She recoiled in disgust from her fan. I stepped
forward putting myself between Yoni and the woman.

“You need to step away from Ms
Lemere now, ma’am,” I warned her, subtly forcing her backwards away
from Yoni. She looked up at me in anguish.

“But she’s my daughter,” she
cried plaintively, crushing the flowers against her chest.

“I am
not
your daughter,”
Yoni denied contemptuously. “Get her away from me.”

The woman’s face crumpled in
distress. “I’ve seen every movie you’ve ever made. I’ve written to
you every single day. Don’t you recognise me?”

“Get her
away
from
me!”

I butted up against the woman
again. The men were busy dealing with the paparazzi who were taking
advantage of the breach in our cordon. The downed man found it
difficult to right himself, crushed and trampled by the billowing
crowd. Everyone shouted and screamed at Yoni, pushing us around,
asking her questions and trying to attract her attention. It was
bedlam. It was alarming. It was terrifying.

“Time to move on and to leave Ms
Lemere alone,” I advised the elderly woman.

“You never even answered
one
letter,” she shrieked, dodging around me. “Not even
one!”

“Get her
away
from me!
Now!
” Yoni screeched, genuine fear entering her voice.

The intruder’s adulation turned
to rage at Yoni’s disinterest. “I told you what I’d do if you
didn’t start answering my letters. I need to get your attention. I
need some time alone with you so I can tell you how I feel.”

She reached into her oversized
handbag and pulled out a gun, aiming it right at Yoni. Yoni and
Wanda screamed in terror.

Holy shit!
None of us was
expecting that!

With no time to think, I grasped
the woman’s arm and forced it upwards until it was pointing towards
the sky. She pumped the trigger and a couple of shots rang out,
frightening the crowd, which scattered screaming in every
direction. The men, including the man who had fallen and finally
made it to his feet again, grabbed Yoni and Wanda by the arms. They
virtually lifted them up and forced their way through the crowd,
rushing the two women towards the hotel. That left me to struggle
alone with the crazy woman.

It sounded heroic, but she was
small and elderly and I was more afraid of breaking her arm than
fearing any danger to myself.
Why are elderly people so
aggressive these days?
I puzzled momentarily, hardly believing
I was having another run-in with one so soon after tangling with
Ancient Elvis.

I was much taller than the
woman, so I reached above her head and secured the weapon from her
easily. Then I gently clutched her arm and guided her through the
remaining crowd into the foyer of the hotel. I asked the reception
staff to ring the police. In my opinion, a gun waved recklessly
around like that in public was not a matter to take lightly, even
if the gun would probably turn out to only be a replica.

I sat with the woman until the
police arrived, even buying her a cola and a packet of salt and
vinegar chips from the bar off the foyer. I asked hotel security to
deal with the paparazzi trying to take photos through the vast
glass plates of the foyer. A couple of man-mountains in dark suits
successfully moved them on, but they were soon back, like some
indefatigable swarm of locusts.

By the time the police arrived,
I’d been joined by four of the six men, the other two left behind
in the suite to guard Yoni. After initial interviews with everyone,
the two police officers decided to take the woman back to the
station for further questioning. She would probably be charged with
something, but I think we all realised that she was unbalanced.
When I handed over the gun to them, the amusement they’d shown at
the thought of this frail, small woman being any real threat dried
up.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s just a fake, isn’t it?”

“Nope,” replied the sergeant.
“It’s the real deal. Where did she get that?”

“Oh God! I thought it was a
replica.” I rubbed my face, troubled by the fact that I’d been
wrestling a person with a real gun. “She could have shot one of
us.”

She patted me on the shoulder.
“Don’t sweat it. All’s well that ends well.”

“I guess.” I looked at her. “I
don’t suppose you know my brother? He’s a detective. Brian
Chalmers. He works homicide.”

“Nah,” she said, hitching up her
pants. “I don’t socialise with the plain clothes. They all think
the sun shines out of their arse.”

I laughed. “Sounds like my
brother, all right.”

We parted on friendly terms and
they escorted the woman to their patrol car while the five of us
made our way upstairs.

Chapter 23

Even though it was luxuriously
spacious, it was a crush in the suite’s lounge room with six huge
security men trying to squeeze into the same finite space. Wanda
was sitting on the lounge with a man on either side of her, tightly
jammed between them, beaming with unrestrainable happiness. Yoni
was nowhere to be seen, hopefully drinking herself to death in her
bedroom.

“All sorted now, Miss?” asked
one of the men. “The mad granny fully subdued?”

Nobody said anything, but smirks
rippled through the room.

Oh,
I get it
, I
thought to myself glancing around at them.
They all considered
the whole incident to be a huge joke
. I decided to dissuade
them of that fallacy.

“That was a real gun she had,
you know. She might have been a mad granny, but she was a mad
granny with a gun. She could have shot someone.”

“Or she could have gummed them
to death. She didn’t have many teeth,” said one. The men chuckled,
slapping his hand in appreciation of his towering wit.

I blasted them an
all-encompassing withering glance, but I couldn’t argue – she
hadn’t had a lot of remaining teeth.

Hands on my hips, I stood before
them with sparks flying from my eyes. “Maybe one of you might care
to explain how she was able to breach the impenetrable barrier you
formed with your strong, manly muscles?” And yeah, my tone was
probably a little snarky.

One of the men flushed with
embarrassment. I didn’t feel too sorry for him though – he’d just
been the one laughing the loudest. “Someone tripped me over. It was
one of those bastard photographers, I think. I fell like a tree.
Sorry, Miss.” That was nicely and genuinely said, so it would be
churlish to stay miffed.

I relented. “It’s not your
fault. Those paparazzi are weasels. They’ll do anything to take a
photo,” I said, and he visibly relaxed. He was probably worried I’d
be tattling at the soonest opportunity to Heller about his
misadventure. I couldn’t understand why the men would think that,
except for that stupid persistent rumour that I was Heller’s woman.
Heller had plenty of women, but I wasn’t one of them. That was
entirely my choice, so why did I feel so regretful about it?

I told the men they could all
leave and flopped down on the lounge next to Wanda.

“Sorry to spoil your man
sandwich,” I smiled.

“It was the most attention I’d
had from a man for ages,” she pouted. “You have good-looking
workmates.”

“I’m forbidden from noticing.
It’s in my employment contract.

She laughed, but a shriek from
Yoni’s bedroom quickly spoiled her mood. She stood up grudgingly.
“The Creature from the Vodka Lagoon’s calling. Better see what it
wants.”

I took a moment to ring Will,
wanting to know if he was available for Friday night. Still no
answer. What the hell game was he playing at? Was he okay? Was this
his way of teaching me a lesson about not being there for him
enough? I left him a message telling him to ring me back as soon as
possible.

Wanda soon returned, rolling her
eyes as a stream of obscenities followed her out. “God, she’s
snippy today. Must be due for her period or something. Not that she
can have a period.”

My own periods had been rare and
spontaneous since my accident, so of course I was interested.
“Really, why not?”

Wanda lowered her voice. “She
used to be a man.”

My jaw dropped to the ground.
“
No!
Really?” It was the best gossip I’d
ever
heard.

Wanda’s face instantly scrunched
with remorse. “No, not really. Sorry Tilly, it was just my mean
little joke. I didn’t think you’d take it seriously.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling
stupid.

She sighed. “I wish it
was
true though. I’d be rich after selling that secret!”

“Would you sell it?” It was hard
to imagine doing that to someone.

Her half-smile was wistful as
she shook her head. “No, I’d never do that to her, no matter what a
bitch she is. Stars like her don’t have a lot of people they can
trust in their lives. There’s always someone wanting to sell their
story and make a few quick bucks out of them. Her first husband
wrote a tell-all book and this latest one looks as though he’s
heading down the same path. I made sure she signed an iron-clad
pre-nup with him, so he has to make his money off her another way
other than a divorce settlement.”

That made me sad. It would
terrible to live a life where you couldn’t trust anyone to share
your real self with – not even your own husband.

“But anyway,” she said heartily.
“Enough about the old bitch. What do you want to do for the rest of
the afternoon?”

We whiled away the time playing
games of virtual tennis on the in-house console system. We didn’t
hear a peep from Yoni the whole time. Wanda returned to her room
for an hour to make some phone calls and I read the newspaper,
which was still lying unopened on the coffee table. Didn’t look as
though Yoni was much of a one for keeping abreast of current
affairs. Wanda joined me for dinner, and we ate while watching
TV.

I nearly choked on my poached
chicken breast when I saw the first story on the news. Filling the
widescreen TV was a photo of Yoni, Wanda and me just as the mad
granny started shooting. It must have been taken by one of the
paparazzi.

Wanda and Yoni were huddled to
one side, fear creasing their faces as they looked over their
shoulders, the arms of the
Heller’s
men around them, urging
them forward. You couldn’t identify any of the security team; there
were only back and side shots of them, although the
Heller’s
uniform was distinctly visible. But there was no mistaking me,
smack bang in the centre of the photo, one arm reaching up to
secure the gun from the granny. My other hand was on her shoulder
close to her neck, appearing as though I was strangling her, while
one knee was raised as I reached up, as though I was also
simultaneously kneeing her in the stomach. I had a ferocious
expression on my face while the tiny woman, who was barely half my
height, carried a look of intense fear and pain.

“What the hell?” I exclaimed
loudly with dismay. “It looks like I’m beating the crap out of her!
I barely laid a hand on her.”

One newsreader solemnly tutted
at the extreme force employed by celebrities these days to protect
themselves from their own devoted fans. The other expressed their
insincere hopes that the elderly woman was recovering from the
terrible injuries caused by yet another over-zealous security
officer.

My phone rang immediately. I
really didn’t want to answer, knowing whom it would be.