“Who could forget such awkward circumstances?” she replied.
The pair giggled. Joanne smiled reassuringly and threw a fraternal arm around Angela’s shoulder. “Who could forget such unpleasantness?” Angela asked her friend with just a hint of bitterness.
Joanne laughed brutally, leant forward, put her right index finger to her friend’s lips again and whispered in Angela’s right ear. As she spoke, Angela’s facial expression changed from amused to shocked. She gently pushed Joanne away. Angela’s brow creased and she stared off into the middle distance.
“Non Joey. Don’t tell me anything else … so much bad karma will flow from this idea,” she whispered in a worried tone. Angela’s voice cracked as she spoke. Her hands wrapped tightly around her waist. She moved her head rhythmically back and forth.
“Ooooooohh non, Joey, non! It is not right, yes.”
Joanne motioned for Angela to turn down the volume of the conversation. “Oh spare me the amateur dramatics, darling.”
Joanne stared piercingly into the younger woman’s eyes, sliding her head right up close and personal.
“It did not bother you last time, French girl,” she muttered aggressively.
Angela paused in momentary reflection. “Or the time before that …”
“Look, here’s the thing. Adam is making a fortune these days. He’s got a ready to wear range in Walmart this season for fuck’s sake,” Joanne noted in disbelief.
“He might whine about it but he will pay us. He’s got no choice. His wife would remove his cojones if she found out.”
Joanne continued the close-range staring. Angela blinked first, looked downward and started to fidget with her hands. When she looked up again, she blushed.
“I have a really bad feeling about this, Joey. What you say, what you want us to do, it is criminal, non?”
Joanne lifted her right hand up. It hovered in front of her friend’s face as her take-no-prisoners spin continued. “Relax, Ang, please. Ya’know, it’s just the way that we do things in America.”
“Non, Joey, non. Look all around the world at the trouble and suffering that is caused by the American way of doing things.”
“Everywhere you Americans go with this attitude there is trouble, yes, big trouble,” Angela replied quietly but firmly.
“Oh spare me, please. I’m not in the mood for your commie French political bullshit,” Joanne snapped contemptuously and, for a single moment, turned her head away.
“Just know this girlfriend, this is how we get things done in the States. Ya gotta hustle, ya gotta sell yourself. It’s not political, OK, it’s just business.”
Angela shook her head, dismay painted across her expressive face.
“We should be winning these awards because we are talented, yes?” she countered.
“No,” Joanne snarled ferociously. “No! Just listen. Listen carefully to me Angela Durand because I’m only going to tell you this once. It’s too late, it’s a done deal, everything is arranged, and there’s no backing out now. It’s much too late for you to change your mind.”
As Angela stared into Joanne’s eyes, the colour drained from her face as she saw that determined look she knew only too well. Joanne again held an index finger to her friend’s sweet lips.
“You might as well be pointing a gun at me,” Angela thought.
“This has got nothing to do with dumb stuff like what’s right and wrong,” the annoyed Californian continued.
“Tonight we are going to win. Tonight we are going to become Super Models. We are going to make millions and millions of dollars. That’s what matters Angela Durand,” Joanne whispered in a thoroughly patronising tone and smiled professionally.
Angela shook her head and frowned as two teams of stylists walked around the Tatami screen. This time, the network Talent Manager accompanied the support staff.
“Such behaviour, it is more serious than you think,” Angela replied miserably. Joanne screwed up her face and shook her head as she used both her feet to push her chair away from her friend’s. She raised her right hand and pointed assertively at Angela with her index finger.
“Joey …” Angela began but before she could collect her scattered thoughts Joanne moved to finish their sensitive conversation that had suddenly acquired an unwanted audience.
“No, Ang! Let’s talk about this later,” she said firmly.
The ABC Talent Manager nodded her head and smiled amiably.
“Thanks for being so understanding Joanne, darling, the teams have got to get to work now. Angela, time is short, my darling, and the show must go on.”
Angela stared incredulously at Joanne, who spun around in her chair, smiled at the Talent Manager and nodded at the team of stylists.
With the conversation thus terminated, Angela, still stunned, was spun around in her chair and the stylists went to work on both models with hair dryers and brushes.
THE DARK NIGHT
While neither Angela or Joanne realised it as the glamorous 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards telecast commenced, their future was taking shape ominously in Joe’s Sports Bar just five kilometres away.
Joe’s was a blinged-out, late night hangout where LA’s professional sports people and their cronies gathered to party and scheme.
Decorated with framed National Football League, basketball and soccer memorabilia and poster pictures of various teams and individual players, the bar featured multiple large television screens, a jukebox, an eat-in restaurant section, a handful of pool and billiard tables and a few booths for patrons seeking privacy that complimented the rows of stools along the chrome and silver mirrored bar. Black tables and chairs were placed throughout the room.
Hooting patrons were watching the Estee Lauder awards on screens throughout the room. Beers were disappearing quickly. Tequila shooters hit the bar.
Two barely-dressed hostesses, in see-through micro negligees, black and red fishnet stockings and dangerously high-heeled red pumps, were serving the drinks.
Most of the male patrons were gathered in several noisy groups at one end of the bar as Gram Parsons’ Ooh Las Vegas played.
“Well, the first time I lose I drink whiskey
Second time I lose I drink gin
Third time I lose I drink anything
‘Cause I think I’m gonna win.”
Brett Farrell was slouched alone at the other end of the bar, his gigantic hands cradling his balding head. A three day growth sat upon his chin, his eyes were red and bleary, his demeanour unsteady. Directly in front of him lay three large drinks, the sport pages of a tabloid newspaper, car keys and an iPhone.
Brett wore long khaki shorts, a red Lacoste long sleeved t-shirt bearing the Porn Star motif and a blue and yellow LA Eagles NFL baseball cap he was wearing back-to-front.
While intensely watching the broadcast of the Estee Lauder Awards on the screen in front of him, Brett was shaking his head, muttering loudly to himself and gulping down drinks.
Several men in the nearest group, dressed in smart casual and bling styles, were looking sideways at Brett. They were trying not to be too obvious about it, whispering among themselves behind