Free Strictly Confidential by Roxy Jacenko Page B

phone.
    ‘Yeah?’ he answered.
    ‘It’s your PR flunkey here,’ I said quietly. ‘Elvis is leaving the building.’
    ‘Roger that,’ he said, his tone immediately businesslike. ‘Main entrance, Driver Avenue?’
    ‘You got it,’ I said, checking over my shoulder to ensure Matt couldn’t hear me from where he trailed behind. ‘Taxi,’ I mouthed to Matt and indicated to my phone.
    To my photographer friend I said, ‘Oh, and left hand, remember? I need you to get that watch in the shot.’
    ‘Got it,’ he signed off.
    As we approached the bottom of the staircase I dropped Matt’s hand. Surely he could negotiate the final few stairs himself. He staggered towards the gates, looking more drunken sailor than professional cricketer, then paused and looked up at me with dopey, bloodshot eyes. ‘Shit, J! I left my publishityschedule behind!’ The words came out in a mush of slurred consonants, like a bad Sean Connery impersonation.
    I tried to hurry Matt past the exit turnstiles. ‘That’s okay, Matty,’ I said. ‘You’re almost done for the night. We’ve just got to get you out of here and into a taxi looking vaguely respectable and then I get to keep my job.’
    As I said this, he slumped sideways into a wall. I was beginning to regret my call to the paparazzo.
    ‘Whoa, up you get, bud,’ I encouraged, reaching over to fix his baggy green cap, which was now dangling precariously off one ear, in a vain stab at making him look sober.
    Big mistake.
    As soon as I got close enough to him, Matt grabbed me by my arm and pushed me up against the wall, his beery mouth closing in over mine in a slobbery drunken kiss.
    Oh. My. God.
    ‘Are you mad?’ I cried when he finally came up for air. I shoved at him but he only nuzzled up closer, his tongue sliding back into my mouth.
    This was beyond revolting. I shoved again. Hard. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I cried when he paused for a second time. I ducked and left him pashing the brickwork, which gave me time to back away through the turnstile.
    ‘J?’ he asked, confused.
    ‘Thanks, Flunkey!’ came another voice.
    Now I was confused. Gasping for air, I stumbled further away from Matt and caught sight of the person behind the second voice.
    Fuck. My photographer friend. ‘You didn’t . . . that wasn’t . . . did you?’ I was struggling to find the words to form my sentence when I saw Matt coming back for round two. ‘No, Matt!’ I shouted, grateful for the turnstile between us. ‘Stop!’ I instructed desperately. Both to Matt and the pap.
    Matt stopped in his tracks, looking hurt. ‘J?’
    I held up my hand in a stop signal as if training a dog. ‘Stay there.’
    Without waiting for a response, I ran over to where the pap and his camera had stood just seconds earlier. ‘Where are you?’ I called into the darkness. ‘Hello?’ And then, ‘You better give me those pics right now!’
    Nothing.
    Turning again, I caught sight of him in the streetlights, bounding along the pavement, rapidly putting metres between him and the scene of the crime. He waved his camera in the air in thanks. Bastard. I was going to have to warn Diane. But first, I had Romeo to deal with. I stalked over to where Matt was slumped against the SCG ticket booth. You’re hardly gunna pull a crowd in that state, Matty ,I thought wryly to myself. I nudged him half-heartedly with my shoe as I considered the long line of eager taxis across the road. Now, how do you suppose I get one drunk cricketer to cross the road? I wondered. And why did my life so often sound like a bad joke? I reached for my phone while trying not to consider the punchline. It was time to call Diane.
    But before I could phone in my own execution, my loving boyfriend did it for me. A text, sitting neglected in my inbox, greeted me as I slid open my phone. Jazz , it read, I’m done. Will.
    Shit. Dumped by SMS. And before he even had the chance to see the happy snaps of me and Matt.