“Happy birthday.”
Martique (I know, it’s a stage name; she won’t answer to her actual name, which is Tara—I saw her passport) has just strolled into my apartment on heels higher than some people’s kneecaps, and now she’s unbuttoning her dress.
“I didn’t know what to get you, so I bought myself some new underwear instead.”
Her dress pools around her ankles and she dips one knee, her hand on her hip. She’s filthy hot and she knows it. She reminds me of a young Sophia Loren; all delicious curves and smoky eyes. “Well?” she pouts. “Do you like it, Jack?”
No red-blooded man could resist. She’s a temptress; I wouldn’t be surprised if she produced an apple out of nowhere and asked me if I’d like a bite.
“I like it,” I say, crossing the room.
“Then show me.”
Her perfume is pure bordello, sending a message straight to my groin, and her mouth tastes of lipstick and one of the ten million cigarettes she smokes a day. Her teeth are tugging on my bottom lip, her hands working my jeans open. We’ve been doing this on and off for a few weeks now. It’s an arrangement that suits us both. She’s on the way up, one of the many starlet singers who pass through the radio station. I’m her ideal man, she told me when we first met. By that, I know she means I’m her ideal step up on the route to stardom, someone slightly less good-looking than her who she can shag without any emotional complications and no fear of exposure.
I don’t think we even like each other very much; my personal life has hit the buffers. Even as she steps out of her underwear, I’m thinking that this is going to be the last time.
We sink onto the sofa, her astride me, and I admire the way even the mess of smeared lipstick somehow looks sexy on her. She leans in, saying all the right words in the right order, and I close my eyes and try not to feel bad.
“Happy birthday,” she murmurs when we’re done, biting my earlobe before she climbs off me and checks her phone. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”
I watch her get dressed, my jeans around my ankles. I rub my ear, checking if she’s drawn blood. I’m not sorry she’s leaving.
Later, at the station, I pick up a text from Sarah and Luke, who bizarrely has turned out to be one of my favorite Aussies—not that I know that many. He likes a beer and he loves Sarah in a clear and uncomplicated way that he doesn’t even try to hide. They’ve sent me a picture of them holding up a “Happy Birthday Jack” sign, both of them pissing about laughing. They’re on a beach and the words have come out backward, which only seems to have amused them more. It amuses me too, and I send them back a quick Thank you, you pair of idiots.
Laurie has texted too. All her message says is Happy Birthday x. It’s so brief that there’s nothing to read into it. All the same, I study it, wondering if she puts a kiss at the end of every text she sends.
That’s when I decide. I don’t want to be the type of person who shags the type of person like Martique. I want what Sarah and Luke have. I may not be worthy of someone as good as Laurie, but I want to try to be that person.
I read her message over one last time, and then reply.
Thanks x