, by Michele Bravo. Tells you all you need to know about how her fictional characters, Dighton & Forrest, met.
I.
That evening, the company of Jan Janasz’s Actor’s Theatre gathered together at the house on the cliff.
This company consisted of some twenty individuals, consisting of costumiers, set designers and dressers, lighting men, sound men as well as a few actors, enjoyed themselves immensely, scarfing down the free food and wine.
They could – and did -- discuss anything they wanted amongst themselves. Their only job was, if spoken to by the woman, Marguerite Zelle or the American, Mr. Largo, to be able to give biographical details on “opal mining magnate” Alain Pretorius [aka Tiny], his partner Jan Janasz and Janasz’ right hand man Adams, and information on their mining business at Lightning Ridge.
As it happened, neither Marguerite Zelle nor Mr. Largo did spend much time intermingling with the company. After the initial introductions, Marguerite fastened herself to Alain Pretorius as soon as he arrived and they spent the rest of the party together, talking to each other in a dark corner, and Largo (aka Gus Keller), whose head was killing him, sat nursing a couple of whiskeys and glaring at them from another corner. Meantime Jan Janasz and Adams were also fascinated by the pas de deux between her and their associate Tiny, (aka Alain Pretorius).
II.
When preparing for the party that evening, Michele couldn’t face putting her fat suit on again.
And why bother? She thought to herself. There’s no point, now, that Keller’s seen the real me, not to mention Janasz and Adams. That advantage has now gone west.
So while Keller had been napping, and Janasz and Adams had been doing whatever it was they were doing, to prepare for the party, Michele had nipped out and purchased a simple, strapless black dress which showed off the long column of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her slender waist and her long, long legs.
When she’d knocked on the door to Keller’s room he’d opened the door promptly. He wore a black silk shirt and charcoal grey slacks.
“How are you feeling, Keller?” she asked.
“Fine,” Keller lied. He’d just swallowed three more aspirin in an attempt to blunt the headache that was just not going away. “You’re looking very lovely,” he said.
She grinned, “Why, thank you. Well, let’s go down, shall we? The guests should be arriving soon.”
III.
Keller had looked up..and up…into the face of Alain Pretorius. Pretorius had given him a firm handshake, then turned to “Marguerite Zelle” and his eyes had lit up.
And that had been all she wrote, Keller thought, as he gulped from the glass of whisky he’d demanded from a red-jacketed bartender and settled down into a chair from which he could watch them.
He could not believe what he was seeing.
It was not the fact that she was a hundred pounds lighter than she had been the day before, or that he noticed anything particular different in her persona. [Having lost his memory, all he knew of her was what he had seen of her in the last ten hours. He knew she had a fat suit, but he’d never seen her wearing it.]
She’d been so solicitous to him during the last few hours…saving his life, helping him to his room, checking out his head, kissing him…he’d gotten the impression that they were an “item.” A team.
And look at her now, with that six-foot-six behemoth…wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off his biceps. She was sitting so close to him she was almost in his lap. She was smiling, she was laughing. She was leaning forward and touching his arm as she talked to him, and sat relaxed and unmoving while he touched her arm. She was resting her chin in her hand and putting her pinky finger in her mouth to look as if she were pondering his words…
Bitch, though Keller, on this third whisky. Just because the guy’s taller than god and built like a brick house…and rich…
Jesus, his head hurt. He couldn’t take this, he had to go crash.
Keller finished off his third whisky, then walked – on steady feet – out of the living room where the party was being held and up to Marguerite Zelle’s room. There, he threw himself face down on the bed without bothering to get out of his clothes, and fell asleep immediately.
IV.
Jan Janasz didn’t notice Keller leaving…his attention was also focused on the persons of his employee, the 6-foot-6 actor known to all and sundry as Tiny, and the woman he knew as Marguerite Zelle.
Janasz also could not believe what he was seeing.
Prior to that morning, he’d spoken face to face with her many times via Skype (each time with Michele wearing her fat suit and having the camera situated such that her entire large form could be seen by Janasz, as opposed to just her face).
When she’d arrived in Sydney he’d seen her at the theater space, and then here at the house a couple of times. Each time he’d taken note of her behavior – she had been cool and professional in behavior, rarely smiling. She’d been wearing her fat suit, and covering that long, flowing outfits like the great Bea Arthur had worn in The Golden Girls, and he’d thought her gorgeous….but a little cold. And that coldness was part of her charm…you so wanted to get close to her, to thaw her…
But now, now, she was wearing a dress that revealed more of her skin than he’d ever seen before, from her tanned arms with sculpted biceps and triceps, to the shapely calves. It was more than the fact that the black dress revealed her small, pert breasts and her flat stomach. And this even though she’d told him earlier that day that she’d be wearing her fat suit that night.
And here she was, looking gorgeous in a black strapless dress, with all of her firm, tanned flesh a glorious bronze, unmarred by tattoos.
And her whole attitude, her whole persona, was changed.
She was loose, very feminine, very sexy, very seductive.
He caught his breath as she ran her fingers through her long, glorious hair, watched as she put a hand on his bicep and leaned closer to him, speaking intently.
Why had he never learned how to read lips, Janasz thought.
Which was the real Marguerite Zelle, he wondered. This woman, or the colder, more professional woman in the fat suit?
Whichever one...she was an excellent actress.
Had he but known, he would have given Tiny his role, and taken the role of the prospective victim, Alain Pretorius, himself.
And Tiny….damn Tiny…he was really enjoying himself…
V.
Adams fixed himself another drink.
The cliché about jealousy is that it’s a green-eyed monster.
If that were true, Adams’ eyes would have been emeralds shooting sparks.
He wasn’t sure whom he was the most jealous of…Tiny for what looked like him having the chance of bedding Marguerite Zelle that very night, or Marguerite Zelle for what looked like having the chance of bedding the delectable Tiny.
And here he was, with no one to bed at all.
Life was very hard.
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