Ghost Boyfriend Anthology.

#4 - Run Fran!

Don't panic, Don't choke on your words, Don't be a fool, three rules for the evening. It's all gonna come to me right? I mean it's not like I'd forget what I'm about to say. I've recited this script over and over for the past few weeks that it ought to have stuck onto my brain by now.

But still I can't help feeling rigid. First timers honor, people will understand if I go up stage and freak out, making a fool out of myself.

But the Times where I worked won't appreciate it. It'd had been my Dad's time once and the press had never missed an opportunity to ruin each stand up event, yet they also had to agree at some point that he'd made it big. Everyone in town knew about how Mike Hathaway started his career from scratch and became indebtedly rich, his comical fantasies brought to reality and till now he's still a legend. A living one. Now, what if I towed that footpath? What if tonight turns out to be the night? I can already see my face imprinted in some trendy glossy magazine - imbibed with the title 'Real Gamers One Time Stand-up Gig' it's not that hard if the press lets me.

But they didn't and it sucked. And so I had to get a gig agent and look at how it led me here.

I take in a shallow breath, adjusting my suffocating neck tie. Now, if only formalities weren't a tad bit buggy, I'd have climbed unto the partition in short panties.

Really Fran? Who does that these days??

I lean back unto the soft plushy leather chair, hoping it'd be a great night.

If only I didn't have a huge VISA bill left unpaid on my office desk. This is unreal.

“You're up in two,” a shady looking girl with hair the color of washed out pasta interrupts my thoughts. Now that it's up close it looks more like yarn, you know those cheapskate ones sold to the less privileged. I can't believe she works here. “Be fast and rock your stuff.”

I forced a smile through, anxiously groping my uncooperative tie, undoing the tight knot a little bit. Now, that's easy. Easier said. I start hyperventilating! Oh my god a migraine is setting in! How does one rock his stuff up? I mean I know she's trying me to be funny but still, how does one be funny?? It's a question that never comes to mind. I stick out my tongue like some dog, gasping for air then shot up to my feet when I heard my name being called. “Introducing, the one and only Fran Hathaway!”

The tad sound system are a bit zip these days. I'm doubly sure that my name sounded more like Tram, which isn't pretty great. How would the audience remember me with some geeky offbeat name? I'm meant to be flashy after this!

Calm down Fran, you're getting ahead of yourself here.

Sweating like a geyser and totally riled up by my attire which for some reason, itched at my butt. I went over to the microphone, curling my fingers round it like my life depended solely on this show. Well who am I kidding? I'm about to hit it big here.

Here's a tip, be real tonight.

“Well,” I say as calmly as possible, the stage lights blinding as I squinted my eyes towards the dense crowd searchingly. Who am I kidding? He wouldn't be here even if I wished out loud and hard. Let's just get this over with. “I've always had bills, because I like to shop, I love the glossy new pink cardigan down at Whistlers and I'm so glad that I'd be able to get it by the end of the week, that's if I'm not too lazy to drop in by Debbie and George.” There's a smattering of laughter, encouragement soared within me. “All my life I've wished for this. That what if the bills got swapped. What if I receive a relatively smaller list of expenses too ridiculous to pay for. And some dotty old woman down at Hampshire gets my humoungous bill and had to pay for it without batting an eyelid. That'd be great right. A nice expense cut” the whole crowd roared with laughter as I round up, immensely pleased with myself.

I stepped back from the mic, handing the stage over to the TV show host Joe Graham. He was smiling, glad and I'm halfly sure that'd I'd really get an extra bonus tip for this. That's good, my mind is already hot at work on an item I'd spend the cool cash tip on. I could get a birthday present for Buzz, it's his fortieth birthday this week and he's been a great editor when I was still working at Preston. I might get him an anorak, believe me when I say that he's that kind of guy. He's forty for Pitt's sake. But my greedy self is already settled on a frivolity. Chocolates. Yippee! I could get those new snicker bars I've been rooting for. Harry's not here to stop me, and who said a diet couldn't be altered? It's not like I'd be busty overnight if I let my guard down.

I believe that comes off as wise spending.

“And that was just Fran Hathaway's way of welcoming you into the show, so now tell me Fran. What's your message tonight?” Joe asked, his Armani suit way more shimmering than me. “Wise budgeting if you ask me. Curtailed spending,”

“Er.." I considered this. "You can say that.”

“Great. At least you gave us an example with yourself. Fran, I don't mean to be rude but as a finance writer, doesn't the general rule of expense elasticity apply to you?”

I'm dazed. What's he talking about?

“Elasticity? Of course it applies to all.” I replied offhandedly, playing for time while at the back of my mind I'm trying to figure out what he's saying.

“But your sermon tonight shows that you don't practice it,”

I choke on my own saliva. “Um. I believe I do, that's why I own a column.”

“Really?” he accessed me with a kind of hawk like gaze. What's gotten into him today? Who does he think he is to question me about my spending? No wonder TV show hosts could often pass off as public gossipers.

Let's be true for once. I don't even follow up on the Real Time Gamers anymore. I once did, months ago when it was the latest hot new thing. But these days 50% of families would pay good money to watch Disney or some fiction channel than reality shows.

“You're not being particularly honest with us all.”

“Joe I'm tired.” I feign backing out slowly out the stage. “I know I did well and it's been such a great night but I really need to turn in to sleep, At home.” I gestured outside, hoping he'd buy it.

Instead he consults his watch. “Sleep at seven thirty? That's too early,”

Crap. Even time isn't on my side today.

“I love sleeping early.” I manage a weak smile. This hog won't let me off so easily.

The crowd began to whisper, the feel of the moment lost. Suspicion lit their eyes and then all of a sudden...it broke. First off it started with some baby bawling and then it turn into a full blown boo. I was getting...booed at? Joe chuckles then grips his papers firmly. “Well I'm sorry Mr Hathaway. The crowd has successfully figured out just who you are. A heartless debtor. I'm afraid this little interview has come to an end. Please exit the stage,”

I feel deflated.

“Boo. Get out of there you perk! Debtor!! Ungrateful bastard!! We're never reading your columns anymore. You give us the rules yet you don't follow them yourself!!”

I walk out feeling shamefaced and utterly useless. I brush off a few tears threatening to spill and pull my head up. It's not the end of the world. My expression brightens when I see the limousine which brought me here. At least they allowed me ride one last time in it. I smile stupidly to the chauffeur as I slid in, commanding him to pass me a glass of champagne. The limousine is wide spaced with posh beige interior. I run my fingers over it and tune up the little TV at the rear. A one direction song comes on and I bob my head to the tune, taking short swifts drags while still thinking about my lowly life. Here you go fans, I'm jobless. I'm not even sure my editor would want me to step feet in his office after what just happened. It's all gone down the drain really, the perfect celebrity life, the heartfelt spending. The new Beach House I'm hoping to purchase down Paloma lane..all. Gone down the puddle. I visualize my face, imprinted on the Times and Tattler tomorrow for negativity, for careless spending. Well at least I still get a face reveal. Pfft, for negativity at least. That's a stepping stone.

I suck.

Outside the high rise buildings all look glossy - I can see Preston from in here. And Debbie and George..Thortons chocolates. Truth is, I can't step foot into those shops anymore. I can't survive the whispering, the doleful hushes, the tabloids tomorrow. And of course in matters like this they'll be a swarm of reporters at my doorstep first thing in the morning.

Gosh, I'm so over.

The car halts and I got out, muttering a warm thank you to the chauffeur who just nodded then drove off. What a nice man. He seemed quiet and reserved. I don't do bricks. Now if only I wasn't in such a mood, I'd have caught the late night tube to Hash's and if I really get lucky, I'd lure in some random guy and we'd have a one night stand. Maybe that'd make me feel better.

Flicking on the shower, I immerse myself in it's cold silent trickles - it's chills reminding me of the stony chauffeur. Stop thinking about him, you both will never see again. I got out then wrap my new Angora towel from Katie's, the bill still left unpaid. Goodness, what a bad month.

I plopped onto the warm sofa - exhausted, embittered, enraged. I had no idea that Joe could actually pull off a fast one on me. But what for? It's not like he asked me to date him and I refused, even though I'm not quite sure he's gay. Why would I refuse? He owns a couple of houses at Alabama, started the Real Hunger Games from scratch and it was said that his IQ summed up to 149 last week. What a genius he must be.

Unfortunately he's out to ruin people. Me for one. If only Harry was here then...

Ugh, who needs him anyway. It'll all wash off tomorrow. Luckily for me, Sandman would give each and every human in Fulham a very pleasant dream about what they've always wanted and they'll be so preoccupied with that than bring up my shame.

It'll all blow over and then it'll be fine, I reassure myself repeatedly.

It'll be fine.

—

My eyes dart widely across the street. My heart thumping. It can't be. They can't be having a sale. Berkeley's don't clout chase people.

But it's happening. I can see the storekeeper putting up the inscription on different things right through the glass windows. OMG, that swirly coat from last month. It's up, and I can see a seventy percent off inscription on it's collar. Not fifty, nor sixty but seventy percent off.

My heart snaps. I have to get it, I mean I still want it didn't I?

You might think I'm crazy, or that I spent too much. Or that I was simply careless with money but I can assure you it's none the less. Anyone who gets unfortunately caught up in the finance web can't possibly handle money. I'm a finance writer for the Times magazine and I can proudly say that half of the things I say to people is simply pretense.

I never knew the stuff I said and it didn't bother me. As far as my writings encouraged and taught people how to organize their money, I was in the clear.

I could spend as much as I could and no damn person would question me.

Standing impatiently in the scorching sun and waiting for the tube to arrive seems a good way to spend the day. I just got back from a press conference at Flake enterprises together with Carol a fellow colleague and I've got to say, that was the most boring session I've been unfortunate to witness, aside the jelly pink liquid passed round in glasses with flattened canapes. Nothing much was said and I was bored to my skull. Coral had her own fair share of the boredom when her phone rings loudly, interrupting Jens Flemmings, the general manager from whatever crap he was saying. He was such an uptight man and right at that minute when the crowd turned to a cursive Carol fumbling with her phone, he sent her a dirty glare. She had it put off but the feel of the moment was lost and the crowd became disorganized and while beef sticks were being passed around, we got ushered out of the hall. Rudely too. Now we have nothing to say to Buzz, and she's all like 'We'll get past this. Together' like we're even friends. We may work in the same office but I loathe Carol McCoy.

She's wearing a black short cheap plaid skirt and white tight leggings that make her look like a spider together with her ladder heels. So, I stand a few meters away from her so if anyone saw us, they'd think we're not together.

I hate cheapskates.

My gaze is still focused on the swirly brown cashmere coat that smiles at me through the window. I feel dazed. It's calling on me. It's calling on me to purchase it. I seldom shop at Berkeley's. Their stuff is super duper expensive and my poor VISA card can barely contain it. So that's why I shop at Flusters, even though their goods aren't trendy quality. I buy a  shirt or trousers I like and then cut the label out, so if asked where I bought it from, I'd pretend I don't know.

“I have to get this,” I mutter to myself, large-eyed and paying less attention to whatever Carol's prattling about her one-time boyfriend who broke up with her without any variant or message. Can't blame him though, what sort of man would fall for a talkative spider. “I have to - ”

“OMG, it's a bloody sale!” a troop of smooth looking girls squeals as they pry their eyes on the cashmere sweater too. I internally gasp; they just proved to be a competition alright.

“That sweater is so nice! It brings out the color of your hair Becky.” a blonde pointed out.

I glare subtly at them, oh we'll see who'll win this hoes!

Just then the tube arrives and Carol tugs at my sleeves. “Come on man, let's go.”

I ignore her, my mind beginning to tot up a scheme.

“What are you thinking?” she seemingly followed my eyes, to the girls. “Come on now, we still have to finish up that piece on Freshbirs. Buzz might need it at the Forescisc market launch this evening.”

Ugh, bugger.

What a b***h.

“Er...” I partly turn to her. “Could you...get going first, I'll meet you up at the office to pick up from wherever you stop. Tell Buzz I've gone to see an Aunt.” I say, not conscious of the fact that I was lying.

She drew her head back from me, incredulously. “You want me to lie!” her brows arched in disappointment.

Perhaps that wasn't smooth.

“Um... not exactly,” I look back across the road and gasp. Through the clear windows, I see a platinum blonde which I assume to be Becky, happily running her fingers over the coat fabric. My fabric! She's smiling and probably thinking up a number of places she'd go just to show it off.

I can feel my face flaming hot. How dare she! I had my eyes on it first. I turned to Carol quickly and gushed. “Look, I've got to go. Tell Buzz I'm on some external assignment and I'd be back later in the day,” I skirt away from her, across the road, almost getting knocked over by a vehicle.

Lucky me.

The door pings and the storekeeper looks up, his eyes lit at me. I've seen him a couple of times here and I like him. Red-haired, and freckled delicately, at least he lets me lust over clothes I couldn't afford. Not like some snotty cows in clothes stores who complained on how I stayed too long, admiring what I couldn't afford. Still, he's way out of my league, I can't be found dating him.

But it seems now, I'd have to ask for help from him. Go me!

“Um, hi. Can I help you?” I regard the blush which graced his cheeks with a kind of derision, but it waned. Plastering my brightest smile on and leaning down towards him; his eyes perked up, of course, perhaps he's expecting me to kiss him. I subtly whisper. “I need your help,”

He smells like strawberry and it's hard to not get intoxicated. I drew away from him quickly, my gaze sweeps round the room. The girls are still here, whispering among themselves with the Becky girl away from the lot. Now there goes a chance. The storekeeper stands up and walks around the counter to me, an egocentric smirk pitched at the corner of his lips. He stops a few meters away, towering over me. “And how may I be of service to you?”

I thought about this for a minute, willing myself not to get caught up in the moment. I'd never date him. No matter how hard my gaydar bugged me.

“I need that sweater over there,” I pointed, lowering my voice a c***k.

“As you can see it's taken,” he remarks.

“Which is why I'm asking for your help. I need you to get it for me. From her, I mean away from her.” I stutter stupidly.

Oh crap. His brows are hitching up. “That won't seem fair then sir,”

Great. I've sold my dignity.

I bite my lip thoughtfully. What if I bought him over? Would he be worth a good couple of bucks??

“Please. I'll pay anything. Do anything,” I beg desperately. He seems to be enjoying this. Callous bastard.

“Anything?” his tone is evil. And all at once, I forget how I ever liked him before. What a cheapskate p*****t.

I scrunch my nose up, muttering. “Ew,” then stalked off.

What a geyser he turned out to be. Just like Harry.

Why think about that one now?

“Then go get it yourself. Pfft, if she lets you.” I heard him say. I'm smiling, laughing even as I made my way slowly to the girl, and I don't know why. All I know is that...

I'm evil.

“Hey there pretts,” I lace my tone with enough sugar to last anyone a lifetime. “What a pretty coat you have there.”

She swings her head towards me with a look that spelled out she didn't like my interruption, idly picking at the fabric. “Thanks.”

Cold and gullible. Perfect to trick.

I'm assuming she's only sixteen because boy.. she's damn too short, likely to drown in the sweater.

“Um, can I take a pic with it? Actually, I'd like to get it when I fly over to France next week for a holiday.” The girl looks dubious. She drew the coat farther away from me, accessing me with distinct. I felt smaller in comparison to this.

“A pic?” she asked, doleful and I almost regret tricking her. “You promise to give it back?”

I roll my eyes internally. “Well, of course, I will. Just an itty-bitty picture,” I smoothly snatch the sweater away and press it to my bosom, my fingers curled against the delicate soft fabric as a familiar feeling surges through me. Satisfaction. The happiness that it's finally mine.

“Could you mind giving it back now?” The girl demanded, causing me to snap my eyes back at her. Her friends all come around her, watching us. I frowned as I handed it over. What a bummer.

“Thanks,” I watched them sashay towards the counter, mentally picking out their details. They were busty alright, except one who had the weirdest type of legs I've ever seen. She even faltered as she walked. Tough life.

They chatter and flirt with the rugged storekeeper as I looked around the other stuff idly. Nothing caught my fancy. Nothing at all.

I made my way around the little group slowly, the door pinging as yet another customer comes in. He's a huge man, brusque and handsome and he leaves the door open. My eyes snarl back to the counter-top, causing me to stop. Flickering my eyes on the sweater which lay not too far away, I pried my hands forward, everyone too engrossed to take notice of me. I zip up to the moment, clutching it momentarily just as the weird girl's head began to turn. It completed its rotation, a gasp of horror squeezed from her lips as I yeet out the store, sprinting down the road. There are a piercing scream and a manly shout behind me but I don't bother turning back. I kept moving, my lungs heaving.

I broke through Paloma Lane and kept up the chase, slipping through alleys and taking small jogs across streets. Good. I'm far from them now, but I can't help feeling ashamed. I stole. I f*****g stole and goodness helps me if the police hold me up for this.

Pfft, it's not like anyone would recognize me anymore. From this time forward, I'll have to be extra careful.

I slowed down my jog, pausing to take a breath right in the middle of a lonely road, palms on my knees. I smile at my loot in triumph. Who knew you could do this Fran.

And just then I don't seem to notice anything unusual. Before I could process what's happening, I'm sent flying, smashing my skull against the wall, evincing a split. I groaned at the impact, then sprawled downwards onto the pavement floor, the cashmere sweater not far off. I groan and try to sit up, but all I could see next was darkness.

I drifted off.