A Dash of Reality Read online

  Author photo by Taupo Photography.

  Lee Murray started running between lamp-posts and has since run 18 marathons, an ultra-marathon and countless half-marathons. An award-winning writer of short fiction, A Dash of Reality is Lee’s second novel, her first title for adults. Lee lives in Tauranga, New Zealand with her husband, two gorgeous children and a Cavalier King Charles spaniel named Maxi. When she’s not writing, Lee likes to read, run, and eat muffins.

  Lee Murray

  A Dash

  of

  Reality

  Regis

  A Dash of Reality

  Regis Books

  54 St Regis Way

  Tauranga 3110, New Zealand

  This edition published in 2011.

  ISBN 978-0-473-19934-0

  Text copyright © Lee Murray, 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagnation or, if real, used fictiously.

  Cover illustration by Colleen Shervell

  www.leemurray.info

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to the runners: my friends at Tauranga Road Runners and Mount Joggers running clubs, who were the inspiration for this story. I am grateful to Jenny Argante, Helen Towgood, and Wendy Burke for helpful suggestions for improving the manuscript, and to my colleagues at Tauranga Writers and the New Zealand Society of Authors. Editor and proofer, Natalie Barclay, and artist Colleen Shervell did amazing work in double-quick time. Finally, kisses and hugs to my husband David and to my lovely children Celine and Rob for all the cheese toastie dinners they ate while Mummy wrote this book.

  1

  ‘If you have to tell them who you are, you aren’t anybody.’

  Gregory Peck said it first and it isn’t any less true now. Take me, for example. For years I’ve been the face of Sportzgirl, the franchised chain of sexy sports apparel for the modern Kiwi girl. To tell the truth, I’ve not only been the face of Sportzgirl, but also the boobs, the bum, and the legs. There’s been a photo of me, or some part of me, on every glossy full-colour page of the catalogue for the past seven years. Winter catalogues are thinner, but the summer ones can be up to sixteen pages, and they’re delivered to 620,000 households monthly.

  That’s a lot of pictures of yours truly!

  I’m also the girl in those flat-out thirty-second commercials telling you to get down to your Sportzgirl outlet this weekend for great autumn specials, or letting you know your nearest Sportzgirl outlet (and free parking) will be open for your shopping convenience until midnight, every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night from anywhere around mid-October right up until Christmas Eve.

  And on top of that, any garment sold in a Sportzgirl store carries a label listing its range, designer, size, price (astronomical), and the particular item’s washing instructions, and on the flip side of the label is a photo of me. When you take home your new sports bra, wrapped in two layers of foamy tissue, even the plastic bag you carry it home in will be digitally imprinted with a picture of my face (fully made-up and air-brushed, thank goodness.)

  There was talk of putting my image, posing as if I were running up a flight of stairs, on the side of Wellington’s historic cable car (the one that carries tourists on its forty-five degree trajectory from downtown Lambton Quay to the summit at Kelburn.) At an Auckland store – Albany I think – there’s a colossal colour-sublimated canvas billboard above the automatic doors of me doing a bent-over-row. It stands four metres off the ground, is a further eight metres high and is visible to city-bound Auckland commuters from up to a kilometre away. That is, providing it’s not foggy.

  On the billboard, I’m wearing a Lycra sports crop and matching boy shorts in neon-orange. The orange is intended to contrast with the funky grey corrugated-iron cladding of the warehouse. Our stylist, Annalise was insistent.

  ‘Orange is an impact colour, darling.’ It’s no secret Annalise fancies herself as a latter-day version of Joanna Lumley, aka Patsy. Staying true to character, Annalise dyes her hair blonde and hasn’t been known to eat anything since 2004. Anyway, as Sportzgirl’s style guru, she selects the items I model. She’s had me clad in crop-tops, bra-tops, bike-tops, dry-fit tops, and vented tops, all usually a size too small. When it comes to pants, Annalise usually goes for Lycra or spandex in varying lengths; full-length, ¾-length, knee-length, boy-short, and the tiny triathlon-pants I call scanty-panties. Annalise can eulogise on their amphibious water-to-land qualities ’til she’s blue in the face, they still look like regular underpants to me. The Pouty One doesn’t bother much with warmer weather gear. She believes ‘less is more’ and ‘skin is in’ so jackets and sweats tend to get pushed to the back of the catalogue.

  When it comes to the photo set-ups, Annalise has me posing in the gym with Swiss balls, on exercise benches, on courts playing, out in the stadium doing lunges, or stretching; any set up which shows the garment at its most appealing. Some of the poses are intended to be provocative and titillating – Sportzgirl gear is supposed to be sexy – and sometimes we attract too much media attention. To be fair, only one complaint was actually upheld by the Broadcasting Standards Commission, and Sportzgirl withdrew the offensive ad. But by then the extra publicity meant stocks of the extra-low-rise Daisy Duke work-out pants were almost exhausted.

  The point I’m trying to make here is that excepting possibly inhabitants of the odd South Island sheep station stuck outside television coverage somewhere near Geraldine, pretty much everyone in New Zealand has seen a picture of me.

  Everyone.

  Every. Single. One.

  And yet no one has a clue who I am.

  2

  Late Friday afternoon I’m in my basement office at Sportzgirl HQ when I get a call from Derek Lissombe, Personal Assistant to my boss, Winston Chin. Derek started at Sportzgirl shortly before me, but unlike me, his rise in the company has been as fast as the proverbial pimple popping up on prom night. That could have something to do with the fact he wears navy blue pinstripe suits, reads the business pages, and has been wooing Winston’s daughter for a little over three years.

  ‘Come up immediately for a conference with Mr. Chin,’ Derek says.

  ‘Okay, give me two secs. I’ll get changed.’

  ‘Immediately, Melanie,’ says Derek.

  Right at this moment I’m dressed in the retro candy-pink yoga pants, shelf-bra tank and matching head band that were the feature of this afternoon’s photo-shoot. Still, it can’t be helped. It doesn’t do to keep Winston waiting.

  Sportzgirl’s CEO reminds me of a fat squat toad I once caught, although, to be fair, the toad probably had better skin. Winston is not one of those Chinese people about whom people are prone to coo, ‘Oh, he has a beautiful olive complexion!’ Inflicted with a severe case of acne at an early age, nor was Winston one of those good Chinese boys who respected the advice of his mother. I suspect it satisfied him deeply to pick, squeeze and dig at those pus-filled vesicles, so much so that now, at fifty-eight, Winston’s face resembles a piece of raw, tenderised meat. Don’t be fooled. There’s nothing tender about Winston Chin. He’s about as warm and welcoming as morning linoleum.

  I duck out of my 2x2 metre cubicle and into the lift. Tony from Accounts slips in just before the doors close.

  ‘Going to Accounts?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks Melanie.’ I push the button for the Accounting Department on level 3, and the button for level 5, where Winston presides in the Big Corner Office.

  ‘Top floor, hu
h?’

  I nod. ‘Winston asked for me.’ Tony shakes his head, sucks air in over his teeth, and screws up his face the way people do when entering public toilets.

  ‘Bugger,’ he says softly. He falls silent. The lift stops on level 3 and Tony hurries out without looking back. Shoot, I wonder what Winston wants? My gut reaction is not good, which would explain why my face looks tight and anxious in this lift mirror.

  Get a grip, Melanie.

  A summons to the Big Corner Office isn’t necessarily bad. It could be a good sign. It could be something positive, like a bonus, although I can’t quite work out what I might’ve done to earn a bonus lately. Better yet, it could mean a pay rise. A pay rise would be terrific. But that’s not likely either. Other than Derek, no Sportzgirl employee has ever had a pay rise as far as I’m aware. Still, I’m the public face of the company and I’ve been here ages: since I was 21 and I’m 28 now.

  Then it strikes me. What if Winston has finally nabbed some coverage in New Zealand Fashion Week? Marketing has been trying to secure a spot for ages. Aeons even. If it’s true the timing couldn’t be better given the scary drop-off in consumer spending. Some high-level exposure would be a huge boost. And from my perspective it would be a chance to saunter up a storm on the catwalk. If only I could break into catwalk modelling. Those catwalk models are so incredibly fabulous.

  And famous.

  Elle MacPherson, Tyra Banks, Gisele Bündchen, Ashton Kutchner. All expanding their own personal brands out into other projects, like fashion and television and film. I’d do anything for a chance like that.

  It does help to think positively. I’ve managed to talk myself round from severe panic attack to mild anticipation. I definitely feel more buoyant as the lift reaches the top floor. The doors open and I swivel sharp right. Winston’s receptionist, Edna, is stationed in the corridor outside Winston’s office. A square-shouldered woman, Edna bellows like a high school deputy principal as she announces me, and glowers disapprovingly at my skimpy attire as I pass through the double doors of solid recycled rimu.

  As soon as I enter I feel a chill, in spite of the sunlight streaming through the slick and smudge-less ceiling-to-floor windows that make up the entire northern corner. I notice there are no sparkling dust motes floating aimlessly through the air. Maybe the dust motes are scared rigid too.

  Whoops! My neon-clad nipples are sticking out at 90 degrees. I suddenly feel at a distinct disadvantage for whatever is about to take place.

  ‘Melanie,’ says Derek, ‘Sit down.’

  I take the only available seat, a cold leather upright. On the other side of the expansive cherry veneer desktop, Winston comes straight to the matter in hand.

  ‘Sales are down,’ he croaks.

  The room cools another degree and any residual trace of my buoyant mood disappears. So, probably not a pay rise then.

  ‘And projected quarterly profits show a significant drop, sir,’ says Derek.

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach lifts and plunges, the way it does when I drive too quickly over a hump in the road. ‘Perhaps it’s the recession,’ I say hopefully. ‘I guess everyone is feeling the pinch.’

  ‘Not Stade. Their numbers are up.’ Winston rises up from his chair, ‘and lately gameOn has been muscling in on the market too.’ He leans over the desk and clenches his fist, flexing his arm in a bodybuilder’s pose and pushing his point home.

  ‘I believe gameOn now has 14 per cent of our market share, now that they have the Tracey Pearce endorsement,’ says Derek.

  It’s true. gameOn’s new spokesperson is Tracey Pearce. Miss Sports Personality for the last two years and dating Craig Hunter, the rower who took two bronzes and silver at the last World Championships. In brief, he’s an Adonis with abs like a step ladder. You have to hand it to gameOn, it’s hard to top New Zealand sports royalty for exposure.

  ‘gameOn and Pearce. She’s only a bloody Olympic gold medallist!’ Winston begins pacing the room. He resembles an aluminium can whose contents are under pressure.

  I try not to panic. Let’s face it, the Pearce/Hunter endorsement would have come at a right royal cost too. And if there’s one thing Winston loves it’s holding on to his money, a fact three bitter ex-wives could verify if any of them were allowed through the revolving front doors.

  ‘And, meanwhile who have we got?’ Winston levels a hard stare in my direction.

  I feel my heart drop into my shoes. I gulp involuntarily.

  ‘And let’s take a look at Stade, shall we? Our number one competitor has sucked up to the Rugby Union and bagged the All Blacks’ sponsorship for the next two years. Two years! Any time their sales numbers look sad they haul out a player and have him sign kids’ balls on the footpath. Last week they had Thomson at their Auckland branch. In a cast. Signed eighty-four balls in an hour and a half.’

  The AB’s flanker is not expected to take the field for another eight weeks. An x-ray of Thomson’s Achilles tear together with a full medical prognosis was printed in last weekend’s sports’ section. I saw it when my boyfriend Jack spread the newspaper on his living room floor and changed the tube in his bike tyre.

  Abruptly, Winston stops his pacing and faces me. His toady eyes narrow.

  ‘It’s not only the kids they’re winning either. Who cares about them? It’s not like they’ve got any real money. Remember when Stade engineered that Real Blokes underwear campaign? They filmed the All Blacks in the locker rooms at Eden Park. Rugby players in their undies. Almost entirely obscured by steam. And it was a coup! An absolute fucking coup! Thousands of women rushed in to buy their flabby husbands underpants they hadn’t even seen! There wasn’t a hope in hell those middle-aged fat-arsed husbands were going to look like All Blacks in those daks. But here’s the thing, Melanie.’ He looks me dead in the eye. ‘They sold close to two million pairs.’

  ‘Two million,’ Derek breathes.

  ‘Really, two million?’ For goodness sake. I sound like Derek.

  ‘It’s the bottom line that counts in this business.’

  Bottom line. Underpants. I stifle an hysterical giggle. This isn’t the moment.

  ‘Sportzgirl can do better.’

  ‘Right,’ I say brightly, although I feel anything but bright. My knees are trembly. ‘I agree totally, Mr. Chin. And I have some ideas to meet our competitors head on. I’m talking about television. What about Sportzgirl advertisements with characters telling a story? Entertaining, not just informing. Remember those historic ads about Spot the Telecom dog? Little Spot ran all over the country, digging holes and dragging cables to demonstrate the incredible network they were offering. People loved it. Now they’ve got another dog, Seymour, spreading the news about digital TV...’

  Winston cuts across my prattle. ‘Actually, when I said we can do better, what I meant, Melanie, was that we can do better than you.’

  Did Winston fire me? My knees are banging together so hard now, I’m sure Edna can hear them from the corridor. I think he may have fired me. No pay rise. No catwalk opportunity.

  ‘Sir…?’

  ‘What now, Derek?’ It’s okay. There’s been some kind of mistake.

  ‘Human Resources say we’ve got to give her a month’s notice. If we’re to be strictly legal.’

  ‘Fine.’ Winston’s eyes narrow. ‘This is her notice, then. Melanie, your contract will terminate at the end of February. It’ll give us time to interview some real celebrities.’

  And suddenly, I’m like a whoopee cushion.

  One with the whoosh sucked out.

  3

  Hot tears sting my eyes. They blur the text I send to my best friend, Janeen. Scrubbing my eyes with the back of my hand, I sling the phone on the passenger seat, slam my Mazda into reverse and narrowly avoid Annalise’s shiny white Beamer as I zoom out of the company car park.

  I can’t believe Winston dismissed me, just like that. Like a piece of lint flicked off his Hugo Boss suit. Like dried-up gum on the sole of his Gucci shoe. And after I’ve worked so hard! Seve
n years of grunt work building a credible marketing image for Sportzgirl. No other company will touch me now. I’m completely tied to Sportzgirl in people’s minds. Hell, I may as well be a brawling heifer with a Sportzgirl logo emblazoned on my right buttock.

  I pump the accelerator as I hit the straight on Totara Street and fly through the light industrial sector. I don’t even take in the bait shops, tyre stands, car dealerships and pool manufacturing outlets.

  Damn Winston!

  This is how those three ex-wives must’ve felt when passed over for younger, curvier models. Cheated, betrayed and thoroughly pissed off. I turn into Hewletts Road on an orange light and overtake a purply-rinsed lady in a Mitsubishi in the inside lane.

  I’m so furious.

  Imagine a steaming Rotorua mud hole.

  I’m more steamed.

  Heading for town over the harbour bridge, I slip in front of a Coromandel-bound truck farting fumes, duck down the city off-ramp, zoom along the waterfront and park in the first available space on The Strand. There’s nothing else for it. This kind of crisis requires some serious retail therapy. And it’s a fact universally acknowledged that a woman who has just lost her job must be in want of an entire wardrobe of co-ordinated undergarments. I gather up my phone, grab my handbag and dash across the road into Seduction.

  Janeen, thank God, is already waiting outside the store.

  ‘Serious emergency,’ I say in answer to her querying look. I sweep into the boutique with Janeen hard on my heels. Inside, I suck in the sensuous spritz of expensive perfume that permeates the aisles of lingerie. The sales lady is a mousier version of the French chanteuse with the squeaky voice who married Johnny Depp. Her name tag says Charlotte.

  ‘Good afternoon ladies. I must inform you your Seduction store will be closing in fifteen minutes,’ says Charlotte.

  ‘Thank you. That’ll be fine,’ I reply, all poise and politeness.