The Brief Life of Tia Green – Three

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Svelte

Tia awoke beneath pink silk sheets on a king size bed and contentedly groaned as she lazily stretched. Michael’s hand lightly brushed the fine hairs on her arm; goose bumps danced the length of her appreciative body.

“Morning,” she whispered sultrily.

“My sweet.” He kissed her forehead, a tiny, almost imperceptible connection. “Did you sleep well?”

“The best ever.”

He smiled. Michael was utterly gorgeous, how fabulous it was that he belonged to her. Actually, the truth of the matter was far more exciting, he was the fortunate one to be so gracefully blessed with her lithe presence by his side.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll arrange it. What would you like?”

“You.”

As she strolled barefoot across her penthouse suite’s thick cream carpet, she caught sight of one of her security staff tipping the waiter. Her little smile could not adequately express the glow that exploded in her chest: the waiter was Nick.

She brushed crumbs of white toast from her full length red silk robe onto the carpet, and stepped out onto the long balcony. The city’s vast and blooming central park was laid out before her. The ring of towers around its lush borders lent the city a rather pleasant homely feel, as though the buildings were cuddling and nurturing the fragile and precious greenery. It was a far cosier impression than claustrophobic high-rise oppression.

She leaned against the rail and looked down to the ground. A rapturous cheer went up from the hundreds who had waited all night in the rain to catch a snatched glimpse of her awe. She waved and smiled, blew kisses and laughed. And laughed and laughed.

She swaggered back inside, humming quietly.

“Good morning, Miss Green,” her personal assistant said, as she entered the suite, a large leather bound organiser tucked under her arm.

“Hiya.” My, oh my, she had a gorgeous assistant. Her fitted black designer suit and swept back blonde hair skewered tightly with sticks gave her a sleek, authoritative flare. She was just the person she needed to manage a career that was roaring into orbit. What was her name? Ah yes, she’d call her: “Marissa, what’s lined up for today?”

“Ma’am, we have another hectic schedule ahead of us.” Marissa sat and opened the organiser. “The meet and greet followed by the autograph session for the album at Great Steel Records is at one o’clock. I’m told the queue in front of the store already stretches back to Thomas William Street.”

Oh, how nice. She sipped coffee with cream.

“Then, at two-thirty, the car will take you to Government House, and tea with the Prime Minister is at three. I’m told he cancelled a cabinet meeting for you and that he’s excited about sharing some time with you. I’ve also learnt that he sent one of his aides to pick up a copy of the album after it went on sale.”

“I thought Great Steel opened at midnight just to sell the album?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, yes, they did, and that was store the PM sent his aide to, at midnight.”

Lovely.

“Then, it’s out to the national stadium for the sound check. You need to be dressed, made and warmed up for show time by eight.”

“Very good.”

“Ma’am, will that be all?”

“I want a party tonight. A big one. With a lot of celebrities.”

Marissa nodded. “Of course, anything you’d like.”

And don’t ever forget it.

An expert calligrapher would have been inordinately proud of her first, elegantly constructed signature of the day. By the hundredth, even she was hard pressed to make out a single letter among the idle scrawl. The adoration, however, could keep on coming: ‘Oh my God, it’s really you, I love you, you’re beautiful, you’re my inspiration, your music changed my life.’ They’d scream, they’d cry, they’d stare at her, their mouths agape. It was all rather pleasant. And she simply loved having big burly men in sharp black suits and sunglasses looking after her petite form. Oh, they were so staying.

“But, Prime Minister, would you not agree that an ethical foreign policy toward all developing countries, without exception, is an essential component of an enlightened government of the twenty-first century?” she asked, as she picked up an elegant china cup of jasmine tea.

“I quite agree.” The Prime Minister nodded, as he sat on the edge of his red leather chair, his hands loosely clasped before him. “And I always instruct my cabinet and ministers to keep that in the forefront of their hearts and minds when dealing with industry. The exploitation of cheap labour markets and the ravaging of natural resources are not, and will never be, the policies of this government.” The Prime Minister beamed. “But, really, Miss Green …”

She raised a svelte hand in protest. “Please, Tia.”

“And, please, call me John.”

She smiled flirtatiously. “John, I’m sorry, what were going to say?”

“All I was going to ask was,” John leant forward, frowning seriously, “I was reading in your autobiography that the struggle to be understood and accepted is a theme of your life, a thread, if you will, that runs through it. I was wondering, when you wrote the classic ‘To Happiness,’ was that struggle in your heart at that time?”

She leant her head ever so slightly to one side. “How perceptive you are.”

The Prime Minister blushed.

That night, beneath stunningly complex lighting sequences and to a backdrop of spectacular pyrotechnics, not a note was dropped nor a dance step missed, as she performed a passionate and flawless set. One hundred thousand captive fans were drunk on delirium for two solid hours and many millions more danced in their living rooms as the show was broadcast live to thirty six countries.

For her party, she wore a strapless, flowing red dress with low cut heels. Her fine hair was light and loose, and cascaded in waves across her shoulders. An elegant and subtle make up design accentuated her exquisite features, and her image was completed with a glittering diamond necklace.

“You’re so beautiful,” Michael said, holding her close.

She grinned. “Come on, let’s meet celebs.”

Her two hundred guests turned to the door in unison, and clapped politely as she gracefully entered the penthouse suite. Michael followed in time with her pace a few steps behind.

Marissa had arranged a dizzying gathering of the most celebrated and dazzling stars from the stage and silver screen, the most wonderful singers and musicians, stunning models from the catwalk, and magnificently talented artists and writers. And they had all been patiently waiting for her to make her entrance.

“Let’s party,” she said to Michael.

Her being was lit from the inside, a glow she felt sure was visible, for she had just met George Christian, the rugged and handsome star of two of the year’s most successful romantic comedies. He was ever better looking in person than on screen. And if silk could speak, it would be with his warm, gravelly tones. But as for the bottle blonde bursting out of her excuse of a dress and hanging off his arm like she was stapled to it, well, really, surely someone of his stature could do considerably better.

She forced her mind away from the cheap tramp, gulped her sixth glass of Champagne and fanned herself with a glossy programme from her show. Her head began to spin as her face flushed and burned.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

It was Marissa. Dear Marissa.

“I’m just a little drunk.”

“Please, let me take you to a bathroom.” Marissa took her gently by the arm. “A little sit down and a splash of cold water will help.”

She turned her head as her assistant led her from the room, straining to catch Michael’s eye among the animated crowd. He was laughing with a young, fit thing.

Tia sat on the edge of a cream lavatory seat, her head lightly rested in her perfumed hands. Marissa crouched awkwardly behind her, and rubbed her back in soft circles. Why couldn’t she will the alcohol away? All she needed was a little sobriety, a clear enough head so she could get back to her party and mingle with the beautiful people, to outshine them all and receive their homage. Instead she was sat on a loo in a deathly quiet bathroom. Admittedly, it was a rather plush bathroom with fine art on the walls, a tinkling chandelier, marble counters and gold taps, but still.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Michael?

Marissa opened the door, and then looked back at her, grining. “Hi, George, come in.”

George Christian stepped into the bathroom. If she didn’t feel so wretchedly queasy, her heart would have leapt through hoops.

“How’s our patient?” George asked, his brow furrowed.

“In need of a pick me up,” Marissa replied.

He grinned broadly. “Then, I am happy to have stopped by and delighted to be of service.” He pulled a clear plastic bag of white powder from his inside pocket.

Oh no, so very no, no. She had never done anything of the sort in her entire life; there was no way on this or any other earth she was about to start now.

Tia vacuumed the line with a rolled bank note. Her head exploded into three-dimensional pyrotechnics, her senses transformed all input into multicoloured light, and it was as though her being was formless as waves of groundless exhilaration flooded through her, lifting her, soothing and comforting her. She needed another one of those bad boys and quickly. She leant over the mirror and assaulted the next line. This was the door to heaven, she was sure of it.

George swiftly inhaled two thick lines, and as Marissa ploughed through hers, he leant in slowly, lightly lifted her chin and gently brushed her lips. Oh, she was so wrong; the kiss was the door to bliss. Her form relaxed and opened, her chest rapidly rose and fell, as craving for ecstasy pulsated through her. He kissed her again, slowly, forcefully. She couldn’t … she shouldn’t. His hands were on her knees, her legs parted without resistance.

As she gave in to him, fingers playfully danced on her neck, her shoulders, her back, teasing her skin, sending ripples of joy through her tingling body. Marissa slipped the dress from Tia’s shoulders. Tia couldn’t help it, she moaned.

It was as though she were adrift on a cotton wool cloud, cushioned by cool air. Her heart glowed and her body contentedly ached. Marissa slept to her left, a hand on her shoulder. George slept to her right, his fingers interlaced with hers. She giggled. It was so much fun to be the object of their pursuit, to be seduced by them, to have them chase the enigmatic, the vibrant and the dearly loved.

Her smile dissolved.

She could dress in the finest clothes and wear the most exquisite jewellery, live in the grandest houses and bathe in the purest seas, lie beneath the warmest suns and ski the softest slopes. She could have anyone and anything at anytime. Well, that was nice.

She sat up sharply. A clear translucent vision of a data processor in a cheap trouser suit from a tiny flat in the northern suburbs stood before her; a dumpy, spotty nobody without talent, wealth, grace or status. It simply wasn’t right that a thorn in her mind should remain. She … she …

She wore a diamond tiara and was encased in a long, fitted handmade white silk sheath. Over it, she wore a handmade white lace gown with a twelve foot train. Her makeup was simple; it contained only soft tones matched to her skin colour. Her toe and finger nails were unpainted. Her earth brown hair was long and flowing down to her waist. She stood alone at the front of an open golden carriage pulled by six brilliant white horses. Her gaze was absently ahead.

The sun shone in a quiet, clear blue sky, a faint breeze softly played on her skin. It was serene Tia Weather. Towering, age old trees that had stood fast as empires rose and fell lined her path, sunlight frolicked through their canopy of luscious leaves, and golden lanterns hung from their majestic branches as colourful birds sat upon them and exuberantly sang for her. Her subjects lined the enchanting forest path; reverently silent as they threw bunches of wild flowers ahead of her horses. It was too quiet. Musicians gaily played instruments, bells pealed in the distance, and her people danced and cheered their perfect princess.

Ahead was the coliseum, it was centuries old and had been restored at great expense for her arrival. The great iron gates swung open, like a parting sea. The coliseum was ringed by giant fluttering golden banners, and as her carriage entered the colossal structure, the three hundred thousand who had waited patiently for hours cheered fervently. The divine had entered their presence. Her horses slowed to a trot as her carriage approached a circular golden dais in the centre of the arena. A sombre white gloved guard in a dress uniform that made him look like a peacock assisted her from the still carriage onto the dais.

Tia stood, her hands clasped before her, and surveyed her euphoric workers, her ranked armed forces, her suited government and her royal attendants. It was indeed a tender blessing to reign over a peaceful, blissful kingdom. She called it Tialand, and the people of Tialand were joyful, secure and absolutely devoted to their princess. And why not. And now she would speak to them, and they, with love bursting from their hearts, would listen intently to … oh the hell with it, she couldn’t be bothered.

Michael massaged her slim feet with sensuous, fragrant oils, as she lay back on a bed of plump, silk cushions. Marissa fed her juicy, seedless grapes, as George massaged her delicate hands and fingers. Dirtbag Nick and stinking cheat Craig, blindfolded and with heavy, clanking chains locked to their ankles, fanned her softly with giant leaves from one of her rainforests. The gossiping girls stood silently side by side in a row by the wall. Their gazes were fixed ahead; they wore long cream robes and held trays of luxurious oils, delectable chocolates, fresh strawberries and individual glasses of the finest Champagnes. The wanton harlot Miranda was at their feet in a torn and dirty chemise, she was chained to the floor by the neck.

Tia stared blankly at nothing in particular; her body was bathed in warm, clear light, her mind empty of thought, of feeling. She never became ill. She never aged. A million people, no, sixty million, no, the entire population of her planet worshiped her. The sacred had manifested for the good of her world. Sure, whatever.

It was morning. Before her was a sumptuous selection of cereals, toast, pastries, fresh fruit, tangy juices and steaming coffee. She sat with Michael beneath a wide umbrella on a spacious terrace that overlooked a soaring snow capped mountain range. The sun broke cover from behind a peak and began to rise sedately into the crystal clear sky. It was going to be another glorious day in the celestial Tialand. Yet, she was twitchy, for the air had altered. The how and the why were a puzzle, but the quality of the energy projected toward her had subtly shifted. It was coppery, rancid. It was fear.

Michael’s face appeared to betray enforced calm.

“What is it?” she asked, calmly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re worried.”

“No, I’m not.”

As she settled in her deep, cushioned wicker chair, and savoured a slice of dreamy fruit, she projected her mind forward. A tendril of dynamic, fiery energy, a coil of cognisance, probed Michael’s temple. She yawned, casually, and listened intently. ‘Oh hell, she knows.’ What was that? She reached for her cup of coffee. ‘Don’t ask me again, I don’t think I could take it.’

“Take what?” she asked, acidly.

Michael’s face drained of colour. ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’

“Say, ‘Oh my God’ all you like.” She sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing, I swear.”

She probed his mind deeper. What was the nature of his fear? Who did it have to do with? She saw a young, fit thing, her head thrown back in laugher. The beaming face was that of a dirty slut.

“Did you sleep with that little girl from my party?”

He chocked. “I … I …”

“A simple yes or no will suffice.”

He looked down at the table, his eyes wide, his face set. She knew the answer, it was clear and obvious, she simply had to have confirmation from his womanising mouth.

“I … yes, I did, but only once.”

She leapt to her feet, her head pounding. “How dare you sleep with a cheap tart?” she screamed and shook her clenched fist. “Does once make it right? Are you not getting the best you’ve ever had from me? Do I not put out often enough? Do you know who I am? Look at me, you rancid piece of filth.”

There was absolute silence, absolute stillness.

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

Michael was frozen. She turned sharply to her maids who stood to attention at a discreet distance. They were still. She turned to a bird with a red chest that had been sat quietly on the terrace’s stone wall; it had launched into the air and was suspended midflight. Her knees buckled and she collapsed into her seat, drained, shaking uncontrollably. No, no, this was too much; it had all gone too far. She curled up foetal tight and scrambled for a handhold. Stillness was a necessity. She clamped her mind down and the near overwhelming need to sob receded as her body stilled.

She sat up, slowly, carefully, and leaned forward. Michael’s eyes were glassy, not even the faintest of fluids glided across their curved surfaces. She waved her hand in front of his face. Not even an eyelash twitched. She stood and circled him. He wasn’t breathing. She prodded him; her finger sank into his skin. She tugged his shirt; it was pliable and not stiff.

Turning to the breakfast table, she pushed over the sugar bowl; white sugar spread across the table. She knocked over a china cup; black coffee mixed with the sugar and soaked into the cream doilies. She leant in close to the table and sniffed; there was no smell. She turned to the mountain range. The cotton wool clouds that hung over the grand range were still. There wasn’t a breath of wind or a whisper of sound. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. The rapid thump, thump, thump of her banging heart was clearly audible.

Her mouth was agape as she cautiously walked though her vast apartments. An unmoving maid had been clearing a table; she held two forks and a clean yellow duster. A suited minister had been marching purposefully toward the terrace, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. A workman had been hanging a bright watercolour on a wall, his face set in concentrated effort. A janitor in a grey overall had been mopping a floor; droplets of dirty water were suspended in the air between his mop and bucket. George had been sat on a red leather sofa reading a newspaper, smoking a cigarette. She passed her hand through the thin column of still white smoke.

In the pretty village at the base of the mountain, the waxworks had come to market day. Tia stood in the middle of the motionless crowd who had been shopping for exotic foods and handmade crafts. She turned through a slow three hundred and sixty degrees, her eye darting from one still face to the next. A contorted smile crept upward as her heart began to beat in double time. The fear had dissolved into nothingness, unbridled excitement now pulsed her veins. This was going to be fun.

She promptly turned to the nearest person, a tall, slender woman in a long uninspired summer dress who carried a black canvas handbag. As she prised the bag from her fingers, she projected her mind forward until she was inside her head. So, she was an unmarried accountant on a modest salary. She dipped into the handbag and rummaged. The boring one keeps a spotlessly clean house and dutifully lunches with mummy and daddy every Sunday. The bag carried only keys, fresh tissues, a purse with a rustic patchwork design with a tiny clasp, an old fashioned silver makeup mirror and some seriously questionable eyeliner and lipstick. You’ll die an old bat and a spinster.

She dropped the bag in the dirt, reached into a large man’s suit jacket and pulled out his battered leather wallet. He carried a significant wad of Tia dollars, along with a couple of respectable credit cards, and, oh look, there’s the standard awkwardly posed photograph of your old dragon with her frightening smile, her arms draped protectively over the shoulders her obnoxious, ungrateful spawn. How quaint. She threw the wallet over her shoulder. Oh, but now wait, what’s this? So, you’re having an affair with your young, timid little secretary are you? Tia leant forward, licked his sagging, unshaven cheek and then slapped him playfully across the face. You dirty old man. Be a love and knock her up.

Oh, hello there sailor. The young man was tall and fit, chiselled and elegantly dressed. She pressed her hand to his solid chest. Oh my. Perhaps she should have him right there in the market square’s dirt. She reached into his mind, was he up for playing? Her senses were flooded with giddy, summer warmth. The young one was high of newfound, spring love. Well, now that just wasn’t fair. Remember this as fact my deluded sweetness: your pure and innocent virgin has had the football team … twice.

Tia stood before the woman in the uninspired summer dress. The look on her stupid, hippy face was an irritant that scratched the back of her mind. She gripped the neck of her flimsy flowery dress and ripped it all the way down to her knickers. She screamed with laughter and turned to the man in the suit, kicked his old wallet aside, and tore his trousers and shorts to the ground. What does the timid thing see in you? She ripped open a man’s shirt; he had a tattoo of a setting sun on his chest. A woman had a large birth mark on her flabby bottom. A carpenter pleasantly surprised her.

She stopped, dead still. Oh, now how funny would that be?

Time began again; sound overwhelmed the silence and the wind overran the stillness. The woman in the remains of the summer dress screamed and pulled at her hair. The suited man howled and cupped his modesty. Sailor boy cried and cried as the carpenter stood silent and dead still. Gasping, crying and screaming from the hundreds of punters and stallholders filled the morning air. Tia twirled, her arms aloft, and directed the distress until it formed a rhythmic symphony, rising and falling to the whim of her conductor’s baton.

Snow fell on the clear summer’s day. There were no clouds. Wind gusted through the market, tipping stalls. The temperature soared to fifty degrees Celsius. The ground froze. The wind stopped. The moon eclipsed the sun. Frogs fell with torrential rain. Tia was dry. Warm light bathed her. Her people fled. She closed her eyes and saw Craig climb off Miranda.

“You know what, my love,” she said to Michael, over the breakfast table, as she tore an orange to pieces, “I am so mad at you.”

Then why are you so calm?

“Because I know what’s going to happen next.”

And what’s that?

“Speak to me, little man, don’t think.”

Michael looked at the table and swallowed.

“You think it’s possible to cheat on me without my finding out?” She felt her cheeks burning, as she threw the mangled fruit on the table. “You do realise I gave you everything, my precious life, my kind soul.” She clenched her fists, her knuckles were white. “I hope the scanky little scrubber was worth it.” Her nostrils flared as she ground her teeth. “With me, you could have lived a magnificent life, free of want, worshiped by all, and now all that will remain of your pathetic existence is … is …”

Oh, the hell with it.

She pointed a handgun at his temple and pulled the trigger.

Blam.

Now that felt nice.

~