Melvin
Blinded by the white lights in front of me, I keep smiling like a stiff until the solo red light turns green.
‘Good job!’ The producer shouts as I unclip my microphone. I toss it onto the desk and collect my paper and iPad. Swinging my seat deliberately left to avoid the bitch on my right, I stalk in the direction of my dressing room.
The next team of broadcasters are in place within seconds, while the adverts take place, and I raise my chin as they pass me. It’s a fast-paced, high-energy environment and the exhilarating high from my performance is washing over me.
The sound of six-inch heels follows me as they avoid the mountain of cables running over the floor.
‘What the hell was that?’ Clarissa growls behind me. The woman can move despite her obstacles.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Our voices are low enough so no one else can hear. Everyone on set knows we hate each other, but for the public eye, we are the darlings of prime-time journalism.
I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate Clarissa. Her voice cuts into me like I’ve gone through the windscreen of my Porsche at high speed a hundred times over. Loathing brews in the pit of my stomach every time I look at her. I speed up to get away from her.
‘You stole that story from me,’ she hisses. ‘I don’t know how you did it this time but every word you used was mine.’
She’s right. I did steal the story and her words. I do it all the time and there is not one thing she can do about it. Without even a glance or a side-eye, I push the door to my dressing room, step inside and allow the door to slam in her face.
‘Bastard.’ I hear through the solid wood.
‘Bitch.’ I reply loud enough for her to hear.
My room provides a welcome contrast to the glare and bustle of the studio. Painted in muted blues and greys to soothe my frequent migraines. It helps. Although the real cause of my headaches is the 5ft 8in blonde with the body of a wet dream and the brain of a hungry shark, standing outside.
Collapsing on the oversized velvet couch, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Each day is becoming increasingly stressful as I’m forced to endure Clarissa and her poison that seeps into every part of my being. My other hand reaches for the control to switch on my wall-mounted cinematic TV, so I can watch the recording of the show.
It’s the first thing I do whenever I come off the air. I never tire of seeing myself on the screen. At 35, I’m in my prime, both as a journalist and as a sex god. Oh, how I love the media headlines using that term, comparing me to rock stars and film stars. I’ve been featured on the cover of every magazine for men and voted the hottest celebrity in countless polls. I’m stinking rich and women love me.
Focusing on the screen, I scowl every time the camera falls on Clarissa while I mentally add up how much airtime she gets compared to me. I complain to the producers if she gets a second more than me or more flattering camera angles. I’m a diva.
It’s unlikely to happen today though. I broke a news story every journalist dreams of reporting. China is in trouble and its economy has been collapsing slowly as other countries have become more self-sufficient. They are blaming the US for their troubles which is common knowledge. Now though, according to my resources (Clarissa), they have taken the first steps to engaging in war.
Here I am now. I push up the volume.
‘China has positioned 50 of its 350 nuclear missiles on the US, one for each state and have issued a statement that they will fire at 9 pm EST tonight if the President does not agree to the terms laid out last week. This information has been brought to me by a valued source and confirmed by our defence minister and Head of Forces…’
I’m not keen on my hair. I asked Lucy to take more from the top this time, she’s obviously useless. I make a note to fire her and bring someone new in. However, I’m pleased with my blue shirt and tie combo. Being on TV is harsh, every pore is exposed. I quickly look at my schedule. Yes, I have a chemical peel and manicure booked for Friday.
If only I could have had an advance warning for this story but if I’m being honest? I look great. Clarissa looks pissed. I’ve stolen a lot of her research over the years, but we are supposed to be a team. If I look good it makes her look good, so I don’t see why she gets upset.
She doesn’t know that I know… but she is planning on leaving me and moving to New York. Something I can’t let happen. We excel as a pair. It hurts me to admit it but it’s true.
The network loves us, they love the show, and the viewers love us. Well, I suspect it’s mainly me that’s loved, I do get the female fans and put in most of the work, and I also have the charm. Clarissa is just decoration, like a plant or vase of flowers.
Moving further back into the cushions, I try to let the tension go and slow my breathing. I need to prepare; this could be the end for us, and I won’t be left behind. The irony of the Chinese nuking New York in a few hours is not lost on me, although it would solve the short-term problem.
Obviously, I’m in the running for the job too. I wheedled my way into that after reading her emails and text messages. They were looking for a female, hence Clarissa getting the invitation and not me. Not one to miss out on an opportunity, I called everyone I had in my little black book, to pressure the station to extend the opportunity to me. I called in favours, with possibly a little blackmail and maybe even a threat or two.
My message was clear. A man would be best. Me.
I can’t help the grin on my face, I know I’m being smug, but that story today nailed it for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if more stations approached me. It’s made even sweeter by the fact Clarissa lost the chance to propel her own career when she did all the work.
I have no qualms about doing the dirty. I’ll step all over her and rob her blind.
She is nothing but a nasty bitch.
She is also my wife.
Clarissa
Melvin and I met at Cambridge University. I gravitated toward him thinking he was Italian. His thick dark floppy hair and olive eyes reminded me of a holiday romance I’d had in Tuscany. Intelligent, witty, and sporty, he was the most popular student on campus.
He was also an egotistical and narcissistic prick.
My beauty attracted him before he discovered I had a brain. We were both studying English and Politics, sharing many classes and views on the world.
A perfect match, Melvin was the outgoing charmer who said all the right things and was surrounded by people hanging on his every word. I stayed slightly in his shadow, observing, and calculating those around us. Together we manipulated, influenced, and ruthlessly ruled everyone and everything in our reach.
We married shortly after gaining our Master’s degrees in an expensive and excessive wedding, paid for by our disgustingly rich families. It was a good deal for both of us.
For the past 10 years, we’ve co-presented the prime slot for the largest-ranking UK news channel. We’ve been in the field in addition to the studio, reporting on elections, war zones and the biggest social calendar events such as Royal weddings.
I’ve never loved Melvin, I’ve used him.
I know Melvin could never love anyone more than himself, so our arrangement feels fair. I’ve continued to be in his shadow, allowing him to bag us the top jobs, the money and all the perks.
Now it’s my turn to step out into the limelight. On my own.
I’m expecting an offer from a media group in New York for my own news show. They want a female, only now Melvin has tried to hop on board, and I’m worried they might seriously consider him. That bastard could sell a lap dance to the pope, then charge money for it and make a profit.
He doesn’t know that I know that he knows.
Which is why he fell for that fake Chinese news story I baited him with.
‘What are you looking so happy about?’ Asks my wardrobe assistant, who has just come in. Her arms are full of new clothes from designers who give me free outfits to wear on camera. Only my top half is visible, but I insist on the full works, including heels. They don’t mind as I could make a binbag look good and anything I wear sells out in hours. I even have my own website showing women how to get my look.
‘Oh nothing, just dreaming about the future.’ I still feel good about the job. They loved my English accent and said I spoke like the Queen.
‘I heard a rumour.’
‘Do tell.’
She looks around as if someone else may be in the room, then leans forward and speaks quietly. Her face flushes and her teeth bite down on her bottom lip to stop herself from laughing.
‘I heard the editors talking.’
‘And?’
She hesitates, so I nod for her to continue while resting my hand reassuring on her arm.
‘The story Melvin did on the Chinese is fake news.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, they were furious.’
She draws her hand across her throat in a cutting motion. Although in my dreams he won’t just get cut, he’ll be axed. However, I know how well Melvin can get out of trouble. He’s a slimy snake. His reputation on the other hand, has to be ruined now, surely.
My phone rings as she leaves. It’s the devil himself, Melvin.
‘Coffee in twenty minutes?’ That’s all he says but I can hear in his sugary sweet voice that he’s livid. He’s found out. My guess is that the producers have had him in over the coals.
Well, that’s what he deserves for poaching my work again. He was too lazy to check the facts or to do any research of his own. Assuming what he stole from me was bona fide when in fact it was a trap. One that he walked right into, closing the door behind his stupid ass.
‘Sure. See you there.’ I chirp.
The coffee shop is in a lane a few blocks from the studio. It’s where we go to discuss things privately and is pretty much the only place we ever talk to each other. Our home is a townhouse in Belgravia, sectioned and styled as two luxurious homes. Melvin has the top two floors and I have the bottom two. We each have a driver taking us to the studio and back. The only time we are ever in close proximity is when we are on air.
I lift my bag, checking the contents of the zipped compartment. Taking out my lipstick I look at my reflection. I have a few moments. It’s time.
Walking through the doorway, I’m immediately assaulted by the pungent aroma of coffee making me gag slightly. Being a tea drinker, I don’t get the appeal of small, cramped coffee shops with their dark wooden furniture and red velvet décor. It’s like being in a coffee dungeon and I swear they permeate that coffee bean smell with diffusers, it’s so fake and pretentious.
Melvin is tucked away in the back corner on a sofa, arms outstretched and fingers tapping on the cushion. I brace myself and take the seat across from him, smoothing down my skirt.
‘You set me up,’ he hisses.
‘You set yourself up.’
We’re interrupted by the waiter bringing our drinks, waiting for him to leave before we continue. I toss three bags of sugar to Melvin, to sweeten his bitter coffee.
‘You made a fool of me.’
‘You made a fool of yourself.’
This line of conversation continues as I watch him drink from his cup and I sip on my tea.
I do doubt Melvin has a career left after today, but stranger things have happened. That’s why I agreed to meet him here. To end things, finish us once and for all so I can move on to New York.
Looking at him, I feel nothing. He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever met with a body that proves what two daily sessions in the gym achieve. His smile, which I rarely see, can drop knickers in a flash, creepy but I’ve seen it happen.
I have no regrets. The strongest are the survivors.
The sound of his phone ringing interrupts our bickering. ‘What?’ He snaps. ‘Oh, right, yes we’ll be leaving any minute now.’
He tucks the phone into his inside pocket.
‘Armani?’ I comment as my eyes drift over him.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’
Our eyes hold for longer than I think they ever have. I see sadness, hesitation and words that will never be spoken. I wonder if mine say the same.
I guess we’re leaving, it was a quick coffee but what else is there to say. He thieved and got caught. Rising from my seat, I look at him again. He’s still seated and in no hurry to follow me.
‘Goodbye Melvin.’
‘Goodbye Clarissa.’
Again, our eyes hold but this time his says, ‘I’ve won.’ While mine says, ‘No, you haven’t.’
Spinning on my heel, I walk away confidently even though I’m shaking inside from fear and adrenalin. It seems like it takes forever to reach the door when it’s only 20 steps.
I hear the loud crash as his body hits the low table then the thud as his body meets the floor. The corners of my mouth turn up in satisfaction. I always told him sugar was poison. The sachets I brought certainly were. Untraceable, resulting in a heart attack in under ten minutes. It was the least I could do for him, a quick and painless death.
Taking my sunglasses from my bag and propping them on my nose, I push open the door, stepping into the lovely warm air. I’m free as a bird, no longer in the shadow.
Then I hear the click of a gun and feel the barrel push against the back of my head.
I think of Melvin. The phone call he just got. ‘We’ll be leaving any minute now.’
He hired a hit on me.
Bastard.
This short story was part of my English Literature and Creative Writing BA degree coursework. I was awarded a 2:1 in 2023. I am now studying for an MA in Creative Writing. I think the stories should be read, rather than collecting dust in my Mac. So, for fun, I’ve posted them in their original form, unedited and imperfect. Please feel free to share your thoughts below.
Oh, and some are autobiographical, can you guess which ones?
Carolyne
