The song finished and as the audience applauded, Mo took a deep bow and made his way off stage. Lorena stepped forward and wrapped herself around him, and Netta took Mo’s hands on Lorena’s sequinned waist as her cue to leave. Heart sinking and humiliation rocketing, she turned and walked quickly to the heavy stage door and pulled, using her whole bodyweight to drag it open. She weaved her way back through the throngs of stagehands and make-up artists and started along the curved hallway flanked by dressing rooms and adorned on either side by framed photos of the performers who’d graced the stage over the years.
Up ahead, a door opened and a man came out, his back to Netta. Even from behind, she could see he was under the influence of something. His shoulder bounced off the wall and as he stumbled, Netta’s guard went up—alone in a hallway with a wasted man wasn’t her idea of safety. She slowed and followed him at a distance back out to the auditorium, where the audience was clapping for a dance act. The man squatted in the aisle to tie his shoelace, his fingers fumbling uselessly. He gave up and as he stood, he glanced behind him.
‘Well, fuck me dead,’ he slurred, spinning wonkily on his heel to face Netta. ‘If it isn’t Annie the Nanny.’
Netta’s stomach dropped. Mitch.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ His eyes were murky pools and a telltale white crumb clung to the nose hair protruding from his left nostril.
‘What—what are you doing here?’ Netta stuttered. ‘You weren’t on the guest list.’
He scoffed. ‘Guest list, shmest list.’ He jabbed at his chest. ‘I know people. What the fuck areyoudoing here?’
Netta paused a moment and took stock, gored by his transformation. Mitch hadn’t aged well. His once handsome face was sunken, his skin dull and his jawline hinting at jowliness. The rakish sex appeal that had lured her twenty-year-old self had been replaced by a greasy, past-it quality that emanated from his stretched-out pores, the stoop of his posture, his overpowering cologne. He was revolting.
She straightened. ‘I’m here with—’
‘She’s here with me,’ Mo said, approaching from behind Netta.
‘Ha! That’d be right,’ sneered Mitch, sending a lazy glance Mo’s way before sliding his gaze back down to Netta. ‘She’s a right little starfucker, this one. Aren’t you, Annie?’
Adrenalin coursed through Netta, pinning her to the spot as Mo pushed past her, his nostrils flared and body tensed.
‘Say that again, mate. I dare you.’
Mitch looked Mo dead in the eye. ‘Isaidthat she’s a right little starfucker.’
Mo took a step towards Mitch, his fingers flexing and curling by his hip. Netta scooped her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged.
He turned to look at her and she shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth it. And he’s off his head—look at him.’
Mo relented and took a step back from Mitch, whose mud-pit eyes had turned to Netta, a reptilian smile slithering across his face as he looked her up and down.
‘You look good, Annie.’ His voice oozed from him like toxic waste. ‘Good to see you haven’t let yourself go.’
Netta stepped in front of Mo, positioning herself between them, one hand behind her to keep Mo at bay. ‘I wish I could say the same about you, Mitch.’ She fought to remain calm and collected against the adrenalin as it built, dissolving her insides. ‘But it seems your looks are finally starting to match your personality.’
Mitch smirked and swiped his tongue over his chapped lips, his jaw clenching with the rhythmic grinding of his teeth. ‘I’m still getting plenty.’
Netta’s skin crawled. ‘You’re repellent, Mitch. The biggest mistake of my life.’ She was suddenly so grateful to be doing the interview. Charlie Tunbridge had done her a huge favour. He was right, itwastime to make it rain shit on Mitch.
Mitch held her gaze unblinkingly, wavering on his coke-addled legs. His tongue fidgeted at one of his teeth. ‘You used to love it, Annie. I still remember what you like, you know. Remember that time we did it in the kitchen?’ He lowered his gaze to her breasts and let it linger, before tracking back to her face and taking a step closer, his breath an assault of cigarettes and whiskey.
Netta took a step away, her back finding Mo’s chest as he stood solid and reassuring behind her, his hand on her hip.
‘Oh, you’ve gotten shy now, have you?’ Mitch said. ‘That’s new.’
‘Oh, no, Mitch. I’ve got plenty to say about you,’ said Netta. ‘You’ll see.’
A look of confusion flashed over Mitch’s face before he shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Whatever.’ He looked at Mo. ‘Have fun with that one, mate. I sure did.’
‘I know what you did to her, you fucking arsehole,’ Mo hissed.
Mitch rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘But has she told you what she used to do to me?’ He raised his hand, his fingers reaching for Netta’s jaw.
Mo instinctively lifted his hand to stop him but before he could, Netta grabbed Mitch’s wrist and pushed it away, repulsed to the core at the thought of being touched by him. Mitch, whose upright stature was astonishing given the amount of cocaine it seemed he’d done, stumbled backwards, Netta’s shove helped along by the gentle downward slope of the aisle. He landed crab-like on the rose-coloured carpet.
By now audience members were standing to gawk, waxed eyebrows arched sky high and whispers tucked behind manicured fingers. A disembodied voice shouted, ‘Someone’s finally done it!’ from deep within the theatre, setting off a ripple of hushed, through-the-nose laughter.
