Chapter 5 Bahrain #2
“Half the internet ‘loves her cakes,’” Sage says with a smirk. “They’re always on display in bikini selfies.”
“She can show off her boobs if she wants,” Priya scolds. “That’s not the issue.”
“Why are you defending her?” Sage snaps. “Are you guys best friends now or something?”
A brief, awkward staredown follows, in which I note a surprising vulnerability in the typically prickly Sage. The ripple of anxiety on her brow is like water disturbed.
I’m used to seeing her at grands prix, in the paddock, and in press gatherings, where her hotshot energy is nothing short of preening.
But here, in a less structured sphere of her life, it’s as if she’s not sure who to be away from racing.
There’s a nakedness in her essential nature, like a hermit crab dashing for the next shell.
It reminds me of myself a bit.
With a breezy chuckle, Sage concedes the battle of wills with Priya and plunks down on the love seat.
“Okay, whatever. Let’s give Sandy something to do.
If Sports and Tortes is poised to skyrocket with this Gavin Yates plug, we’ve gotta put the pedal to the metal on making me look fun on social media.
Regular posts, with viral potential. Maybe he can put a thing together. ”
“How’s your photography game?” Priya asks me. “You seem like the kind of narcissist who’s probably always taking selfies.”
“I’m a journalist,” I retort, ignoring the dig. “I daresay I can competently wield a camera.”
Sage hums a laugh. “Ooh, you daresay, do you, fancy pants? And… you’re not a journalist anymore,” she adds with a wink. “Such a shame. Your blog used to be good. Like, a year ago, maybe.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “You read it? Before the, erm…” I’m a little embarrassed to refer to how I baited her, but I’d eat glass before admitting it.
She shrugs, one leg bouncing like a metronome ticking out allegro time. “Here and there. Before it turned into another gossipy shit-heap like Sports and Tortes, that is.”
I confess that I do read CJ Ardley’s blog. The woman is sassy and sharp, and her sultry selfies aren’t without appeal. She has that north-of-forty aggressive sexuality that inspires the imaginations of hopeful schoolboys. And within every man, a hopeful schoolboy still resides.
Sage withdraws her mobile, prolonging a carefree sigh while typing something.
“Anyway, I’m gonna make a shopping list for you.
I want all this stuff by the end of the day.
” A wicked smile flickers across her expression.
She pauses, gazing at the ceiling, pensive, then taps away with her thumbs again.
“All righty, that should do ’er.” She pokes the screen in a showy way, and my mobile chimes in my breast pocket.
I take it out and inspect the list:
A large rubber duck
Tap-dance shoes, women’s US size 7
Three real peacock feathers
A string of Christmas lights (multicolor, not white)
A vintage pulp-style detective novel
Bag of potting soil
A prop/joke knife (plastic, retracting blade, but realistic looking)
A blue glitter keychain that says “I Heart Bahrain” (not a heart symbol, but the actual word “heart”)
Cervical balm (organic, fragrance-free) with applicator
By the time I’ve reached the end of the list, my eyebrows have practically migrated to the back of my head. “This is absurd. Where’s the real list?”
She leans back on her hands, surveying me beneath low lids. “You’re lookin’ at it, honeybee.”
“Bollocks. You’re winding me up.” I peruse the screen again. “A rubber duck.”
“Large rubber duck,” she clarifies.
“And where might I find such a thing?”
“Toy store’s your best bet.”
“Potting soil.” I give her a brittle smile. “Are we a farmer now?”
“It’s a critical part of a video concept I’m developing.”
I glare at the list again. “The keychain design is quite specific.”
“True fact.” She does a little rah-rah fist pump. “I believe in you.”
I look toward Priya in hopes of support, but she’s stopped typing and is watching the interaction with amusement. “Have fun,” she whispers with an evil smile.
“Oh, cheers.” I lift my mobile in a sarcastic toast. Before tucking it into my pocket, I note the final item again. “And this… balm you mention.”
“What about it?” Sage asks, one corner of her mouth lifted.
“This is, I presume… some stripe of… feminine product?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve not… That is to say, I—” Clearing my throat, I press on. “I’m unclear on what this is. Or where I might procure it.”
“Drugstore, obviously.” Grinning, she adds, “Maybe you don’t know your way around a woman’s body as well as you think you do.”
“I know what a cervix is,” I deadpan.
“Congrats. Want a medal?” She takes a drink of her water. “Anyway, it’s for cramps. But it can be hard to find. Kinda expensive, so they don’t stock it right on the shelf. You have to ask for it. Like at the pharmacy counter.”
“Ask for it?” I rotate toward Priya in appeal. “You might have better luck with this sort of thing. Or at least more experience.”
She lifts both hands. “Nope, busy. Enjoy your day.”
“Think of it as an opportunity to explore the city,” Sage tells me. A ringtone chimes in her pocket. “Shit, it’s Dagna—she’s gonna rip me a new one for being late.” Backing toward the bedroom, Sage wiggles her fingers at me. “Later, Sandy. Happy hunting.”