All That She Desires: The Stranger Read online

  The living room was still gloomy and dark with the front curtains closed. Fiona pulled them wide open. Mike was still out there. He'd done a lot of the deck surface, and was working his way around the railing. He didn't seem like such a bad guy, really. He'd taken off his shirt in the sunshine, and he was tanned a nice brown. He was half-decent looking, and he wasn't too old. Mid-twenties, maybe? Not too much older than she was. Her stereotype of guys who did this kind of work was that they were all forty-plus, beer-chugging, sun-wrinkled shit-heads. He might still be a shit-head. But she decided it wasn't fair to jump to the conclusion.

  She tapped on the window to get his attention. He turned and looked over. She gave him a little wave. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and then waved back.

  Fiona went over to the door and stepped outside. "Don't come over here," he said. "The deck is all wet."

  "Oh," she said. "Okay."

  "Are you feeling better?" He took a drink from a bottle of water.

  "Um, a bit," she said. "Sorry about earlier, I guess I was a bit rude to you. I just wasn't feeling very well."

  "Yeah, the throwing up gave it away," he said with a grin. "You had a big night last night?"

  "You might say that," she said. "Look, I know this is a bit funny to ask after the way I acted earlier, but do you think you could help me out with something?"

  He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. What can I do for you?"

  "I don't have any food here. I was wondering if you could drive into town with me so I can pick up some stuff. Seriously, I haven't even eaten today. I really need to get some food."

  He stood with his hands on his hips, considering it. "I suppose I could. I was hoping to get the deck and walkway done today."

  "You'd really be helping me out." She tried to look sympathetic.

  Mike shrugged. "Okay, what the hell then. Let's get going, though. Do you mind if I use the washroom inside the cottage? Then we can just go." He put the lid on the can of red paint he'd been using and reached for his t-shirt.

  He followed her inside the cottage. "Wow," he said when he saw the mess on the coffee table. "You were busy last night."

  "Yeah," she said. "It's kind of ridiculous, isn't it? You're not disappointed, are you?"

  "Why would I be?" he said. "We just met. Actually, I didn't get your name."

  She stopped and stared at him. "You're serious. Are you joking?"

  Mike froze. "Joking? Why? What am I joking about?"

  "You don't know who I am."

  An embarrassed look crossed his face, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I knew it. You look so familiar. We've met before, haven't we?"

  "Huh," she said, letting out a dry laugh. "There's the bathroom. Go pee so we can get out of here."

  He followed her directions and closed himself into the bathroom. He felt bad. Mike was pretty sure he'd hurt her feelings. He was just worried they had some past together, like a one night stand or something.

  After finishing in the bathroom, he met her on the patio at the back of the house. She was leaning against the hood of the Lexus, waiting for him, with a hat and sunglasses on. "Ready?" she asked. "You drive."

  They got inside, and Mike backed the car out of the driveway and onto the gravel road. Fiona looked around. "Where's your car?" she asked.

  "I just live a couple cottages up the other way," he said. "I walked over."

  "You live out here?" she said. "Like, you're not some contractor that came out from some real place to do the work?"

  "No," Mike answered, smoothly guiding the big sedan along the winding road. "Steve just hired his neighbor."

  "Who's Steve?"

  Mike looked at her sharply, and then back at the road. "What do you mean, who's Steve? Steve owns that cottage you're in. Seriously, who are you? What are you doing there, anyway? Steve doesn't usually have strange people just show up and party in his cabin."

  Fiona nodded her head. "Right, Steve. Ken mentioned him. It's okay. My manager Ken is either friends or family with Steve. They set it up for me to stay here for the next couple weeks. Give or take. I guess I can have the cottage until whenever."

  "Right," he said. "But that still doesn't explain who you are. Did we meet here? Seriously, who are you? What's your name?"

  "This is so lame," she said. "Don't you have any idea what's going on around you? Like, don't you pay attention to popular culture? I'm Fiona Luxe. I'm a fucking pop star. You don't recognize me because you've met me; you recognize me because you've seen me on TV and the internet and goddamn magazine covers and shit."

  "Really?" he said, smiling. "You're Fiona Luxe? For real?"

  "Yeah, for real," she said. "Or whatever is real about me. I don't even know if I'm real anymore. Don't ask me about what's real, okay?"

  "Okay. Reality is off limits," he said. "But why are you staying at Steve's cottage? Aren't you rich? Shouldn't you be at a chalet in Switzerland or something? Or Lake Tahoe? I don't know where do rich pop stars go?"

  Fiona sighed. "I'm staying here because I'm trying to find somewhere outside of the celebrity loop. And it's supposed to be out of the paparazzi loop too, if you know what I mean, so I'd really appreciate it if you could keep your mouth shut about me being here."

  "Sure," he said. After slowly passing by dozens of tidy little cottages, they were now pulling out of the lakeside area to join the highway. Mike pushed down on the gas and they started speeding along toward the nearby town. "You do understand though," he said, "that people might recognize you in the grocery store."

  "I'll say I look just like her and people say that all the time." Fiona was slumped back into the seat, watching the forests and fields speed by. "That usually works. Just back me up."

  "Okay," he laughed. "This is weird."

  "I just need to chill out for a while." She sighed and dug a cigarette out of her pocket. She rolled down the window a few inches and lit up.

  "You're a singer, aren't you?" he said, giving her a sidelong glance. "Isn't it a little weird to smoke if you're a singer?"

  She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out. "Am I a singer? My voice gets processed in the studio and I lip-synch live. Who gives a shit what my actual voice sounds like? Or whether or not I get cancer? Okay, I guess my fans would care if I got cancer. But whatever, right? They don't know me, and they've never met me. It's a relationship of illusions. It's all fucking bullshit."

  "That's funny," he said. "I've never heard anyone talk about their actual fans."

  She shrugged and didn't reply. They drove the rest of the way into town in silence, passing through the forests and farmland of the region, before arriving in the Town of Green Lake, a center of eight hundred people.

  "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

  "A restaurant first," she replied. "I'm starving. And then a grocery store and I'll pick up some stuff to take back with me."

  The town wasn't a very impressive place. Mike laid out the options: the fish and chips shop and the family grill restaurant. Fiona directed him to the family restaurant. "You're coming in too, right? I don't want to sit in there alone. I'll buy."

  "Sure," he said. "I'll grab a sandwich or something."

  They parked and went inside the restaurant. The server, a middle aged woman, greeted Mike by name and guided them to a booth. She smiled at Fiona, but showed no sign of recognition.

  "Looks like you're the famous one here," she said as they opened their menus.

  "I've been coming here for years," he said. "The cottage where I'm staying is in our family. I've eaten here a hundred times." He put down his menu. "If you don't mind me asking, I mean, I know that you're not big on questions, but what are you going to do up here? Steve doesn't even have a TV in that place."

  "I noticed," Fiona said, scanning over the menu. "Is anything good here? This looks pretty blah."

  "The sandwiches are good. I'm having a club. The pizzas are okay. Everything else is so-so. Are you going to work on songs or something?"

  Sh
e set the menu down and finally took off her sunglasses. "Do you know any of my songs?" she asked. "Like, have you heard my music?"

  Mike gave an embarrassed shrug. "I'm really not sure. With a lot of pop music it's kind of just there in the background, you know what I mean? I'm a music fan, and I like a lot of current bands, but that type of pop stuff is in one ear and out the other. What was your big hit?"

  "I've had seven top ten hits," she said. "That's not really what I was getting at. The stuff I am given to sing is puerile garbage. It's written by forty year old men, and designed to appeal to ten year old girls. Its lowest common denominator shit, and I hate it. I hate the music that is attached to my name. I don't even want to say that I make that music, because my input in minimal. So no, I won't be working on any songs while I'm here."

  "Wow," he said. "You sound really bitter. No offense, but it sounds like you hate what you do."

  She closed her eyes and nodded. "I am really, really bitter." Fiona opened her eyes and looked at Mike. "Can I be completely honest with you for a moment? I know we just met and all and I know you could be some weasel who will just immediately call the gossip rags, but I think I need to say this out loud to someone."

  "It's okay," he said. "Say whatever you want. I'm not interested in telling anyone."

  "Well, the nice thing is, I don't care if you tell the world, because I feel completely beyond it at this point." She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Then, in crisply pronounced words, she stated: "I hate my life, and I hate myself." She took another deep breath. "Wow," she said, "that felt good. Kind of cleansing, you know?"

  Mike stared at her.

  The server came and they both ordered club sandwiches, Mike with coffee and Fiona with a bottle of beer. "I've never written a song," she said. "I can't even play guitar. A little piano. That's about it."

  "You're not planning to harm yourself while you're out here, are you?" He looked deadly serious.

  She laughed. "Only with alcohol, my friend. Only with alcohol."

  * *

  They ate their sandwiches and then Mike took her over to the town's grocery store. Fiona complained about the lack of organic options, but she bought a hundred dollars worth of food, paid with her credit card, and let Mike carry the bags to the Lexus. She was feeling better after the sandwich, but she still asked him to drive back to the lake.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived. Mike helped her get the groceries inside, and then told her that he would carry on with painting the cottage in the morning. "Okay," she said. "What are you going to do now?"

  "I'm going to go back to my place," he said. "I've got my own stuff to do. What are you going to do?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "Just hang out, I guess. There's no TV, I've got no internet. Maybe I'll just sit on the freshly painted deck and look at the lake."

  He nodded. "Okay. Look, I'll be back early tomorrow, so don't freak out if you hear me or see me."

  "Sure," she smiled. "I'll have something on."

  He left, and she found herself alone in the cottage. She sighed. She wasn't used to being on her own, having to do things for herself, entertain herself. Fiona rolled herself a joint and leisurely smoked up, then floated around the cottage for a while, gradually straightening away the mess she'd made the night before and putting everything away in the kitchen. She even did the dishes, which was something she wasn't in the habit of doing. In fact, she probably hadn't done the dishes for herself in the last couple of years.

  When everything was done, she drifted around the cottage looking for something to do. There was a two-shelf book case in the living room. It had a bunch of kid’s books on the lower shelf. The top shelf was stuffed with broken-spined paperbacks: legal thrillers and historical romances. His and hers, apparently. Fiona opened one of the romances and started to read. She was still high, and nothing really made sense. She tried a thriller and it looked like it was written in another language. She took a kids book, something about middle school animal kids solving scientific mysteries. She sat on the couch and started to read.

  *****

  Chapter Three

  Fiona woke up. She was still on the couch with the animal mystery on her lap. She'd finished about half the book before dozing off. She figured she could live without knowing how the story ended, and tossed the book back onto the shelf.

  It was nearly dark, and the lake looked calm, like a blue-gray mirror reflecting the darkening sky. Fiona went out onto the deck that looked over the lake. It was nice there, and the silence was powerful. She couldn't hear a car anywhere. She was used to hearing the dull background roar of traffic in the city. Yes, it was nice, but she was already bored. She was alone with nothing to do. Usually she was never alone, and she always had too much to do. It would be hard to sit around just looking at a lake.

  She thought of Mike. He said his place was just a few doors down the road. Maybe he wanted to hang out. She liked him, she decided. He took her seriously and listened to her, and he didn't try to bullshit her. And he didn't seem to want anything from her. That was very unusual. Fiona was used to everyone wanting something from her.

  After having a sandwich, Fiona did her makeup again and changed, putting on a blue dress that ended above the knee. She rolled a few joints, slipped the open bottle of vodka into her big handbag, grabbed a bag of chips and went out looking for Mike's cottage.

  The first cottage on the right was dark, and so was the second. The third had lights on, and there was a group of older folks sitting around a table on the deck, player cards. Fiona kept going. The fourth cottage was small, and not as fancy as some of the cabins in the area. It was a plain, boxy little affair, painted dark green, with a red front door and a light on in the front window. In front of the cottage was parked a small blue sedan.

  Fiona walked up to the door. She could hear music inside. She listened, and recognized one of her songs. "Son of a bitch," she said, and knocked on the door.

  The music stopped. Mike's head appeared in the window, and then he opened the front door. "Fiona," he said. "What's up?"

  "You were listening to my CD," she said. "You said you didn't know me or my music."

  "It's not a CD," he said. "They have this thing now called the internet, and you can use it to listen to music. If you meet someone and they tell you they're a famous pop star, you can go home and listen to their songs. Um, what are you doing here?"

  "Oh," she said, "Um, I came to ask if you wanted to share a joint with me. I have this joint." She pulled out one of the joints. "Do you smoke? If you don't, we could just hang out. For a while. If you're not busy."

  He shrugged and pulled open the door. "No," he said. "I'm not too busy. Come on in."

  Fiona stepped inside. Mike was wearing the same clothes he had on earlier. They were standing in the kitchen area of the little cottage, and the living room was directly ahead of them. There were two doors at the end of the room, presumably a bathroom and a single bedroom. It was an old place, and like the one she was staying in, it hadn't been updated much.

  "Wow," she said. "So, this is where you live."

  He laughed. "Not usually," he said. "At the moment. Just for the summer really. I need to find a new apartment in the city for the fall. This place isn't winterized, so I would freeze if I tried to stay here all winter."

  Fiona set her handbag on the small kitchen table and walked into the living room area. There was a couch and a little TV on a stand, but they seemed secondary to the easel that was set up next to a folding tray covered in paints. There was a canvas on the easel. The image on the canvas was muddy and blurry, done in blacks and purples and yellows.

  "I thought you painted houses and cottages and stuff," she said, stepping forward to look at the painting. "This is... modern."

  "Don't judge that one," he said. "That's just under layering. As for painting the cottage, that's partly a favor for Steve, and partly just a cash job."

  She looked at him. "Is this what you do? Are you an artist
?"

  Mike opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. "I am working to develop a career as an artist. I guess that would be the most honest way to put it. I certainly don't make a proper living as an artist at this point. Would you like a beer?"

  "No thanks. I brought vodka." She held up the joint. "Can I light this in here? Or do you prefer outside?"