Gargalaphobia 1

Some of the locations in this story are real but this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The not-too-distant future…

CHAPTER I

Don’t rise to it, thought Vanessa Holbrook.

Lyle Hughes, editor of the New York Express, sat across from her at his desk, coated in the laissez faire attitude that most men doused themselves in when they met her for the first time and weren’t prepared for her to be beautiful as well as good at her job. She guessed him to be 25 years older than herself, which would make him 55. He tensed his pecs with the effort of a man trying to pass kidney stones in addition to the deliberately unimpressed disposition designed to make her feel lucky to be in his presence.

There was just one problem with that approach in this scenario: he asked to meet her.

‘A colleague of mine suggested we should meet. Your last story got a pervert—Jake Valentine, wasn’t it?—locked up for a couple’a years, am I right?’ he said.

‘Eighteen. But it wasn’t my last story—‘

‘So, you’re a journalist and a bounty hunter all in one? Impressive.’

‘It was a one-off. I prefer to write about political—‘

‘I assume you’re looking for a home?’ In a journalistic sense, I mean.’

‘Why assume that?’ she asked, concluding short sentences were the way to go.

‘Security, for one – it’s good to know where the next paycheque is coming from.’

‘It’s never concerned me.’

‘It should. Successful rock bands never know which album will be their first to fail.’

One measure Vanessa used for judging where managers of all varieties sat on the dickhead scale was how soon into a conversation they began to speak in metaphors.

‘I don’t follow rock music,’ she said and, seeing the sarcasm fly over his head as he prepared to mansplain his point, she continued, ‘I might consider a permanent position if it was possible to find a place with a balanced viewpoint.’

‘We have balance,’ said Hughes.

She looked doubtful.

‘It’s no good sitting on the fence, Ms Holbrook. You have to pick a side.’

‘Why?’

‘It means there’s always something to report.’

‘Or sensationalise. And now we know what happens when news outlets stoke up trouble.’

Hughes flushed with irritation. ‘It wasn’t the fault of news outlets. We don’t advocate assassinating presidential candidates.’

Vanessa let the silence hang.

‘…no matter how much of a communist he was.’

And there it was: the bitter taste of biting his tongue since the backlash happened. For a brief moment in time extremists were embarrassed into keeping their skewed views to themselves. But, as always, a short time passes and ignorance is immortal.

‘I have no political affiliation,’ said Vanessa. ‘I’m on the side of truth, just as any journalist should be. I know facts became a thing of the past when your man was in the White House, and sadly the other side drove us all further into the crapper when it started playing the same game—‘

‘Miss—‘ he interrupted.

‘Mrs,’ she corrected.

‘Mrs—‘

‘—but I still have hope that this country will regain its sanity. I write for those who are the real silent majority—the people who don’t spend their time raving like attention-seeking infants—the people in the middle.’

Hughes smiled in a way that indicated he may have shared her outlook in a past life. ‘And that’s why you’ll fade away if you continue on that path. Nobody gets rewarded for being a saint any more. How many successful journalists can you name with those priorities?’

‘Certainly nobody here,’ she said.

‘Journalists here are known for serious stories and are not the laughing stock of the profession because they side-step into baiting kink freaks!’

Vanessa sensed her cheeks reddening with anger but did all she could to hide it. ‘I don’t call the disingenuous boot-licking of extremists who want to destroy the country while pretending to save it “serious journalism”, Mr Hughes.’

‘Good day, Mrs Holbrook.’


CHAPTER II

As Vanessa waited at the elevator she detected a diminutive figure hovering in the Express’s reception area, who soon became too obvious to be ignored.

A young woman with pixie-punk hairstyle and black-painted fingernails held a stack of laptops and watched her with big brown eyes. Vanessa couldn’t help but admire her rower’s shoulders and gym bunny curvaceousness. The back-and-forth motion of her steps gave the impression that she was either struggling to balance or needed the restroom.

‘Can I help you?’ said Vanessa.

‘No thanks! They’re not that heavy!’ said the young woman.

‘I meant: you’re staring at me.’

‘Am I? Sorry. I was passing and… aren’t you Vanessa Holbrook?’

Vanessa was flattered – she wasn’t used to being recognised.

‘I am. And you are…?’

‘Wow, you’re taller than I pictured. Do you know this really old sitcom called Friends?’

‘Yesss…?’ said Vanessa, drawing out the word with curiosity, but feeling irked at Friends being referred to as “really old”.

‘You look a lot like the one who plays Monica.’

‘Courtney Cox.’

‘Yeah, that’s her! Before all the plastic surgery, y’know.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Jaz,’ said the young woman, plonking the laptops onto the carpet where she stood and approaching with her hand extended. ‘Jaz Seymour. I’m a big fan of yours!’

‘Seems like I’m popular in these parts.’

‘You’re coming to work here?’

‘No.’

‘Oh…’ Jaz’s deflation immediately bounced into a new burst of energy, ‘Listen, do you ever work with other people?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Vanessa, feeling some guilt at shattering this young woman’s dreams twice in the space of two questions. Strictly speaking, the answer was, “I haven’t yet,” but Vanessa wanted to avoid the awkward conversation of saying she didn’t work with other inexperienced people.

‘Can I buy you a coffee at least?’ asked Jaz.

Vanessa was about to deliver the declination hat trick when there was a loud clatter. Lyle Hughes had been walking and talking with a colleague and kicked over the stack of laptops.

‘Who left these here?’ he shouted at the receptionist, who looked to Jaz in response. Hughes followed her line of sight and was further infuriated to know that Vanessa had witnessed the event.

‘Is this the place for company computers, Jaz?’

Jaz shrunk. ‘No, Sir.’

‘Get them moved!’ he said, straightening his tie. He gave one last begrudging glance at Vanessa and walked on.

Vanessa looked down at the subdued Jaz and decided she had nowhere else to be that morning. ‘We can grab a coffee, sure.’


CHAPTER III

Thirty minutes later Jaz joined Vanessa in a café across the road. Despite the heatwave currently engulfing the Northeast, at Jaz’s insistence they got their drinks to go and strolled into pre-lunch hour Central Park. Vanessa smirked when she considered that it took Jaz’s face to be stuffed with consumables for her nervous babbling to stop.

Jaz swallowed her latest mouthful and said, ’You’ve got really big feet.’

Vanessa’s smirk evaporated. ‘Well, you just say whatever comes into your head, don’tcha?’

‘Sorry. Yeah, I kinda do.’

‘Maybe they only look big to you because you’re about a foot shorter than me.’

Jaz looked again at Vanessa’s shoes. ‘No, objectively, they’re large—’

‘What are we doing here, Jaz?’ Vanessa snapped.

‘Okay, yeah – I’ve got a lead on a story, but no one at the Express takes me seriously.’

‘Hm,’ said Vanessa, unsurprised. ‘What is it?’

‘You promise you won’t take it and run?’

‘Yes, Jaz.’

Jaz looked around to ensure there was nobody within earshot and spoke in a low tone: ’There’s a plot to steal the next general election.’

‘Tell me something new,’ said Vanessa and sipped her coffee.

‘I know, but this time it’s serious.’

‘They’re all serious. Unfortunately, they’re no longer a novelty.’

Jaz struggled for words.

‘Tell me what you’ve got,’ said Vanessa.

‘Okay, you know Gabby Calhoun?’

Of course she knew Gabby Calhoun a.k.a. Calhoun the Loon – Florida representative and the unquashable face of right-wing conspiracy theorist nut-jobs, who didn’t halt her unsubstantiated and delusional tirades even after the assassination of the Democratic presidential candidate. Undoubtedly, the ceaseless mouthing-off of her and those like her at one of the most heated times in US history contributed to a big swing to the left and an unprecedented run of wins for the Democratic party.

But, in the inevitable pendulum of politics—and with her refusal to be subdued by those in her party with any modicums of integrity—a paradoxical happenstance made her the face of what right-wing news outlets were calling a new hope for the Republican Party, much to the chagrin of Star Wars fans.

Jaz answered her own question: ‘You do know her. Right. Of course. Well, a college friend of mine works in her department. Apparently she likes having lots of younger dudes around—’

‘A bottle-blonde, collagen-lipped, glorified soccer mom. What a surprise.’

‘Is it?’ asked Jaz.

‘You haven’t been in journalism long, have you, Jaz?’

Jaz blushed. ‘Anyway, he overheard a conversation he shouldn’t have—‘

They parted ways to let two mounted cops trot past. Both cops smiled at Vanessa while Jaz almost toppled into a path-side bush. Vanessa watched them go and Jaz composed herself.

‘Go on,’ said Vanessa.

‘She had a meeting with a bunch of people and they were discussing how to rig the swing states.’

‘Who else was in the meeting?’

‘He couldn’t see them all, but he recognised Republicans from other swing states and Lady Di-amond – Erina Tysinger from Jackal News. They were talking about physically threatening and blackmailing election officials.’

Vanessa lightly chewed her inner cheek. Jaz appreciated her subtle pout and the way her blue eyes sparkled with inspiration.

‘Can your friend get us recordings?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Probably not. It was lucky that he was there in the first place and they didn’t see him. And, ultimately, he’s still on the Republican side.’

‘So why did he tell you in the first place?’

‘He was drunk and he fancies me. Every now and then he gives me a call to try it on.’

‘So you can seduce him into giving us more?’

‘He’d suspect something was up. He knows he’s not my type.’

‘Oh, come on – you can put on an act for a great story, can’t you? What is your type?’

‘Women,’ said Jaz.

‘Ah.’

‘But you’re beautiful woman, Vanessa. You’d definitely be able to seduce him!’

‘Perhaps. But my husband wouldn’t like it.’

‘Even for a great story?’

Vanessa caught Jaz’s cheeky smirk and knew she’d been nailed with her own strategy.

‘There’s one more thing,’ said Jaz, but she hesitated before proceeding. Vanessa impatiently indicated for her to continue. ‘Have you heard of gargalaphobia?’

Vanessa stopped walking. Jaz gave a look of exaggerated innocence.

‘Are you pushing my button?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Not at all! I just didn’t know if you knew the word.’

‘I’ve spent over ten years in political journalism and get pigeon-holed for the one time I work with the police to catch a predatory guy with a tickling fetish, Jaz. Of course I know the term. Why are you asking?’

‘Gabby Calhoun has it.’

‘Gabby Calhoun is phobic of being tickled?’

‘Yeah. They had an office party and one of the staff pinched her waist. She went ballistic and nearly fired him. It caused a real awkward scene. I only mentioned it because it’s something you know about.’

‘I don’t work for trash mags and, even if I did, I’m not doing another story on tickling!’

‘I just thought it was a coincidence…’

Vanessa threw the rest of her coffee in a nearby trash can and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

Jaz approached gingerly. ’Can I ask one question about it?’

‘One,’ said Vanessa as she sparked up.

‘If you thought it was a flippant story, why did you work on it?’

‘Because some random bully assaulted my sister. I don’t like seedy men to get away with acting like that.’

‘You think tickling is an assault?’

A suppressed smirk from Jaz enraged Vanessa.

‘Yes, Jaz. It may be a joke to you and everyone else who read the story, but touching without consent is still against the law. Or has MeToo just evaporated into the ether too?’

‘Don’t get angry,’ said Jaz. ‘It’s just hard to—’

‘Maybe you’ll change your mind if it happens to you one day,’ said Vanessa and she strode ahead.

Jaz skipped a little to keep up with Vanessa’s long legs. She waited for the cigarette puffs to change from short, forced exhales to long, calm plumes before speaking again: ‘So… will you work on this with me?’

‘Give me your number. I’ll get back to you.’

Vanessa unlocked her phone and handed it to Jaz. Jaz entered her details under the name “Jaz smiley face emoji, pleading hands emoji”.

‘Thanks for talking to me,’ said Jaz.

‘Yeah,’ said Vanessa as she left.


CHAPTER IV

Vanessa walked back to her Tribeca apartment block to give herself time to ponder her position. The story was potentially explosive, but working with Jaz the eager puppy could be hazardous for her patience.

Along 6th Avenue the conversation with Lyle Hughes invaded her thoughts as she mulled over how many armed cops there were on the street compared to just five years ago. Most people now concluded that their presence was intentionally threatening rather than reassuring and as she considered this, as if by some divine joke, four officers crossed her path and surrounded a couple of young guys for the heinous crime of jaywalking.

She hummed to herself: 

There’s a man with a gun over there,
tellin’ me I’ve got to beware…

Although she was a political centrist, she grew up considering herself to be left-leaning, but at this point there was little in her mind to separate the Democrats of the day from the Republicans. She reflected on a crack in her conviction that she would never admit to someone like Hughes – maybe she was a hopeless idealist.

Arriving at her apartment block, she took the elevator to the 45th floor. The doors parted to reveal her sister, Faith.

‘Hey!’ said Vanessa, delighted.

‘Hey, sis!’ said Faith. Vanessa hugged her and, as always, Faith tensed into the consistency of concrete as both ended up with a mouthful of the other’s hair.

Unlike Vanessa’s wavy black mane, Faith’s hair was straight and brown, which she always had cut with a straight, eyebrow-length fringe, giving her a more innocent look. It was common for those who knew both sisters to say: “Vanessa’s the beautiful one and Faith is the cute one.”

Faith extricated herself from the hug.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Just passing on the way to the hospital. Thought I’d see how you were both doing.’

‘You’re not having an affair with my husband?’

‘Nah,’ said Faith. ‘Broke that off months ago.’

‘Thought so. Do you have to go?’

‘Yeah. My shift starts soon.’

‘We haven’t seen you for a while. Are you sucked up into a whirlwind romance or something?’

Through the tease, Faith easily detected a look of hope in Vanessa’s eyes.

‘Nope, but I’m happy. Just working a lot of extra shifts so I can afford to take myself to the movies,’ said Faith. ‘You should come sometime.’

‘Yeah. I’d like that.’

Faith called the elevator and faked a cough to avoid another hug. As soon as it arrived she darted in and squished her face with her hands in time with the closing of the doors, causing Vanessa to chuckle. Faced with her reflection in the shiny metal, Vanessa quickly averted her eyes and went to the apartment.

Her husband, Ryan, was on a work video call.

She always went for older men and, when she was 28, she knew that finding an older man without a beer gut was increasingly difficult, which is why when she met Ryan—40, tall, handsome, good hair, fun, career-focussed and a racquetball nut—she immediately snapped him up. Two years on and she loved their life except that last autumn Ryan contracted Long Covid after catching coronavirus for the third time and for increasingly selfish reasons she hated to see her man so fragile for so long. She wanted the sexy take-charge guy he had been when they first met, and felt both impatient and guilty for wanting him to get over Long Covid yesterday.

He liked to conduct his work calls while sitting at the open-plan kitchen island because it allowed his background to be the impressive Lower Manhattan skyline, visible via their floor-to-ceiling living room windows. What the other meeting attendees couldn’t see was that he wore a jacket, shirt, tie and boxer shorts. Also out of sight was the rest of the flat, filled with projects he insisted he would complete but never did because he didn’t have the energy. From books on hang-gliding to lights for photography projects and even stuff as simple as packing up the Velma and Daphne costumes they bought for a Hallowe’en party the previous year, which was the first event they didn’t because he was tired.

‘…thanks, John. I’ll catch you later,’ he said and closed the call at which point his assertive demeanour changed. He trudged over to the sofa and collapsed.

‘How ya doin’, hun?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Wiped out.’

‘I hope you weren’t dressed like that when Faith was here.’

‘If she refuses to dress up in her nurse’s uniform when she visits I can refuse to wear pants.’

She sat next to him, stroked his hair and he leant into her chest.

‘How did your meeting go?’ he asked.

‘As I expected – I won’t be working there.’

Ryan responded with a grunt.

‘What’s up?’ Vanessa asked.

‘Nothing. Just…’ he pushed himself into a sitting position, ‘I get the feeling the board might ask me to leave. If we wanna keep living here we’re really gonna need your income.’

Vanessa looked out at the view she once could only dream of seeing every day.

She hoped Jaz wouldn’t burst her eardrum with glee when she heard that they would be working together.


CHAPTER V

‘Here he is,’ said Jaz.

As requested, they had taken outdoor seats at Tides Beach Bar & Grille, just off Jacksonville Beach. Despite an ocean view that had slowed Jaz’s words per hour, Vanessa felt an impatience that wasn’t helped by the hunger-inducing smell of shrimp tacos, but she didn’t intend to be chowing down on finger food when Jaz’s contact arrived. As he approached from the beach, his jacket over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned to show off his abs and his shoes in-hand, she assumed the reason he was forty minutes late was due to a leisurely and exhibitionistic walk on the beach.

‘What else can I do to get him onside?’ Vanessa asked when they were on the Delta flight out of JFK.

‘Honestly, he’s a really horny guy,’ said Jaz. ‘One look at you—’

‘Always have a backup plan, Jaz. Any other way I can bribe him? Does he like sports? Celebrity functions…?’

‘Feet.’

‘What?’

‘I’m pretty sure he has a foot fetish. Whenever we’re alone he always offers me foot massages.’

This stumped Vanessa. She was far from being a prude, but she’d never seduced anyone with her feet before.

Jaz waved him over to their table. He threw a cocky salute, gave a waitress his drink order and sauntered across the decking. He invited Jaz to a hug with exaggeratedly wide arms.

‘Brayden Sneed, this is Vanessa Holbrook,’ said Jaz.

‘Great to see you, Jaz. And is this the lady I’ve been hearing so much about?’ he said, turning to Vanessa.

‘Oh? What have you heard?’ asked Vanessa. She knew she should appease him, but there was something about over-confidence in people under 24 that she couldn’t resist cutting off at the knees especially when they made themselves such easy targets by hurling up clichés from The Little Red Book of Insincerity for Political Wannabes.

‘That you’re a fantastic writer,’ he said and took a seat.

There was an awkward pause while Vanessa waited for more.

‘…and that you’d like to have a one-on-one with the boss.’

Vanessa was tempted to say, “That is an extensive character assessment!” but instead said, ‘Yes, and based on what you told Jaz, there is something big going on here.’

Brayden checked for eavesdroppers and lowered his voice. ‘What are you going to say to her?’

‘Well, obviously, I can’t question her about threats and blackmail without any proof and, at the moment, we only have your word about what you heard. So I should gain her trust and, in the meantime, we’d like you to get us some solid proof.’

Brayden went to loosen his collar and missed; forgetting it was already unbuttoned. ‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ he said, scanning the room for the waitress with his drink order.

Jaz caught Vanessa’s eye and nodded to her feet. Vanessa indicated for her to stay cool but wondered what she could do to grease the wheels of this meeting. She subtly shuffled in her seat, hiking her skirt to show a little more thigh and crossed her legs; bringing them from the shadow of the table into the sunshine.

Brayden’s eyes flicked towards them and so, looking casually out at the ocean, Vanessa allowed the heel of her stiletto to slip down and she dangled the shoe from her toes. Brayden was magnetised to her newly visible high arch and the way it smoothed and wrinkled as she swayed her toes. He slowly and subconsciously moved one thigh from left to right; the only way he could stimulate himself in public without the use of his hands.

The waitress arrived with three drinks and placed them on the table, prompting Vanessa to put her shoe back on and hide her legs under the table. Frustration flickered across Brayden’s face.

‘What can I do to make this easier for you, Brayden?’ said Vanessa, before sipping at her martini and slowly licking her lips.

Brayden took a swig of beer to lubricate his dry throat. ‘I can think of one or two things,’ he said.

‘Such as?’

Nerves got the better of him again. ‘Look, I don’t need to do this. So, short of you getting someone else to record the private conversations of a member of congress, I need to get something out of it.’

‘Such as—?’ Vanessa repeated as there was a clatter beneath the table. ‘Whoops!’

Brayden looked down to see a stiletto on the floor. He straightened in his seat. Vanessa edged her chair back but the legs got caught in the decking.

‘Allow me,’ he said and dived for the shoe.

Vanessa agreed with Jaz’s assessment – Brayden was a foot nut. The appreciative and lustful look he was giving her bare foot under the table kept him in place for longer than the average person; he tried to justify it by pretending that picking up a shoe was a complex task.

Vanessa indicated for Jaz to make herself scarce.

‘Bathroom break,’ said Jaz and stumbled over her chair, prompting Brayden to sit up.

Vanessa resisted rolling her eyes and held out her hand for the shoe. ‘Thank you.’

‘No, it’s okay, I can do it,’ said Brayden. His hand was shaking as he held out his palm.

Vanessa felt completely out of her element but shuffled back and lifted her heel slowly into his hand. Brayden’s nostrils flared with arousal as he looked at her toes. Until now Vanessa’s only opinion of her feet was to be paranoid about how large they were compared to Faith’s and her friends’. But, at this point, she saw them through different eyes – they were in naturally good condition, her toes were long and even and she used elegant nail polish. If she’d always known the effect they could have on a man she would have used their power before now.

Brayden revelled in slipping the shoe onto her toes and cupping it over her heel.

‘A gentleman, huh?’ said Vanessa. ‘You’re making me feel like Cinderella.’

‘A lady like you should be treated right.’

‘That’s very smooth of you, Brayden.’

‘Does your husband treat you as he should?’ he asked, nodding to her wedding ring.

‘He does.’

‘So he gives you regular foot massages?’

Vanessa considered. ‘No, I can’t say he does.’

‘That’s a tragic oversight. You deserve them.’

‘Do you like to give foot massages, Brayden?’ asked Vanessa, kissing the martini from her glass.

‘I do. And I’m very good at them.’ There was a fire behind his eyes as he spoke.

‘Is that what you want to get out of this, Brayden? Do you want to massage my feet?’ She uttered these last three words with deliberate articulacy and was gratified by the effect it had on the young man – he squirmed in his seat to adjust the arousal that was obvious through his suit pants. As he nodded she noticed his heartbeat was so strong it was making a vein in his neck throb.

‘Well,’ said Vanessa, ‘get me what I need and you might get that chance.’


CHAPTER VI

‘Ms Calhoun will see you now,’ said the handsome secretary as he emerged from the congresswoman’s office.

As Vanessa and Jaz stood from a sofa in the waiting area Brayden hurried out of the office, clutching a shabby notebook. He pretended not to recognise them and it pleased Vanessa to see that he was unable to resist a glance at her shapely ankles in her highest of executive high heels.

The secretary held the door for them. ‘Vanessa Holbrook and Jasmine Seymour,’ he announced.

‘Sure,’ said Gabby Calhoun. She was sitting at an abnormally large desk, behind which hung three enormous flags: The Stars and Stripes, the Florida state flag and the Confederate flag. So many frames decorated the room that wallpaper was barely necessary. They displayed photos of Gabby Calhoun firing a variety of automatic and semi-automatic weapons; holding up immense fish on boats and piers; and posing in the company of newsreaders, celebrities, socialites, podcast hosts, Republicans, the most recent Republican presidents and prominent members of the National Rifle Association. Vanessa noticed that in each photo Calhoun the Loon maintained the same comically awkward “I’ve never seen a camera before” smile.

It irritated Vanessa somewhat to concede, despite Gabby Calhoun’s political standpoints and counter-photogenicity, that she was someone for whom plastic surgery had worked; maintaining a youthful appearance without the G-force qualities. A quick internet search showed her to be 40, but the botox in her forehead, the collagen in her lips and the discreet nose job—along with the compulsory cosmetic dentistry and excessive styling that gave her blonde waves unnatural body—made her a handsome woman with a harsh edge.

As long as her tits aren’t real, I can feel superior, thought Vanessa. Note to self: find that out later.

She stood to greet them and spoke with the type of throaty timbre that made Vanessa think she must gargle with sand and dried tobacco leaves. She’d heard her speak before but was more familiar with a cadence that was barked into a microphone or sniped at left-wing reporters. ‘The journalists from NYC. How y’all doin’?’

‘Very well, thank you. It’s nice to meet you,’ said Vanessa and they shook hands. ‘I’m Vanessa, this is my partner, Jaz.’

‘Partner?’ said Gabby, abruptly ending her handshake with Jaz. She looked like she’d just swallowed a bug.

‘Writing partner,’ said Vanessa.

‘That all?’ said Gabby, focussing on Jaz’s haircut. ‘Which paper you say you’re writing for?’

‘We’re freelance,’ said Jaz.

‘As long as you’re not from one of those pinko, twisted LBGT-WXYZ web sites,’ said Gabby as she retook her seat and motioned for them to sit.

Vanessa caught Jaz’s resentful expression.

‘We have no agenda,’ said Vanessa.

‘Do the LGBTQIA community cause you trouble?’ asked Jaz.

‘Every goddamn day,’ said Gabby. ‘Always protestin’ me for somethin’ or sendin’ me endless mail.’

‘That must be a challenge for you,’ said Jaz. There was a flatness to her tone Vanessa hadn’t heard before.

Gabby couldn’t gauge whether the comment was sarcastic. ‘Not for me, honey – that’s what my staff are for. I’m bringin’ common sense back to this country – so we can follow honest-to-goodness Christian family values and to stop gettin’ distracted by every insane liberal with their own perverted agenda.’

Jaz straightened in her seat. Out of Gabby’s view Vanessa tried to distract Jaz’s incoming riposte with a kick, but Jaz moved her leg away; however, before she could retort the desk intercom buzzed.

‘’scuse me,’ said Gabby and answered it. ‘Yes, Dwayne?’

‘Ma’am, the Senate Minority Leader is here – he wants a quick word ahead of your lunch.’

‘Alright, bring him in.’ She clicked off the intercom. ‘Would you ladies mind waitin’ outside? I need to speak with the Senate Minority Leader for a minute.’

‘No problem,’ said Vanessa, pleased to have the time-out.

The recognisable elderly politician who spent his time trying to squash everything close to Jaz’s heart entered the room. Prepared to give Gabby a down-home greeting, he was interrupted by the unexpected sight of Jaz and Vanessa.

‘Good day, ladies,’ he said, his eye captured especially by Vanessa.

She flitted a smile at him and walked Jaz into a corridor and out of the earshot of Gabby’s team.

‘He’s a sleazy old geriatric cracker too,’ said Jaz.

‘Shh!’ said Vanessa. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve only just got here and you wanna get her to clam up by arguing over irrelevant issues—?

Jaz’s indignation was instant.

‘—not “irrelevant” in the wider sense!’ said Vanessa, ‘I know LGBT issues are important, but let’s remember why we’re here, yes?’

Jaz folded her arms.

‘If you can’t contain yourself, you may as well leave me to it.’

Jaz took a deep breath and, as she breathed out, flopped her arms and head around like a drunken new-age yogi.

Embarrassed, Vanessa checked for witnesses. ‘You finished?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jaz, her puppy-dog persona renewed.

‘Go do some research.’

‘Okay. Will do!’ said Jaz and she almost skipped down the corridor.

Vanessa was kept waiting another fifteen minutes before she had to endure a second lecherous introduction from the Senate Minority Leader and concoct an excuse as to why she could not join him for drinks that evening.

If I wanted to hook up with a deflated grey slug…… Well, I just wouldn’t, you “sleazy, geriatric old cracker”, she thought and returned to Gabby Calhoun’s office.

‘He try to crack on to you?’ asked Gabby.

Vanessa shrugged politely.

‘He does that with everyone. Plus, by the size of that little ol’ wedding ring, he may have missed that you were already taken. Lost your little friend?’

‘She’s following a lead we have on another story,’ said Vanessa. She registered the unnecessary jibe about her ring.

‘And what story is it that brought you my way, Mrs Holbrook?’

‘We want to talk to strong, independent, career-driven women of our time. Naturally, we thought of you first.’

Gabby did a bad job of hiding that she was flattered. She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet up on the desk. She was wearing sheer tan nylons and a pair of red stilettos that rivalled Vanessa’s for height.

‘Who else do you have on your list?’

‘We have some ideas but nothing solid. We figured if we can’t talk to you, we may as well not even start.’


CHAPTER VII

Over the following weeks Vanessa was invited to accompany Gabby Calhoun in and out of the office to work and social engagements. They had breakfasts, lunches and dinners together. She got to know her staff, her husband, her two 20-something children, her parents, in-laws and friends. She was introduced to dozens of Floridian business leaders, several members of congress, two supreme court judges and a handful of senators. In fact, the only types of people who she expected to see in Gabby’s realm but hadn’t, were other media figures; in particular Erina Tysinger. But, to each and every person she met, she was introduced with a variation on the sentence: “This is Nessa Holbrook – she’s a journalist. She’s writing a book about strong, independent, career-driven women of our time, so she’s following me around…”

As the weeks went on Gabby became more creative with the adjectives she used. One of Vanessa’s favourites was delivered at a soirée after one too many cocktails: ‘This is Nessa Holbrook – she’s a journalist writing about fierce eagle, I mean golden…er, y’know, bald… tigress women who don’t take no crap and can save this country from the woke libtards, and she knows I’m the queen, so…’

Vanessa made a note that Queen of the Golden Bald Tigress-Women was a potential title for the piece.

One thing about investigative journalism that Vanessa always enjoyed was not only unearthing gems, but also the facts that altered her own preconceptions. From left-wing news reports and the fun that was made of Gabby Calhoun on the late night shows, it was easy to think of her as stupid, but she graduated with a grade point average of 3.5 in Experimental Psychology from the University of Chicago. At the same time she mentored her cheerleading squad all the way to the national championships, which is where she fell in love with Florida. She adored the praise she received for getting the team into shape and set her sights on the biggest stage she could find; where she would receive adulation for her leadership qualities, her opinions and (without going so far as to admit it) her appearance: the Congressional Delegation of Florida. And she got where she wanted to go. Yes, she was far from being an idiot.

It was therefore even more surprising that she appeared to honestly believe the preposterous conspiracy theories that she spouted in congress, on TV and via her social media channels. They were so numerous and ludicrous that they were beyond parody and, whether in the office or at work events, colleagues would nod along until it was time to discuss another topic. When Vanessa was invited to a family meal on the Fourth of July weekend, the spectacle of every family member sincerely contributing to a conversation about “how leafy greens are evil” because the Deep State developed fields of genetically modified kale that skewed the minds of right-thinking people to vote for the left (which is why there was no salad on the table), it left her wondering if she had entered a parallel universe where she was the only sane person in Sitcom Land.

‘I’ve looked into it,’ said Jaz on a phone call that evening. ‘Endorsement of a theory without any evidence is called motivated false reasoning – people use it to protect their world view. Ooh! Have you spoken to Brayden?’

‘I haven’t had the chance. Why?’ said Vanessa as she kicked off her shoes and slumped onto her hotel bed.

‘He called me. When Gabby arranged for you to be escorted around the Florida State Capitol on Friday, she had another meeting with Erina Tysinger and the others. Things are ramping up.’

Vanessa chewed on her cheek and cursed herself; she knew Gabby wasn’t visiting the beauticians as she claimed. Plus, she should be telling Jaz the lowdown, not the other way round.

After a few moments of silence, Jaz asked: ‘You’re doing that cute little pout you do while you’re thinking aren’t you?’

‘What? No,’ said Vanessa and stretched her lips.

‘Yeahhh, you are! I caught’cha!’ said Jaz.

Vanessa smirked, which increased her irritation. ‘I need to go to bed. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Whatever you say, boss. Byeee!’

Vanessa hung up and shook her face out. She could tell if Jaz was flirting or being familiar but she found whatever it was to be inappropriate, plus she hated smiling when she was trying to be serious.

She went back to chewing her cheek. It was time to increase the pressure on Gabby.


CHAPTER VIII

Vanessa was wide awake at 5:10 a.m. Her eyes continually traced the frustratingly irregular abstract pattern on the hotel wallpaper while she questioned how much closer she was to the goal of this trip.

Her phone glowed with a text from Ryan:

Hi honey,
I’ve been handed my notice. We’ve got one month to find a decent income or we’ll need to move out. Mom says we can stay with her while we work it out.
Hope you’re having sweet dreams.
xx

She slammed her phone into the duvet. ‘You mean: I’ve got one month to pay the rent or else we’ll have to move in with my 42-year-old husband’s mother. Goddamnit.’

She threw the covers to one side and went to the shower, which is where she did some of her best thinking.

‘How do I get her to talk? How do I get her to talk?’ she said to the wall while stroking conditioner through her long, raven hair. She caught sight of her body through the steam-coated glass and the fogging full-length mirror. She was happy to see that some weeks away from the gym hadn’t effected how fit she appeared. Still got it, she thought.

A few bunched strands of hair slid down her spine, over her coccyx and between her buttocks. She shivered in surprise and looked down to see the little clump glide between her feet like a spindly, elegant sea creature on its way to the plughole.

A thought came out of nowhere: Maybe you could tickl—

‘Shut up!’ she said out loud and shook her head violently.

Out of the shower, she saw the cellphone glow again. Water dripped from her naked body as she picked it up, expecting another message from Ryan. Instead, it was from Gabby:

Not around today.
Get urself a car. Come to my place in Cape Coral tonight.
Wayne give u the address.

Vanessa slung the phone into the pillows.

- - -

Gabby Calhoun’s two-story Cape Coral residence sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a golf course on one side and well-to-do neighbours on the other who shared one of the most sought-after river views in the city.

Vanessa stood alone on the back patio and looked across a pink and white rose garden to a dock that moored Gabby’s yacht, which, Vanessa noticed, was newer and larger than all the other yachts on this part of the river.

‘Nice place,’ she said to herself, ‘but when the ice caps melt, I’ll still be above sea level.’

‘Excuse me?’ asked Gabby’s 60-something-year-old maid as she arrived with a pitcher of iced tea.

‘I was talking to myself,’ said Vanessa.

‘Miss Calhoun has arrived—‘

‘Nessa!’ interrupted Gabby as she threw apart the sliding patio doors. She was dressed in a poppy red power suit and matching stilettos. ‘You found the place.’

‘Yes—’

Gabby turned to the maid, ‘Angela, this is Vanessa – she’s a journalist writing about the strongest women in the country and so she’s interviewing me… What’re you holdin’?’

‘Iced tea, Ma’am.’

Gabby shushed her away. ‘Oh, get us some margaritas! It’s a day to celebrate! Let’s sit on the boat.’ She pulled off her high heels, tossed them onto a sun lounger and stepped barefoot onto the newly-mown grass. Her toes were painted the same poppy red as her suit and shoes.

Vanessa quickly found that her stilettos punctured the lawn and so hopped along in an ungainly manner to remove them while keeping up with Gabby. ‘What are you celebrating?’

‘News I got today. All I can say is I’m lookin’ forward to the mid-terms.’ Her self-satisfied smile was joined by a contemptuous air as she looked down. ‘Lordy, do you have big feet! Do you shop at one of those tranny stores?’ She snickered to herself.

Vanessa wasn’t amused.

She followed Gabby onto the rear of her yacht and up the chrome ladder and, being about 10 inches away from Gabby’s dirty soles, thought, At least mine are clean, Sweetheart.

Of the snug U-shaped sofa at the rear of the upper deck, Gabby occupied the side with a view of the sunset and propped her feet up on the middle seat, which left Vanessa with her back to the river. When Angela arrived with the drinks Gabby made no effort to help her get them up the ladder, but Vanessa felt obliged to do so. Angela pre-limed and salted the rims of six glasses and left them with a large jug of margarita mix. Vanessa was doubtful that the two of them could get through such an amount until Gabby downed her first glass like she was part of a frat house chugging contest.

She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and let out a satisfied, ‘Ahh! Your turn, Nessa,’ she said as she poured herself another.

‘I might take it easy,’ said Vanessa.

‘You’re a cautious girl. I’ve noticed that about you.’

‘How so?’

‘We haven’t had any hard-hittin’ sessions yet. That’s what I’m used to: they come at me and I knock ‘em down.’

This rankled Vanessa, firstly because this was the evening she was going to get serious. Secondly, because over the weeks Gabby had developed an arrogant air over her that she had allowed to pass to keep her on-side. Gabby had gone from enunciating sentences in a way that hinted they should be transcribed word-for-word, to outright telling Vanessa to include bits in the book. And because Gabby had written (or, rather, ghost-written) a book that became a best-seller because it lubed up and jerked off every right-wing extremist sentiment whilst taking a huge dump on any moderate Republicans still in office, she thought she knew more about journalism than Vanessa.

The third reason Vanessa hadn’t been “hard-hitting” was because she had seen clips of Gabby grilled by reporters; her combative nature when pressed on her wack-job conspiracies resulted in zero progression on either side, Gabby shouting over the questioner until the time was up and then walking away convinced she’d won the debate. Hence: her unfounded confidence that she could wrestle with the best of them.

‘I was saving those for later, but if you want them…’ said Vanessa.

With a fresh mouthful of drink, Gabby sat up and beckoned, as though up for a tussle.

‘Okay: why do you—a highly educated and intelligent woman—believe so many crazy and baseless conspiracy theories?’

‘Ha! You’re trying to wind me up. Well, I tell ya, this isn’t the first time someone’s said that to me. All I say is this: folks who call them crazy and baseless haven’t read the same things I have.’

‘Where do you read about “Deep State Scientists” creating genetically modified vegetables to make people vote Democrat.’

‘What’s crazy about that? Think about it: “Make sure you eat five a day…” who else says somethin’ like that? Doctors, when they’re giving you medicine to effect something in your body or your mind. And who eats the most avocados? Californians. And which state keeps voting Democrat…?’

She sat back as though she’d just bullseyed a royal flush and checkmate all in one, taking Vanessa’s open mouth to mean she was astounded by this insight, rather than the actual reason – why argue when facts were sucked into a vortex of denial and logic was AWOL?

She knew there was a bigger scheme, but the glint of the lowering sun in Gabby’s self-congratulatory eye made her want to slap her straight into the water.

‘What’s your relationship like with the media?’ asked Vanessa.

‘I don’t have a relationship with the media,’ said Gabby.

‘Not even Jackal News?’

‘Nope.’

‘I thought you’d get on well with some of their primetime presenters, like Erina Tysinger—’

‘Nobody there has asked for me since the assassination,’ she shrugged and slurped her drink.

‘Perhaps because of the campaign ad that had you shooting cardboard cutouts of the opposition candidates?’

‘Let me ask you this…’ Gabby put down her glass and pulled off her suit jacket. Vanessa momentarily believed she was about to drop a pertinent point. ‘When we say movies where the Hollywood elite shoot real people are responsible for kids shootin’ up schools, the libtards say, “Oh, no, it’s guns that kill people!” But when someone pops the leading Democratic presidential candidate, it’s my fault for shootin’ some cardboard on TV! Hmm…’ she put a finger to her lips and pulled a cartoonishly quizzical expression. ‘Jackal News have got no guts. They don’t like me for the same reason as everyone else: because I tell it like it is and they can’t handle it.’

She sat back, swigged at her drink and rested her elbows on the back of the sofa, again with the demeanour of someone who had made the world’s most inarguable point.

‘Don’t you want a relationship with reporters who see things as you do?’

‘Nope. They’ll come crawlin’, though, and I’ll leave ‘em hangin’ in the wind.’

Vanessa took a prolonged sip from her drink. Gabby had just lied twice about meeting Erina Tysinger and was very convincing. But she was also convincing when she spoke utter garbage. Politics is one of the top professions that attracts psychopaths, but she’d never knowingly met one up close.

Perhaps it was this realisation or the drink—perhaps both—but Vanessa suddenly felt a swimmy buzz of exhilaration and a Pulitzer Prize gold medal for Public Service came to mind.

‘How far would you go to get what you want?’ asked Vanessa, slurring a little.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’ve described Democrats as cockroaches in the past and so presumably you’re happy to step on them?’

‘Whatever it takes to save this country,’ Gabby announced without a moment’s pause.

‘A bit intimidating to go it alone on a mission like that, isn’t it?’

‘Every movement needs a leader. It may as well be me.’

Gabby winked. From her perspective, she had just given Vanessa the scoop of the decade – she intended to run as the Republican candidate for president, but the smug look she gave as she drained her glass was more than Vanessa could stand.

‘So you’re not intimidated?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Never.’

‘You’re the fearless leader of “right-thinking people”?’

‘You got it,’ said Gabby, proud to hear her own words quoted.

‘And you’re not scared of anything?’

‘Right,’ said Gabby suspiciously. ‘Why do you keep askin’ the same thing?’

Vanessa slung back the rest of her margarita, placed down her glass and, by way of an answer, reached towards Gabby’s outstretched soles.

She had never seen a human move so fast. Gabby snapped her legs away and momentarily hugged her knees, before putting her feet on the deck, all the while with a look of shock that sapped the colour from her lips.

‘What the hell are you doin’?!’ she said.

Vanessa sobered up but her excuse centre couldn’t find a ready explanation. ‘Just testing a rumour.’

Gabby’s face screwed into an expression of rage. ‘Get yo’ ass off my property!’

‘But—‘

‘Now! Before I call the cops!’

Vanessa wasn’t in the mood to meet the kind of local police department who would vote for Gabby Calhoun and so immediately took up her shoes and headed for the chrome ladder.

‘I ain’t a goddamn lesbian! You keep your g-goddamn hands to yourself!’ screamed Gabby with a passion so extreme that Vanessa doubled her speed down the ladder and onto the dock.

‘Get out!’ she yelled, pointing to the street.

Vanessa passed a confused Angela, who was halfway across the lawn with another jug of margarita mix. Her heart was thumping as she left the cool grass and felt the warmth of the sun-heated patio stones beneath her feet. She made her way through the house, out the front door and jumped into the rental car. Dumping her stilettos onto the passenger seat, she threw it into gear and stomped on the gas with her bare toes.

She didn’t know the Cape Coral streets but was happy to just put distance between herself and Gabby’s abode. She calmed herself as she drove. So what if Gabby wouldn’t talk to her any more? She had the measure of the woman and knew she’d lied about meeting with Erina Tysinger. Brayden was still her man on the inside and there were other routes to explore. The only thing she really didn’t relish was telling Jaz what happened—

Blue lights reflected off the rear-view mirror making her squint. A blast of siren was followed by a loudspeaker announcement, ‘Pull it over.’

‘Damnit,’ said Vanessa. She slowed the car, pulled up against the curb and watched via the side-view mirror as an enormous cop got out, silhouetted against the golden sunset. She gripped the wheel. These days it wasn’t a surprise to see anyone—of any race, colour, creed or gender—gunned down on the nightly news. At that moment, Vanessa wanted nothing more than to call Ryan. If he was there, she knew he would calmly take care of the situation.

‘Licence and registration,’ said the cop from behind tinted aviator glasses.

‘It’s a rental. I have to get the paperwork out of the glove.’

‘Go ahead.’

She handed him her licence and the vehicle details. He skimmed them and said, ‘Get out of the car, please.’

She got out without a word.

‘Have you been drinking tonight, Ma’am?’

At that point she knew – Gabby made this happen.


continued in Gargalaphobia 2

Fantastic setup. Can’t wait to read the next installment!