“So, what do you plan to do now that you can spend a bit of quality time in Australia that doesn’t involve trying not to die?” Gina asked as she stuffed a few fries into her mouth.

Fenny sniggered. “Mainly I thought I’d do some relaxing, take in the sights, catch up with my Aussie pals…”

“Avoid being shown off by Andy?”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Honestly Fen, I don’t know why you put up with him,” Gina sighed.

“Because he makes me happy,” Fenny declared resolutely, wiping some mayonnaise from her mouth. “He treats me like a goddess and he’s really very sweet.”

“In that shallow, scum-sucking way that a fascist jellyfish is sweet, right?”

“Something like that,” she shrugged, trying not to smile.

“So he’s dragging you to functions and meetings and all that shit?” Gina asked.

“I dunno. I hope not. I don’t get on well with the advertising and publicity world as a whole, I’ve had to work with them far too long.”

“Yet you’re dating an advertising exec, smart move.”

“Hey, you made two men who despise the press with ever fiber of their respective beings fall head over heels for you, kiddo, these things happen.”

“Let’s not discuss that,” Gina huffed.

Fenny shrugged into her chicken sandwich. “So, what happened to that dream editor job back in the UK?”

“I quit it so I could find out my husband is fucking the queen of the bimbettes.”

“I’m trying to be serious here,” Fenny groused. “Why’d you quit?”

“Because I was lonely and I missed my husband,” Gina pouted. “We’ve been married what, five years now, and we’ve spent almost all that time either apart or hating each other. It seems we’re only happy when we’re on different continents.”

“Aw, come on kiddo, I’m sure it’s a phase, he’ll snap out of it. Paul’s a bright guy, despite the fact he’s a moron, and I’m sure he’ll realize how stupid it is to be hanging around with his little arts journalist vegetarian bimbo when you’re within arm’s reach.”

“You know,” Gina announced, narrowing her eyes in a rather startlingly evil way, “he encouraged me to stay in London while he came back here. Maybe he was hiding his dearest Freya and was itching to get back to her. That’s why he wanted me to stay in England, to get me out of the way.”

“Oh don’t be stupid,” Fenny chastised. “This is probably some sort of crazed male midlife crisis manifesting itself in the asinine desire to taste some proverbial forbidden fruit.”

“And when did you get your PhD in psychology, huh?” Gina scorned.

“Actually it comes from doing layouts for a new and very bad women’s magazine,” Fenny smiled. “I think it may have gotten to my head.”

“No scruples,” Gina teased, “dating an advertising wanker and doing work for sleazy mags. You’ve changed.”

“This coming from someone who was an editor for The Sun!” Fenny chortled.

“And you’ve still got that monkey tattoo,” Gina countered.

“Do you have any idea how expensive it is to get something like that removed?” Fenny sighed.

“What does Andy think of it?”

“I can’t say he entirely approves. I told him it was a sorority thing. I didn’t even live in a dorm when I went to college. Never mind,” she added upon noticing Gina’s confused expression. “We’ll just say Andy thinks it’s kinky in a way he’s not prepared to deal with.”

“So I guess it’s been a while since you’ve gotten some chocolate sauce action, huh?” Gina teased.

“At least I’m getting some action,” Fenny laughed, dodging the French fries as Gina threw them at her.

“Remember the last time we drank tequila together?” Paul asked.

“No, actually, I don’t,” Brad smiled.

“All I remember is Proops was there and he took off his pants.”

“I’m so glad I don’t remember that.”

“Closest thing to a bachelor party as you ever had, wasn’t it?” Paul mused.

“Yup,” Brad nodded, tapping a finger on his empty shot glass. “Too bad the closest thing to a stripper we had was Greg. I’ll bet your bachelor party was a blast.”

“Don’t remember much of it,” Paul said with a grin. “We were doing a lot more than tequila shots, I can promise you that much. And the strippers were all women.”

“You win,” Brad laughed.

“So, how long ‘til you break down and hunt down Fen again?” Paul asked.

“I’m not,” Brad announced resolutely.

“Bullshit,” Paul laughed. “I know you, you’re gonna go fight for your woman.”

“No,” Brad sighed, “she’s happy and she’s right.”

“When has Fenny ever been right about anything?” Paul chuckled.

“We fuck with each other’s lives.”

“But not until after you’ve fucked each other’s bodies.”

“Paul, please, that’s not something I need to be reminded of.”

“Oh, I bet you don’t need me to remind you about your all night sex-fests, you lonely bastard.”

“Maybe I should remind you of yours with Gina, you two-timing ass.”

“You should know the facts before you go judging me,” Paul frowned.

“You have got to get on the Jerry Springer Show,” Brad giggled.

“Tell me again why I invited you here?”

“Um, something about a celebratory drink.”

“Oh yes, that was before the tequila, right?”

“Think so.”

“Want another?”

“Absolutely.”

“What were we talking about?” Paul asked as he motioned to the bartender.

“How you’re a prick and I’m a dick.”

“Oh right,” Paul nodded. “Love hurts.”

“Owner of a lonely heart,” Brad sighed.

“Love the one you’re with,” Paul countered with a raised eyebrow.

“Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.”

“Torn between two lovers.”

“You’re a heart breaker, love taker, don’t you mess around with me.”

Paul giggled a bit. Brad was beginning to sing. “There’s no aphrodisiac like loneliness,” he crooned softly before cringing: that was one of Gina’s favorite songs. He threw back the rest of his shot.

“I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me.”

“Only love can break your heart.”

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

“What if love is just like war with no one to clean the mess.”

“Woman so weary the sweet causing thing, you make love you break love it’s all the same, when it’s over.”

“Hey?” Paul asked.

“Hendrix,” Brad announced with a smile as he polished off the last of his drink. “Don’t mess with me, boy, I can’t remember the last time someone beat me at that game.”

“Cocky arse hole,” Paul laughed.

“What the hell do those two sons of bitches think they’re doing?” Andy sighed.

“Drunken tourists,” Carl said, shaking his head.

“For god’s sake, they’re singing now,” Sam, another of Andy’s colleagues announced.

“They don’t even know the words.”

“No one knows the words to that song.”

“…you’ll catch ‘em surfin’ at…somewhere.”

“Ventura County line,” the American chimed, “Santa Cruz and hyeah neh.”

“Australia’s Narabine,” the Aussie perked.

“All over Manhattan, and down where was it?”

“Everybody’s gone surfin’, surfin’ USA,” they sang together gleefully.

&nsp;

“Someone should do something about this,” Carl declared. “How is a man to think?”

“It’d be doing a public service,” Sam said, “and doing them a favor. Making such fools of themselves, they’ll thank you for it in the morning.” Every man at the table shook his head as the small Australian climbed up to sit on the bar, still wailing away and making up the words as he went along, accompanied by his equally inebriated friend who seemed to be slowly falling off his stool.

“And they’re there in Oodna, the bank vault had it made

The nutbars found us in Melbourne, had fun in Adelaide

Which is kinda strange too, ‘cause it’s nothing but a hole…”

“Ooh, do Scotland,” the American chirped, but before anyone could break into another butchered verse of a surf song, Andy stepped up to them.

“Excuse me,” he said sternly, and both heads turned a bit awkwardly towards him. “Could I ask you to take it down a level? You’re making pretty big asses of yourselves and you’re distracting those of us who have the sense not to get wasted.”

“Piss off, ya septic,” the Australian demanded before falling into a fit of giggles.

“Septic?” Andy echoed.

“Yeah,” the American said, “a word here in Oz for Yanks who should fuck off.”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble with you guys, but—”

“Then go back to your friends and leave us the fuck alone,” the Aussie said, standing up on the bar.

“Are you sure you’re supposed to do that?” Andy asked, looking at the bartender who shrugged and went back to pulling pints.

“Australia’s a free country too, mate,” the man on the bar said. “You Yanks, always coming over thinking you rule the place. If a man wants to sing on a bar in Sydney, he’s got that right, freedom of expression, right?”

“Right!” the American agreed.

“All the Yanks are stupid,” he began singing again, “don’t know the meaning of fun

Wanna piss in their faces, or maybe just this one.”

“What?” Andy gasped.

“You heard,” the Australian said with an evil grin. “And I reckon from this angle I’d get a pretty good shot.” He gave his hips a few suggestive thrusts.

“I should call the police,” Andy scorned.

“And do what, tell them you’re ruining people’s fun?”

“No, tell them I’m being threatened by disorderly drunks.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re a real orderly drunk,” the American piped in. “Always get home by curfew so your mommy doesn’t worry. Jerk off.” He took another drink.

“Now fuck off before one of us does something you’ll regret in the morning,” the Australian continued, glaring down at Andy through hazy eyes.

“Oh, you’ll be regretting it I’m sure,” Andy huffed, marching off to find a telephone.

“Did you mean what you said about how Yanks don’t have fun?” Brad asked sulkily as Paul headed down off the bar.

“Nah, it’s just guys like that who ruin it for the good Yanks. All three of you,” he added with a smile.

“Aw, that was almost a compliment, wasn’t it?” Brad cooed.

“Almost. You’re ok when you’re not ruining my life,” Paul declared.

“Speaking of ruining lives, get your ass out of my face McDermott.”

“I’m trying to get off the bar.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to be this close to your ass.”

Paul teetered precariously as he got one knee on the stool and was lowering his other leg. With a startled yelp, he collapsed backwards into Brad’s lap, and they both fell to the sticky floor of the bar in a hysterically laughing heap.

The door to the bar opened, letting in the late afternoon sun and two pairs of neatly pressed uniform pants.

“Shit.”

“Fuck.”

They collapsed back into giggles.

Fenny hung up the phone, wondering where Paul had gotten to. She’d wanted to find out when Paul had planned to do their dinner; Fenny had found herself oddly intrigued by the prospect of meeting this Freya. With any luck Fenny could talk a bit of sense into Paul. Not likely, but worth a try. The fact he wasn’t answering his phone wasn’t helping any.

The hotel room door clicked open and Andy sauntered in looking a bit unhappy. “Hi honey,” Fenny perked, wandering over to him as he dropped his jacket on the bed.

“Hey sweetie,” he chirped, brightening a bit as he leant to give her a quick kiss. “What did you get up to all afternoon?”

“Oh, visited some friends, had lunch, took a bit of a walk along the beach.”

“I’ll never understand you,” he chuckled as he stepped away from her to find another jacket. “We’ve got beaches in LA.”

“Yeah, but not beaches like here,” Fenny smiled. “It’s like a whole different ocean.”

“Actually it’s still the Pacific,” Andy announced.

Fenny rolled her eyes as she turned to gather her phone book to cram back into her purse. “So how did your drinks with the boys go?”

“Fine for a while. There were these two idiots at the bar who started singing Beach Boys songs. I’m ashamed to say one of them was an American.”

“Were they good singers at least?” Fenny teased.

“Probably would’ve been better if they didn’t each have a bottle of tequila in them. They were pretty wasted. The little one got up on the bar and threatened to piss in my face.”

She was suddenly accosted with a vision of Paul the last time she’d seen him drunk as a skunk off tequila, the incessant “dododododo…dodododo” song, and how stupid Brad had been. It couldn’t possibly have been Brad and Paul. Who else could it have been? This was the life of Fenny, it had to have been Brad and Paul.

“So, then what happened?” she asked cautiously.

“I called the cops, had them carted off!” he declared victoriously.

“A bit harsh, isn’t it?” she gasped. “I mean they were only having some fun, isn’t that what pubs are for?”

“Fun? They were acting like animals.”

“Anal prick,” Fenny muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Andy asked.

“Oh, I said, ‘How banal and sick’.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. That’s not what you’re wearing to dinner, is it?”

Fenny looked down at herself. “Um, well, it’s kinda what I was thinking of wearing, yeah, why, you not like it?”

“Isn’t there something nicer you can wear?” Andy grimaced.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t pack very fancy clothes, I didn’t think I’d need them, thought I’d be spending time on the beaches and sight seeing and things like that.”

“Remind me to give you some money and you can go out and buy yourself something nice.”

Fenny bit her lip and nodded, looking down at her attempt to be fashionable: nice fitting charcoal slacks, simple white button up with the top two and bottom two buttons undone. “Did you want me to change, or…?”

“No, we’ll make due,” Andy sighed dejectedly, “we’re already late for our reservation, let’s go.”

She nodded and grabbed her purse from the table. “Oh, I told my pal Paul we’d have dinner with him and his, um, girlfriend while we’re in town,” Fenny chirped. Assuming he gets out of jail, she thought to herself.

“We’ll see,” Andy smiled and led her out into the hall.

When the telephone rang for the seventh time, Gina was certain that whoever was calling her wasn’t going to relent until she picked up. Refusing to open her eyes, she rolled over in bed and fumbled for the phone. “This better be important,” she muttered more into the pillow than the receiver.

“Hi Gina.”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of Paul’s voice. “It’s two o’clock in the bloody morning,” Gina groaned as she closed her eyes again. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I need you to do me a favor,” Paul said sheepishly. He sounded hungover, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“What?”

“Could you pop down to the jail?”

Gina sat up in bed and turned on the light. “Paul, are you telling me you’ve been arrested?”

“Well, not arrested as such. Um, detained, I think that’s the appropriate term for it.”

“What did you do to get ‘detained’ then?”

“Can’t you come get us?”

“Not until you tell me what you’ve done. Then I’ll decide if I’ll come get you.”

“We were drinking, we got a bit carried away—”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and Sherwood.”

“Brad?” Gina gasped. “Brad’s here?” Why was it that she and Paul had such problems staying in the same hemisphere while Brad and Fenny never seemed to be more than 10 miles apart at any given moment?

“Yeah, he’s on holiday, gonna stay with me for a while. Assuming we get out of this prison.”

Gina let out a sigh. Back in the country a whole day and already things were going strange. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well, we were getting pretty shitfaced,” Paul explained.

“Don’t tell me it was tequila again,” Gina sighed, finally conscious enough to find the humor in the situation.

“Well, yes.”

“And you started singing.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m your wife,” she reminded him curtly, “I know these sorts of things.”

“Well, some Yank with the world’s biggest stick up his arse called the cops on us.”

“I’m sure you deserved it.”

“All we were doing was singing. On the bar. Loudly.”

“And?”

“Ok, well, we may have made some unsavory comments and a few threats. All in good fun, really!”

“Well it was obviously bad enough for you to get jailed.”

“No, we were just dumped in a holding cell to sleep it off,” Paul defended. “For our own good, they said. Brad’s still asleep, the man can’t handle his liquor. Now we need someone to come take us home.”

“Why didn’t you call a cab?”

“Well, there’s the small matter of the fines.”

“Fines?”

“Little ones,” he assured her. “But I spent most of my money buying drinks, and Sherwood’s only got American cash.”

“Why didn’t you call your darling Freya?” Gina scorned.

“Um, she doesn’t approve of my drinking,” Paul explained softly.

Gina fell silent, frowning at herself. “I should leave you there.”

“Genie, please.”

“I’ll be there in a while,” she said, and hung up the phone. She lay back in bed for a few minutes, wondering how long it would take for Paul and Brad to be accosted by some big, freaky inmate. How long would she have to leave them for them to be sent to the infamous shower block? That’d teach them a lesson.

Reluctantly she pulled on the first things her hands found in the closet and headed groggily out to her car muttering to herself and plotting evil things to do to those two to get revenge.