Fenny stared at the blank computer screen in front of her. Every ounce of inspiration that had once flowed so easily appeared to have shrivelled up and died a rather quick and merciless death. She was reluctant to share this news with her brother, and instead poured out an excuse every time he phoned. Although even she had to admit that the old “The screen just went black” excuse was wearing thin.

She let out a heavy sigh, got to her feet and wandered into the kitchen. She grabbed a tub of ice cream and a large spoon before flumping on the couch in time to watch one of those god-awful soap operas she despised so much. It was pitiful; a surgically enhanced blonde was telling her too-tanned fiancé that she was having his uncle’s love child.

“What’s wrong with me? I’m not supposed to feel like this. This isn’t normal,” Fenny groused to her cat, Jaguar.

Jaguar ignored Fenny completely and began to paw the spoon.

Fenny reached out to the coffee table and grabbed the phone. She pressed the redial button and got the same damn message she’d already had six times that day:

“Hi, if you’re looking for Brad, he’s not home right now. So if you’re a young, sexy thing leave me a message and I’ll get right back to you. If you’re my mom, I’ll be back before it’s dark and I’m wearing clean underwear…beeeeeep.”

Sadly enough, Fenny was happy Brad hadn’t picked up. She hadn’t worked out a thing to say to him and would probably have resorted to squeaking and hanging up immediately if he’d answered. It was an old but successful method. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want to speak to her anyway; he’d pretty much told her how disgusted he was with her before he left.

“You know, I think I’m turning into Julia Roberts, which is painful in itself. And I don’t mean the good bits of Julia Roberts…I think she has good bits? I mean the destruction of fantastic relationship bits. What on earth possessed me to fuck Greg Proops, huh…WHAT?” Fenny demanded of Jaguar.

Jaguar tilted his head and mewed.

“Oh yeah…there was that,” she said with a wry smile. “But that’s hardly the point. If I could have controlled myself and not let that—user—manipulate me, I might be between some very lovely satin sheets with Mr. Sherwood right now.” Fenny felt herself getting emotional and sniffed. “Oh god, what am I going to do?”

Jaguar padded over to Fenny and curled himself up in her lap.

“No, you’re right Jag. You’re absolutely right. I have to go sort this mess out or I’m going to have to resign myself to being a complete emotional mess for the rest of my life,” Fenny blubbed, getting to her feet and causing Jaguar to fall to the floor. He meowed dejectedly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Greg had an interview. Another bloody interview with another bloody, self-obsessed hack. It was just what he needed to make his day even closer to the fiery pits of hell than it was already.

It had started with an argument with his wife, which had resulted in harsh words and lots of door slamming. Then he’d found he was out of cigarettes. So, in a mild rage he was forced to go out. Not such a bad thing usually, but his car wouldn’t start so he had been forced to walk. He was convinced every person on the streets was out to get him, as they seemed to take great delight in running into him and knocking him about. After the nicotine fix, he headed home and packed a few things before heading to the airport. He wasn’t booked on the flight, he’d forgotten to call. After a small hissy fit, Greg was forced to wait three hours for the next flight.

He would have been happy to be in L.A, had he not had the misfortune to run into Brad, who was obviously in a mood seen before only by several psychotic sixteenth-century Scotsmen and Russell Crowe. In fact, Greg didn’t know Brad was capable of using expletives so venomously.

So now he had the interview for some piece of shit paper, and all he really felt like doing was getting wasted and hoping to forget about the world for a while. Greg entered the restaurant where he was meeting said hack and looked around blankly. Which one was the journalist, which one was about to ask him mundane questions about shit no one really wants to know?

“Jeez, what’s with the look on your face? You look like you’ve had it stuck up a marmot,” a voice jeered.

Greg turned around, shocked. “Gina,” he gasped.

“You were expecting someone else?” Gina asked.

“Well you weren’t my first choice,” Greg mused.

“Oh you were hoping for an entertainment bimbo with her tits hanging out?”

“You know me so well,” he perked.

Gina giggled and wrapped Greg up in a hug. It was the nicest hug Greg had had in awhile, and it took some of the sting out of his mood.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked as they made their way to a table.

“I’m stalking you,” Gina replied.

“So you’re the one who’s been stealing my underwear,” Greg mused as he took a seat.

“You wish. No, I got a job…here in LA,” Gina perked and grabbed the menu.

“Really? Why on earth would you leave Australia for here?”

“You hate Australia,” Gina quipped.

“I don’t hate Australia,” Greg retorted, snatching the menu from Gina.

“Oi…talk about lack of curtesy,” Gina scorned.

“I’ve told you before, I’m only courteous to women.”

“Oh,” Gina gasped and then giggled.

Greg began to laugh too and soon they were in fits of laughter about absolutely nothing, much to the amusement of the other restaurant patrons.