Fenny drove through the maze of highways, trying to remember the difference between the 10 and the 110, which one you could take from the 405 to get to downtown—too many numbers for an artist, really. Regardless of her planning, she managed to get sucked into the early morning rush hour, nothing on the radio but overly-chipper “morning personalities,” nothing on the road but heartless businessmen in tiny sports cars who believed they were immortal and drove like it, with the occasional low-rider blaring rap music loud enough to interfere with the heartbeats of drivers in a 2-mile radius.

A perfect little black Jaguar zipped past her, and she smiled briefly, only to be cut off by a blue VW Beetle as traffic slowed to a standstill. She began cursing herself for not taking the Pacific Coast Highway like Maggie had suggested. It seemed she’d been spending most of her time wishing she’d done things differently. She grumbled at the Beetle instead.

73 minutes and three freeways later, she pulled into a parking lot and lugged out her baggage, already wanting to go back home. It was the same hotel Fenny always stayed at when dragged to LA, not because of its fabulous service and fresh towels (as it didn’t actually have them), but because it was cheap. Inside, she marched over to the front desk and was greeted by a cheerful young woman whose name, according to her tag, was Suzie.

“Good morning, how can I help you?” asked Suzie with an atrociously fake smile.

“Would it be at all possible to ban rap music, rearrange the freeway system so that people can actually get somewhere, and kill everyone who owns a bright blue Volkswagen?” Fenny asked, flashing Suzie an equally fake smile.

“There’s no need to be rude” Suzie scorned.

“It was an honest inquiry, who’s being rude?” Fenny said innocently. “I’d like to book a room,” she added.

“Certainly, and for how long?” Suzie asked.

“I don’t know…I’ll let you know,” Fenny replied.

“I’m sorry, but I have to write an approximate time,” Suzie countered.

“Well, it depends on how long it takes,” Fenny shrugged.

“How long what takes?” Suzie queried.

“Do you really want to know about every facet of my life?” Fenny spat.

Suzie looked taken aback. “I’ll say a week,” she mumbled, scribbled down the number and handed Fenny a key.

It didn’t take long for Fenny to find her room and she didn’t hesitate to flop onto the bed. She rolled onto her back and stared at a crack in the ceiling. Well, here she was in LA. All she had to do was decide when to pay that all-important visit to Brad. She didn’t think she could wait much longer – she felt oddly positive vibes about her being there. So, it was a quick shower and then over to Brad’s, where hopefully he’d sweep her into his arms.

Gina padded around her apartment. The excitement of being in LA was slowly wearing off. Sure it was great being at the world’s entertainment hub, but it was also the loneliest experience of her life. Not only was everything she loved thousands of miles away, but she was too scared to go out alone at night into the world of smog, gangs, and car chases. So she had resigned herself to spending her nights in front of the television and emailing friends.

She was channel surfing between various ad breaks where there was a knock at her door. She looked in its direction hoping that somehow she’d be able to tell who was behind it. This turned out to be a waste of time, as she didn’t have any friends.

Gina got to her feet, wandered over and opened the door.

“Would you believe I was just passing,” Greg smiled, leaning against the doorframe.

“Mate, when I gave you my address and said pop in sometime, I didn’t mean a few hours after I saw you,” Gina mused.

“You want me to leave?” Greg asked.

“No, you’re here now,” Gina sighed and moved aside to let him in.

Greg sauntered into the apartment and scanned the room. It was cluttered with throw rugs, cushions and newspapers. A selection of photos were placed atop of the TV and, to Greg’s surprise, a collection of stuffed giraffes filled the window ledge.

“Giraffes?” he mused raising an eyebrow.

“I happen to like African animals, ok,” Gina scorned.

“Of course you do,” Greg agreed.

“So, you’re here because…?”

“I had a few hours to spare and thought I’d fill them with you,” he said unconvincingly.

“Won’t that bother your wife?” she asked.

“Hardly” Greg replied sharply.

“Oh, do I sense tension at home?” Gina cooed as she sat on the couch and motioned for Greg to sit beside her.

“I could really do with a drink,” Greg piped up as he sat down.

“Subtle. You have a choice: water, juice or tea.”

“Don’t you have something stronger?” he half pleaded.

“Sorry…I don’t drink alcohol,” she smiled.

“You’re a journalist, you’re supposed to,” Greg huffed. “Doesn’t anyone drink these days? Has there been some sort of revolution that I’ve missed?”

“I’ll make you tea then,” Gina sighed, ignoring his tirade.

“Don’t you have coffee?” he grumbled.

“I don’t drink that either,” she smirked as she got to her feet and headed into the kitchen. “So are you going to tell me about your marriage problems or not?”

“It’s really not that exciting—marriages do break down you know.”

“Ever considered counselling?”

“I’m not seeing a shrink,” Greg huffed, almost insulted at the very notion.

“Why? In case he actually discovers what possessed you to get and keep that hairstyle?” Gina chided.

“Oh gee, you’re hysterical,” Greg sarced dryly.

“I know—it’s why you love me,” Gina mused as she returned with two mugs of tea.

“Thank you. And I don’t love you, you just happen to be the only person worth talking to at this point in time,” he remarked as he took his mug.

“Well now I feel special,” she sarced. “Ok, so your marriage is a bit fucked. What else is bothering you? Go on, let it out.”

“Well, I’m supposed to be taping Whose Line this weekend and Brad’s going to be there and he hates me,” Greg perked.

“Brad doesn’t hate you,” she chided.

“Oh, he hates me alright. I think his last words to me were, ‘Fuck you, you self obsessed fucking prick’,” Greg announced.

“What did you do?” Gina asked sternly.

“I sorta kinda has sex with his girlfriend,” Greg said meekly. “But she wasn’t his girlfriend when we first did it,” he added hopefully.

“You adulterous slut,” gasped Gina.

“Just say what you really think,” he huffed.

“Why is it all men think the only way to deal with relationship problems is to fuck somebody else?” she snapped.

“Well, we’ve been burnt before haven’t we,” he chided.

“That’s hardly the point, and we’re talking about you, you sleazy bastard,” she spat.

“I am not sleazy,” Greg retorted.

“Well then why did you screw her the second time—she WAS Brad’s girl then, right?” Gina scorned.

“I didn’t know she was Brad’s girl,” Greg countered.

“So that makes it better?” she shrieked.

This was beginning to sound all too familiar. “Why are you getting so worked up anyway?” Greg hissed.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Gina spat.

Fenny stood outside Brad’s apartment door nervously. She’d been there ten minutes already and still hadn’t knocked. It was now or never. She took a deep breath, marched right up to the door and rapped twice. A few seconds later she heard the lock being opened and her stomach lurched. She’d practiced countless conversations in her head, all of which faded as the knob turned. What could she possibly say to him?

The door opened and Fenny felt her heart being ripped in two, doused in kerosene and set alight. There before her was a woman in Brad’s red boxers and white shirt. She had long dark hair, dark eyes, and was generally stunning.

“Yes?” asked the woman.

Fenny’s mouth opened and closed a few times, her voice blocked by panic, and she stepped back.

“Who is it, babe?” Brad cooed as his head appeared over the woman’s shoulder. “Fenny,” he gasped.

“Sorry,” Fenny mumbled, turning her eyes characteristically to the floor. Her feet carried her down the hall, running from the unbearable scene.

“FENNY,” Brad called as he raced out into the corridor. He was wearing only his jeans and had to stop before he made too big a fool of himself. He stared down the hallway after her.

“Who was that?” Ritza asked, wandering back into the apartment.

“Fenny,” Brad replied taking one last look down the corridor. “It was Fenny.”