Page 3 of Protect Your Queen

That’s Assault, Isn’t It?

Jestiny

Present Day, London, England

The place hummed with excitement. The studio audience screamed on command, prompted by the large flashing lights above the stage that told them to laugh, to clap, and toawwat the right moments.

The announcer was in a box, the microphone in front of his face just outside the wings of the stage. He gave me a small wink, and a gunpoint salute which I returned. Intro music played as Rupert, the night show host, sat behind his fake mahogany desk, twiddling a fountain pen in his hand.

“A’right, let’s introduce the next guest. We’re very excited about this one.” His Estuary accent garbled his words, and I was nervous about understanding him.

The guy in the sound booth brought his lips to the microphone, and in that clear, enunciated British voice started listing off my accolades. “After stunning the globe with her Miss Idol win five years ago, this guest has just completed a worldwide, sold-out tour. Her chart-topping hits include “Make a Wish” and “Bring it, Baby”. She was recently named the World’s Sexiest Woman, and the Richest 30 Under 30! Misssss Jestiny Barkada!”

I walked out in my silky gold dress, waving to the audience. My lightly curled hair bounced about my shoulders, down to my waist, falling forward over my breasts which hid and emphasized them in equal measure. In the middle of the floor, I twisted on one foot to do a slow-motion turn.

It was a crowd-pleasing trick that ended with a smiling, hand-on-the-hip pose.

The audience screamed, and I gave a small finger wave. I sashayed to the little couch and crossed my legs, leaning with my elbow on the armrest. I gave Rupert my biggest, brightest, beauty queen smile.

His makeup was caking. There was a small grease stain on his shirt, obscured by his too-wide tie. I wondered if it was a gimmick, or if he really woke up that morning and thought, “Yeah, this looks good!”

“Jestiny, Jestiny, Jestiny…” Rupert tapped his pen, twisting in his chair as he looked at me.

The logo of his show was emblazoned across the front of his fake business desk. He even had a prop desk lamp, the kind with a bent neck and a small green dome over a lightbulb. Not that it was ever used, since 300-watt stage lights surrounded him like a halo. They were strategically placed to ensure that his double chin was in shadow. “That’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

His accent was grating my last nerve.KuyaJareth had a British accent, but it didn’t make my skin crawl. Somehow, Rupert’s did. Maybe it was because he looked like Michael Dryden.

“I don’t know,Rupert.” I sweetly shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “I’ve lived with it all my life.”

How does a guy calledRuperthave the audacity to thinkmyname is weird?

He put on that plastic, smarmy smile. The kind that made my skin crawl with its calculated tightness.

“Well, Rupert is a name most people recognize, but Jestiny…” He tilted his head and shrugged, as if I should know what he was getting at. But I chose not to. My doe-eyed innocence shone through as I waited for him to finish whatever asinine thing he was thinking.

He finally gave in to the dead air between us, knowing that the awkwardness would reflect on him. Not me.

“Well, I’ve never met anyone else called Jestiny.”

“I’ve never met anyone called Rupert!” There was a fake chipperness in my voice because I knew the score. We couldn’t look hostile to one another, even though we absolutely were. I had to look sweet, jovial, ready to chat. Miss World Idol. Perfect in every possible way. A woman of complete virtue, who happened to look objectifiable in a swimsuit.

There was a small, polite laugh from the audience. He must have called it a loss, because he coughed as he changed the subject.

“So, I’d be remiss if I didn’t askabout these headlines. The ones that led to you being nicknamed Diva Difficult. About…”

Don’t ever let a late-night show fool you. It’s not just two people having a pleasant conversation. It is a ping-pong of one person trying to get more from their interviewee than they want to give. Us, their guests, then battle to make sure we keep our boundaries intact.

We’re a commodity, and they are selling us to the public. Blood is always more entertaining than sunshine.

“Me throwing a brick at the lens of a paparazzi?” Again, I batted my eyelashes.

“That journalist is now suing you for assault. That’s a very serious crime, young lady.”

Fuck your ‘young lady’ bullshit, you pervert.

“So is sexual assault.” My smile felt tight, as I forced my cheekbones back to ensure that I lookedhappy,and unbothered. As if that wasn’t a complete fucking joke. “In the state of New York, upskirting is a Class E felony, and comes with one to four years in prison.”

I blinked.

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