“How do these look?”
Like every other pair. “Oh yeah, great.”
“Are you sure?” Justin asks, holding the pants against his legs and eyeing the mirror thoughtfully.
I wonder if McDonalds is open yet. “Yeah, they’re fantastic. The best yet.”
“Do you really like them?” he repeats, cocking his head to look at me.
“They completely rock my world,” I mumble, flicking my wrist to check my watch. How slowly time does move whilst observing Justin try on jean, after jean, after jean…
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“If I was, would it make you pick a pair quicker?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry yourself,” I reply, glancing around the racks of clothing. I called work this morning, sniffling with every word, claiming it was absolutely vital for me to stay at home and recuperate, otherwise ‘I don’t know what will happen’. Despite their thoughts that I was suffering from a fatal brain hemorrhage, I was in fact taking a sick day to go shopping with Justin.
He drove me all the way to Memphis just to go to this one shop, which apparently has ‘brought Memphis out of the ice age where fashion is concerned’. He sounded so much like a gay TV presenter I couldn’t stop laughing for five minutes. Of course, then he spent the rest of the drive listing all the manly things he’s done in the past twenty four hours…men.
He dragged me into some designer shop with an Italian name I can’t pronounce, which looked ridiculously out of place compared to all the small shacks that sold fishing bait and other southern goods, with it’s stark white walls and spaced out racks of clothes. I didn’t want to touch anything in case I left a finger print on it, but within minutes of entering the shop, I realized we were more than welcome.
You know that one guy in school who just seems to be good at everything? He gets good grades, he’s the star player for the football team, and he’s either dating the school’s beauty queen, or the leader of the cheerleading squad? And you sit in class, scowling at him when he comes into the room but just not having the heart to hate him, but trying your best to hate him anyway, because it’s sickening the way people bow down to him and make allowances for his stupid behavior, or look over the fact he’s about as modest as a toothpick.
Justin is that guy.
Not that I’m calling Justin stupid or conceited, and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t love the amorous attention we received the moment we entered the shop, but it really was pathetic the swooning responses of the workers. I swear I saw one of them, who was no teenager and could have in fact been thirty five years old, rush into the bathroom to wipe her eyes because she was so amazed to see him. I mean really, do I have to explain to these people that this is the guy whose idea of an in depth conversation is discussing which is better, blonde or brunettes?
He’s just a normal guy, I can’t see him as anything other than that. Alright, I’m not completely blind to the sexuality oozing off the man and can see why people like him, but it confuses me when I realize he’s the guy on their bedroom walls.
I suppose it’s because I’ve never seen “that Justin”. Before I met him, I was not a number one fan. I might listen to his song on the radio, I might smirk at some of his prepackaged answers in interviews, hell, I might even stoop to reading some interview he did in Teen People. But that was nothing more than general idleness making me find the first attractive things I laid eyes on interesting. And where we live, everyone keeps their distance and doesn’t bother him, so I’ve never been exposed to the hysterical reactions of some people. Granted the people in the shop haven’t gone hysterical, but when he said hi and put on this irritatingly wide grin, they suddenly began to trip up over their words and go red.
Why, though? He’s Justin. My Justin. Nobody other than me would find him interesting, right?
“Do you need any help, sir?” asks one of the aforementioned disgraces to the female race. Did we really fight for women’s rights and suffrage, when all we were going to do was gaze in adoration at some guy who can hit a few high notes? That girl isn’t even pretty, there is no way Justin would ever be interested in her--
Yikes Cat, put your claws away. It just…bothers me when other people find him attractive. I’m not exactly the type of person to stomp my foot and say, ‘He’s mine!’, but that assistant is staring at him with just a little too much adoration…
He glances up at her. “Oh, no thank you.” His lips part to reveal a hundred watt smile, before he turns back to the mirror to scrutinize his image again, the girl releasing a contented sigh, her life ambitions clearly fulfilled.
“And you, ma’am?” she says, turning to me, her perky attitude lessening considerably.
“No thanks,” I reply, staring at a mini skirt that would barely fit over one leg. How anorexic must the youth of America be to possibly fit into that?
“Found something you like, sweetheart?” says Justin, interrupting my thoughts as I whip around to face him.
“Oh, no, I was just thinking. Do people always act like that around you?” I ask, jerking my thumb in the direction of the giggling girls behind the counter.
He glances over at them and smiles faintly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Don’t you find it annoying?”
“Why would I find it annoying?” he snorts, tossing the pair of jeans over his arm for trying on.
“Because they just like the way you look.”
“I know, isn’t it terrible?” he responds distractedly, a cocky grin slowly creeping over his face.
Rolling my eyes, I follow him to the changing room. “But they’re treating you like…a piece of meat!”
He shrugs. “Well, to them, I am.” He glances up and down the corridor, before slipping into a changing room. “I’m just the guy who sings and dances on TV, I’m not a real person,” he calls out from the cubicle, the curtain swaying from his movements.
“Sure, I can understand that, but they treat you like some sort of…God.”
“They look up to me,” he replies, pulling the curtain back and modeling jean style number one.
“Why?” I ask stupidly.
He rolls his eyes and turns to me, shaking his head. “I am somewhat talented, you know.”
“And not in the least bit modest,” I remark, smirking slightly as he gives me a twirl. “Those are nice.”
“I’m not modest because I don’t have to be modest. It’s part of my image to know I’m the shit,” he teases, grinning at me as I deadpan him with a look.
“But if you’re, ‘somewhat talented’, why do you worry about your image?”
He shrugs. “You have to. As much as we’d love it to be, the music business ain’t always about the music, baby.”
I laugh and trace the pattern on the jeans thoughtfully. “So you put on this entirely different act?”
“Yup,” he answers, “it’s safer that way.”
“Safer?”
“If I was just like the real Justin, can you imagine how difficult it would be for me when the media criticized me? It would be a personal stab, where they were saying something was wrong with me. But if they’re mocking, I don’t know…some stupid thing I said, then it’s easier for me to deal with, because I know that’s not the real me.” He pauses his tampering with his hair to frown. “If that makes sense.”
“Well….sort of. But everyone gets criticized, isn’t it just something you have to deal with?”
He shrugs. “The media’s harsh, Cat. They’ll love you one day, and literally rip you to pieces the next. They truly can make or break your career.”
“If you let them,” I defend, feeling pangs at the old, ‘journalists are heartless bastards’ cliché. “Artists love the attention they get, until it’s the wrong kind. When they’re getting all the attention, they bitch and moan and pull the privacy card, but when they’re not getting the attention, they worry their careers are over and try to get in the headlines again. Celebrities use the tabloids as much as the tabloids do them.”
“Oh, I know, I completely agree. And because the press is so fickle, it’s best to keep some sort of distance between them.” He quickly pulls off his t-shirt, replacing it with another one. “Then you won’t feel it when they suddenly turn against you. It hurts like a bitch when they suddenly turn their back on you.”
“You shouldn’t take it so personally.”
“I don’t, but sometimes you just can’t ignore when your name is being slandered all over the country.” He slips in and out of the cubicle, changing his clothes at an alarming rate. “Even you do it, Cat.”
“I do not!” I protest, collapsing into the chair opposite the cubicle.
“Yes, you do,” he replies, checking himself in the mirror. “I’m not saying it’s bad, but look at what you did on that article about the re-election. You didn’t leave any mistake the candidates had made untouched.”
“Well, excuse me for telling the truth,” I mutter grumpily, crossing my legs and staring into space.
“I know, you wrote it because it was the truth and that’s what people want to read. I’m just saying that I don’t like being on the tip of everybody’s tongues, so if I put forward this character, then they can say whatever they want about it, and I won’t care.”
“But that’s the media. Can’t you be like your real self in front of your…” I trail off, glancing in direction of the girls in the shop. “Admirers?”
He laughs. “Well, I am, in a way. I just know there’s a certain way they expect me to be, and I play up to that. I owe it to them.”
“That’s a bit fake,” I frown, wrinkling my nose at him.
“Cat, Cat,” he rolls his eyes and kneels in front of me. “My job is to please people, and people are pleased by the Justin that I put forward, even if it’s not the real deal.”
“What people?”
“Everyone. Management, fans, photographers, the press…everyone.”
“I would hate to be involved in that side of your life,” I mumble, propping my head up with my hand.
“Why?” he asks, reentering the cubicle and presumably trying on another pair of overpriced pants.
“The whole thing annoys me,” I shrug. “I’m sure you guys work hard, but so does a single mother with two jobs, trying to make it in the world.” I shrug again, admiring the next set of pants. “I just think the praise celebrities get goes a little too far sometimes.”
He nods. “I guess you’re right. But it’s a tough job.”
“I know,” I reply, standing up and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “But so is everyone else’s.”
“Why are you fussing about this now?” he asks, pausing his the movements of my hand.
I shrug. “I just never realized things were like this for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just never really put you in the category of celebrity, I suppose,” I reply. “It never occurred to me what will happen when you go back to work.”
“What are you worried about?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, feeling his hands gently rest on my cheeks. “I just worry you’ll act…different.”
“How?”
“You know, you’ll always be partying, and drinking, and seeing all these beautiful girls…”
“Cat,” he begins, his eyes turning stern. “Don’t even pull that shit. What do you think I’m going to do, dump you for the first model to cross my path?”
It sounds most likely. “No.” Where’s a defiant tone when you need one?
“Yes you do,” he says, frowning still. “Cat, we’ve been over this a million times--”
“I know, I know…” I mumble, rubbing my eyes tiredly. “I just can’t imagine you back in that whole sphere again and staying the way you are.”
“I’ll still be me.” I shoot him a disbelieving look. “Okay, some things might change, but nothing dramatic. It’ll still be you and me.”
“But Justin, today was just a taster for what is bound to come!” I exclaim, gesturing around the shop. “Just seeing those girls faint over you pissed me off. How am I going to react when the press are all up in my face and you’ve got girls hanging off you?”
“So what are you saying?”
“The whole thing makes me…nervous.”
“Okay, well we’ll deal with that when the time comes,” he shrugs decisively. “Why you’re even bothering about this, I don’t know, because I have no plans to go back to work anytime soon.”
“I know you’ve been writing stuff.”
“So?” he waves his hand. “I always write. Especially when I’m in relationships.” He grins and presses me against him. “You’re my muse.”
Giggling, I swat him away. “I suppose we’ll cross that whole famous bridge when we come to it.”
“Exactly,” he says resolutely. “But don’t hold your breath. I like this extended break I’m taking.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re lazy ass hasn’t worked in a year.”
He feigns a shocked face. “Okay lady, that is it. You owe me big time.”
I shake my head and laugh. “What do I have to do?”
He raises an eyebrow and swings a few pairs of jeans over his arm. “You’ll see.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a stunned face.
It was a combination of ‘Dear God I can’t believe places like this even exist’ and ‘I’m going to kill you for bringing me three feet within this joint’. I knew she’d hate it, and part of bringing her was just so I could see her reaction. Putting Cat in a place like this is like putting a sheep in a desert. It just doesn’t add up.
But it was also to cheer her up. I know she got freaked out seeing those girls go a little wild over me at the shop. She's never really been exposed to fans, let alone the paparazzie. She was really worrying me with all that stuff about hating that part of my life and being so happy she'd avoided it. Don't get me wrong, I am too. I'm overjoyed Cat hasn't been in the papers yet, and I can only pray our good luck carries on, because I know she's incredibly fortunate not to have her face plastered across Us Weekly at least three times now.
Johnny's been getting really impatient again, constantly phoning and asking me to come in for meetings. Part of me wants to, I've been away for a year for goodness sake, but the other part would happily stay in the little cocoon Cat, Trace and I have built up around ourselves in little old Tennessee. To leave it and go out into the real, harsh world, would be very difficult.
Shaking myself from my thoughts, I turn to Cat.
“What? Don’t you like this shop?”
“Justin, this is not a shop. This is an insult to the female race,” she says, before trying to turn around and walk in the opposite direction.
“Nuh huh, girly girl,” I laugh, grabbing her arm as she threatens to run down the street, consequently ruining my fun. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Her eyes narrow in disbelief. “Fun? Dressing like some prostitute only with less respectability?”
I snigger, unable to hold back my amusement. “It’s not all slutty. You can get some really tasteful stuff, actually.”
“Only you would consider crotchless underwear tasteful, Justin,” she glowers as I laugh a bit more, before tugging on my arm. “Seriously, let’s go home.”
“Can’t you just come in? Just for a second?”
“No, Justin. Girls like me do no go into…” she trails off, shuddering visibly. “Agent Provocateur.”
“Hey, you say it in a weird way.”
“It’s the French pronunciation,” she replies casually, looking over her shoulder as if one of her journalist buddies might see her and rat her out.
“Do you speak French?”
“A little, can we please leave?”
“You know, French is a really sexy language.” She throws me an uninterested look before checking her watch. “It only makes sense to wear sexy underwear to match your sexy voice.”
She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Your logistic skills are amazing, now let’s go.”
“Cat, if you don’t come in with me, I’ll just go in by myself and get anything I deem appropriate.” I waggle my eyebrows as she frowns. “And you can just imagine what I consider appropriate.”
She sighs loudly, checking the street again. “Fine, lets just do this quickly,” she mumbles, grabbing my hand and pulling me across the street.
We enter the shop, the warm air hitting our skins, a refreshing alternative to the cold wind outside. Her eyes immediately dart to all the corners, taking in her surroundings cautiously. She looks so lost in a shop like this, like a teenybopper at a rock concert. Clutching my hand tighter, she approaches some racks.
“So, what did you have in mind?”
I shrug, grabbing the closest thing I can. “This is nice.”
Her eyes widen at the strategically woven pieces of cloth. “Are you kidding?”
“Come on, babe. It’s not that bad.”
“Justin, the fact you just called me babe seriously undermines your respect for me, as would wearing that…” she trails off and waves her hand in the direction of the negligee. “Thing.”
“But it’s sexy.”
“What’s wrong with my ordinary underwear?” she protests quickly, frowning in that way women do when they think you’re insulting them. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Sure it is. But my dear, I know there’s another side to you that you’re too scared to show me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh I assure you there isn’t.”
“Sure there is,” I say happily, rifling through the sizes. “Remember what I said in the attic all those months ago?”
She frowns. “When you denied that the Pocahontas Sticker Book was yours?”
Rolling my eyes at her, I pull out a size. “No, when I said you were sexually repressed.”
She snorts. “Ah yes, your favorite phrase.”
“Well,” I carry on, ignoring her. “There is only one way to cure you.”
“And how is that?” she asks, fiddling with what I recognize as tassels, but I’m not entirely sure she does.
Leaning into her ear, I whisper, “Someone has to fuck you senseless.”
The reaction was spectacular. She dropped the tassel and glanced around, checking that nobody was spying on us or listening to our conversation, before turning to me, her mouth open in surprise.
“I cannot believe you just said that.”
Shrugging, I replace the negligee and try to hide the grin that is rapidly spreading across my face. “It’s true. You're too shy for your own good.”
“So?” she whispers angrily, still glancing around. “That doesn’t mean you have to say it, particularly when we are in public!”
Trying to suppress a snort, I notice the blush creeping into her cheeks. “We could always…you know…” I nod in the direction of the changing room, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
Her blush deepens. “You’re not serious, are you?”
Grasping her waist unexpectedly, I pull her towards me and pout. “You know I am, baby.”
She pulls away from me, shaking her head. “Very funny, Justin. Now let’s just find something, and leave.”
Laughing, I hand her an underwear set. “Why don’t you go try this on?”
“Because first of all, it’s a horrific color. Second of all, it has less cloth to it than a hair tie, and thirdly, I don’t wear thongs, on principle alone,” she replies, rejecting the set with one glance before returning to gazing at a mannequin in disgust.
“Why not? You do sometimes,” I defend, holding up the bra and thong again.
“Only when I must.”
“You mean you wouldn’t do it for me?” I attempt the Timberlake pout, which clearly has no effect on her. “Even for my birthday?”
“I believe the singing around and dancing naked thing is the job of a stripper,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “I’ll get you one of those for your birthday if you want.”
“Why won’t you do it?”
“It’s not my style,” she grimaces, taking another glance at the thong. “I would look like a whale."
"No you wouldn't," I scold. "You know you look great naked."
She blushes, but quickly tries to hide it. "And plus, thongs give you yeast infections.”
“Yeast?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Isn’t that the stuff in bread?”
She nods. “They put it in, but its denatured by the heat when the bread is baked,” she replies automatically, carrying on before I have the chance to tease her about sounding like a textbook. “However, for females, that is not the case, and it becomes an infection.” She wrinkles her nose. “And it’s not nice.”
I shudder visibly. I hate it when females overload the information for you. Just last week, Cat explained why tampons have little groove thingies in them, and that it all contributed to, ‘easier application’. Bleurgh.
Cat must sense this, and continues, “So think, Justin. Every time you dated a girl that wore thongs, you were going out with a slice of toast.”
“Cat, that’s enough!” I protest, a million and one thoughts, each as revolting as the next, racing through my mind.
She grins. “Still want me to buy that?”
I shake my head and put it back on the rack. “Hell no. Your little half thong thingies are just fine.”
She laughs. “Half thong thingies?”
I nod. “You know…those things.”
She giggles and kisses my head. “I know what you meant.” She wraps her arms around my neck and sighs. “Do you wanna go home now?”
I grin. “Hey, there are other things apart from thongs to buy here, my dearest.”
“What, like whips and chains?” she mutters, raising an eyebrow.
“You got it,” I wink at her, before grabbing her hand and pulling her towards another section of the shop.
I’ve made it my personal mission to leave this shop with at least one bit of sexy lingerie, and better yet, Cat’s going to feel great in it.
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