When her housekeeper Elena left Carol's bag of shit outside the guestroom and Helen tripped over it on her way to make coffee in her pretty kitchen with the tectonic islands, she knew it had to go. It could easily just go in the trash. It probably should have gone there three and a half weeks ago. But there was still a lot of anger, and seeing the horrified look on Carol's face really needed to happen. She couldn't let this whole thing drop without that one last kick in the gut. There was that old saying about never kicking a man when he was down but that person had obviously never met Helen Basch. Kicking the daylights out of fallen men (and women) was her specialty. And besides, it still stung. That whole being cheated on thing, especially since it involved the ugly British beanpole.
Carrying the bag into work had been a ceremonious affair. Calling that Brit butch into her office and dumping it onto her lap had just been the icing on the cake.
"What's this?" There was little in Beverly's voice beyond suspicion, but the second octave she reached attempted to hide that with curiosity.
"A present. For your girlfriend."
"She's not—"
"Save it. I told you I so don't care. I'm over it."
"Clearly," Beverly managed to whisper in disbelief with a quirk of her stupid eyebrow. But no one was better at raised eyebrows and pointed stares of death than Helen. She returned the look with no comment for quite some time. Had her husband been present, Beverly likely wouldn't have been quite as smarmy. She made a note to always invite Sean in future to avoid this sort of irritation.
"Anyway," she continued with a low tone of warning. "Tell her when you see her that it's here and I want it gone. If she doesn't come for it in 2 days, I'll throw all of her cheap hand creams and ugly blouses in the dumpster out back where you two had your little dalliances."
"There were no—"
"Right." Helen drew out the word as long as possible. She threw in another unimpressed glare again just for good measure.
After a moment's pause, Beverly suspiciously peeked inside the bag, as if she didn't believe the contents where as she was told. "And you can't tell her yourself?" Oh god, she just sounded so snotty her voice was like nails on a chalkboard and Helen repressed an irritated shudder.
That was the thing. Helen hadn't even tried. Not once. At first she just couldn't stand the thought of having to speak to that lilting, squeaky mouse voice stumbling over simple and pathetic sentences. Then pride took over. Not a single call? Now, that was just rude. The little coward scampered off and couldn't face the music. Nothing screamed 'I'm guilty!' like running away with a tail tucked between the legs. "Obviously," Helen began as if talking to a particularly dimwitted banana. "I am not speaking to Carol."
"So, she hasn't rung you either?" A look of consternation passed over the older woman's face. It was the first genuine expression Helen had seen from the woman in quite some time. "Odd. Because, although I'm sure you won't believe this, I've not heard a peep from her since you fired her." And then that unbearable unctuous tone was back in full force and Helen dug her nails into her own palm to temper her rage.
Helen leaned back in her chair, staring intently at the Limey shrew as she idly chewed the end of her pen. "You're right. I don't believe you." But really, she did. A little tiny bit. There were things that were starting to wriggle out that had her doubting her previously resolute claims. Maybe 'spectacular paranoia' had been a slightly accurate. "And I didn't fire her. She quit." The coward. Fit perfectly with her avoidant personality.
Beverly nodded slowly, almost smirking in distaste. Almost. But even she wouldn't be that stupid. "Well, as much as I would love to indulge your fantasies further, I… can't help you. I don't know where Carol is, I don't know why she's not answering calls." She clapped her hands together with some air of finality or defeat and a mincingly forced smile.
Professional cordiality could only stretch so far and both parties recognized that the end was near. Even with the addition of Tim as showrunner for The Opposite of Us, the Brit bitch had realized her position although mired with one misery after the next, was fairly safe within the network. Plus, it was just more fun to keep her dangling around, to taunt and punish whenever running budget numbers became boring. (The budget was so much more interesting when Carol was around, propped up, legs splayed open on her desk as Helen put her hands and mouth to much better use.)
Lust was such an inconvenience, she mused, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. And love was a pain in the fucking ass. She glared at Beverly one last time. It was all her fault with that stupid lesbian haircut, smug sarcasm, and annoying permascowl. "Don't you have a show to write?"
Another fake smile. "Of course," she intoned in that obnoxious accent of hers and carefully placed Carol's bag of shit back on Helen's desk, patting it timidly like a feral cat. Without a word of goodbye, Beverly was gone.
Helen picked her suddenly uncomfortable panties out of her crotch and scowled deeply at that fucking bag of crap that still smelled like Carol.