Serrated Edges

Chapter 5

Tonight he had gone up her condo to remind her to wear the engagement ring in public. She resented it so much that she'd remove it every chance she got. Now the public had noticed, so he had to do something.

Wear the f*cking ring, Meng. Kelangan makita ng mga sponsors.

No.

She grips the vodka bottle, clinging on to it like a precious object. She needs to drink again.

Don't think ikaw lang ang nahihirapan dito, he reminds her coldly..

Hindi ka naman nahihirapan, she scoffs.

Don't bring her into this.

Jesus, RJ, you are such a whore. Si Jill pa talaga.

At least si Jill hindi adik.

She nearly flings the bottle at his perfect, expressionless face but stops cold. How much was that face? 5 million from Belo alone? How much did it cost them to be together? 200 million pesos? The wedding would rake in another cold 300 million in deals and sponsorships.

If they got around producing another child and looking like a healthy, happy family, it would be another easy 100 million in milk deals and child care products alone.

Oh, ano? Sige, tapon mo yan.

With herculean effort, she puts the bottle back in the cabinet.

Ayoko. Sayang.

Remember Meng, you owe me, he reminds her with clenched fists.

I don't owe you anything, RJ. I covered for you, too, she shoots back.

The week after they lost Rose, she had fallen from the stage in an awards show. Fans found it cute and clumsy, but RJ was near enough to smell her breath and knew better. He kissed her anyway.

She'd slipped and tumbled down the fire exit of Broadway in one episode. People started to talk then. But the rumors died as quickly as they surfaced. After all, who could think that the iconic pink bag of Yaya Dub held at least three small bottles of hard liquor everyday? Yet he played the part to the hilt. Ever patient and loving, holding her hand and kissing her banged-up knee, playing the part like all well-paid talents do.

He had picked her up after she nearly totalled her car on an ill-advised drunken drive home to Bulacan. Paid off the policemen to keep it quiet. Took her home. Was once again hailed as the perfect boyfriend, her knight in shining armor for months on end. He was her rescuer, and no one knew better.

Little did they know that the pambansang knight had bought his own condo unit so he could sate his inexplicable need to sleep around. The women came easy to him; they offered themselves and he took them. Some nights the condo would be too lonely, so he'd go out and seek company. In the last three days he'd been with Hana the production assistant, Lois the married brand manager. And Chynna from his styling team. Or at least he thinks her name is Chynna. Then Jill afterwards, if he still can't sleep. There was little point in committing to anyone. All of them blended into a blur of skin and folds anyway.

When the women leaked their scandalous photos and videos with RJ, Maine would slyly hint that she was his partner in them. When he showed up at events disheveled, she'd latch herself onto him, "accidentally" touching him in intimate places while in public, all to throw the gossip and fanfic mills into a tizzy. She grew more vocal about her feelings for him anytime a camera was directed at her. She blogged about him, tweeted about him, staged a hundred more amusing SnapChats that seemed to be directed at him (it helped that she was drunk in a number of them). She too, made sure that she was seen as the perfect girlfriend, and no one knew any better.

Lie after lie after lie. Two could play that game, after all.

If f*cking and working had become RJ's new world, Maine had her world as well. A world of Vicodin, Valium, Xanax, and many other little pills were friends she now got to know very well. If it promised numbness, she took it at night. If it helped her work and be alert, she took it during the day. Sometimes she teetered on the edge of an overdose, but she always woke up. When she did, she would shut herself in the condo for days, shunning contact, paralyzed by fear and depression. Her family and friends could no longer reach out to her. They begged RJ to reach out to her many times, and every single time, he would smile and promise to "look after her." This usually meant sending a rude text asking if she was still alive. She never bothered answering them. He never bothered checking if she did, anyway. All she wanted was to be invisible and retreat from the world. After all, she had already lost her mind to grief. There was nothing left to lose.

The chasm between them had grown wider and wider until the existence of the other simply served as a dark memorial to the deepest pain they had ever known. The daily spectre of disrespect further cemented the distance between them: she had deemed him a whore, he had deemed her weak. Still they carried on for two long and lonely years, with no one else to could talk to or confide such an explosive secret to.

As management scrambled to build their renewed love story, they staged more sightings of them together. RJ kisses her more frequently in public now, making sure he never grimaces when her mouth tastes like whiskey and ashtrays. Because that's what actors do, he tells her. And he was nothing but an actor now.

She kisses him back eagerly now, now able to feign enthusiasm even when she knows full well that his mouth had just been on another woman's body. But she doesn't complain either. That's what actors do, she reminds him. And she was nothing but an actress now, too.

Through it all, the directive from management remained clear: Keep the public swooning despite your private rage and resentment for each other. These are lovely lies we are manufacturing, and showbiz is nothing but the conjurer of lies after all.

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CHAPTER 6