Rita Hayworth Didn't Eat Burgers

by Morgan Case

Rita Hayworth stretched her long, stockinged legs on the train from Eastbourne, drumming her fingers to "Put the Blame on Mame" on her iPod. She peered through the rain-streaked window at the receding town and the orange glow in the sky above the home of the lying bastard she was leaving behind.

She was heading for Brighton to meet Peter. Given the time available, she thought she'd done well: dyed her hair, put it in a fingerwave and found a side-slit floral dress with a wide sash in Oxfam. It might remind him of one she'd worn in Gilda; Peter said it was his favourite film.

--u look like rita hayworth, anyone ever tell u that?

--Yes, darling, of course! Many people have said I could be her twin.

--she was so sexy. what is ur name by the way?

--My real name is Margerita Cansino

--yeah that was her real name. but what's yours?

--That IS my real name. I have the paper to prove it.

They talked for an hour. The next night in the chatroom he told her that if she visited him he would treat her to a meal.

--That sounds like a date. I'm a star--I hope you can afford somewhere good?

-- i get it free from work

--Please don't tell me you're a chef. You're not, are you, darling?

--no, i'm the owner

He must be loaded. His place was called--what else?--Dante's, on the Palace Pier. She'd forgotten to ask what kind of restaurant it was. Mexican? American? Italian? Perhaps she would have spaghetti with carbonara sauce and one of those salads with mozzarella and olives, washed down with Chianti. Or Tex Mex: refried beans, nachos with guacamole, a huge sizzling enchilada and cold beer. Meanwhile she chewed a Kit Kat, sweeping up the crumbs with a travel wipe. She hadn't eaten since breakfast in the café--anaemic chips and an undercooked sausage she'd broken up and pushed into the sugar bowl in disgust. She pulled out a mirror, checked her lipstick, then smoked a cigarette.

At nine-thirty she disembarked, struggling with her large bag. She pulled out another cigarette and struck a match but then had second thoughts; first impressions were important. She slid it back into the pack and twisted the burning match between her fingers, watching the flickering yellow flame. She threw it down and pressed on. It was cold for April, but emerging from the station she was pleased to see it had stopped raining.

She looked for Peter. She'd seen his photo but that couldn't be trusted. He'd be wearing a leather jacket and holding a copy of Being Rita Hayworth. She scanned the crowds until she located him. He was leaning against a railing, the book under his arm, chewing gum and watching some French girls milling around the taxi rank. He was tall and dark, as promised, but not slim; he was horribly skinny. A piece of tissue paper was stuck under his jaw with a speck of dried blood on it. His black hair was stiffly gelled and his nose even larger than it had appeared in the picture. He hadn't spotted her yet. She sidled closer. Definitely the same person, give or take ten years. She flicked a lacquered fingernail against her teeth. She could still turn back. Her stomach rumbled.

"You must be Peter," she called out, beaming. She rolled her hips as she swung towards him.

They strolled towards the sea, through crowds of early clubbers and late commuters. He wasn't as chatty in person as he'd been online. That suited her fine. He strode ahead; she struggled to keep pace. Occasionally he flicked his head back, tutting impatiently as if wishing she would keep up. His glances, darted at every plain Jane passing by, didn't escape her notice. Her stomach growled. She saw the pier, proud and gaudy, as they waited for the traffic lights to change by a small cluster of backpacker cafés and shops. One was an Internet café, she noticed. As they whisked through the pier's entrance the smell of coffee and vanilla crêpes teased her. A row of foreign students on a bench laughed openly as she tottered over the uneven boards in her high heels, the wind wrapping her slit dress up around her bum and destroying her carefully set curls. She scowled at Peter's back.

The Rock Shop. The Jewellery Box. Not Designer Sunglasses--Not Designer Prices. Indian Palmist. Where was the restaurant?

"Here we are, Rita. What would you like?"

She gaped. They were standing at a stall with a banner: Dante's Burgers.

"You must be joking," she hissed.

"No, it's all right. You can have whatever you want."

"You disgusting creep! You made me think you had a restaurant. Rita Hayworth didn't eat burgers! Do you really think I came all this way for a burger?" She glared at him, breathing hard, then lifting her chin, trotted briskly back towards the exit, trembling with cold and fury.

"I thought you came all this way because you wanted to meet me, sweetheart," he answered, catching her up and clutching her arm. She halted.

"Yes, but--"

"Let's get something to eat, then a couple of drinks, we can go back to mine,--"

"I can't. I have to catch the last train home."

"That's not what you said last night." He took a step forwards. She backed away, watching as he advanced, until she was pressed up against the humbug stall's rear wall.

"Something's come up. Family problems. I bought a return--I have to be home tonight."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," he said, raising his arm over her shoulder, resting on the stripy wooden wall. His other hand stroked her cheek. She flinched and tried to push him off.

"No, don't," she rebuked him. He leaned against her, grinning, thrusting his face towards her. "C'mon, baby--" The hand dropped and groped her breast.

"Leave me alone, you freak!" she shrieked, and stamped sharply on his trainer with her stilettoed heel. He yelped in pain and fell back, thrown off balance. She ran, racing off the pier to the Internet café. After making sure he hadn't followed, she logged on quickly and was soon chatting with someone she'd met online two nights earlier.

--ur right that's a good one. but my fave's You'll Never Get Rich

--That was a good one, wasn't it?

--thanks for the pic -- u do look like her. i'd like to meet u sometime do u ever go to Lewes?

--Why of course I look like her. I'm Rita reborn darling. And...I have nothing in my diary tonight.

The arrangements made, she left. She was still starving but at least she might have somewhere to stay the night. Lewes wasn't far, only a few stops. Everything would be fine as long as she caught the last train out of town. She checked her watch. The train left in forty-five minutes. She ran until she found a kebab shop and bought a doner and some chips with the last of her money. She ate hastily, blowing on the food to cool it. Then she asked to use the toilet. In the cramped cubicle, she rummaged in the assortment of charity-shop garments in her bag. You'll Never Get Rich. She plumped for a short black dress with long satin gloves and a wide-brimmed but rather crumpled hat. Squinting into the cracked mirror she adjusted her make up and dabbed on a little Lavern Apple Blossom. Five minutes later, ignoring the stares of the staff, she hurried out and back to the burger stall.

The pier was deserted now; everything shut. From her handbag she pulled out a small notebook, some tissues, her single ticket to Brighton and an unwanted nightclub flyer that had been thrust into her hand on the way out of the station. She arranged them in a pile by the burger stall's entrance. Then, shielding it from the wind, she drew out a match and ignited the little heap. Once it was burning well, she pushed it carefully through the gap under the door. The windy weather would help; she hoped it wouldn't rain. When she was sure the fire would catch, she ran as fast as she could for the station.

She had ten minutes and it was all uphill. A suited man with a briefcase near the station entrance stared at her as she tore past, heaving for breath and stumbling on her clattering high heels. Cursing, she forced herself to a more sedate pace, brushed her hair back and smiled regally at him. She cast a casual glance towards the platform.

Her train stood at the far end, doors slamming. She had no money for a ticket; she'd have to wing it. Skittering along the concourse she tried to increase speed without losing grace.

As she drew near, the whistle blew. The train shuddered and moved off. She broke into an ungainly run, panting feebly, "No, no, you can't--." But it was too late.

She watched the train pull out of the station and slowly disappear like a worm down a wormhole.

It started to rain again.

The Author

Morgan Case is a hoarder of 35 years experience with large stashes of wrapping paper, chocolate, stripy shirts and books. He is also a Computer Studies graduate living in Brighton, England, with a tyrannical, Borg-like cat called Seven. Jazz and baking are his passions and he battles constantly against the flab.