Vintage Love

Vintage Love

Agay Llanera

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Agay Llanera, 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for you personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contact the author: [email protected]

http://agayisagirl.blogspot.com

Cover art for this edition designed by Gerry Isaac

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For Kal--you'll be forced to read this when you're old enough

Prologue: The End

Life is filled with expiration dates. Some, like chocolates, medicine, and makeup have theirs clearly stamped, while others prefer to keel over without warning, upsetting you with their demise.

Cases in Point:

1. My shih tzu Poochie gagging on a chicken bone someone had fed her at my seventh birthday party. She gasped out her last breath, leaving behind my first lesson on mortality.

2. My laptop conking out while I was writing the second chapter of my college thesis. I went through all five stages of grief as I carried the poor thing from one repair shop to the next, until finally accepting that I was, in fact, the poor thing, as I had to start my work from scratch.

3. My first and only relationship ending after graduation. Benj and I were together for three blissful years before he left for the States to pursue his master’s degree. We gamely continued the long-distance romance; but after just a month of FaceTiming, he called it quits.

And now this.

Though I knew Mama Maring’s expiration date could come anytime soon because she was pushing eighty and was severely weakened by a spell of pneumonia, her death still came as a shock.

I was in the thick of work on the day it happened—in the middle of an afternoon shoot, right beside the train tracks intersecting España in Manila. My celebrity guest was late, a twenty-something heartthrob basking in the recent success of his indie film, where he portrayed a troubled youth growing up in this very setting.

My idea was to film the actor spending the day with his character’s real-life counterpart—twenty-year-old Brian whose family was one of those that settled right beside the tracks. He had put himself through high school and was now supporting his parents and siblings.

I had to admit, I wasn’t sure if the artsy concept would fly with my boss. But she gave the nod without her usual nitpicking. Our late night show, Profiles, typically featured politicians, CEOs, and entrepreneurs. I guess she figured local showbiz’s current hottie would bring in the much-needed ratings.

So being the excitable puppy that I was, I volunteered to be totally hands-on for this shoot, mentally raking up my film class notes to make sure everything was shot perfectly, even sketching storyboards to visualize the shots.

But of course, I couldn’t control everything. Aside from my tardy host, the sky threatened rain. And rain meant filming indoors, which meant I had to forget about my storyboard and come up with a new shooting sequence on the spot.

After what seemed an eternity, a massive van pulled over, and out bounced a beefy woman whose flushed face was framed by a tangled nest of curls.

Sorry, sorry! She gripped my hand and shook it, along with the rest of my body. We just wrapped up an interview with BBC, and it took longer than we predicted. Where should we go?

I started leading the way when Jeff Javier himself stepped out, looking impossibly suave and sexy in a fitted white tee and faded jeans, causing the crowd, cordoned off by the linked arms of the barangay captain’s minions, to heave in massive squeals of delight.

After smiling and waving to the crowd, he stretched out his hand to me. Hello. I’m Jeff.

The sun was nowhere in sight, but I positively melted.

His mestizo features were flawless; not a single pore visible on that creamy skin. My eyes drifted from his mocha eyes to that upturned nose, down to those pearly whites framed by the softest strawberry lips—and got stuck there.

I tore my eyes from his full mouth and met his gaze. "Hi. I’m Crissy, executive producer of Profiles." I smoothed back my messy ponytail and wished that, for once, I had ditched my default shooting attire: a loose shirt, waterproof cargo pants (highly functional but sadly unflattering), and battered sneakers.

But this was no time for fashion regrets.

I faced the crew, clapping my hands. Okay, everyone! We’ll be rolling in a few! I flicked on the megaphone and addressed the general public. "Make sure that both you and your cellphones are switched to silent mode. Please no unnecessary noise while we’re filming."

There were some shuffling and murmuring as everyone got their phones and punched buttons. I couldn’t help grinning when I caught Jeff doing the same with his iPhone.

* * * *

Surprisingly the shoot proceeded smoothly, with only a few minor snags, including a screaming fan who managed to break through the human barrier, avidly clinging to Jeff for dear life. But Jeff was a pure professional. He laughed with the crowd as the hysterical woman was peeled off him.

In three hours, we had shot everything we needed. By the time the first fat raindrops started to fall, we were almost done with packing up. After Jeff’s manager offered her cheek for a good-bye beso-beso, Jeff followed suit, a film of sweat glistening on his smooth forehead.

I flinched a little before meeting his warm cheek with mine. Benj would often have a sheen of oil in that very same spot. He was conscious about it, so I had always kept a pack of rice paper tissues in my bag so I could blot out the shine whenever it appeared.

I shook off the memory, and climbed into our van, adjusted the aircon vent toward me, and sank into the seat. The euphoria of filming wore off, and I realized how tired I was. I was about to nod off when I remembered my phone was still on silent mode. I fished it out of my bag and spotted three missed calls and a text from my mom:

Mama Maring passed away this PM. Please call ASAP.

Chapter 1: Flashback

The first time I introduced Mama Maring to Benj, she knew right away how crazy in love I was.

Get married right away! she whispered when he excused himself to go to the washroom.

Mama! I laughed, half-giddy, half-appalled. Seventeen isn’t exactly marrying age.

In my day, it was. She looked at me slyly. But maybe it’s better if you wait until you graduate.

Mama Maring never married. Mom told me that she fell in love only once, in her teens, with a man five years her senior. But the engagement fell through when her fiancé was killed in a motorcycle accident.

She was the only grandparent who had survived long enough to meet me—though technically, she was a grandaunt, a sister of my real grandma, the mother of my mom.

But this was not the memory I shared in my eulogy. Instead I talked about how I would always remember Mama Maring as the perfectly coiffed grandmother, who regularly had home-serviced perms and pedicures. I talked about her matching handbags and belts and shoes, her unwavering loyalty to Revlon cosmetics, and how she enjoyed a flourishing career in a company that supplied clothes to major department stores, climbing her way from being fashion assistant to head of operations.

I talked about her fierce independence. Even after retirement, she had refused to live with relatives and rented her own apartment. Each time she got sick, she hired a nurse to look after her. She was way ahead of her time, I said, a role model for women across generations.

* * * *

What’s that? Bea stole a sideways glance at my drink before refocusing on the road. It was a breeze driving in Makati on an early Sunday morning; we were the only humans visible on the street, save for the occasional jogger panting on the pavement.

Caramel frapuccino with white chocolate chips and extra whipped cream, sprinkled with cocoa. I offered her my venti cup.

She took a sip and made a face. Honestly, Crissy, this isn’t coffee. It’s a calorie-bomb that explodes into flab. Not to mention, it’s outrageously overpriced.

Self-consciously, I stretched my loose top over my bulging waistline.

I deserve it, I insisted. It was hell week at work.

Bea rolled