Post by stella on May 10, 2010 22:08:17 GMT -5
[Muahaha! First Australia thread. ^_^]
Margaret James McKenna, daughter of the CEO of QANTAS, was lovely. She was also hunted.
Her father, Alan McKenna, was an Aussie native from a Brisbane suburb and had already come from a well establish background, since his father had been the son of Sir Howard Walter Florey, who was partly responsible for the development of penicillin, among other notable names. Her mother's side of the family was no less impressive, with ancestors such as two past Prime Ministers of Australia. She'd been raised mostly by nannies and tutors, since her mother was a socialite ever since her brief career as a model and actress, and her father was always very busy with work. She'd learned useless skills like horseback riding, a bit of archery, the detailed history of Australia, art with primarily watercolours and pastels, French, and German, with a dash of Spanish and Japanese.
Encouraged by her mother, she'd put in her own few years of modeling off and on, interrupted by a short break at rehabilitation for anorexia, followed by small parts in several movies, a co-star role in a movie that turned out well, and having her face on a few products, most notably a perfume. It seemed Jamie had achieved her own share of limelight, but that's when disaster struck.
Jamie had been in Los Angeles, staying in a spacious rented apartment that her mother had visited twice and her father not at all (after checking to approve, not that Jamie had requested his approval). A crazed fan had broken in while she'd been sleeping and had managed to abduct her, much to her shock and horror. She'd been in the midst of a photoshoot for a magazine, but had bluntly told them she needed a few days off to recover from a nasty cold, and had promptly taken a bit more than the recommended dose of Nyquil and had slept through most of the next three days, which was why she didn't awaken when her front door was busted in - that, and she couldn't even hear the bell ring from her bedroom, so nice and spacey was the residence.
Margaret James McKenna was no Pamela Anderson or Tom Cruise; she didn't have legions of followers or dozens of fansites dedicated to her, but she definitely did have some fans out there, mostly from the action blockbuster movie where her costume wardrobe had been specifically designed to flatter what was already an enviable figure. She'd woken up to being grabbed and dragged out of bed and hadn't been able to properly defend herself. It mightn't have mattered; the man wasn't particularly huge, but seemed to have planned the whole thing out well - even bringing in two other men to help him make sure she didn't put up too much of a fight. Bound and gagged, she'd been (surprisingly) carefully led down the back stairs that no one used (it was a tall building with lavish elevators) to a van. The mastermind didn't apologise once; rather he would constantly mutter to himself how the world didn't appreciate her and that even she didn't appreciate herself. How she'd given in to the demands of high society and how he'd lost respect for her, as a result.
Perhaps, if he hadn't lost respect for her, the time she spent in captivity would've been more comfortable. Or eliminated entirely. She'd been kept in a tent, with a small plastic toilet to relieve herself, like the portable ones found in small pop-up style RV campers for those midnight emergencies. The inside floor of the tent had been lined with newspapers, all very old and American, mostly the New York Times. She didn't know where they were; they'd driven for hours and hours, punctuated only by short stops to pee. They'd let her out of the car to do it, but they'd always been watching, and it had made her feel so ashamed of herself and thoroughly embarrassed.
She never saw their faces, except for one glimpse of one of the two accomplices. He'd been intimidating, appearance-wise, standing over six feet and included most likely for his obvious strength. Almost two miserable months had been spent in that tent, inside that room, where ever it'd been. Six weeks without sun or stars, with two cheap frozen meals each day and a bottle of water to sustain her. It'd been a depressing existence, and most of it she didn't want to describe to people. They didn't understand. They didn't get how strange she'd felt, when she almost wanted them to like her, and how for feeling that, she'd felt ashamed. It'd been the work of a small, private agency that worked with kidnappers to release victims through minimal police involvement. The Australian embassy had been outraged by the whole thing, and she'd been on the news, both in America and Australia.
They'd only caught one accomplice, while the mastermind and muscular accomplice got away virtually unscathed.
Jamie had stayed the night in a hospital to make sure she was okay, put on an IV for dehydration, and released the next day with orders of bedrest. She couldn't bring herself to even go in her LA apartment; she'd gone straight home to Sydney, the long-ago photoshoot forgotten by almost everyone. Back home in Sydney, she'd gone back to her normal life, making regular bets on her uncle's racehorses and shopping at the most expensive shops with girlfriends, with the occasional fancy dinner out with a male acquaintance.
Three months later, the letter came.
I'll be back. You just wait. You'll get to visit that tent again, and I'll get my money.
Perhaps it could've been a harmless threat. Just something to ignore. Except... only a select few people, maybe a handful, knew the conditions she'd been kept in. Only those select few knew about the tent. Yes, they'd managed to rescue her without paying the exorbitant ransom. And it seemed the mastermind behind her recent experience had not given up hope for obtaining his goal. He'd gotten her once, he could get her again.
That's when her father bluntly informed her that he'd hired a bodyguard for her. She'd raised a fuss and caused a scene (though being in the dining room, only the cook and housekeeper had seen), she'd yelled and demanded and insisted and argued, but it was futile. Even her mother had sided with her father, and her mother always waved things off as unimportant, or not worth doing anything about.
Four days later, a Wednesday, the man was supposed to arrive. Jamie didn't know what to expect, but so far, she wanted to never even meet him at all.
Margaret James McKenna, daughter of the CEO of QANTAS, was lovely. She was also hunted.
Her father, Alan McKenna, was an Aussie native from a Brisbane suburb and had already come from a well establish background, since his father had been the son of Sir Howard Walter Florey, who was partly responsible for the development of penicillin, among other notable names. Her mother's side of the family was no less impressive, with ancestors such as two past Prime Ministers of Australia. She'd been raised mostly by nannies and tutors, since her mother was a socialite ever since her brief career as a model and actress, and her father was always very busy with work. She'd learned useless skills like horseback riding, a bit of archery, the detailed history of Australia, art with primarily watercolours and pastels, French, and German, with a dash of Spanish and Japanese.
Encouraged by her mother, she'd put in her own few years of modeling off and on, interrupted by a short break at rehabilitation for anorexia, followed by small parts in several movies, a co-star role in a movie that turned out well, and having her face on a few products, most notably a perfume. It seemed Jamie had achieved her own share of limelight, but that's when disaster struck.
Jamie had been in Los Angeles, staying in a spacious rented apartment that her mother had visited twice and her father not at all (after checking to approve, not that Jamie had requested his approval). A crazed fan had broken in while she'd been sleeping and had managed to abduct her, much to her shock and horror. She'd been in the midst of a photoshoot for a magazine, but had bluntly told them she needed a few days off to recover from a nasty cold, and had promptly taken a bit more than the recommended dose of Nyquil and had slept through most of the next three days, which was why she didn't awaken when her front door was busted in - that, and she couldn't even hear the bell ring from her bedroom, so nice and spacey was the residence.
Margaret James McKenna was no Pamela Anderson or Tom Cruise; she didn't have legions of followers or dozens of fansites dedicated to her, but she definitely did have some fans out there, mostly from the action blockbuster movie where her costume wardrobe had been specifically designed to flatter what was already an enviable figure. She'd woken up to being grabbed and dragged out of bed and hadn't been able to properly defend herself. It mightn't have mattered; the man wasn't particularly huge, but seemed to have planned the whole thing out well - even bringing in two other men to help him make sure she didn't put up too much of a fight. Bound and gagged, she'd been (surprisingly) carefully led down the back stairs that no one used (it was a tall building with lavish elevators) to a van. The mastermind didn't apologise once; rather he would constantly mutter to himself how the world didn't appreciate her and that even she didn't appreciate herself. How she'd given in to the demands of high society and how he'd lost respect for her, as a result.
Perhaps, if he hadn't lost respect for her, the time she spent in captivity would've been more comfortable. Or eliminated entirely. She'd been kept in a tent, with a small plastic toilet to relieve herself, like the portable ones found in small pop-up style RV campers for those midnight emergencies. The inside floor of the tent had been lined with newspapers, all very old and American, mostly the New York Times. She didn't know where they were; they'd driven for hours and hours, punctuated only by short stops to pee. They'd let her out of the car to do it, but they'd always been watching, and it had made her feel so ashamed of herself and thoroughly embarrassed.
She never saw their faces, except for one glimpse of one of the two accomplices. He'd been intimidating, appearance-wise, standing over six feet and included most likely for his obvious strength. Almost two miserable months had been spent in that tent, inside that room, where ever it'd been. Six weeks without sun or stars, with two cheap frozen meals each day and a bottle of water to sustain her. It'd been a depressing existence, and most of it she didn't want to describe to people. They didn't understand. They didn't get how strange she'd felt, when she almost wanted them to like her, and how for feeling that, she'd felt ashamed. It'd been the work of a small, private agency that worked with kidnappers to release victims through minimal police involvement. The Australian embassy had been outraged by the whole thing, and she'd been on the news, both in America and Australia.
They'd only caught one accomplice, while the mastermind and muscular accomplice got away virtually unscathed.
Jamie had stayed the night in a hospital to make sure she was okay, put on an IV for dehydration, and released the next day with orders of bedrest. She couldn't bring herself to even go in her LA apartment; she'd gone straight home to Sydney, the long-ago photoshoot forgotten by almost everyone. Back home in Sydney, she'd gone back to her normal life, making regular bets on her uncle's racehorses and shopping at the most expensive shops with girlfriends, with the occasional fancy dinner out with a male acquaintance.
Three months later, the letter came.
I'll be back. You just wait. You'll get to visit that tent again, and I'll get my money.
Perhaps it could've been a harmless threat. Just something to ignore. Except... only a select few people, maybe a handful, knew the conditions she'd been kept in. Only those select few knew about the tent. Yes, they'd managed to rescue her without paying the exorbitant ransom. And it seemed the mastermind behind her recent experience had not given up hope for obtaining his goal. He'd gotten her once, he could get her again.
That's when her father bluntly informed her that he'd hired a bodyguard for her. She'd raised a fuss and caused a scene (though being in the dining room, only the cook and housekeeper had seen), she'd yelled and demanded and insisted and argued, but it was futile. Even her mother had sided with her father, and her mother always waved things off as unimportant, or not worth doing anything about.
Four days later, a Wednesday, the man was supposed to arrive. Jamie didn't know what to expect, but so far, she wanted to never even meet him at all.