Indelible Ink (20 page)

‘What did they get?’

‘The white rose of Jesus or something. That design wasn’t mine. The other one had a crucifix on each arm, high up. I loved those, I based them on designs that Christian pilgrims to
the shrine of Loreto used to get hundreds of years ago. Interesting women. Very religious.’

‘I admire those female priests so much. They’re well ahead of us on that count.’

‘See what I mean?’ Rhys laughed. ‘You’re
such
a Catholic.’

She snapped off a length of Glad Wrap and taped it over the tattoo.

‘What other older women do you tattoo?’

‘A biker’s wife. I don’t know. I don’t notice the age, I notice the designs.’

‘The designs are all yours.’

‘
Now
they are, they didn’t use to be. God, Marie, you wouldn’t believe all the people with their little Celtic thingies or they want Sanskrit or Chinese for
love
or
healing
? The place I used to work had heaps of walk-ins like that, most places do. They bring you these characters and you say,
Um, I don’t think it means love
and
they’re like
Yeh it does, yeh it does!
So you tattoo all this stuff that probably means
fuck off, whitey
or
shoe shop
or whatever, thinking, It’s your funeral,
baby.’ Rhys took Marie’s blue shirt off its hook and held it open. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Silk, is it?’

‘It’s very old. It’s my favourite shirt.’

‘I’ve done about five different Kanji for
healing
,’ Rhys went on. ‘No wonder the world’s so sick.’

Marie put on her shirt. ‘I’ve decided on a passionfruit vine next. Down my arms.’

‘That’ll be very visible.’

‘Yes. I’ve decided I’m coming out.’

‘You want to stay on my cancellation list, I presume? You’ve used up all your appointments.’

‘Yes, always.’

At dusk Marie took the cones from the old man banksia and placed them on the Weber. She filled a bucket with water, mixed herself a lime bitters and soda, and stood by the
barbecue, tongs in hand, blowing on the cones till little flames licked their edges. Slowly the follicles opened in the heat. Next she soaked the charred cones in the bucket of water and left them
to dry, then she shook the seeds from the follicles, prising out the recalcitrant ones with a twig. Mopoke followed her as she worked, settling onto the flagging to watch her pot the seeds.
‘The old man will give birth to lots of little babies,’ she said to the cat as she rubbed the seeds between her fingers to remove their papery wings. ‘Yes, Mopoke! He
will!’

The soft, greasy charcoal from the banksia cones stayed around her cuticles for days.

In the first year of the war, Blanche had made her mark. Within a week of the Opera House sails being protest painted with
NO WAR
, she had an ad up for Dulux outdoor
paving paint. It went to press and television, the latter a fifteen-second newsclip. She used an article in the
Herald
as well as Channel Nine’s hyperbolic report about activist
vandalism and the amount taxpayers would fork out to have the Opera House cleaned. Old-school simplicity married to new-school irony.
Next time use Dulux outdoor paving paint
, said the
copy
. Impossible to remove.

Cheeky. The advertisement had won awards all over the world. It was what really got Blanche noticed. Even her father had been on the phone raving. Terry had worried that Sydney Opera House would
object, but instead they were glad for the free publicity. And Terry had worried that Dulux would find it too notorious, but like almost half of Sydney the company’s marketing manager had
been to the anti-war rally in Hyde Park, and nobody could object to an ad that appealed across the board. When approached by people raising money for the activists’ court costs, Blanche had
politely declined, saying she was firmly non-partisan in her views.

Forever now the curving white sails of the Sydney Opera House daubed with the words
NO WAR
in red would be associated with Dulux, and Blanche. Everybody in Huston Alwick was queuing to
work with her when she was appointed a creative director. Blanche chose Lim, more for his sex appeal and exoticism than his copywriting talents. She chose Kate for similar reasons, and because she
still had a photograph on her desk of the painted sails. Kate was black and spoke in a tough Manchester accent and wore Gaultier jackets over tight ripped jeans and cowboy boots, and Lim was half
Vietnamese half Swedish with a broad Australian accent. All in all a formidably cool team.

Blanche sat up straight with her arms stretched either side in oblique curves so she resembled a bell. Three p.m., another lunch break at the desk eating chocolate and yoghurt, her back was
killing her. She had one leg longer than the other and her sacrum rotated, her shoulders tilted from scoliosis, and her right breast bone stuck out more than her left. Nothing could be done about
this, nor about the rib that continually popped out as a consequence. Blanche was condemned for life to the chiropractor, Nurofen and heat packs. She undid the top buttons of her shirt and glanced
at her sternum. Crooked as ever. She stretched into her bell pose, looking out the window at her patch of harbour. She envied Terry’s office for its view of the Opera House. Still, her view
wasn’t bad. It was like meditation: at this time of day if she sat still and watched the same spot for long enough, she would see the windows of the eastern suburbs gradually absorb the
afternoon sun till they glowed so brightly she had to squint.

Blanche had left her door open and Lim moved so quietly that he was standing beside her desk before she even noticed him. ‘Willy Wonka’s here.’

Blanche redid her lipstick, gathered her papers and walked down the corridor with Lim. He was twenty-nine years old and six foot two, his high school full-back physique already softening. His
thick black fringe hid lazy intelligent eyes. There was a flirtation in their rapport with a sexy undertone of threat. Lim was like a large sleek animal who swam alongside her as a buttress,
equally capable, Blanche knew, of flipping and crushing her any time. This made her power over him that much more exciting. He was a strong ally in meetings: men loved his laconic heftiness, women
his softness.

Kate was still at her desk, on facebook. ‘Hiya.’ She looked up vaguely.

‘Meeting.’

‘God, yeah, sorry.’

‘Let’s hope he likes it,’ Lim said as they approached the door. ‘This guy is so humourless. He honestly thinks his company’s recipe comes from a Nobel Prize
laboratory or something.’

‘Lim. Narva’s a good product. And he’ll love it.’

William was at the window, discussing the cricket with Terry. He was a surprisingly dowdy man, considering his job, all checked shirt and mismatched blazer and tousled curls.

‘William.’ Blanche moved forward, hand extended. ‘We’re in
love
with your chocolate. We’ve completely demolished everything you sent us. I feel like
I’ve discovered El Dorado,’ she said, addressing this to Terry. ‘Narva’s been going since 1806 and I’d never heard of it!’

‘It was confined to the East until recently.’

‘I’d
love
to go to Slovenia. I think it sounds fascinating.’

William smiled. ‘Narva’s from Estonia.’

‘Come and sit down, William,’ said Terry.

‘We’re really excited about working with a chocolate company,’ said Lim. ‘I read that cocoa beans can’t be cultivated on cleared land, so you need to conserve a
particular type of rainforest ecosystem around the plants for them to thrive.’

‘Really?’ William knitted his brows. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘Anybody for coffee?’ said Kate. Blanche pushed the tray of petits fours towards William, and after he refused took an éclair.

‘So, William.’ She held eye contact. ‘Chocolate. Gourmet chocolate like yours is essentially feminine. It’s elegant, special, we savour it. It’s associated with
luxury.’

‘Women crave it at that time of the month.’ Kate nodded at Blanche.

Blanche gritted her teeth. Terry sat back, foot propped on knee, smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was cultivating a hybrid of Beckham and Branson with his cropped beard.

William looked from one to the other. ‘We don’t want to alienate any portion of the market. We don’t want people to think this is just another piece of fuffy confectionery.
This is the highest-quality chocolate. It’s better than most foods you buy in health-food stores. It’s actually
good
for you.’

‘Exactly,’ said Blanche. ‘And that’s how we’ve framed it. Remember how attractive to
men
a feminine product can be, William.’

‘I switched to James Boag because of those seamed stockings,’ Lim chipped in. ‘Truly. How are those ads? And they’re
still
going.’

‘We’re using the concept of feminine in a broad contemporary sense.’ Blanche spread some papers out on the table. It was a good excuse to push the petits fours, which were
wiggling their little arses at her, out of reach. ‘What Kate means is that chocolate —
quality
chocolate like Narva — is full of magnesium. Muscle relaxant, heart tonic,
such a crucial mineral. Some scientific studies recommend a piece a day, as you would know, William. The reason we crave it is that we
need
it,
scientifically
.’

William watched her, nodding. ‘That’s right, that’s right.’

‘It’s an aphrodisiac for the same reason,’ said Lim.

‘I honestly get a little rush when I eat it,’ said Kate.

‘Kate? We’ve gone for an urban feel,’ said Blanche. ‘To do with the demographic in the areas where most of the billboards are. Also because we think there’s
potential for the Asian market.’

Kate hit PowerPoint and her first image came up, a man and woman in sepia tones, the man feeding the woman a piece of Narva, and Blanche forgave her everything because it was so well designed.
‘These are just roughs,’ said Kate.

‘It’s timeless,’ Blanche enthused. ‘Everybody loves the ’20s. Fun, excitement. Class.’

The next slide came up with the cocoa percentage, the company stamp and Blanche’s copy.
The love drug.

William looked over, tickled but unsure. ‘I was really keen on trying a new angle here. And using the quality of our ingredients to our advantage. Chocolate always has such a
soft
image.’

Blanche pursed her lips. She crossed her legs and felt her rib pop out. ‘William, science is
boring
. Until you show the effect it has on our actual bodies, the things around us. The
things we touch and see and
feel
. Narva
is
a love drug, quite literally. But we don’t need to go into the details. Nobody has the time to read them. People are sceptical.
They’re stressed from a long day at work. They have enough energy to be seduced by this beautiful couple then maybe to take in the amount of cocoa and how long you’ve been making the
chocolate. They just want to relax. They want the comfort and luxury of Narva. They’ll see a report somewhere else that tells them about the merits of pure cocoa. They’ll make an
automatic association.’

‘But then anyone making chocolate with a high cocoa content can say the same thing. Anyone can make that claim.’

Blanche leant forward. ‘But they’re not. Only
you
are.’

William turned back to look at the image. Behind Blanche’s shoulder blade, a bullet wound began to throb. She could have thrown her arms around William when he turned back and said,
‘I like it.’

She ushered everyone out of the room, then discreetly helped herself to a profiterole.

‘You,’ said Lim, on their way back down the corridor, ‘are having a Negroni on me after work.’

‘I can’t, Lim. Hugh and me promised each other we’d have dinner together. Great work by the way, Kate.’

Kate grinned. ‘There’s a new barmaid at the Shanghai who makes Negronis to die for.’

‘I won’t keep you from your husband. Just one drink. Because. You. Are. A genius.’

‘Okay then. I have to run some errands so I’ll drive up. Six o’clock.’

Lim had their drinks waiting when she arrived. ‘Cheers, dears.’

‘Where’s Kate?’

‘She said she’d come later. She’s still working.’

‘You’re kidding. I didn’t see her at her desk. She’s always stuffing around.’

‘I know. That’s why she works late. I’m going to see Cirque du Soleil tonight.’ He pronounced it in perfect French, oblivious to how sexy he sounded.

‘You speak French fluently, don’t you?’ Blanche looked at him in awe.

‘My grandmother was French.’

‘Are they good? The Cirque?’

‘They’re amazing, yeah. Amazing make-up and costumes.’

‘God, I can’t believe I’ve never been to see them.’ Blanche groaned. ‘I never get out anymore, Lim. I’m turning into an old woman.’

Lim made a sad face and Blanche pouted back at him.

‘They’re on for the next fortnight. Treat yourself.’ Lim moved forward so Blanche could smell his breath. ‘Let’s go do a line.’

She leant against the wall watching the back of Lim’s head as he chopped up the coke on the toilet seat.

‘I wish they hadn’t renovated,’ he said. ‘The other toilets were so much better, they had those big shelves behind the cistern.
So
uncivilised, making us do it
like this.’

‘God. I’ve actually got cravings for Narva. Can you believe it?’

Lim straightened and gave her a straw. ‘This’ll cure that.’

Blanche snorted slowly, messing up the line, using each nostril. ‘I’m really bad at snorting coke.’ A little white cloud floated out of one nostril as she spoke.

Lim said nothing, hoovering his line in a nanosecond.

One by one, the teeth along Blanche’s upper left jaw went numb.

‘It’s good stuff, that chocolate,’ Lim said, pinching his nostrils.

‘I’m excited about it, you know. I mean, we are
launching
it. I so hope it takes off. I want cinema! How about what you said about the rainforest ecosystems and all that,
isn’t that amazing?’

‘Yeh, yeh, and I’m sure it’s true.’

‘I mean like the chocolate market world over has increased by something like five hundred percent in the last twenty years alone, and most products these days, if you said that,
you’d be straightaway hit with a whole bunch of awful facts about commercial exploitation to make you feel guilty about the impact of increased crops on the environment or something, like
what soy’s doing to the Amazon. D’you know anything about that?’