Mexican Kimono (17 page)

‘Great, Mum. Let me guess. You’re pregnant?’

‘What? Darling, no! Bad news about you.’

‘What now? Am I pregnant?’ I asked, suddenly a little worried.

‘What? Darling? I hope not! I’d thought you’d abstained recently?’

‘Mum, seriously, do we need to discuss this? I think you’re violating your parental boundaries.’

‘Yes, darling, I meant the kimono. My friend who is a medium had a dream about you. The kimono is actually Mexican. You’ve been cursed by a Brujo, a Mexican wi—’

‘Yeah, yeah. I know all that already. JJ found out yesterday.’

‘Darling, this is very serious. This is black magic at its worst. You need to get rid of that thing now and reverse the curse.’

‘I’ll find a way to reverse the curse but that’s it. I want to pour a glass of champagne and dance around in the kimono for a little while!’

‘Don’t do that, darling!
Heed my warning
. This is black magic, you can’t mess around with it!’

Why didn’t the chilli affect my hearing instead of my vision?

‘You seem to know a lot about this black magic for a so-called “white witch”. Can you explain that?’ Mother dear was starting to sound fishy.

‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous! I’ve looked into the matter, of course. You’re my
daughter
, for goodness’ sake! I’m
worried
about you. Deeply
concerned
,’ she said. The over-emphasis seemed a bit trumped up and fake in my eyes. Like she was performing for me. Very dodgy.

‘Look, Mum, I love you and all, but I don’t trust you right now. I’ll call you later. When I’m ready. Any money I need to borrow can be direct deposited into my bank account.’

I was going to hang up on her until I heard her gasp. I wasn’t totally devoid of feelings you know, but I needed to put my life and safety first. She wasn’t usually the type of mother who would put some random Mexican curse on her daughter, but she’d been hanging out with a bunch of weirdos lately, I must admit.
People looking into my future by holding my handbag?

I could see that scam a mile away, but my innocent (maybe) mother was too naive to understand.

Picture this: the ‘medium’ tells Mum to bring my handbag in to ‘read’, then says ‘now let’s close our eyes and picture a white light surrounding us’ and, boom! She’s searching frantically through the handbag for money, jewellery and JJ’s phone number.(It’s unlisted, he’s semi-famous, remember.) Next thing you know, I get my expensive handbag bag back, except now it says Guci instead of Gucci. She’s robbed me and done the old bag switcheroo.

‘So, JJ told you yesterday it was a Mexican curse?’ Mum asked.

‘Yes, he did. You claim to be able to “see” the future, yet he knew before you!’

‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘How did he find out so quickly?’

Wow, she had a good point. ‘Good point.’ How the hell did he know? Who knew what the symbol of a Brujeria looked like anyway? He lived in Paris and that wasn’t even close to Mexico. Very suspicious. Mum instantly tried to backtrack. ‘Oh, darling, I didn’t mean it like that! JJ has one of the nicest auras I’ve ever seen.’

‘Aura Schmora. He’s on the list. I have to go. Love you.’ I hung up dejectedly. I’d have no friends left if I didn’t sort this out soon. I wandered into my apartment taking in the view of the Swan River through my open curtains. I was momentarily lost in the beauty of the shimmering water so I didn’t notice my old friend the kimono lying flat on the kitchenette floor. I could have lived with that, since it had spent the last few days moving from room to room. What did alarm me was the fact my Stay Sharp knives were embedded in the linoleum around the place where my head would be if I were wearing it. That was creepy. I bent down, pulled the knives out of the floor, and put them back into the knife block. I gazed into the dark recesses of my handbag and found the knives I’d inadvertently taken from ‘Banging Senorita’s’ when José wasn’t looking. They had been sharpened so many times that they looked like darts.

Amazing what a homicidal Prozac addict can do to a piece of stainless steel.

It was obvious someone had it in for me and the Mexican kimono. I picked it up and draped it across the dining room table. The gem-like colours reflected off the glass door and again I was caught in its beauty. I couldn’t get rid of it. It was so fragile, so delicate. I loved it. OK, I’ll admit the dark little Brujeria symbolism along the bottom wasn’t ideal, but I was old enough to realise this wasn’t a perfect world.

The red light on my answering machine was flashing, so I pressed play as I hunted around the kitchenette for a clean wine glass. Random voices queried my whereabouts, but nothing that couldn’t wait. The stress of the day had me hankering for a nice crisp white and maybe a selection of Margaret River cheeses, followed by some petit fours. A well-known fact is that if you’re stressed and have been through the wringer, for example, when you’ve had a day like mine, you can eat whatever you like and not worry about putting on weight. Kylie reckons when you’re stressed your heart rate speeds up and you begin to sweat. It’s exactly like jogging. So an hour of stress, while not the most fun you’ll ever have, is easier than running ten clicks.

I figured I had been worried for at least three hours today, so I was in credit in the food and alcohol department. I found a Guinness pint glass and poured my wine into that. Probably better, in the long run, as such a big glass meant I wouldn’t have to get up to refresh it so often.

I kicked my heels off, pushed the pizza boxes and chip packets off the lounge, and sunk into its deep softness. Ah, finally. Peace. Almost immediately, I fell into a dream-like sequence. JJ was kissing my neck causing me to shiver in anticipation. I could feel his warm breath in my ear as he whispered all the things he wanted to do to me. We crossed to the bedroom and took off our …

‘Msss Bevilaqua! This is the fifth and final warning! I saw you arrive in the CCTV footage so don’t pretend you’re not home. I’d like to see you in my office immediately!’ Jesus, that old harridan belting out of my answering machine. What a way to ruin a nice fantasy.

The only person that called me Msss Bevilaqua was Mrs Dingleberry, the property manager in charge of the apartment block I lived in. She was a short, plump woman with unruly, frizzy, grey-blue curls that snaked around her big ears and thick neck. She always smelt like carpet cleaner and her face was stuck in the same permanent scowl. I don’t know why she had summoned me to her office like she was some kind of principal, but I felt like those petit fours now and her office was downstairs next door to the Jean-Pierre patisserie. It seemed like a win-win situation. I downed the rest of my wine and went to see what the dingle, as we called her, wanted.

Chapter 17

May Day

I walked into the plush real estate office that looked more like a show home than a place where any work was done. It seemed like a front for some kind of dodgy business. I highly doubt they just dabbled in real estate.

I sat on one of the leather lounges and waited for Mrs Dingleberry to finish on the phone. She was gesturing and screaming at someone in Arabic. She really was a multi-faceted woman. Apparently, she knew eighteen languages because she was some kind of former secret Russian spy but, if you ask me, I doubt that very much. Russian spies are always tall and much better looking. I started picturing a tall Russian spy-type guy who hid cameras down his pants and I was sent to find them. My mission if I chose to accept …

‘Msss Bevilaqua! Come to my desk.’ Jesus. Twice in one day.

‘Hi there, Mrs Dingleberry.’

‘I’ve no time for pleasantries. You have five days to vacate the premises.’

‘What! Why? I’ve paid my rent!’

‘Msss Bevilaqua, you haven’t paid your strata fees.’

‘Strata fees? But I don’t own the unit!’

‘You owe them as they were much higher than necessary because you kept calling that window cleaner back to your apartment every week, before he ran screaming from the building for reasons unknown. You owe over $2,000 on that alone.’

‘OK, fine, but you keep sending other invoices that have nothing to do with me! I don’t see why I have to pay for a gardener, a tree lopper and a reticulation specialist when I don’t even have a garden!’

‘Exactly! So why
did
you call the gardener, the tree lopper and the reticulation specialist so often?’ OK, I’ll admit, I did call them and then sit on the balcony and watch them work. Geez, who wouldn’t? They take their shirts off, they have those huge muscly arms …

‘Msss Bevilaqua, focus! You’re also behind on your rent.’

‘No, I’m not! It gets taken out of my mother’s account every fortnight.’

‘Msss Bevilaqua. You’ve haven’t authorised the bank to increase your payments. You’re still paying rent at the 2009 price. It has almost doubled since then. The owner was prepared to overlook it after the drama with your father, but now it’s time for you to move on.’

‘How can it double? You just want me out! How can I only have five days’ notice to move? Is that even legal?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been sending you eviction notices for the last month. They always end up back in our letterbox.’

‘Are you implying I had something to do with that?’

She sighed and said, ‘There were also reports of a fire in your apartment recently.’

‘A small hair-fire. Big deal.’ Kylie blabbed, I guess. I was going to kill her with her thinning shears.

‘There have been complaints about loud music, you ordering from the takeaway cafes situated in the building and then claiming you didn’t place the order and expecting the food for free. There have been complaints that you use the garbage disposal, that is meant for paper only, for all your wine, gin, vodka and whisky bottles. There have been complaints of you stalking some of the single men in this complex. There have been complaints …’

‘OK. OK. I get it. I was starting to feel stifled here anyway.’ I picked up my bag and the remote for the plasma and began a slow walk back to my soon to be ex-apartment.

The song ‘It’s Raining Men’ started playing on my mobile. Toffany.

‘Hey, Toff.’

‘It’s Timothy.’

‘Oh, right. Of course.’

‘Hey, I’m at your apartment. I used my old key. Where are you?’

‘Just leaving Dingleberry’s. I’ll be up soon.’

‘OK, Sweet Cheeks. Don’t be long.’

Ah. Timothy. What a nice surprise. I imagined a long evening ahead. He would top up my wine glass, massage my shoulders, kiss me all over, bake me a cake. He really was the whole package. I stopped in at the patisserie and ordered one of every delectable petit four they had. Being homeless had its good points too. I would save all that money in electricity and gas and whatever else those communists tried to slug me for. It was almost worth celebrating. I went to the local bottle shop and bought a bottle of champagne in honour of the future money I would save.

I walked back slowly, impressed with how grown up I had behaved today.

Really I should be a ball on the lounge rocking back and forth after all the embarrassing footage that had been splashed across all technology known to human kind. Instead, here I was strolling along, purchasing treats for the night ahead with one of the loves of my life. Perfect, really. I stopped at the florist and picked up a bunch of purple lilies. I loved their perfume and the size of them when they blossomed. A bonus to purchasing lilies is a guarantee Kylie won’t be dropping over, as she’s had a phobia of them ever since watching
The Day of the Triffids
. Some horrible person used to send her a bunch every weekend after that and film her reaction for YouTube (I swear it wasn’t me). It was pretty funny to watch though.

I caught the elevator back up to my apartment and kicked the door for Timothy to let me in because my hands were full. There was no answer. I figured he’d be in the shower, shaving. He had a thing about smooth legs. His. I juggled my purchases and opened the door. I could barely see through the flowers, but just made out the kimono walking around the lounge room.

I dropped everything, covered my eyes and screamed, terrified. Timothy came running from the bathroom, a small hand towel held against his nether regions.

‘What’s wrong, Sweet Cheeks?’ he asked.

‘The kimono! It’s alive!’ I said, with my hands still planted firmly over my retinas.

He laughed as he prised my hands away from my face. ‘No, it’s not. It’s only May Day.’

I looked around and saw an exotic Eurasian woman sitting at my dining room table. She had dark-brown almond-shaped eyes, full red lips and long movie star black curls like I used to have.

I let out a little sob for my lost hair. I was momentarily lost for words until I realised May Day was dressed in my kimono.

‘What the hell is she wearing that for?’ I yelled.

Timothy looked at me, his face a picture of innocence. ‘She spilt red wine over her dress, so she put the kimono on while I took her dress down to Mai Ling to dry clean.’ Ah, the old ‘spill the drink on the clothes’ routine. How transparent.

I noticed May Day swallowing frantically while this little exchange was happening. Bobbing up and down at each gulp was a little Adam’s apple. Hmmm, May Day. Made sense.

I narrowed my eyes at Timothy and said, ‘And you just happened to be naked and covered with a hand towel because …?’

‘I’ve just finished a six-hour shift at the cafe and I could feel stubble on my legs.’ May Day was busy looking at the floor. I wondered why she was here drinking red wine in the first place. ‘Did you have a reason to visit, May Day?’ I asked.

‘She had something she wanted to get off her chest,’ Timothy said. And what a chest. It looked like this particular drag queen had made the change.

May Day looked at Timothy and said, ‘I, ah, wanted to speak to you in private.’ High-pitched girlie voice. Yep, definitely made the change.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Samantha knows everything there is to know about me. You can speak in front of her.’ May Day looked at me uncertainly and tightened the kimono around her narrow waist.

‘OK. Umm, well. It’s just I overheard you saying that you and Samantha were back together and I wanted to let you know, um, that I thought maybe, um …’ She looked at Timothy with such desire it was clear to me what was happening. Poor old Tim had no idea. He was looking at her with a vacant expression. For someone so good-looking, he was somewhat dense.