Pants on Fire (15 page)

There was still no message from Nick. Maybe a really big story had broken at the paper and they'd sent him off to Papua New Guinea to cover it. I decided to risk ringing his work number in case he'd left a special message on his voicemail, but it was just the usual one:

“Hi. You've reached Nick Pollock, senior writer and essayist,
Sydney Morning Herald.
I'm either on another call, or away from my desk breaking a major story, so leave a message and I'll catch you later. Ciao.”

I didn't leave a message. By four I was really feeling the effects of a night without sleep and thought I'd have another little piece of the sticky toffee pudding to give myself a sugar hit. But when I got to the kitchen the baking tray was empty. Washed and dried. Nobody knew what had happened to it. I even looked in the bin to see if some busybody had thrown it away. Not a crumb. It was weird. On the way back to my office I asked Seraphima if she knew what had happened to it.

“You could ask Zoe,” she said. “But I wouldn't.”

“Zoe? Zoe didn't have any. And she hasn't thrown it in the bin—I looked.”

“Zoe didn't have any while you were looking, Georgia. And she might have thrown it somewhere—but not in the bin.” She nodded her head towards the loo.

I stood there dumbly absorbing what she'd just said. “You mean she ate the whole thing and threw it up in there? Is that why she was in the loo?”

Seraphima shrugged. “Could be. I saw her eat a couple of carrots before morning tea. That's always a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“A sign that a bulimic is planning a binge. The carrot acts as a marker—when the carrot comes up you know you've got it all up.”

I stared at her horrified. “Oh god. That's hideous. Are you sure?”

“No—but I saw the carrot and I saw her go into the loo and I saw her come out a long time after and then I saw her go to the gym.”

I remembered Zoe's desperate little monkey face on the treadmill.

“How did you figure all that out? Especially the carrots. That's so awful it's quite brilliant. I never would have thought of that.”

“My sister used to be bulimic. You can spot the signs.”

I went back to my desk. Antony had called again. Nick had not. I rang Antony back and told him I was too tired to go anywhere, but that I'd love to see him another time. I rang Danny Green and told him the same thing. In truth, though, I didn't want to be out when Nick rang.

But he didn't ring. He didn't ring me that night. And he didn't ring over the entire weekend. I spent the time veering wildly between thinking Fuck You, Nick Pollock, I Never Want to Speak to You Again Anyway, and desperate weeping. Then I'd get all fired up with confidence and think, damn it, I'll just bloody well ring him. We're both grown-ups. I'll just leave a casual message saying “Hi, How are you? Can you call me please?” But I knew I couldn't trust myself to be casual. I knew it would sound forced and hysterical. And what if he answered?

I'm ashamed to say that on Saturday night I had a bottle of wine on my own and rang his home number. The machine was on. It was on all day Sunday as well.

On Monday I rang his work number and got the voicemail again.

Tuesday—still no call. I had my mobile permanently turned on and I rang my home message machine every hour. If it hadn't been so bloody upsetting it would have been bizarre. I think the girls in the office knew something was up. Debbie and Liinda were avoiding me and when I walked into the beauty room to ask Debbie something, they broke off their conversation suddenly.

Later on, Seraphima came into my office and told me, “Estee Lauder have sent you some flowers. I looked at the card first, because I know how disappointing it is.”

I thanked her sincerely and told her she could have them. Somehow life went on. Zoe came and collected me for the gym at lunchtime. Even Maxine was being particularly nice to me. She came in a couple of times and asked me if I was happy in Sydney, and invited me to her house for a drink after work. What was going on?

There was no word by Wednesday—it was nearly our one-week anniversary and I still hadn't heard from him. So I hatched the marvellous idea of sending him a note instead. Just a bright and breezy little note, which I convinced myself could be passed off as a thank-you card for a lovely dinner.

This breezy little note took me the whole afternoon to write, composing various versions on my computer.

 

 

That was it. The last one. That's what I sent. On a postcard that featured a Victorian picture of a vicar skating from the Scottish National Gallery. We'd talked about that picture. We both loved it. I felt sick as I put the card into the mailbox, but at least I'd done something.

Oh, it's no good, I can't lie. I wish it had been that one. Actually, I sent him the Coogee one. And the postcard was that Brassai photo of the couple kissing in Paris. AAAGH. What was I thinking? How could I do it to myself? But I did.

And still there was no call. By the Sunday morning—a week and a half, including two weekends, after we had sex—I knew he was never going to call. And I knew he wasn't in Papua New Guinea, because there'd been pictures of him in the social pages of the Sunday papers. Pictures of him at the opening of his father's exhibition at the State Library. The one he had promised to take me to. Pictures of him with a girl who looked not hugely unlike me, except she was wearing a much shorter dress than I'd ever wear. And she had rings on her forefingers.

“Wordsmith Nick Pollock with fiancée Phoebe Trill, back from two months in Europe,” said the caption. Fiancée. Yes. And from what I could see in the photograph Phoebe had very nice skin, which explained Nick's well-stocked bathroom.

I cried for an hour. I ranted and raved and threw things around the flat. I couldn't believe it. I rang his work voicemail intending to leave a coruscating message for him, but chickened out at the last minute. Too humiliating. I cried a bit more and then I rang his home phone. He'd changed the message. It now said: “Phoebe and Nick can't take your call right now . . .”

I cried some more because I couldn't ring any of my friends in London and tell them what had happened. It was three in the morning over there. So I rang the only person I could think of—Liinda Vidovic. She was in.

“Hello?” The usual Marlboro-man rasp. I just sobbed into the phone.

“Li-ii-ii-ii-nda . . . It's Georgia. I'm really sorry—
sniff
—to call you like this, but I don't know who else to turn to.”

“What's happened? Is it Nick Pollock by any chance?”

“Yeee-eeee-es,” and I was off wailing and sobbing, which of course, Liinda adored. “He's in the paa-aa-per,” I wailed. “With his fi-ia-aa-ncée.”

I could hear her lighting up a cigarette. “Oh no. I thought this would happen. I should have told you, but I just couldn't. You remember that morning when you were the dirty stopout and had to buy us morning tea and I warned you not to tell anyone it was him? That was why—I wanted to protect you. But when you didn't mention him again, I thought maybe it would be alright. Had you met him the night before?”

“No. I'd met him over a week before and I'd seen him practically every night since. I wasn't sure at first, but then he was so
lovely
to me. He sent me flowers. He called me five times a day. I didn't sleep with him for a week. We had a wonderful dinner together and by that point I felt I knew him. I thought I could tru-u-ust him.” That set me off again. “But Liinda, why didn't you tell me he was engaged?”

“I didn't know he was until I saw this morning's paper. I knew he'd been seeing Phoebe Trill but—”

“Who is she, anyway? She dresses like a hooker.”

“She's a TV game-show host.”

“I bet Big Daddy Pollock is impressed with her intellectual prowess.”

“Bet he's made a pass at her too. It's congenital with those two.” Liinda paused. “I'm sorry, George, I should have warned you. Debbie and I didn't know what to do. We wanted to tell you, but at the same time it seemed so cruel to say, ‘The guy you are so excited about is the biggest womaniser in Sydney.' Debbie felt awful she hadn't warned you about him, because she says she remembered afterwards that she'd introduced you.”

“What do you mean—the biggest womaniser in Sydney?” I felt sick.

Liinda let out a big sigh. “OK. Did he analyse your handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ask you where you stood on child care?”

“Yes.”

“Did he leave a message on your voicemail, playing the guitar and singing ‘Georgia On My Mind'?”

“Yes. How did you know? Although I suppose it's obvious with my name.”

“It's bloody ironic with your name—but he sings it to everyone. It doesn't matter who, he just inserts the appropriate name.”

I was speechless. But I had stopped crying.

“I'm really sorry, George,” she said. “If only I'd known you met him in the first place, I would have told you not to touch him with a ten-foot cattle prod. But you'd already slept with him by the time I found out, and even with a rat like him there's always a grain of hope that once in his low-down ugly life he might do the right thing. I mean, even slimeballs like Nick Pollock are going to fall in love someday and I just thought, what if it's George and I've told her he's a shit? But when I saw you starting to mope, I feared the worst.”

“Is this his usual pattern? Adoration until sex and then total shutdown?”

“Yes. What exactly happened?”

I told her everything. Liinda listened attentively, making soothing noises. I should have known better.

“Don't be too hard on yourself, George. You did nothing wrong. At least you put up a good fight—very few of his victims hold out a week. I mean, I hate the shit, but I have to admit he is quite handsome—in an obvious kind of way—and he can spin a yarn like no one else. What a shame he can't write them down. Of course, he has massive emotional problems. I sent him some Co-DA pamphlets anonymously once and he actually turned up at a meeting. He talked all about how awful it is having an incredibly rich and famous father, and every woman in the room was nearly sliding off her chair with desire.

“Afterwards I saw him chatting up the most attractive one, who had just told the group that she was still recovering from an abusive relationship and that her therapist had told her to stay single for a year. He was onto her like a blood-sucking leech. I got hold of him in the car park and told him never to come back if he wanted to keep his famous family jewels intact. I was holding a large knife at the time, so I think he took me seriously.”

She had actually made me laugh. “A knife? How come you had a knife?”

“I always carry a knife. I used to live on the streets, remember. I know what goes on out there.”

“Isn't it illegal to carry a knife?”

“It's illegal to carry, buy, sell or take heroin and I did all of those things for long enough. I don't care. I don't get it out in public, I just like to know it's there.”

“Liinda, you are a one-off. Thank you for being there for me today. I feel like the biggest idiot who ever drew breath, but at least I know why he didn't call. That was what was killing me. It was torture. Phone torture.”

“Phone torture,” said Liinda, slowly. “Mmm . . . Terrible. As a matter of interest, why didn't you call him? I would have been on his doorstep.”

“With your knife?”

She chuckled. “Yes. But why didn't you call him? You don't seem like a sap.”

“I'm not normally. But I felt so stupid. It seemed too undignified to ring up and say, ‘Why haven't you rung me? Don't you like me anymore?' I wanted to retain a shred of self-respect—and in the light of what you've just told me, I'm really glad I didn't ring him. Although I nearly wore my fingers out ringing his voicemail.”

“Of course if it was me I'd be on the bus to Bondi right now, to tell him face-to-face what I thought of him, but I don't suppose you'll do any of that, will you?”

“No, I will not. I can't think of anything more embarrassing. I just never want to see him again.”

“In Sydney that might be hard to arrange,” said Liinda. “But you can have the pleasure of ignoring him in public a lot. Anyway, I'm really sorry you found out about Pants On Fire Pollock the hard way. Do you want to come to a meeting with me this afternoon? There's a really good all-women's one in Chatswood at three . . .”

I declined. I wanted to stay home and feel sorry for myself. The whole thing had sent me spiralling back into the depression I'd felt after Rick and the years of being single in London.

I stayed at home all day, eating ice cream and watching the cricket on TV because it was so mind-numbingly boring it stopped me thinking. I kept one eye on the clock hands, which slowly crawled forward to a time when I could ring the one person who could always cheer me up—my brother, Hamish.

At last it was ten a.m. in England. That was late enough.