Pants on Fire (27 page)

“Oh, somebody I know just happened to mention it in passing.”

“Well, they must have been up early. And how would anyone there have known I knew you? Oh, who cares. So, tell me, what are you up to this weekend? Got anyone else to stalk?”

 

 

As the weeks went by, Liinda's weekend wake-up calls became a regular feature of my existence, as my new life in Sydney started to fall into a kind of rhythm. Hysterical nights out with Antony and the boys and round to Antony's place on my own for long chats and a bit of dancing. Mascara launches and boutique openings with Debbie. Workday lunches with Liinda and Zoe—who was eating more normally, encouraged by Dr. Ben—and on Saturday afternoons I would often meet up with Zoe and sometimes Debbie to go to the beach, or shopping in Oxford Street.

And in between all that I got into the habit of dropping in at Caledonia. There was always someone interesting to hang out with, even if Jasper wasn't there. When he was around we usually ended up in the cupola, talking, or watching whatever obscure foreign-language movie was on SBS.

I really enjoyed his company and the more I got to like his mind, the more attractive I found his body. But Liinda was right about one thing—I was vulnerable after the Pollocking and, although it pissed me off, her warnings had sunk in.

Work settled into a routine too. I was into my fourth
Glow
issue and I found the monthly magazine cycle very familiar and comfortable—ideas meetings, commissioning articles, reading them, editing them, checking them on proofs, coming up with catchy headlines with the subs and helping Maxine and Cathy, the art director, choose the best photos. I had great fun with visual ideas like “Which Celebs Look Worst with No Make-Up?” and “Beached Whales—Celebrity Swimsuit Cellulite.” Then it would be time to choose the cover shots with the team, followed by the coverline meeting.

Now I was part of the monthly loop, Liinda could no longer spring unexpected coverlines at me and I had a few laughs with ideas of my own, such as “Ten Surefire Ways to Spot a Bastard—Before It's Too Late,” which Maxine thought would make a great coverline. I stuck my tongue out at Liinda and whispered, “Beat you to it that time, eh?” So she came back with an idea about how to stop a friend getting involved with the wrong man, which I was delighted to hear Maxine say was a stupid idea.

“Our readers have enough problems with their own love lives without interfering in their friends' relationships,” she said.

“Two all,” I hissed, thumbing my nose at Liinda.

Chapter Sixteen

It was Saturday morning. I'd had my hour-long conversation with Liinda as per usual, but unlike previous Saturdays, Zoe and I weren't meeting as she was now into the stage of wanting to spend every spare moment with Ben. Perhaps I should take a cue from Liinda, I thought, and suggest a story along the lines of the “Man Trap—Women Who Desert Their Girlfriends for a Man.” I didn't feel like staying in the flat so I decided to walk from Elizabeth Bay to the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

I stopped at the top of the steps in Victoria Street that look down over Woolloomooloo. It was one of my favourite spots in Sydney—it seemed to sum up the whole place in one view, right down to the ugly new units half blocking the view of the Domain. But I loved seeing the Australian Navy ships right in the middle of the city and the funny old pie cart, Harry's Café de Wheels, standing proudly in front of the poshly renovated old wharf. In the main harbour beyond, the Saturday sailors were out in their yachts, and the city skyline looked proud and prosperous beyond the green of Mrs. Macquarie's Point.

What a pretty city, I said to myself for about the hundredth time. Sydney did that to me—every time I got complacent about living there it would leap out at me from another splendid perspective, grabbing my attention all over again. Look at me! Aren't I something? Did you ever see a city as pretty as me?

I spent a couple of hours in the Gallery, then wandered through an exhibition called Australian Works on Paper—New Acquisitions. Idly looking at the exhibits, I stopped in front of an almost abstract landscape done in warm yellow and ochre chalks. I admired it for a while and then looked at the plaque on the wall next to it: “
Back Acres III.
Rory Stewart. Chalk on paper.”

There it was, the golden landscape around Walton, its dreamy quality perfectly captured. It was a wonderful drawing. No wonder Rory was frustrated at being cut off from his artistic life, he had serious talent. And he was so modest about it. Nick Pollock boasted about books he hadn't even written yet and Jasper summoned half of Sydney to come and watch films he admitted were terrible. But even though we'd had that conversation about the Gallery, Rory had never mentioned that he had a picture in it himself.

Seeing Rory's drawing unexpectedly like that was a bit of a shock. I wanted to tell someone about the coincidence, someone who would understand the full significance of it, but it dawned on me that there was no one in my newly divided life, in either England or Australia, to fill that role. The sudden realisation made me feel acutely homesick. I came out of the Gallery and decided to take a walk through the Botanic Gardens, with my latest food discovery—a chocolate Paddle Pop—for company.

It was so peaceful in there, even on a sunny Saturday morning it didn't seem crowded. There were a few people setting up picnic rugs under big shady trees, and families with small children went riding by on a brightly coloured miniature train, but you would hardly have known you were in a major city at all. It was a good place for a long think.

I'd been invited to a big party that night—it was Trudy's fortieth birthday and Antony's gang were all very excited about the celebration, which was being held at the Diggers Club in Bondi. They'd booked out the whole place for the night and there was going to be hot music, lavish food and endless drinks for 300 guests. Antony and Betty had spent the last few days organising the decorations, which were going to have a Moroccan theme. Trudy ran a PR company which specialised in fashion labels and other groovy products like vodka and sunglasses, and it was set to be a very glamorous affair. “Dress: UP” the invitation had said.

Debbie had bought a bright orange and pink stripey bias-cut backless dress from Scanlan & Theodore specially for the occasion and she'd made Kylie spend most of her week trying to find a pair of matching shoes. Zoe had a primrose yellow satin dress from Collette Dinnigan, which looked gorgeous with her olive skin, especially now that she'd put on some weight. And I was looking forward to giving my favourite Chloe dress its first Sydney outing.

I knew the party would be really fun in a frenzied way, with lots of dancing and larking around, but there were three reasons I wasn't sure about going.

The first was that through some cunning research (asking Trudy when he was drunk), I had found out that Nick Pollock was going to be there with Phoebe Trill.

The second was that much as I adored Antony and his boys I knew that, apart from Pants On Fire Pollock, Zoe's Ben and whichever bonk-of-the-week Debbie had in tow, it would be pretty much a gay affair. I knew that I'd have a hilarious time and then go home to bed alone, pissed, feeling empty inside.

The third reason involved Jasper. He had called me on Friday afternoon and asked me what I was doing over the weekend. I'd been deliberately vague to keep my options open and he'd said if I wanted to have a really good time, I should come to Caledonia at two p.m. on Saturday with a jumper and a swimsuit. That was all he'd tell me, but he warned me not to be late, or he'd leave without me.

Now it was twelve noon. I had two hours to decide one way or the other. I wandered down to the water's edge at Farm Cove and leaned against the sea wall. The sound of the waves slapping against the stone was very restful. I felt quite sleepy and the thought of a big noisy party with Antony and Debbie off their faces didn't appeal at all.

I'd assumed Jasper's secret plan was a beach picnic, but there was something about the way he'd said “he” would leave without me—not “they” would leave without me—that made me wonder if it was an outing for just two. Did I want that?

Yes and no. I certainly didn't want to start a serious relationship with anyone—did I? But if not, why had I got so dizzy so quickly about Nick Pollock? And why had I started choosing schools within moments of meeting Billy Ryan? Also, Liinda had been so persistent in her warnings about not getting involved with Jasper. Should I take notice of her?

What I really wanted was some uncomplicated male companionship of the close kind. I longed to be held in someone's arms. I wanted to kiss someone. Long, deep, slow kisses. Apart from a quick snog with Billy and a night of wild humping with Bollocky Pollock, it felt like a lifetime since I'd had sustained physical contact with another human. My whole body yearned for it. Skin on skin.

I stood there gazing at the water with my thoughts going round and round like clothes in a washing machine. Jasper. Flake. Pothead. Skin. Antony. Rory. Liinda. Jasper's laugh. Flake. Pothead. Skin. Antony. Liinda. Round and round and round.

And then, almost without realising it, I was walking home. I hadn't consciously made a decision, but my feet had. I was going to go with Jasper—wherever he was going. But as I walked along, with the washing machine on the spin cycle, I came up with a disqualifier clause. I was going to be ten minutes late deliberately and if Jasper had gone without me, I would go to Trudy's party.

When I got home I rang and left a message on Antony's work number—which I knew he wouldn't answer on a Saturday—saying I wasn't feeling too good, but I would see him at the party as long as I was feeling better. That way he wouldn't feel offended when I didn't show.

I walked into the gate of Caledonia at ten past two. Jasper was sitting on the bonnet of his car wearing his gold-rimmed Vegas-period Elvis sunglasses and a large straw stetson—even bigger than the one I was wearing. He had his pink pants on, a brightly striped business shirt and Jesus sandals. His toenails were painted the same colour as his pants. He looked totally nuts—and very very cute.

“Pinkie!” he cried. “You took the challenge. I wore my pink pants in the hope they would conjure you up and they did.”

“Jasper—you look very fine. Here I am with my jumper and swimsuit. What's the secret plan?” I noticed there was no one else around.

“Jump in and I'll tell you.”

Jasper's car was an old sky-blue Holden with a bench seat across the front. There was no radio, but he'd brought a portable cassette player. A large cooler box and a couple of picnic rugs were stowed on the back seat.

“So are we going on a picnic?” I asked him.

“Well, a picnic is part of it . . .” He put a cassette into the player and hit play.

The B52s came blaring out.

“Are we going to the Love Shack?” I asked him.

Jasper slammed the car into gear and set off out of the gates at great speed.

“Road trip!” he cried as we swung onto Elizabeth Bay Road. “Woohoo!” he yelled. “Yeehaw!” I cried in agreement.

I didn't mind being kidnapped in the slightest. There are few things I like more than a road trip, and Jasper really understood the rules of the road. He had a whole glove compartment full of specially made compilation tapes with good driving music on them, including one on which every track mentioned a road, a car, driving, or a destination.

We happily yodeled “Twenty-four Hours from Tulsa” and crooned along to “Wichita Lineman” and “Galveston” with the mighty Glenn. Jasper was thrilled I knew all the words.

He had pre-rolled a little tin of his pleasantly mild joints, and the cooler in the back was full of iced tea he'd made himself and poured into empty Coke bottles. Jasper didn't approve of Coca Cola on moral grounds—but he was quite happy to stop at a petrol station and load up on cheap “lollies” as he called them.

“But these are sweets,” I said. “Lollies are things on sticks.”

“That's a boiled lolly you've got in your gob right now, darlin'.”

“No, this is a boiled sweet. A Chupa Chup is a lolly. A Paddle Pop is an ice lolly.”

“A Paddle Pop is an icy pole,” he corrected me.

“A what? That sounds like something an Eskimo would make a tent with.”

“Or something an Eskimo lady would be happy to warm up . . .”

We had the windows down, the music up high, and in no time at all we were out of suburbia and bowling along a highway through some kind of national park. The water was on our left, so I figured we were heading south.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as we bypassed somewhere called Wollongong.

Jasper shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess we'll know when we get there. We're south of the Gong on the open road. We've got a full tank of gas . . .”

“We're wearing shades . . .”

“Hit it!” we cried in unison.

And on we went through twee little towns with cutesy high streets which Jasper dismissed as muffin zones, and then through nowhere much at all, both just happy to look out the window at the pastoral countryside, sing along and smile. I took my watch off and zipped it into a side pocket in my bag. Jasper smiled.

“I knew you'd get it. No time, no appointments, no plans, no rules.”

“No deadlines.”

“No worries.” We grinned at each other.

After a couple more hours—at a guess, the shadows were lengthening anyway—Jasper suddenly turned left off the highway.

“Let's see what's down here, shall we?” he said.

The side road wound through stands of gum trees and large shrubs, a sort of scrubby forest. Jasper drove at a dangerous lick through a few funny little towns until eventually we came to a high area from where I could see we were on some kind of peninsula with water on two sides. On the right was the open ocean, on the left there was a huge round bay, edged by white sand beaches.