Pants on Fire (35 page)

“Her Majesty Queen Cleopatra of Egypt and Mr. Marc Antony.” It was Maxine, with a rather attractive man.

“Who's that with Maxine, Debbie? Do you know?” I asked her.

“No idea. But she's been in a really good mood lately, don't you think? Let's go and find out.”

We left our vantage point by the entrance and pushed our way into the crowd. It was like making the jump off the top of a slide—once you were on the ride there was no stopping it. The rest of the evening was a whirl, just as Antony had described it. Mingling and shrieking. Dinner and shrieking. Dancing and shrieking. And at three, as he had said, the music suddenly stopped and our carriages awaited us.

“We're all going to the after party at Rages,” said Cordelia, wrapping a green velvet cloak around her shoulders.

“Forget that,” said Antony. “Come back to my place. It's going to be an intimate gathering of glamorous crowned heads.” He'd already sent Trudy and Betty off to pass this information on to a few highly select people and to find Debbie, who hadn't been seen since dinner.

“Great,” said Cordelia. “See you there.”

“We're all going to the after party at Rages,” said Plonker, his arm around a busty young woman dressed as a rather short Princess Diana in a blue one-shoulder dress.

“Great,” said Antony, nudging me hard in the ribs. “See you there,” he said, followed by an aside of “not” to me.

Then I realised the girl with Plonker was Fiona Clarke—so much for Phoebe Trill—and I couldn't stop laughing as Sydney threw another of its hilarious coincidences at me. I wondered for a moment if Rory knew about Fiona and if he would mind if he did, and I was still laughing when Antony pushed me into the limo and said, “Take this,” and popped a pill into my mouth followed by a swig from a champagne bottle.

“What was that?” I asked, swallowing.

“Just half an E. Won't do you any harm.”

An hour later I knew no pain. I was sitting on the floor of Antony's apartment with my arms round Trudy telling him how much I really loved him. He felt the same, he said. Betty came and lay down beside me and put his beautiful head in my lap. Such a very beautiful head, why had I never realised that before? I sat and stroked it and told him how very much I loved him too. He stroked my knee in reply. I couldn't stop smiling. And when Antony came over holding out a silver bowl containing more of his little half pills, which we all took, he burst out laughing.

“Look at you. You people are pathetic. Are you all in love?”

We nodded and started giggling.

“Oh, shift over,” said Antony. “I want to play too.” And he wriggled his way in between so we were all lying, laughing, in a heap. Michael and Cordelia came over and joined us. So did Mary and Joanna and Ingrid and Norma, until we were all lying on top of each other like a litter of puppies in a basket, stroking each other's hair. Suddenly the lights started flickering madly.

“Hello Lee!” we all shouted.

Then Michael kissed Cordelia. Then Cordelia kissed me. Then Cordelia kissed Antony. And Antony kissed Michael. And Michael kissed me. And that was how the four of us ended up in bed together.

The others seemed to fade away somewhere and the next thing I knew a married couple, a gay man and myself were all naked in Antony's bed. At the time it seemed the most normal thing in the world. We all loved each other, didn't we? Why wouldn't we go to bed together?

 

 

We didn't actually have sex. As Antony made very clear at breakfast in Crown Street the next day, no actual penetration, orgasms or emissions of any kind had occurred, so you couldn't call it sex. Although it was everything but. A great deal of kissing and stroking, to be precise. Feeling like innocent creatures of a new dawn, we argued that there was nothing pervy or sordid about it. Was there?

“Oh no! It doesn't mean we're swingers, does it?” said Michael. He was wearing Antony's clothes—so was I. Cordelia was still in her Titania gown and cloak. Michael buried his head in Cordelia's shoulder and pretended to cry. “Cords, we've only been married two months, we can't be swingers already, can we?”

We all giggled. We were still in love. The pills hadn't worn off yet. Antony and I had held hands all the way to the café. Cordelia was holding my hand as we sat there.

“Am I a lesbian now?” I asked Antony.

“Only if you want to be,” he said. “And if you're a lesbian I think I must be one too.”

We laughed and laughed and we still couldn't stop smiling or bear to be apart, so after breakfast we all went back to Antony's and got back into his bed—all four of us, this time with undies and T-shirts on—and watched old movies on a huge telly that he kept secretly stashed away in a cupboard. I saw all of
My Fair Lady
, but fell asleep in the middle of
Rebecca
. When I woke up it was dark and Michael and Cordelia had slipped away, leaving a note written in lipstick on Antony's kitchen cupboards: “We will love you always.”

Antony brought over some tea and Vegemite toast and got back into bed with me. We looked at each other and started laughing again.

“What are we doing?” I asked him. “They should give out those pills at the United Nations. They could solve all the problems in the world.”

“Wait and see how you feel on Tuesday—you might not think so then. It's fun though, isn't it?”

I nodded.

“So who cares?” And he pressed the start button on
To Catch a Thief
. It wasn't until Grace Kelly's beautiful face loomed into view that Antony and I looked at each other and realised we didn't have a clue what had happened to Debbie. We hadn't seen her since dinner at the Ball, when she'd been in high spirits, but certainly not off her face.

“I'll just give her a quick call,” said Antony. He put the phone straight down again. “Message bank.” Then he rang back and left a message.

“Beds, it's me. Can you please ring me when you get in, it doesn't matter what the time is. I want to hear what you got up to.”

Then he rang everyone he could think of who'd been at the ball to try to find out where she'd gone.

“Are you worried about her, Antony?” I asked him after the sixth call. “You're always so cavalier about her shocking behavior—why are you going to these lengths tonight?”

He frowned. “Because normally I keep enough of my brain together to make sure she gets home. I didn't do that last night—and I still feel bad about losing her at Mardi Gras.”

“I don't mean to make you feel worse,” I said, “but I'm worried about her too. That time I saw the two of you after Mardi Gras there was a really horrible man with her. I've tried to convince myself I was wrong, but I think he injected her. He told me to fuck off when he saw me looking.”

“I did check her for track marks like I promised,” said Antony. “And I didn't find anything, but I've a horrible feeling you might be right about that. I've been keeping an eye on her pupils.”

“Her pupils?”

“Yes. Junkies have pin-prick pupils. Debbie doesn't have those, so I don't think she's using smack. But she has enormously dilated pupils a lot of the time now.”

He turned and looked at me. “I think she might be injecting cocaine. Or speed.”

I thought of Jenny. “We've got to find her, Antony.”

We established that she'd been seen after dinner at the Ball—having an argument with Prince Rainier, who she'd been calling a bore and a party pooper. After about five more calls we managed to track him down, which was good work, because we didn't even know his real name.

The Sydney spider's web has its uses sometimes, I thought. We got him at home.

“Hi Thierry, this is Antony Maybury—you had drinks at my house last night with Debbie Brent . . . What? Oh yes, thank you, we had a lovely time. I was wondering if you knew where Debbie was this evening? Oh, OK. When did you last see her?”

He put the phone down looking significantly more worried.

“They left the Ball not long after dinner. Debbie wanted to find more drugs and Thierry told her he didn't think it was appropriate, so Debbie abused him, and they left.”

“Did he take her home?”

“No, this is the part that worries me. She jumped out of the limo in Oxford Street and disappeared into Nightshade.”

“Isn't that a horrible nightclub?”

“It's a really horrible nightclub. Full of really horrible drug dealers.”

“Oh God.” I felt sick.

“Pussy, I don't want to be a drama queen—she's probably just taken her phone off the hook, or she could be round at someone's house watching movies like we are—but I just have a bad feeling.”

“Antony, so do I. And I made a promise to someone I'd look out for Debbie. Let's go round to her place and see if she's there.”

Antony was already out of bed, pulling on his trousers.

He held my hand in the taxi all the way there. When we arrived outside Debbie's house our spirits lifted for a moment—all the lights were on—but when we knocked and rang, nobody came to the door. Luckily Antony knew where she hid the spare keys and we let ourselves in.

She was in the bedroom. She was blue.

Chapter Twenty-one

“Jenny, I'm so sorry. I should have said something sooner.”

It was late Monday afternoon, the day after we'd found her. We were at the hospital.

“Georgia, Georgia, don't cry. You're the best friend Debbie could have. If you and Antony hadn't gone to check up on her she'd be dead now. You two saved her life, the ambulance man told you that. Another few minutes and it would have been too late.”

“But Jenny, I suspected months ago that she might be injecting, I just wasn't sure enough . . . I thought I'd imagined it.”

She put her arm around me. “It doesn't matter. You were there when it counted. And anyway, if she'd known you were on to her, she would have just got better at hiding it and you might not have saved her the way you did. Really, Johnny and I don't know how we'll ever thank you two.”

Antony was getting his reward at that very moment. He was sitting in the hospital cafeteria with Johnny Brent. Although I knew he was desperately upset about Debbie's near-fatal cocktail of cocaine, ecstasy, ketamine and then more cocaine injected, I also knew he'd be storing up every second of Johnny's company for future swooning.

Jenny and I were sitting at Debbie's bedside—Maxine had told me not to come into work when she'd heard the news. Debbie was still unconscious but the doctors said she was going to be OK. Antony and I had stayed at the hospital until her parents made it down from Walton, and after two nights without sleep I was beginning to feel light-headed. I was very relieved when a glowing Antony came back from the canteen with Johnny and said he was taking me home.

He did take me home—his home. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world for us to get back into his bed and cling to each other all night.

I woke up late on Tuesday afternoon to the sound of Antony laughing.

“What? Uh? What is it?” I'm not at my best immediately on waking.

“HA HA HA. I'd forgotten you'd come home with me. I've just woken up to find a woman in my bed. Oh, this is hilarious. How do you feel, Pussy?”

I blinked a bit. “I don't know yet. Terrible, I think.”

“Ecstasy Tuesday. I warned you. What we need is another steam bath. Sweat this expensive poison out of our pores.”

He went off to the bathroom to switch it all on. I could hear him singing show tunes. Well, I'm glad he's happy, I thought, no doubt at the prospect of an imminent reunion with Johnny Brent. I was just feeling dazed and confused as I lay and reflected on the four men I'd been in bed with since I arrived in Australia nearly seven months before. Oh, five men, I suddenly realised, counting Michael. Impotent. Priapic. Deadbeat. Gay. Married. What a scorecard. If I'd thought my London love life was bad, this was baroque.

When the steam was ready I just sprawled naked on the bathroom floor. I couldn't summon the energy to drape myself over the rocks, as Antony had. He was positively perky.

“Why don't you feel as bad as I do?” I asked him.

“I have a constitution of steel. I can take anything. It will be the death of me.” He peered at me through the steam. “You're not going to start crying, are you? I couldn't bear it. That's one of the reasons I'm gay. Less weeping.”

“No, I'm not going to start blubbing, but explain this to me, Antony—you know everything. Why is my life so weird? I mean you know all about Rick . . .”

“And now he's in a gay monastery, even weirder.”

“Yeah, er . . . anyway, then there was Billy the Unerect Willy and then there was the Priapic Plonker and then the charming chippy Jasper and then I was a free-love lesbian swinger for a night and now I've taken to spending the night with you, my gay best friend. This isn't normal. Why? Why do I attract such weirdos?”

“I guess underneath that Mary Poppins exterior you must be pretty weird yourself, Pussy. This might help.”

And he turned the cold shower on—full.

When we got back to the hospital that afternoon, Jenny told us that Debbie had regained consciousness while we'd been away, that she'd cried a lot and asked over and over again for Drew. Heartbreaking. The doctor had put her back to sleep and said it was best for her to rest, to let her body get stronger.

He'd also suggested that it would be good to organise a rota so that there was somebody familiar sitting with Debbie whenever she woke up. Antony and I immediately volunteered to do a daily shift each, so that Jenny and Johnny could get regular meals and sleep. Antony valiantly said he'd take over straightaway and sent me home—my home—to get more rest.