Please Don't Leave Me Here (28 page)

‘Brig, you don't have to tell me everything you do.' More grown-up.

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Nothing. Just that's it's OK to have our own lives.'

‘Fine.' Maybe she will stay long. A child again.

‘Don't be silly. I'm just saying — '

‘There's a customer at the counter — gotta go.'

She hangs up and smiles at the customer. ‘Hi. How can I help you?'

‘Can I get one of these eye pencils, please?' The customer points to a tester on the stand.

‘Nice colour.'
Black.
Brigitte takes a new pencil from the make-up drawer. ‘Can I help you with anything else?'

The customer shakes her head.

The transaction goes smoothly. Brigitte bags it and sticky tapes-it. ‘Thank you. Have a nice day.'

She hums as she tidies the drawers under the counter. When she looks up, a man is waiting patiently at the perfume section. ‘Hi there,' he says. Young, tall, nice suit. ‘I'm after a gift.' He tilts his head to one side and smiles. ‘For my fiancé,' he adds, somewhat reluctantly.

‘Perfume?'

He nods.

‘Do you know what she likes?'

He shrugs and holds up the palms of his hands.

‘I like this.' She places a bottle on the counter. ‘It's a floral-oriental fragrance.' She strokes her index finger down the side of the bottle. ‘With amber-scented flowers, very sensual.' She looks directly into his eyes, capturing him. ‘Want to try some?'

‘Sure.'

She sprays some on to a card and hands it to him. ‘What do you think?'

‘Nice.'

‘I like to use it straight after a shower. Before I get dressed I spray it into the air and stand under it to
clothe
my skin.' She demonstrates, does a little spin under the perfume mist, holding her breath so she doesn't sneeze. He gets out his wallet.

‘Want to make it last longer?' She widens her eyes and blinks a couple of times.

He nods, swallows, and puts his wallet back for now as she places two more products on the counter. She takes his hand and massages some body moisturiser onto the back of it. ‘Does that feel nice? This is called layering. When you spray perfume on top of the moisturiser, it will last all day. Or all night. And this,' she touches the other product, ‘is hair mist. To intensify your fragrance experience. Want one of those, too?'

He nods.

‘Need a tissue?'

‘That's OK, you could just rub it in a bit more.'

‘The eau de parfum is more expensive than the eau de toilette,' she says as she undoes his cuff button, pushes up his sleeve, and continues to massage his arm. ‘But it's much better. And there's also a soap.'

He purchases the entire range with his credit card, which means Brigitte has already doubled her daily sales target. Too easy. He leaves his real-estate business card — in case she ever needs help buying or selling a house.

Another customer: a large woman with ruddy skin and jowls like a bulldog is tapping on the counter with her purple fingernails.

‘Hi. Can I help you?' Brigitte says in a sing-song voice.

‘I want to return this.' The red-faced woman produces a bottle of anti-ageing emulsion from her handbag. Brigitte hasn't been shown how to process returns; she looks around for help, but her counter manager is on a tea break.

‘I said I want to return this,' the red woman says.

Brigitte takes the product from her and looks at it. It's almost empty. ‘Was there a problem with it?'

‘Gave me an allergic reaction.'

‘But you've used most of it.'

‘No, I only opened it last week.'

Another customer, in a floral dress, is waving Brigitte over, wanting her help at the make-up stand. ‘Won't be a moment,' she calls cheerfully.

‘Listen, I don't have all day,' says Red Woman.

‘Do you have any other shopping to do?'

‘What?'

‘Excuse me.' The floral-dress customer is calling to her. ‘There are no tissues left. I need to wipe off this lotion.'

‘Won't be a moment. Sorry.' Back to Red Woman. ‘I haven't been trained how to do returns, so if you could come back when my counter manager is here — '

‘How rude. I'd like my money back, please.'

The phone starts ringing.

‘If you could just wait — '

‘I want to speak to the manager.'

‘Excuse me!' It's Floral Dress again.

Brigitte bends down and takes a bottle of moisturiser from a drawer. ‘Here!' She slams it down on the counter-top in front of Red Woman. ‘Just take another one. This will suit your
sensitive
skin.' She blows the hair, which has escaped from its ponytail, off her face.

She smoothes her uniform and crosses to Floral Dress.

‘I'm sorry, but I do need a tissue.'

‘I'm not sure where we keep the tissues, but I'll have a look for you.' Brigitte forces a smile; her mouth is dry, she needs a drink of water.

‘While I'm here, I want to try some of your new body oil.' Red Woman is still hanging around. ‘Do you have any free samples?'

‘No. But feel free to try the tester.' Brigitte hands her a glass tester-bottle of body oil, and sneezes.

Red Woman frowns, reaches for the bottle, and misses it. Brigitte sucks in her breath as it rolls across the counter top, teeters on the edge for a moment, and then goes over and smashes on the tiled floor. ‘Stupid girl,' Red Woman shrieks. ‘Look what you've done!' There's oil and broken glass on the floor; oil has splashed on the woman's shoes and all up her legs.

‘I'm so sorry.' Brigitte starts shaking, and feels herself turn the same colour as the woman.

‘Do you know how much these shoes cost? You've ruined them!'

Brigitte knows exactly how much those
violet
faux-snake skin shoes cost.

Heat prickles her eyes as she opens and slams shut drawers, looking for tissues, a cloth, anything, to clean up the mess.

‘Oh my God!' Floral Dress yells.

What the fuck now?
Brigitte looks over the counter to see that Red Woman has slipped in the oil slick, and is moaning and flailing about on the ground like a fish on land.

‘What on earth is going on here?' Finally, the counter manager is back.

‘Where the fuck are the tissues?' Brigitte rushes off to the bathroom.

When she composes herself and returns to the sales floor, the area around her counter has been cordoned off with rolled-up towels. A cleaner is mopping the floor. The counter manager tells her Red Woman was taken away in an ambulance, and Catherine Kerr is in her office writing an incident report.

***

‘Hi there.' Matt opens the door. He takes something from his pocket, and presses it into her hand.

‘What's this?'

‘Spare key,' he says — like it's no big deal. ‘So you don't have to knock.'

She looks at the key, and tries not to smile — like it's no big deal. It's on a key ring attached to a silver letter J, with diamantes across the top.

‘What's the J stand for?'

‘Don't know. Last tenant left it on the key.'

She puts it in the inside pocket of her handbag.

‘Thought you were going for drinks.'

‘Changed my mind.'

‘How was it?'

She holds onto the banister and drags herself melodramatically up the stairs. ‘It was fucked.' Her feet are sore, she has a headache, itchy eyes, a sore throat, and her face aches from smiling. And all for $73.50. No shift at the Gold Bar ever felt so long.

‘I thought you said it was good.' He follows her to the bedroom, where she throws herself backwards onto the bed.

‘Kill me. Kill me now.'

‘Can't have been that bad.'

She groans.

‘You smell nice.'

‘No I don't. I stink of perfume. I'm never going back.'

‘Yes you are. You're stronger than that.'

‘No I'm not.'

‘Let's get a course application for you then.' He pulls off her shoes, and rubs her feet.

‘Ouch, watch my heel.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Ooh, that feels good … Higher … Higher … Higher.' She bends her good knee and giggles, suddenly not so tired anymore.

40

She catches a train to Carnegie, and walks up Koornang Road — following the map on a page torn from the Melways — to the number on the
Lipgloss Promotions
business card that Al gave her. There's no signage. In the shop-front window, a black-and-white poster of a child holding a cat is displayed on an easel. It looks like a photographic studio. Is this the right place? Brigitte checks the number on the card again.

A bell tingles when she enters. A man calls for her to please take a seat — he'll be with her in a minute. An orange curtain separates the front of the shop from the back, so she can't see him.

On Brigitte's side of the curtain, there are two black kitchen chairs next to a small wooden table piled with fashion magazines. She sucks in her stomach, smoothes her dress, sits down, and flicks through a magazine without noticing what's on the pages.

What is she doing here? She doesn't want to be a model; she wants to do one of the courses Matt was talking about. She could model part-time — fit it in around study, and it would have to be better than David Jones. Or is that a stupid idea? She's too short, too fat, has bad skin, isn't pretty enough — all the things Joan has told her. There's no way this agent is going to want her on his books. She tosses the magazine back on the table, picks up her bag, and stands up, ready to sneak out.

‘Good afternoon.' A middle-aged man with floppy grey hair and thick-rimmed glasses appears from behind the curtain. He seems flustered, and pushes his glasses higher up on his nose as he stares openly at her. ‘I'm Richard Headley.' She tries not to smirk at his name. ‘And you must be Brigitte Weaver?' He shakes her hand. His is smooth and white. ‘Is Brigitte spelt the same as Brigitte Bardot?'

‘Yes. My mother was a big fan of hers.'

He holds the curtain aside and tells her to come through. She follows him to a desk stacked with folders. He gestures for her to take the seat next to his. Photographs of glamorous models in evening gowns and lingerie are displayed on the wall above his desk, next to a few wedding shots.

Richard offers her tea or coffee, and she asks for coffee with no sugar and a tiny bit of skim milk, if he has it.

‘Good girl. Sounds like you know how to watch your figure — so many girls come to see me with no idea about diet.' He's funny. Old fashioned. She feels safe with him.

He goes to make the coffee. A black-lacquered screen, featuring a painting of a geisha girl, conceals the far side of the room. She hears a kettle boiling. There must be a kitchen out there. She looks around. Along the wall, next to Richard's desk, there's a filing cabinet, and a bookshelf filled with photography books, magazines, and boxes of film rolls. A peacock chair stands in the corner. A camera on a tripod points at a white dropsheet against the opposite wall.

Richard comes back with weak instant coffee in a
Playboy
mug.

‘Brigitte, let me tell you about what I do, so you can decide if you're interested in joining Lipgloss Promotions' books.'

She sips her dishwater coffee.

He glances at the framed photo next to his phone of a plump woman and two smiling children, and tells Brigitte he runs the agency with his wife. She does all the bookwork. Photography is part of the business — he waves a hand at the photos on the wall — weddings as well as fashion and glamour. Some of ‘his girls' have been in
Vogue
, as well as
Penthouse
. The work's usually for
People, Picture
, magazines like that. His girls also do promotional and hostessing work. And he supplies lingerie and topless barmaids to hotels.

Brigitte nods.

‘The rules?' he says. ‘I forbid any alcohol or drug-taking during jobs.'

Uh-oh.

‘And no sleeping with clients.' He looks over his glasses with fatherly eyes, and tells her the agency takes 10 per cent of modelling, promotional, and bar work. And 20 per cent of anything that goes to television.

‘Television?' She sits up straighter.

‘Yes, occasionally we get a commercial. One of my girls even went on to a bit part in
Neighbours
.'

‘Do you think I could get work?'

‘I think you could do very well. You have a fresh face, and, from what I can see, a great figure. Have any marks — scars or tattoos?'