The Mak Collection (102 page)

to Mum

Meaghan Wallace pushed a damp lock of pale blonde hair off her face and squinted in the half-light.

What happened to my shoes?

It was just past four on Thursday morning, at the messy end of a private party in a mansion in Sydney’s eastern suburbs owned by some high flier Meaghan’s boss worked with, and whom she had never met.

Meaghan needed another hit.

At this hour she found herself mysteriously barefoot and unsatisfactorily straight, and she knew that her boss and escort for the evening, Mr Robert Groobelaar, would be of no help in rectifying either problem—he was slumped over a settee in a corner of one of the vast living rooms, sweaty and snoring, head tilted back at an unattractive angle. An eyeful of repulsive white stomach, speckled with grey hair, protruded from under his untucked dress shirt. Groobelaar was oblivious to the other guests, some of whom danced only a foot away. On the opposite end of
the very same settee, a couple ran hands over each other’s bodies, their mouths locked in drug-fuelled sexual ecstasy, clothes askew to reveal body parts usually exposed only in private. They seemed not to mind their lack of privacy, or Groobelaar’s bearlike snores, which were just audible over the din of throbbing dance music.

Grateful to be free of him, Meaghan left her snoring employer and tiptoed as seductively as she could across the carpet towards the open doors of a splendid balcony, making the most of the sway of her sexy black slip dress and purposefully catching the eye of an attractive businessman leaning against a doorframe. She smiled flirtatiously at him, but only briefly, as the movement swiftly reminded her of how much she had indulged. Her head spun and she froze, eyes shut tight, willing the sensation to pass. She licked her dry lips, tasting stale champagne, and felt the numb ache of cocaine that had already lost its edge.

Thirsty.

To add to her discomfort, the Sydney night was humid, and between the dancing and her boss’s awkward gropes, she had been perspiring uncomfortably. Her slip dress was slightly damp.

My shoes? Where are they?
She couldn’t recall where or when she had taken them off.

Oh!

Meaghan patted herself down in a flash of panic. With great relief her fingertips found her
small handbag, hanging reliably across her body on its delicate leather strap. Her life was in that thing: her apartment keys; her trusty mobile phone, from which she had already sent at least a dozen SMS messages during the course of the party telling each of her girlfriends which celebrities and corporate types she had spotted together and what they were up to; her lipgloss, and a small, expensive packet of party powder she was hoarding for the right occasion. This was not the right occasion. As she saw it, the most financially challenged, attractive and single young blonde at this kind of monied soiree should not be expected to amuse herself with her own stash.

Meaghan was not rich, powerful or famous. She had scored an invite to this exclusive house party because her boss wanted to get into her pants. At twenty-three, she was already quite familiar with the desires of men, and she had no illusions about Groobelaar’s intentions—at least, not now when he and his octopus hands were passed out before her, and sobriety was settling in on her like an unwelcomed cold front.

Maybe that nice man leaning in the doorway has a little something for me?

When she looked back in his direction, though, he was gone.

There was a line-up for the guest bathroom, and Meaghan joined the end of the queue. A small mirror mounted on the wall outside provided her with an opportunity to freshen up
while she waited. Since she was little, her mother had told her she had a pretty face. Meaghan’s features were even and fine—a slim, pointed nose, wide eyes and a small mouth. She took out her make-up compact and cleaned up the dark liner that had smudged across her eyelids, examining her reflection as she did so. Meaghan was a petite and curvy blonde, with tanned skin that contrasted with her pale yellow hair. Though it was shockingly late for a midweek party and her eyes were red, she felt she still looked pretty; but then, there were a lot of pretty girls there, she noticed—a lot of pretty girls and not enough good-looking men.

A slick of lipgloss and she was looking a bit more fresh. She adjusted her hair, her bob slightly damp in her fingers.

Okay, hurry up already…

Meaghan could hear giggling inside the toilet. Whoever was in there was not alone. Suspecting the wait would take longer than she was willing to spare, she left the queue. She didn’t have to go that badly. Meaghan also wanted to leave the dance music for a while, not to mention the sight of her boss and his plump white stomach, which was still visible across the vast living room. Perhaps she should make her way through the party and happen across some fabulously wealthy prince who would sweep her off her feet? Groobelaar had said this gathering would be A-list. Her whole life Meaghan had dreamed of being invited into
company like this, and she wasn’t going to waste what could be a valuable social or romantic opportunity. That was the reason she had agreed to come in the first place—it certainly hadn’t been in order to win Groobelaar’s attentions.

Meaghan sauntered her way onto the balcony, wondering if the businessman was out there. Instead she found a group of male guests lined up against a railing, sipping cocktails, in various states of undress—shirts open and ties undone, and strangely one man wearing his dress shirt without any pants to speak of, despite the presence of dress shoes and black socks pulled up neatly to his calves. Like spectators watching a titillating bout of female mud wrestling, the men lustily observed a small group of partyers leaping about and splashing in the spectacular pool below.

The blue rectangle of water was illuminated brightly in the dark, showcasing the lithe bodies of its carefree inhabitants: three attractive women stripped down to G-strings and bras, and at least two others swimming in the nude with their skirt suits and dresses crumpled poolside among a scattering of cocktail glasses.

Just beyond the edge of the pool, a trail of polished mosaic tiles led down to a private beach, from where Meaghan heard laughter and more music. To hoots of delight a male guest leaped up the stones two by two, and at the side of the pool stripped down to his boxers, swaying
and nearly tripping as he removed his pants. Forgetting his socks, he plunged into the pool to join the women, the voyeurs cheering with gusto from the railing above.

‘Go, mate!’

Oh, yes!

Meaghan herself did not cheer, but she was relieved to see her stilettos strewn poolside, where she had carelessly left them so many hours before. The sight brought into hazy recall the hour or so she had spent dipping her feet as the sun went down, the ocean turning indigo and the sky orange while she snorted Charlie and flirted with the attentions of Groobelaar and his colleagues.

So her best shoes were not lost.

Is that…? Oh, it is!

Meaghan was distracted by an exciting find in the corner of the balcony to her right. A certain hunky Australian Football League player—a recent
Cleo
Bachelor of the Year—and a famous brunette newsreader could be seen lustily kissing one another on a patio chair, she sitting right in his lap. Trying to act casual, Meaghan opened her purse, removed her ever-present mobile phone and surreptitiously began to film the pair with the phone’s video function, as she pretended to be scrolling through a text message and looking at the view of the water.
Wow.
It was dark, but through the screen she could still make out who was making
out. The best part about it was that, not only were they both famous, but the newsreader was married—and
not
to the young footy player.

A guest brushed past Meaghan, giving her a fright.

Oops.

Meaghan put her phone away and leaned on the rail for a moment as if nothing had happened. She hoped no one had seen what she was doing. When the guest who had bumped her—an unattractive man and, it turned out, his too-good-looking girlfriend—hung around, Meaghan turned back the way she had come. She moved through the party a little unsteadily, grinning at the scandal she had recorded, passing strangers who danced and swayed, the couple making out on the settee and Groobelaar still snoring in his almost obscene reclined pose.

She slid through a doorway she found on the other side of the room and tiptoed down a beautiful hallway lit by two large candelabras. She stopped to admire paintings in gilded frames and exquisite statues of the type she would normally see only in galleries. At the end of the hallway a timber staircase beckoned, extending upstairs and down, lushly adorned by a strip of Persian carpet in the centre. Meaghan paused on the landing, considering as best she could whether this would be the way to the deck to retrieve her shoes. She couldn’t truthfully remember how she had arrived at the living room to begin with.

She shrugged, and began her descent.

Meaghan padded down stair after stair, the music above her fading. Her toes sank into the plush carpet.
One step, two step, three
…Before long she reached the bottom and gripped the railing, smiling mischievously in a shroud of darkness: the stairs had led her to an unlit hallway on the lower floor. Unsure of her surroundings, she looked over her shoulder to see if she was being followed—clearly, this was not an area intended for guests.

Feeling a touch guilty, Meaghan approached the first door of the hall and pressed her ear against it, eavesdropping. She heard the sounds of hushed conversation, and a giggle. So there were guests who wanted privacy, then? Perhaps the brunette newsreader’s husband was in there, enjoying some scandalous adultery of his own? How ironic would that be?