by Sam Hall
“Mrs. Heath said you had another turn today.”
Mum’s voice was the only sound you could hear above the scrape of cutlery on porcelain. Bloody Gisbourne. Living in a small town worked for me because everyone had learned of my condition over the years and knew to ring Mum or Jen ASAP, as well as deliver me a coffee strong enough for the spoon to stand in. The trade-off was everyone had a vested interest in my wellbeing.
“Jen caught it early and got me to the caf,” I said, keeping my eyes on the meatloaf. “Her driver brought me home. I’ve had some tea and a sleep, and I’ll feel better soon.”
“Did you eat breakfast?” Dad said.
I looked up to see those thick eyebrows drawn down in a frown, the rest of Dad’s face masked by facial hair.
“Yes, an omelette and some toast.”
“And you took the beta blockers?”
“Yes.”
“And the antidepressants? Did you take them last night? Did you sleep through? They stop working if you forget, you know that. You must take them—”
“Every day,” I replied. I let a long sigh out and then straightened my spine.
I’d done some research, unable to face day after day of parental disappointment every time I had an attack. Compassion fatigue, they called it. The phenomenon where carers or bystanders felt the pressure to keep caring about chronic conditions, but come to resent that pull. I couldn’t do anything about any of this. I was always med compliant. Bugger it, I was just compliant. I felt like, given the burden I provided to my parents, the least I could do was take my damn medicines and not cause trouble. I saw a faint wiggle at the corner of my vision, something that had me frowning as I looked down at my plate.
“I took all of my meds, at the right time, with the right combination of food, water, and sleep,” I said. “Look, Nan was a lot antsier than usual. Maybe it’s a full moon or something.”
“Don’t talk about your grandmother, Kira,” Mum said.
“Or bloody moons or astrology or any of that other bullshit!” Dad snapped, laying his cutlery down with a clunk. “There are no magic wands, Kira! No wee people nor faerie lords ready to ride to your rescue!”
“Bernard!” Mum retorted. It was only me who saw the shake in her hand as she gripped her knife, her eyes burning as she stared down Dad. “Kira, go to your room while I speak to your father.”
I dropped all pretence of having dinner at that. The meatloaf looked as appetising as a shit sandwich right now, and I was not going to be able to eat anymore, no matter what Dad said. The patronising tone, the endless checking in, the assumption I wasn’t managing my conditions—something none of my doctors did anywhere near as much. My breath came in faster and faster, and the wiggle at the side of my vision became more and more persistent. My utensils landed on the table with a clatter, and I sat back in my chair, my arms crossed.
“I’m not a bloody child. I don’t need to be sent away so you two can have a row. You want to unload on each other? Go right ahead.”
“Kira,” came Dad’s low growl.
“C’mon then. This isn’t a period movie. We don’t have to sit around the table seething internally. Have it out then.”
“What the bloody hell has gotten into you?” Dad said, inspecting me through narrow eyes, and apparently, he didn’t like what he saw. “Have you—?”
“Is this a bad time?”
Jen stood in the dining room doorway like she’d appeared from nowhere, her eyes taking in Mum and Dad’s stiff stance with a flat gaze.
“Hey, Ki,” she said when no one answered. “I rang, but you didn’t reply.” Mum was a Nazi about phones at dinner. “I’ve got some exciting news!” Jen sounded like a children’s performer in front of a really tough crowd—all enthusiasm and excitement despite the even stares levelled at her. “Dad has a job for you, to take photos at the party.”
Some of the tension in the room dissipated when Dad snorted at that.
“This is going to be big. Newspapers and magazines all over the world have put in bids to buy whatever photographs come out of it.” Jen’s eyes swivelled around to meet mine. “Ki, this is a chance to break into documentary photography.”
“For bloody tabloids,” Dad scoffed.
“Shut up, Bernard,” Mum said, so swiftly, so sarcastically, we all turned to take a look. Mum was usually the peacemaker in the family, since she felt like it was her that had foisted a mother and daughter with mental illness on Dad. “So what exactly is the proposal, Jenny dear? Does your father have a contract for this job?”
“Right here,” Jen said with a flourish. “The lady in question just needs to sign on the dotted line below. In blood, of course.” She winked at me.
“I’ll have the family lawyer take a look and get back to you. Will tomorrow be enough time for your father?”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine.” She fished a card out of her wallet and passed it to Mum. “If they have any problems, get him to call Gordon and Associates.”
“Of course. I’ll give him a ring right now.”
I watched Jen smile and Mum get to her feet and Dad sulk, and wondered at what point they were going to engage me in any of the process.
“Is anyone going to talk to me about this?” I said. It was interesting to hear silence settle around the room, to see Mum’s movement and Jen’s smile falter. “Anyone at all want to check with me if I want this job? See what my schedule is like? Ask if I have the right equipment?”
“Dad’s more than happy to spring for some more gear. That lens you had your eye on. The Zeiss—” Jen said brightly.
“Kira, dear, this could be such a great opportunity for you. You could—”
“Of course, you’ll take the job,” Dad said, not even bothering to look at me. “Who else is going to come knocking at your door?”
“God, Ki,” Jen said as I walked her out, the cool evening light a pleasant alternative to the artificial glare of Mum’s dining room. My stomach squirmed, fighting with the meatloaf I’d managed to get down, and as if in counterpoint, something skittered away at the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry. I thought this would be an awesome opportunity.”
It was. There was no freaking way a little stock photog would be allowed access to the A-list type events that Jen’s dad threw periodically. Like seriously, it was as if my fairy godmother had arrived and insisted I would indeed be going to the ball.
But I don’t want to go, I thought mulishly.
Didn’t I? I’d been to some of Jen’s parties before, and it had been positively alienating. There was this whole scene that descended on the family compound from time to time, with A-list musicians and professional hangers on, groupies of both genders, dealers, schmoozers, models, actresses… Basically every beautiful man or woman that could make me feel inadequate, with their terrifyingly symmetrical faces and shining eyes, cheekbones you could cut glass with, and flowing locks of every colour. My fingers twitched, even poorly remembered beauty enough to make them long for a camera.
Because that was my life—I was one part country mouse, shying away from my betters, and one part cool, clinical eye, wanting to manipulate those beautiful bodies until they sat in just the right pose to create the kind of impact that took the breath from your lungs and made the viewer feel as if they were catching a glimpse of the gods themselves before they turned them to stone.
Jen loves you. She’s trying to get you some independence from here, trying to help with the problems you’re always whingeing about, I thought, and when I looked up at that moon bathed face, she shone like the stars themselves.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Mum, Dad…”
“I know, love,” she said, enfolding me in a hug. She smelled like sunshine and citrus and something expensively smoky. “I thought—”
“You thought right. Forget all that, if you can. When do I need to be there? What kinds of photos is your father looking for?”
We ambled over to my cottage, and I made us both a coffee before we sat on the veranda t
hat ringed my place, staring up at the night sky. It was a plum job. Not just glamourous spontaneous shots for the gossip pages, Jen’s father wanted it to be a huge launch party. The theme was the Garden of Eden, and he was using it to introduce the world to his series of concerts. One tour for each of his headline acts, crisscrossing the world and bringing luscious, decadent Bacchanalian type events in every genre of popular music, culminating in Crewefest—a massive music festival he was going to hold on the old family estate. His home would be crammed with those who wanted to see the beautiful people and those who wanted to be seen, and I was to record the whole thing.
“I-I should be the backup photographer,” I stuttered the words out, putting the coffee cup down before I broke it. “God, I’d settle for being a gear bitch and working as an assistant to someone experienced.”
“Nope.”
“Jen, I do not have enough experience to pull this off! This is a multimillion-dollar event your father is launching! You can’t just shoehorn a friend into this and expect it all to go well!”
“Ki…” She put her hand on my arm and smiled. “Take a deep breath.” My jaw tightened, but she just watched me, her elfin face smiling until I finally let out a long sigh and then drew in a prolonged breath. “You won’t be the only photographer there, there’s a bunch of you. Dad has a photo booth set up with some portrait photographers for when people arrive, and the rest of you will be assigned to one of the acts. The news rags and the paps will come down to see the moment Vanessa Raleigh pukes and has to have Sienna Jones hold her hair back for her. You don’t have to carry this event, but you can do something they can’t. This party, the theme is the Garden of Eden, harking back to a time before the Fall. For a short few hours, it’ll be complete freedom from guilt, stress, responsibility, and inhibitions. I didn’t tell Daddy I wanted my best friend to shoot the event, I showed him a whole lot of different portfolios, and he picked yours. You do mood so well.”
“Yeah, if your aesthetic is Kate Bush circa Wuthering Heights.”
“You have more than misty and eerie in you. I know you do. You can do this, Ki. People will finally see you and what you can do, and you can get the hell away from this place. There’s a whole world out there beyond Gisbourne. You just need the opportunity to discover it.”
“This is just you wanting us to go to Bali, isn’t it?”
“Well, I do look spectacular in that white bikini.”
“You’d look amazing in a hessian bag,” I said, slinging an arm around her. “It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
“So is now a good time to talk about the fitting we’ll need to attend tomorrow?”
4
I drove up to the Rutherglen estate the next morning to find it in the midst of being transformed. Like some kind of alternate reality or the fading of one dimension into another, the already grand grounds of the stately home were being worked on by a phalanx of gardeners, caterers, sound technicians, artists, and designers. Glittering apples in gold and red were being hung from the boughs of existing trees, snakelike ropes of fairy lights were wound around trunks, and a massive stage was set up on the grass beyond. I’d had to park between several tall trucks that people were ferrying trolleys of stuff in and out of, then got stopped by security on my way in.
“This is Miss Leigh,” Mark said, hustling over when I struggled to get past a wall of black suit clad men. Obviously, new people had been put on for the proceedings, and Jen had neglected to tell them about me. “She’s on the guest list and is one of the photographers for the night. Familiarise yourself with the list we provided you with.” When those grey eyes switched over to meet mine, I almost stepped back. There was something…intense about Mark. Just doing his job, I thought to myself. He has to focus with all this crazy going on.
“This way, Kira,” Mark said, moving to put a hand on my back, then stopping himself before leading me deeper into the house.
“Miss Rutherglen is having all the fittings done now, before things get…” He glanced around as people carried in statues of carved animals and lighting and swathes of fabric. “Much more insane. Through here.”
I felt like we were trying to get from one side of a busy train terminus to another, rather than around Jen’s house. But when he finally leaned forward to open a door, gesturing for me to precede him, I admit, I was kind of glad.
“Coming through!” Several guys carrying slabs of imported beer rushed past us, trailed by several others.
“Walk around!” Mark snapped, holding out a hand when they didn’t look like they were listening.
Whoa! Mark was tall, like six foot four tall, and the muscles I saw flexing under that suit definitely didn’t make me feel like saying no to him, but it took a bit for the alcohol suppliers to register. They slammed to a halt, bunching up as Mark opened the door and waited for me to step through before glaring at the men and closing it behind him.
A door that led into a whole other realm it appeared.
The large room, usually one of restrained elegance, was an explosion of colour and texture. Mounds of clothes covered couches, and a few mannequins sporting extravagant costumes had been placed by the window. And equally as decorative, several slender women wriggled into skin tight sheathes that seemed to be part foliage, part dress.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, turning around when I saw nipples and bare stomachs and full Brazilians on display.
“Through here, miss,” Mark said, apparently unmoved by all that nubile female flesh. He steered me towards one of the internal doors as the girls giggled. Maybe Mark’s gay? I thought, unable to put together anything more coherent. Well, I was about to be able to test that theory. I walked into a room full of equally nubile, very firm and muscular male flesh. I glanced up at Mark, wide eyed, wondering where the hell he’d taken me. He just frowned as he looked past the men tracing gold paint across each other’s flesh in intricate swirls to the other doorway, where Jen and a tall man with deep brown skin and green eyes conferred over a clipboard.
“Miss Rutherglen,” Mark called out, sounding anything but like an employee.
Jen’s head jerked up. She tossed the clipboard to the guy, threw her hands up in the air, then walked over with a squeal, pausing only to slide through the gap between the many mostly naked guys and shooting me a naughty smile as she did so.
“You made it! It’s absolute chaos right now. I was scared you were going to pike out!”
I wanted to. I wanted to cancel so hard I could almost taste it, but Jen was right. Mum and Dad wouldn’t live forever, and if I was to have a chance of supporting myself with my photography, this was it. I needed to step up and out of my comfort zone. Right out of my comfort zone, I thought as I watched the men paint.
“You found Ki for me? How kind, Mark,” Jen said with a knowing smirk.
“We’re having problems with the new security team. They don’t seem to be looking at the guest or staff lists we gave them. Speaking of which, I better get back.”
“Nonsense!” Jen declared, swooping in and snatching two glasses of champagne from a tray a server had just brought in. The guys put down their paintbrushes when they saw it and clustered around like a herd of Grade A beef to get some. She handed me the other. My hands were already sweaty, so the thin stem slid between my fingers until I cupped it like a brandy snifter. “I need to outfit the both of you, and now is as good a time as any other.”
“Miss Rutherglen, we talked about this. Me and my guys will be in regulation—”
“And you’ll stand out like dog’s balls. A phalanx of black-suited men in a party like this? Hardly a circumspect presence. You’ll need to wear a costume like all the other staff, Daddy’s orders,” Jen said.
Her smile was polite and professional, but there was a steely undertone to it that I’d never really seen before. I glanced from my friend to her bodyguard and back again, and caught the moment he sighed and said, “Fine.”
“Excellent! Ki, you’re going to love what I’ve got planned fo
r you! Marlow, your next sacrificial lambs are here!”
We did not love what they had planned for us.
Marlow, the man with the clipboard, looked away from where the male models had resumed their painting. Those green eyes took us in with one long look, and then a feline smile spread over his face.
“Come through. I’ve got a lot to work with here.”
Like my fat arse, I thought as we walked into what appeared to be a makeshift change room. Racks upon racks of vegetation themed clothing covered the floors along with more standard glamourous gowns, skimpy lingerie, and what looked like honest to goodness loincloths.
“Hey, boss.”
A guy wearing a leather kilt and nothing else looked up with a grin when we arrived. It was Paulie, one of the other bodyguards, but damn… Suits always carried with them that power dressing mystique, but there was also that ‘what’s he rocking under that jacket’ element as well. Paulie had that rough and tumble, laddish grin that made him seem a lot more attractive than his features should have allowed, but oh my freaking god, the guy had god bod going on. My eyes followed the way the muscles bunched and flexed as he tied up the last lace on the Doc Martens he was wearing on his feet, unable to do anything but follow the happy trail as it went down and disappeared under his waistband.
Marlow cocked an eyebrow at me, then smiled before pulling a garment bag off the rack with a flourish. “Now, this might be a bit of a controversial choice, but I think it’ll really work.”
“I can’t wear that,” I said.
My eyes scudded over the corseted dress, designed to push everything my mother gave me and more up on a platter, ready for anybody to pluck. It would flatten out any lumps and bumps, because I could see the boning went through the ribcage and past the waist, flaring out over the hips. The garment then exploded in a flourish of romantic ruffles, greens of every shade with a few blush pink accents that would cascade over my legs. It wasn’t super long, but would be dragging along the ground all night, and as I peered over Marlow’s shoulders, all the shoes lined up there were heels.
