Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  ‘Well actually, Simon …’ I twirled the cord of my dressing gown and decided to regain the balance of power. ‘You did pass out, but first you groped me, sang ‘Cassandra’ by Abba, then performed a striptease. It was entertaining, but I don’t know if I’d pay to see it.’

  There was silence on the other end while this sank in. ‘I wondered what happened to my boxer shorts,’ Simon said eventually.

  ‘And if you’re looking for your mobile phone with inbuilt camera …’

  ‘Cassie, we’re a team now, aren’t we?’ Simon broke in. ‘I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but …’

  ‘You can have your phone back. I’ve downloaded the images, though. Let me know if you want to see them and I’ll put them up on YouTube for you.’

  ‘You don’t need to be like that. This is our story — your calling card back into Sydney. I’ll give you equal billing. What’s good for me is good for you.’ Again, there was that note of threat in his voice.

  My stomach churned queasily. Had Mac wanted to keep the tigers secret, or hadn’t he? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. I couldn’t believe I’d spent three days in bed with him and still had no idea what he’d been planning. I’d thought we were close, intimate even, but all he’d told me was what he’d wanted me to know. That hurt. I rubbed my chest, unconsciously.

  And this was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it — a soft landing back into the A-list? I picked a couple more seeds out of my dressing gown. Did I want to be stuck out in the sticks forever?

  Not without Mac.

  ‘Cassie,’ Simon snapped. ‘What’s got into you? You’re acting like you’ve had a lobotomy. Your boyfriend’s double-crossed you and doped me.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Face it, Cassie, he’s a psychopath.’

  ‘He’s not,’ I snapped. Mac was many things, but not, I thought, a psychopath.

  ‘Look, Cassie.’ Simon lowered his voice. ‘I didn’t tell you this before, but I’ve got the go-ahead from my editor on the PR queen gets porky spread. I’m not sure you’d be able to make a comeback from that one.’

  Bastard. ‘I’ll wear it.’ I tried not to think what that would mean.

  ‘I’m also considering pressing charges against your boyfriend …’

  The breath rushed out of me; Mac could get sent to prison. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘I’ve got a good lawyer. I’ve still got the bottle. There’s also the missing camera. Something will stick.’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m highlighting the facts.’

  ‘You know, Simon, you’re a real arsehole sometimes.’ I straightened my back. If I was going to do this thing, I was going to do it properly. ‘My name before yours on all articles. It’s only fair.’

  ‘No way.’ Simon sounded angry, but I sensed he was pleased to be dealing with the old Cassandra.

  ‘Daley comes before McKechnie anyway — alphabetically.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m the lead journalist — you’re just a PR.’

  ‘You know, Simon — those photos — the cool air probably didn’t do you justice. I’m sure you’re much more … substantial, usually. The boxers looked good on your head, though. I can think of a number of outlets that might be interested.’

  ‘Jesus, Cassie.’ He sighed. ‘Okay.’

  From the moment I got off the phone it was pretty much pandemonium. I attempted to spruce myself up — removed the mud and added a bit of lippy. When I looked in the mirror I’d progressed from hurricane victim to trashy TV confession show guest. I’m not sure if it was an improvement but I was beyond caring.

  The only thing I could think of was Mac. Perhaps he really was lost in the bush. I imagined him waiting and waiting for help that never came. Was anyone looking for him? I rang the police. They knew he was missing, but didn’t seem particularly worried.

  ‘He’s a good bush hand. He’ll be right, love,’ said the station cop, sleepily. ‘If he doesn’t turn up in a couple of days, we’ll organise a search.’

  ‘That’s not very adequate,’ I snapped. ‘What if he’s broken a leg? He could be lying in a hole, or fallen over a cliff.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not the case, darling. He’ll be found when he wants to be found.’

  His implication was that Mac had left me. I slammed the phone down. He was probably right.

  The Cassandra and Simon show hit the road — metaphorically. In fact, the road came to us. Half an hour after I spoke to Simon the first news van rumbled up outside. Simon jumped out — a broad grin on his face. His Pre-Headline-Tension was well and truly gone. It looked like his hangover had been dispatched as well.

  Mine was just beginning. I had a fierce urge to slam and bolt the door.

  Simon, possibly sensing this, strode forward and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Smile,’ he whispered. ‘You’re committed now — make the most of it. It’s going to be bigger than Ben Hur.’

  A black umbrella emerged, then a blonde-bobbed woman in high heels. She stepped delicately through the mud towards my verandah, her well-known face pulling up into a smile as she saw me. Simon was right: if they’d got Marie from Morning with Marie onto it, it was a big story.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ said the morning show hostess, accepting the cup of coffee I offered her.

  I eyed the yellow slick on the surface of her drink. I didn’t think I was going to tell her everything.

  She took a sip of her coffee. A stifled grimace confirmed my suspicion — the milk was off. ‘That’s usually the best,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything. We can figure out what’s important as we go along.’

  I smiled my PR smile back. It felt rusty as hell, but I don’t think she noticed. What to tell? What to leave out? How much can you leave out without telling a lie? The memories — a rowdy bunch — pulled at my hands. Pick me, pick me. Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t. Not everyone gets to be chosen every time. I mentally smacked at them — a harassed mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  And then I remembered the liar bird. I don’t know why that came back to me then. It can mimic anything. Okay, maybe I didn’t feel like the Cassandra who’d been the PR queen of Sydney anymore, but if a bird could do it, I certainly could.

  I smoothed the hair back off my face, presented my best angle to camera and inhaled. ‘Really, it all began when Mac and I went toading …’

  Half an hour later I paused. Something was different. Ah, the rain had stopped.

  ‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ I said.

  Marie shook her head, a few blonde locks escaping her stiff bob. Her smile, like her makeup, was undiminished. She’d done a good job coordinating her blue eyeliner with her blouse. The lipstick wasn’t right, though. To me it said cheerleader, rather than journalist, but maybe that’s the effect she was after.

  After a struggle I eased the window upwards. Pushing my head out, I breathed deeply. Outside, the rain started again, but lightly now. The frogs carolled their joy in the puddles. Did they never tire of it? Five days of rain and they were still as thrilled as a beer drinker offered an unexpected free round. My eyes lingered on the rainforest. What was I expecting? Mac to pop out in his khaki shorts? I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  I pulled my chair out and sat down again. ‘Um …’ I’d lost my train of thought.

  ‘Then you went to Cougan Peak,’ murmured Marie. Her hand moved towards her coffee cup, then retreated.

  ‘Right …’

  One interview merged into the next. Simon and I posed at my house, at Mac’s house, pointed at the bushes, mimed the astonishment we felt when the tigers burst out of the trees. Oh my, a Tasmanian tiger — did you see that, Simon? My word, Cassandra, a beast like that could bite your head off with one munch.

  Whenever I looked at the news feed on my computer or turned on the radio, there I was — the talk show queen. I could hardly bear to watch myself — it was like watching a train cra
sh in slow motion. And I was the dummy tied to the front of the train, with no way to get off …

  ‘Yes, I saw the thylacines. There were two of them. I saw them twice — once on my toading expedition with Mac Southern and once at the top of Cougan Peak before he disappeared.’

  ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’

  I zoned out — where had he gone? That mysterious man who’d somehow got himself right under my skin. I’d never let a man affect me this way before. I’d always had the upper hand, but I guess that was because I’d never really cared …

  How do you know if you’re in love, René? Is it when you turn to someone twenty times a day to talk to them even when they’re not there? When every time you lie down you imagine them beside you, below you, above you? When time without them seems like preparation for living, not life itself? That’s the way it was for me. I was a rat on a treadmill, waiting for Mac.

  Crawk.

  Perfect men, like perfect numbers, are very rare?

  How true, René, how true. Why did he piss off and leave me on a mountain with no explanation? Why? Philosophise that, frog.

  When I looked back on those days in the flood they now had the shimmery feel of an illusion. Mac had disappeared without a trace but I hadn’t forgotten the feel of his skin or his smell. I’d hold my shawl to my nose every night and breathe deeply. It made the longing worse, but I couldn’t stop. Sabotage my senses … Yes, it was all about the poetry.

  I held non-stop conversations with him in my head. In them he’d explain to me, somehow — the detail eluded me — exactly why he’d had to leave me on top of the mountain. I knew you’d understand, he’d say, pressing up against me. Of course I understand, darling, I’d murmur …

  The problem was, I didn’t. I so didn’t.

  ‘Cassandra,’ the interviewer repeated, ‘where do you think he’s gone?’

  I blinked. ‘I don’t know. I guess he’ll be found when he wants to be.’

  No matter how many times I said these words they still didn’t ring true. Something niggled at me. There had to be more to it.

  I wondered if Mac was watching. I didn’t like to think of that. He’d brought it on himself, but … would a better woman have sold her story? Sure, I did it for him — he wouldn’t know that, though. What would he think of me now? What he’d always thought probably: that I was a PR floozy with no scruples whatsoever.

  Still, what difference did it make? If I didn’t do it, Simon would. I figured I may as well get some mileage out of it, seeing as I’d sold my soul to the devil. Again. Make hay while the thylacine’s news.

  I went on so many helicopter rides I almost forgot how exciting they were. Simon and I relived our night on Cougan Peak with a TV crew, but the thylacines didn’t reappear.

  Simon left out the nude dancing part. It was almost a shame, really. Surprise, surprise, we were getting on well, Simon and I, now that our deal had been negotiated. I couldn’t really hold his blackmail against him. After all, I’d have done the same thing myself, once. The story is sacred when it comes to journalism.

  Simon was a master of the sharp city wit and repartee that I hadn’t realised I’d missed. And my badly bruised ego needed a bit of judicious flirting to restore it.

  Flirting might seem trivial, but it’s not, really. This is the survival of the human race we’re talking about here. It’s also a lot of fun. I don’t have to mean anything by it; it’s just an instinct. See man. Flirt. I read a study once that said that all human achievement was a form of flirting. Rockets to the moon, Shakespeare’s plays, the pyramids … yep, flirting, flirting, flirting.

  What do you think, René? Being French, you’ll no doubt have an opinion on that.

  Crawk.

  What, you became a philosopher just to seduce women? You devil, René. Who would have thought it? Even philosophy, just so much flirting …

  ‘I’ll take you out to dinner somewhere swank when you get back to Sydney,’ Simon said into his microphone headset as the helicopter rose up from Cougan Peak.

  The pilot glanced around at us where we sat in the back seat.

  ‘Not you,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance of you turning off your mic for a minute?’

  The pilot winked, gave him the thumbs up and twiddled a button.

  ‘Think you can keep your clothes on for it?’ I said, pulling my mouthpiece closer.

  ‘I’ve only got your word for it the striptease ever happened. I’m not so sure — it’s not really my kind of thing.’

  ‘Excuse me? I seem to recall you dancing shirtless on the tables at the refectory on many occasions.’

  Simon laughed. ‘That was a long time ago, Cassandra.’

  ‘You think I’d make up something like that?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I smiled at him mysteriously, though my heart wasn’t in it. ‘You overestimate my abilities.’

  ‘That, my dear, would be impossible.’ He held my gaze for a long time as the mountains flashed past.

  As I watched the helicopters swoop over the mountains day after day I wondered where the tigers had gone. What would they think of all the noise? Would they move on to somewhere else? An uncomfortable feeling lodged in my chest. It was a new one to me. It might have been guilt.

  Okay, I had felt guilty before, occasionally, in my past. I knew I’d done things I shouldn’t have done. It is very easy to justify actions you know deep down aren’t right when you are rewarded and praised for them. But being with Mac seemed to have affected my heart. Something had cracked; it was too close to the surface now. This new guilt didn’t bounce off the way the old guilt had.

  And along with the guilt, I was angry — angry at Mac for taking the reformed Cassandra with him when he vanished. I hadn’t even had the chance to do the right thing once before I’d been forced to revert to type. I glared towards his house at night. I could have been a better woman if you’d stayed, Mac. I was definitely turning into the type of person Oprah could use on her show.

  When I rang the police to check up on Mac again they told me he’d called in. ‘He’s out of town — family emergency. Guess he’ll be in touch with you if he wants to,’ the cop said cheerfully.

  Oh have a gloat, why don’t you? ‘Thanks.’ I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. That was it then, he’d left me. I needed to put him behind me and get on with my life. The trouble was, I couldn’t. That ache just wouldn’t go away. What’s more, I didn’t want it to. It hurt, but once it was gone, Mac was gone and that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Could I live without that smile?

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was a different person then

  I hadn’t been back to work since before the flood. I was too busy with all my media appearances. Everyone, myself included, assumed that the wildlife job was a phase that was now over.

  ‘So, what’s next for you, Cassandra?’ one journalist asked me.

  It stumped me really. Simon seemed to believe I’d be heading back to Sydney as soon as our media commitments wound up. He hadn’t said as much, but I knew he thought he was in with a chance once that happened.

  ‘What happened to that fellow you were living with in Sydney, the thick, good-looking one?’ he’d said.

  ‘Anthony isn’t thick,’ I’d protested. No-one except me was going to insult him. ‘Turns out he’s gay,’ I said flatly. ‘Bi, anyway.’

  Simon’s eyes flashed his amusement, but he restrained himself. ‘Gee, how does that make you feel?’

  ‘I’m fine with it,’ I snapped. But now I thought about it, first one boyfriend turns gay, then the next one leaves me stranded on a mountain … Was this significant?

  I gazed in the mirror when I got home. My sexual attractiveness had been a constant from the day it kicked in at fifteen. I’d done nothing to acquire it — one day I was Plain Jane, the next a target of desire and envy. I thought I’d come a long way from that shy, fat kid, but maybe not far enough …

  I’d never realised I was a fat kid until Je
ssica brought it to my attention. It was the day of the school fete. Yes, the day I discovered Alice in Wonderland. This wasn’t a coincidence.

  I was happily jiving on to Tears for Fears under the shelter and feeling very cool in my leg warmers and miniskirt — it was the mid-eighties — when my ‘best friend’ turned on me.

  ‘You look like Meatloaf when you shake your stomach like that, Cassie.’ She meant the fat singer, not the mincemeat version. Flicking her blonde plait over her shoulder, she ran away, giggling.

  It had been a good day before then, but suddenly it was a bad one. Jessica had turned against me; it was a familiar pattern. Now that I am wise in the ways of the world I can pick a Jessica a mile off. Most of the women on Sydney’s A-list — as I had discovered — were Jessicas: fair-weather friends.

  It was hard being a fat kid. Being chosen last for sport. Being the subject of scrutiny at the tuckshop counter: ‘Are you sure you want that meat pie, Cassie?’ It’s especially hard for girls. A boy would just punch someone in the nose. That isn’t an option for us girls; too shocking, too unfeminine.

  I’ve heard people say once you know who you are, no-one can touch you. That’s probably true, but not very helpful when you’re a ten-year-old chubster who thinks she’s Madonna.

  But somewhere between ten and fifteen, a miracle happened. I morphed from Meatloaf into Marilyn. It was like I’d flicked a switch — suddenly male eyes were drawn to me like magnets. Strange … I was the same fat, eager girl inside — at first, anyway. All power corrupts eventually.

  Girls who’d ignored me in my fat and freckled phase now muttered bitchily behind my back that my jeans were too tight. Once, I could wear anything, but now every outfit was seen as an attempt to court male eyes.

  I was uncomfortable with it initially. I learnt to wear tops that didn’t show my nipples, pants that didn’t hug my bum. I let my uniform skirt down, but it did nothing to stop the whispers that I was ‘up myself’.

  And then I discovered René Descartes and the other French philosophers. My black clothes and intellectual airs were an ‘up yours’ to those teenage princesses. Disguising my looks with goth makeup made me stand out, but it also made me invisible.