by Lisa Walker
It took years to learn to ignore those whispers and take control of my new-found powers. There were many mistakes along the way. At first it seemed I could only be a slut or a frump; it was impossible to get it right. In the end I gave up and did what came naturally.
Now, as I looked in the mirror, I wondered: have I lost it? Was sexual attractiveness like a magic dust which appears and disappears on a whim? I did look kind of crappy — maybe I had lost it. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that if so. Part of me was okay with the concept — maybe it would give me a chance to explore new strengths? The other part was freaking out.
I wasn’t sleeping well either. The house seemed a bit empty. It took me a while to figure out what was wrong — I missed my frog.
I missed you, René. You hadn’t been very talkative, but you were a companion, and that was what I needed.
I had, bizarrely, formed a close bond with an amphibian. This wasn’t something I could ever have predicted would happen to me. But then, as far as I know, I had never met a frog until I met René. Wildlife was not a topic I gave much thought to before the long-footed potoroo hopped into my life. I cast my mind back, seeking wildlife precedents and omens, but it came up blank.
Perhaps this tendency was clear to others. In retrospect, these things often are. Maybe if you asked my primary school teachers, ‘Which of your students would you most expect to form a relationship with a frog?’ they would have nominated me.
If I appeared on This is Your Life the red book might reveal an obsession with The Frog Prince, an attraction to the colour green, a desire to hop as a toddler, even. I imagined people running into the studio, beaming, with stories of my early frog-loving ways. Perhaps.
Crawk.
No, the snake was gone. I un-taped the toilet and looked, but there was no sign of it — even after I left it open for a couple of days. That meant it was safe for you to return. After all, I didn’t need a functioning toilet — I had the portaloo. There was no reason why you couldn’t enjoy your five-star accommodation.
I wandered around the garden in search of René, but things had gone very quiet frog-wise since the rain had stopped.
Ominously quiet, you could say. If I was prone to an overactive imagination I could almost have thought the frogs were plotting. After all that croaking and ribbeting, it just didn’t seem right. Was it the quiet before the storm? What form the storm would take, I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t heard that coughing animal that used to serenade me nightly again either.
The result of this lack of animal attention seemed to be that I couldn’t sleep. Once I’d been kept awake by their noises, but now I needed them. How could I ever return to Sydney? I’d have to go and live next to Taronga Zoo.
I’d curl up in bed with my PR Weekly, but it didn’t have the same effect on me anymore. When I looked at all those well-groomed smiling faces, all I could think of was how much trouble they must have gone to, to look that good. It was hard to believe I used to visit the beautician, manicurist, hairdresser, masseuse, boutique and gym regularly. Not to mention attending four or five glamorous social functions every week. How did I find the time? How did I find the energy?
It was like the Red Queen said: ‘… it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!’ Could I run that fast again? Would I care if I never attended another gala launch? I was flat out finding time and energy to comb my hair at the moment.
It was these kinds of thoughts that kept me awake at night.
The day after my Cougan Peak re-enactment aired on Channel Seven, my iPhone woke me. It was ten am but I was still in a daze. I stumbled out to the kitchen and picked it up. ‘Hello,’ I mumbled.
‘Cassandra, baby. Aren’t you the star of stage and screen?’ The voice was familiar, but my overtired brain couldn’t make the connections.
‘Who is this?’
‘Cassandra, never thought I’d live to hear the day you didn’t recognise my voice.’
My synapses suddenly fired, or whatever it is they do. ‘Wazza?’
‘Who else, baby, who else? You sound a bit tired there, mate. Too many cocktail parties with the film crews, hey?’
This was so far from the truth it was funny. I ran my fingers through my lank hair and looked out over the cracked lino bench to the spider-webbed window beyond. Glamour this was not. Filling a cup of water from the sink, I sipped it, running my tongue over the fuzz on my teeth. ‘What do you want, Wazza?’
‘What do I want? An old friend rings you after a short break and that’s the way you treat them? You’ve changed, Cassandra. Celebrity has gone to your head.’
‘Celebrity? Yeah right.’ A small brown bird alighted on the sill outside the window and pecked at its reflection. Was it some kind of metaphor for my life? I considered that, but it made my brain hurt.
‘Come on,’ Wazza interrupted my philosophical musing. ‘You can’t pretend you don’t know your face is all over Sydney. Great hairstyle, mate — I’ve always liked that seventies rocker look. It’s very you. Is Anthony still doing your hair?’
‘No-one’s doing my hair. What do you mean I’m all over Sydney, like where?’
‘Cassandra, Cassandra, Cassandra, as if you don’t know. Woman’s Daily’s got you on the side of the buses.’
‘Woman’s Daily?’ I paused. ‘Buses?’
‘You’ve knocked Terri Irwin for six. For that at least, you deserve a medal. I’ve got the magazine in front of me now. Tasmanian tiger heroine tells — how the man I loved betrayed me.’
‘That’s strange. I don’t remember talking to Woman’s Daily.’ The little brown bird gave one last peck and flew away. Was it saying that celebrity is fleeting?
‘Country living’s blunted your brain, mate. They don’t need to talk to you. You know how it goes — anonymous sources close to Cassandra, et cetera … Are you all right? You don’t sound like yourself.’
‘Oh.’ I gave that some thought. ‘You never returned my call, Wazza.’
‘Mea culpa, Cassandra. It’s been frantic here, darling.’
A cockroach ran past and I slammed my mug down on top of it.
‘Cassandra? What are you doing there?’
‘Just killing a cockroach. You know, it’s funny you should say that — about not sounding like myself — because I actually feel more like myself than I used to.’ I paused, giving Wazza the chance to reply, but he didn’t seem to have anything to say. ‘Talking to you, though — I’m starting to feel less and less like myself again.’ My friend the little brown bird was back, pecking at the window.
‘Cassandra, you’re starting to worry me, so I’ll get to the point …’
I anticipated his question before he said it. In that moment hundreds of images flashed through my mind.
A triumphant return to Manly — celebrity of the week in Sydney — Wazza bringing me in as a partner — kick-starting my own business — cocktails at the Art Gallery — air kissing clients at Bel Mondo restaurant — fabulous parties on yachts staffed with men who looked like Anthony — or even … Anthony himself. Was he still gay? The bird cocked its head — it had seen me now, beyond the glass.
‘Cassandra?’ Wazza’s voice implied he was humouring me, like a child who can’t decide what flavour ice cream they want. I must have missed something he’d said. ‘I’ll bring you back on twenty thousand more, of course.’
‘No thanks.’ The words came from some part of my brain that seemed to have no trouble making decisions. Good brain.
‘Okay, thirty thousand.’
‘It’s not about money.’ Did I really say that?
‘What do you mean it’s not about money?’ Wazza laughed. ‘People only say that when they want more money. Everything’s about money. You’re not thinking of setting up in opposition, are you? That would be a big mistake; I’m still the best —’
I pressed the ‘end’ button. It rang again immediately so I turned it off. A surge of
panic ran through me. Had I really just knocked back my old job with a thirty-thousand-dollar raise? How could I have done that? It ran against everything I’d been working towards for the last five years. What about my apartment in Manly, my social life, my lifestyle …? Was this the start of a slide into becoming my mother? This time next year, would I find myself in a size 26 aqua tracksuit at the Blacktown TAB?
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. Breathing deeply, I resisted the urge to ring Wazza straight back and accept his offer. Instead, I yanked open the fridge, found the most calorie-intense item there — a chunk of cheese — and stuffed it in my mouth.
Refilling my mug of water, I picked up Alice in Wonderland, opened the front door and stepped out onto the verandah, chewing fast. The sun was out now and, above the trees, the tops of the ranges beckoned. A magpie warbled on the grass. It sounded like, Where are you, Mac?
Plonking myself on the steps, I opened the book at random, stabbing my finger onto the page. ‘It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then,’ said Alice. I swallowed the cheese, staring out at the trees.
I was a different person then. I thought about it. I’d been a lot of different people in my time. I’d managed to let go of the shy, fat kid, the gothic punk teenager and the angry activist, hadn’t I? So … I could let go of the city-slick PR exec too, right? Maybe.
But if I let go of that Cassandra, who would I become? I didn’t know, and that was scary. If I wasn’t a liar bird, who was I? Could I cope with working it out as I went along? The sun was warm on my face and a dragonfly whirred around my head. Was it enough to just be … me? I supposed it would have to be for now.
My heart slowly settled. I don’t know how long I sat there for, but when I went back inside and turned my phone on, it didn’t ring. I punched in the numbers and waited.
Sam answered. ‘Beechville Wildlife Office.’
‘Can I come back to work now?’
Chapter Twenty
What ranger is that?
Sam sounded surprised to hear from me. ‘Cassandra? I thought you’d gone back to Sydney.’
‘No. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been … tied up.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ Her voice was dry, but not unfriendly.
‘I didn’t really mean to leave, though. It was just the flood, and then …’ I trailed off. ‘So, can I? Come back to work?’
‘Oh.’ She sounded bemused. ‘You want to come back?’ There was a brief pause and I heard someone murmur behind her.
‘Who’s that with you?’
‘Just Rodney,’ she said quickly. ‘Yeah, come back. Great. Today?’
‘Is today okay?’
‘Fine. It’s pretty busy here actually — without Mac and all.’
‘Have you heard from him?’ I tried to sound casual.
‘Yes, he’s in Tasmania — bit of a family emergency, nothing too serious. Doesn’t know when he’ll be back, though.’ Her voice was breezy, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of discomfort.
‘Did he say why he took off? On the mountain …’ Did he say anything about me? was what I meant.
Sam sighed. ‘Look, Cassandra … There’s something you should know about Mac.’
I waited. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s …’ She seemed to be searching for the right words. ‘Well, his heart’s in the right place and he’s smart, but he’s a bit bloody unreliable. That’s the sort of thing he does.’
‘But … why?’
‘How should I know why? He just is. Always has been. I’d forget about him if I were you.’
I felt strange discussing Mac with Sam. Our relationship to date had been strictly professional. Besides, what she said didn’t ring true — he didn’t seem like that to me. I changed the subject. ‘So, should I come in now?’
‘Yes. You could probably start trying to work out what to do with this thylacine — from a PR point of view.’
‘Like, publicise it, you mean?’
‘You’ve been doing a good job of that already. We need to think how we can get some real benefit for conservation out of it.’
‘Maybe a sponsorship scheme?’
‘I knew you’d come up with something. We need to strike while it’s hot. People have a short attention span.’
She hardly needed to tell me that. ‘I’ll be right in.’ As I got dressed I wondered what I was doing. After Wazza’s phone call, I knew what I didn’t want, but was this what I wanted — to spend my working life in the Beechville Wildlife Office? A future full of feral pigs, cane toads, magpies, mice and survival-challenged shorebirds stretched ahead of me.
My mind flashed from one future scenario to the other. Feral pigs — Bel Mondo. Cane toads — harbour cruises. Magpies — champagne cocktails. I was a different person then … I breathed deeply. Little steps, Cassandra.
As I pulled out of my dirt track onto the main road I slammed on the brakes. A small brown animal stepped cautiously in front of me. Flute-like nose stretched out before it, the echidna waddled slowly across the bitumen. When it was halfway across, a second brown face poked out of the bushes. Another echidna followed, and then another. Eventually eight echidnas followed in a train across the road.
I smiled as I gazed at their sedate procession. Now there was something you wouldn’t see in Manly. A revving engine startled me — a car was coming fast around the corner from the other direction. Jumping out of my car and over the echidnas, I waved and held my hand up to stop them. Loud music blared from its windows as it came towards me. It didn’t seem to see me — it wasn’t slowing. I leapt up and down, waving and yelling — was it going to hit me?
At the last moment, the car screeched to a halt, metres from me. I strode over and yelled in the window. ‘Slow down, why don’t you? Can’t you see there’s wildlife on the road?’
It was Tyler — the boy from my cane toad focus group. He turned his music down bashfully, his hair hanging over his eyes. ‘Sorry.’
We watched in silence as the echidnas continued their slow march. As the last one disappeared into the bushes, I waved him on. ‘Take it easy from now on.’
He nodded and continued down the road at a more moderate pace.
I hummed as I got back in the car, with the satisfaction of a job well done. As I neared the outskirts of town I noticed something new. Easing my foot off the accelerator, I stared. Welcome to Beechville — home of the Thylacine. A Tasmanian tiger snarled below the words on the sign. They sure got that up quick; these Beechville people were more efficient than I’d thought.
A couple of journalists and photographers lurked in the main street. The big names had gone back to Sydney, but the story was still ticking over. Everyone was after the money shot — the beast itself. In the meantime there was the personality angle — me. Averting my face, I walked casually into the office. They didn’t notice me.
My mind was on Mac as I climbed the stairs to the office. And then — he was there.
His name slipped from my mouth before I realised what it was. I glanced around to make sure no-one had seen. The collateral for my What Ranger is That? campaign had arrived. A life-size cardboard cut-out of Mac holding a blue-tongue lizard graced the foyer.
They’d done a good job with the airbrushing — his smile looked almost natural. Folding my arms, I narrowed my eyes at him. There was nothing about his face to suggest a double-crossing love rat. A lump lodged in my chest as I touched the cardboard. It seemed no less impenetrable than the man himself.
The merchandising had also arrived. I ran my hand along the T-shirts, mugs, caps, badges … It felt like another lifetime that I’d ordered them so enthusiastically. I took a deep breath — I was a different person in more ways than one.
‘Hello, stranger,’ I said as I opened the door.
Rodney blushed. He seemed unusually bashful, even for him.
‘Been surfing?’
‘No, ah. Been a bit flat lately. Saw you on the news …’ His hand moved qu
ickly to cover something on the desk.
‘What have you got there?’ I peered over the counter. The corner of a magazine poked out from beneath the papers Rodney had pushed over it. The words heroine tells were visible. ‘You haven’t been reading Woman’s Daily, have you? I didn’t even know you got that in Beechville.’
Rodney blushed again. ‘They got a big order in — down the supermarket.’
‘Did they now? Give us a look.’
Rodney reluctantly pushed the magazine across the desk.
They’d photographed me sitting on my verandah gazing out at the bush with a look that could only be described as forlorn. The picture was blurry — taken with a telephoto. I touched my hair. Wazza was right — I did have a bit of a grunge rocker thing going on. Tasmanian tiger — love victim tells all, was splashed across the cover. It made me sound like I’d been mauled. I suppose, in a way, I had been.
I’d always assumed celebrity would be a good thing, but reading about myself like that — it made me feel like my breakfast was about to come up again. And Eggs Benedict Lean Cuisine was bad enough the first time around. There was a photo of Anthony with the caption: She left her loving boyfriend to take up with love-rat ranger, Macaulay Southern. Macaulay? How strange — I’d never even known Mac’s full name. Trust Woman’s Daily to focus on the romance angle. I wondered who’d filled them in on all that. Simon, probably.
I smiled at the sight of Ant, posing outside his salon. Naturally, he wouldn’t waste the chance for a bit of product placement. She called me snookiepants, but everything changed once she met that ranger, said his quote. I shook my head. And you turning gay had nothing to do with it?
I couldn’t stay angry with him, though. To someone like Ant, this was a prime opportunity for exposure. He’d even got them to put a ‘before’ picture of me — I used to do Cassandra’s hair, but she’s let herself go now, he said. I frowned — that wasn’t very nice. I still washed my hair, didn’t I? In Anthony’s books, allowing your highlights to grow out one centimetre was a crime on a par with armed robbery. For many years, I’d agreed, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe there were more important things …
