I came up with what I called the law of +2/-2: when people see a pretty girl they’ll actively search for flaws and take her down two points; if she’s so-so or ugly, they’ll zone in on her attributes, over-correct and credit her two points. I’d get taken down two points. It was unfair, but just meant I had to work even harder.
I’d ditched the hobo chic for a Mae West look: platinum waves and cupid’s-bow lips in cherry red. My aim was to enable people—the right people—to take one look into my eyes and see the sum of my experiences, without me having to hand them the manual. Smudging green shimmer beneath my lower lashes hastened that effect.
In years to come we’d be criticised for some of our looks. ‘A cynic might wonder if appropriating motifs and tribal markings from Aboriginal culture to market their “Dreaming” make-up range was deliberately coordinated with Sorry Day,’ a columnist would write in 2013, when in fact we were paying homage to the Blondie song ‘Dreaming’.
Not long after that, the Indigenous issue raised its head again when we were pictured wearing Native Indian headdresses at Splendour in the Grass. The same hoo-ha happened to Alannah back in the late eighties over her use of fur, when some activist chucked red paint all over her. Yet at other times, the press completely ignored our outings in bindis and saris. It was like some things were fine and some weren’t, or something.
Helen had begun a graduate diploma in Counselling that required concentration, so she and I had come to the agreement that I could live with Dad, which would be a bit more like a halfway house for wayward young ladies. ‘She needs her independence,’ she told him down the phone as she watered the plants in the lounge room. Helen couldn’t stand talking to Dad and not doing something productive at the same time. I was smearing Nutella and peanut butter on a bit of toast in the kitchen. I hoped Dad had Nutella. I saw him so little, I wouldn’t know.
When I was younger I’d put Dad on a pedestal. I still pored over those Instagram-tinted memories from time to time: his faraway eyes, faded like denim, fixed on the horizon as he drove; the taste of salt and vinegar potato chips while I waited in the Corolla outside the pub; the secret smell of aftershave and cigarettes on my palm after I’d held his hand.
Trying to figure out what he knew about Tony left me confused. Every time I spent time with him I did so with the knowledge that he had betrayed me. Eating the eggs on toast my father cooked for my breakfast felt like my heart was breaking. He showed he loved me every day, so it didn’t make sense that he had known anything was going on, but then he must have seen the hatred in me every time he and Tony came in from the pub. Could a child be too subtle? At any rate, at some point I’d given up on him. Now I was set to mute.
Since Dad would be flying between mining sites, Rose opted to move in half of her stuff from Dee’s, too, so that we could live together like a real band. It was my intention that Hank would be my de facto, but he preferred Newtown to Banksia. His absence left me with plenty of time to panic about what he was up to and with whom.
I liked the bachelor-pad feel, though. It was ultra-modern. Dad had a massive plasma telly, a wine rack he wasn’t precious about, bar paraphernalia, CDs by Rose Tattoo, Tom Petty and INXS, and racing guides all over the place. It even had central heating and carpets, unlike Helen’s place, with its stripped boards and ancient heaters on squeaky wheels with the wires half-gnawed by cats. He’d taken with him the keys to his age-inappropriate motorbike, which was a symbol of his new-found freedom from me and Helen. It was a good thing he had, or the temptation would have been too great to not have a go.
I hung some beaded curtains outside my room so that we could hear each other coming. Everything else lived in my suitcase.
At night, the alcohol ran molten in my veins and coursed about my body, goading me on. We could all be standing watching the same band at Dingo’s, nodding in time, yet in my head I’d be zeroing in on someone who’d knocked my elbow, shoving them back against the bar, punching them repeatedly and upsetting tables. It happened all the time. No one could tell.
‘Another drink, Nina?’
‘Yes, please.’
But if they looked closely they’d see the muscles working in my jaw. Sometimes I’d get these ideas—visions, I suppose—of being held down, someone’s face pushed up to mine, mimicking my whining in an obscene falsetto, crushing me, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes, persistent kisses that were more like cruel pinches . . . just impressions, like imprints left on my body. So, I’d up-end the contents of the nearest glass into my mouth to calm myself, which only wound me up more.
Eventually I’d just have to do a ghost and leave unannounced. That was just my thing, though. I’d get agro; Rose would throw up.
•
I’d kept in contact with John Villiers: small, sporadic strokes to keep him interested. He wasn’t on Instagram, so I had to text him our promo photos, one by one. I wouldn’t always hear back, but when he invited us to the ARIAs I knew I was on the right track.
The ARIAs were the Australian music industry’s night of nights. Everyone who was ever likely to work with us would be there. Garnering a bunch of ARIA baubles was point three on the Dolls game plan that we’d written out and stuck on Dad’s bathroom mirror, sandwiched between ‘Sign with major’ and ‘Tour America’. Artists definitely had to win an ARIA before scoring a Grammy nomination; examples: Kylie, Keith Urban, INXS. If you didn’t win an ARIA, you’d be stuck in Australia, playing in the same old shitholes to the same stupid faces forever, for no money, and nobody would have heard of you in London or LA, even if you’d been on the front cover of The Brag.
The ceremony would be televised, and being seen on the red carpet was vital to our brand. People should hiss, ‘Who’s that?’ out of the corners of their mouths, and presume they should have known. We persuaded Rose’s dad to cough up for a room in a hotel. It’s an investment, we told him. Rose could buy him a house later.
On the forecourt of The Grand, a concierge homed in on Tim’s Benz and opened my door first. I lowered one stack-heeled boot to the ground, all knees. Sadie followed from the middle seat. She was going to attend to us mid-show with her toolbox of make-up, but come six o’clock we’d have to revert back to being a duo. We had to bring a lot of clothing options, because once we were on the red carpet, women were going to put mics in our faces and yell ‘Tell us about your outfit.’
The aircon in the lobby was set to a gentle freeze, as if to reassure guests that there was no expense spared. I loved the smell of hotels. They smelled of steam-cleaned carpet and illicit cigarette smoke. They smelled of cover-ups and subterfuge.
As Rose did dips off the edge of the suitcase rack in our room, Sadie and I lay on the bed and studied the look-book she’d put together. It was full of clippings of Paula Yates and vintage Drew Barrymore, so that we could resurrect the kinderwhore look. She had to start on me first, as I wanted a full head of curls, like Alannah when she famously closed the ARIAs back in 1988. Being the blonde, it would have to be me. It was a tactical manoeuvre for the whole band’s benefit.
When it came to Rose and me, Sadie was like the only child of an embittered marriage, ricocheting between one parent and the other. Rightfully she was mine because I had befriended her a few years earlier when we were both waiting outside the Enmore Theatre’s stage door to spot The Living End, and we were wearing the same Keds. Unfortunately Sadie was one of those people who saw no wrong in anybody, and so sometimes I found her drifting towards Rose’s side of the fence without a thought.
She didn’t seem to hear when we had irreconcilable differences:
‘That’s my lipstick, by the way, Rose.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s mine—I got the same one.’
‘Mine’s gone missing, then. Where do you reckon it’s gone?’
‘I don’t know, Nina, maybe you lost it when you were drunk.
My dad pays for everything around here, anyway, including this room.’
I wasn’t about to force Sadie to choose, b
ut this was not loyalty. Seeing her cooing over Rose’s face with a Stila sparkle liner, I piped up, ‘This carpet’s crazy. Do you remember when we took acid in the Sando, Sadie? I think I’m having a flashback, man.’
Rose didn’t bother to look up.
‘The hills! The hills!’ cried Sadie, which was an in-joke, but then I left it at that. When I was younger I could overdo the do you remembers quite a bit. Less was more.
An hour later, Sadie was done with us both. Picture me in a white halter dress, high-heel Edwardian boots, and plum lips, which I drew on last with Sadie’s Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. References: Barrymore, Yates, Courtney Love, Babes in Toyland. Rose, in a fitted black dress with white trim, her hair precise and gleaming (ref: Bettie Page). She had plum lips too. It was the plum lips that rendered it cohesive.
We were now undeniably The Dolls.
Outside, the sun was low enough to shine directly into our eyes. John Villiers met us at the concierge desk with our laminates. He was in a suit, but more like hot-dad than dad.
The three-day growth on his chin suggested he either went to award ceremonies as an afterthought, or planned his re-growth in advance. Either way, I had a powerful urge to inhale his neck and feel that earring clank against my teeth. I sat next to him in the cab; the three of us squashed on the back seat. When he leaned forward to direct the driver, Rose waggled two fingers at me.
We would make damn sure there would be shots of us on the red carpet across all the major news outlets. This was our moment to own it, the one shot. John Villiers hung back with his hands in his pockets, but we stuck close to Delta Goodrem; her phantom entourage. We angled our lean bodies towards the cameras and funnelled our souls through the lenses.
‘Think “blessings”,’ Rose instructed under her breath. At the same time, we watched who got out of each limo pulling up.
A woman paused, then powered towards us, beckoning to her cameraman.
‘Excuse me, can I stop you, girls?’ she asked, aiming a mic at me. I was too startled to even read the logo on it. ‘Who are you hoping wins an ARIA today?’
I panicked and took a step backwards. I’d only prepared the answer ‘Vintage Alex Perry.’
‘We just think it’s fantastic to see so much Aussie talent celebrated tonight,’ Rose said smoothly, unfazed by the blinding light from the camera hoisted on the man’s shoulder. ‘The ARIAs really put Australia on the map.’ Shimmer.
She was right to do that; I could have kicked myself. All Australian award ceremonies centred around affirmations of how mind-blowing it was to be Australian, over bursts of cued music. You wouldn’t get the Oscars banging on about being American, but Alannah always said that Australia was more self-obsessed than a teenage girl.
When the suits with lanyards and walkie-talkies started to close in, I moved over to join John Villiers so that I’d be granted immunity. He was talking to a man with all the hallmarks of somebody who was once diabolical: hair a touch too long, a ruffled shirt under his suit jacket, gaunt cheeks. I wished I could Shazam his face. He gave me a beaky look as he was introduced as Stephen. Stephen who, though?
Inside, our table was fifteen metres from the front—second tier of importance. Alannah had prowled that very stage, with everyone gazing up at her over their prawn cocktails. Rose and I could name every one of the guests that night. She had worn a gold trouser suit, as if to say, I am the prize. I should have worn gold.
John Villiers took his seat alongside Stephen and some players from his production world, but we stayed standing, our eyes jumping about like eggs on the boil. People were going from table to table to talk before the ceremony started. Everybody knew each other.
‘Act cool,’ muttered Rose at my elbow. ‘Here’s Martine.’
She put her hand on the arm of a girl we’d supported a few times. The last time, at the Vanguard, Martine had told us she’d slept with [redacted]. He’d told her she looked like a young Reese Witherspoon. I didn’t rate her music; she mixed in cabaret and most of her set was pre-programmed. We only did that at shopping centres. I went to kiss her and my earring got caught in her hair.
‘Awkward,’ Rose said.
The three of us stood and scanned the room.
‘It’s like Geordie Shore in here,’ Martine complained, grooming her ponytail in distaste. ‘So gross. I feel like I’m about to slip over in someone’s wet patch.’
‘It’s totally gross,’ Rose agreed.
‘We’ve only recognised Delta so far,’ I added.
Martine hovered, but didn’t engage. Her eyeballs flickered, mapping out a hierarchy of importance somewhere over our shoulders. She didn’t need to tell us The Dolls were bottom rung.
‘Oh, there’s Manny,’ she said about somebody I couldn’t see. ‘Manny!’ She drifted off.
The opening music rose up like panic from the PA stacks that snaked down from the roof. Over the rim of my wine glass, I noted the cliques cluttering down into their seats, memorising who knew whom. They all looked like they had the right to be there.
I inhaled my pinot for its comforting smell and then drank it. Many of the awards wouldn’t even be televised: Best adult contemporary album. Best comedy album. Best children’s album . . . all stowed away in the commercial breaks. Everyone in those categories took their sweet time thanking their colleagues, the unsung heroes. There were a lot of quiet achievers at these award shows, like John Villiers, who had twiddled the knobs on quite a few of the albums in the important categories, and lent his advice and squeezed a few diaphragms, yet you wouldn’t hear hide nor hair of him on TV.
If I were up there on that stage I’d have plenty to say.
‘Ever since I was a little girl . . .’
‘Couldn’t have done this without our producer . . .’
‘A man who needs no introduction . . .’
‘We couldn’t forget our aunt, our inspiration . . .’
‘Our aunt, Alannah Dall—’
I stopped and did the maths. Yes, it was true: feasibly we could be up on that stage in a year’s time—if we were to get a record deal immediately, and if that record company made us their number one priority. We’d already counted out Stephen, who admitted when pressed by Rose that he was neither musician nor mogul, and only worked in distribution. Without conferring, we dropped him from our conversation.
The wine on the tables was free. When we watched the recording a few days later we could clearly see Rose in the background at one point, sitting on the floor with her glass, but we couldn’t for the life of us remember why she was there. John Villiers laughed a lot, but he stopped introducing us to people halfway through the evening. I’m not blaming John Villiers, but perhaps if he’d given us some of the cocaine I now don’t doubt for a minute that he was packing, we wouldn’t have got quite as drunk as we did.
John Villiers met my eye and pulled a face. I liked that we had this unspoken smirking between us, because in truth our real conversations were pretty boring. In the studio, I’d spin on the swivel chair and listen to him talk about frequencies. Pink noise; Brownian noise; the merits of Neumann mics over Rode mics. He had access to a whole universe that I couldn’t see or hear and he fell willingly into that wormhole every time he flicked on his monitor. I wondered what he’d have done with himself if he’d been born before the age of technology. Maybe he would have been an ornithologist, able to identify thousands of types of birdcall with his ultrasonic ears. Then he’d never have wound up working with our aunt and popping up on my radar.
I slipped sludgily into a favourite John Villiers fantasy with him not two feet away—a ridged forearm sticking out of his suit sleeve and that smattering of hair above the top button of his shirt. I listened to the bendy country burr of his voice as he made a boring console recommendation to someone across the table, and imagined him saying dirty stuff to me with it. I wanted to take him outside.
‘Give us a smoke,’ I’d go, flicking my fringe out of my eyes and staring into the distance. People would watch us w
ith fascination.
He’d go, ‘Not a good look for a pop star,’ and shake one out of the pack. ‘You’re going to have to stop before you go too far.’
I’d cup his hand and lean into the Zippo, the burst of lighter fuel. Our eyes would meet as he snapped down the lid. He’d give me a playful little push away. I’d push him back. We’d wind up standing even closer.
‘Don’t start what you can’t finish,’ he’d warn, looking down at me. I’d look back at him intensely. Then, without speaking, we’d head for the toilets and find a cubicle that wasn’t filled with people doing coke.
Half the time I wasn’t interested in seducing people, really; I was just trying sex on for size, seeing what I could get away with—and sometimes that meant I had to go through with it. With John Villiers it was different. He had always kept his deeper thoughts to himself, and his hands too. It must be killing him. It was killing me.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rose, as I got up.
‘Nowhere,’ I said, dropping my napkin on my chair. Over in the toilets I sat for a while with my knickers down and gathered myself. Then I weaved my way back to my seat.
‘Where’s Miss American Beauty?’ I heard Stephen ask John Villiers as I pulled back my chair.
•
By the time John Villiers escorted us back to our hotel, we were steaming. Rose tottered down the corridor with her arms outstretched, thumping one wall and then the other with her palms and loudly impersonating Julia Stone’s earlier performance. She was like a child on too much sherbet. Someone shushed her and laughed. They shouldn’t encourage her.
Cherry Bomb Page 6
