•
I was standing on the hotel fire escape having a smoke when Dad called. I turned down the Fleetwood Mac CD and answered.
‘What is it, old man?’
He took a breath. ‘Tony’s dead, love.’
There was silence. Just hearing that name was like the flare-up of a tumour when you thought you’d had the all clear. So, you couldn’t run away from yourself, after all.
Dad had a few beers in him. He sounded all teary and sentimental. ‘A ruptured stomach,’ he said. ‘He drank himself to death.’
‘Okay . . . Sorry for your loss.’
‘He was a good mate.’ I listened as Dad told the story once more of Tony saving my parents’ marriage—for a while—by reasoning with Helen. Here came the old joke he always wheeled out: ‘It was like hostage negotiation.’
I remembered that period. Everybody was distracted, it was fair to say. I spent it shrouded in secrecy. When I wasn’t inserting Lego men into my vagina in the bath, I was acting out sickening tableaus with my dolls and then demanding to know which of them was responsible so that I could mete out the punishment. So that justice would be served.
‘The funeral’s next week, if you can make it,’ said Dad now. ‘And I’ll let Rose know.’
‘Why would Rose want to come? She hasn’t seen him for years.’
‘He’s still her godfather,’ Dad said, peeved.
Was, I thought. He was.
Wait . . . was he? Yes, he was. I’d forgotten. I considered who would likely turn up at his funeral, not knowing how much of a vile hypocrite he was. And the rest.
I’d been to many fantasy funerals, but never a real one. When I was a kid I’d while away long car journeys imagining my parents’ services. I’d lie prone on the back seat, face pressed into my arms so that neither of the deceased would look from the front seat and wonder why I was crying. I channelled my anguish into these neat graveside scenarios, because all the mourners would understand unequivocally what was going on, and why. Funerals worked in terms that people could cope with.
Nowadays, I wondered what people would say about me at my funeral. There’d be a full obituary and career highlights in the paper, obviously, but I was thinking about the little adverts friends and family took out, in which they said things like:
‘Beloved mother and aunty, an angel in our lives. Gave herself selflessly to others . . .’
The best they could come up with for me would be:
‘She vaguely tried to be nice sometimes . . .’
‘She was a lovely little girl once . . .’
‘. . .’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I can’t make it, I’m sorry. I wish I could be there for you, but I can’t.’
There was another long silence.
‘Okay.’ Dad sounded old and sad, but he didn’t question me. That was our unspoken deal. He didn’t try to stake a claim on my life, and in return I held him accountable for nothing.
•
I did go back to Sydney, as soon as the funeral was safely out of the way. My bond on the Tamworth apartment was a write-off because of the mess I’d made in my blackout, but like I told the real-estate guy, it didn’t need to be a big deal. The gashes on the wall were made by a belt buckle, but to all intents and purposes they could have just as easily been from a chest of drawers being moved around. Same with the boot hole in the wardrobe, with a bit of imagination.
‘It must have been slung around a fair bit,’ he said dubiously, pen hovering above his checklist.
‘Look,’ I said, pushing the wardrobe door so that it wobbled in its frame. ‘It’s actually MDF. There’s nothing to it.’ But I ended up paying, of course. Real-estate agents were notorious crooks, whether you were in Sydney’s inner west or Tamworth.
‘I’m used to being the one who leaves on a plane,’ marvelled Kane when I called him to let him know I was leaving a few days early. I was anxious to get back to Rose and talk through the songs before we hit the studio for what could be the most important album of our lives. I listened for a sign of sorrow from Kane, but it was with an almost detached interest.
We vowed to keep our plans and coordinate our dates just as soon as The Dolls’ album tour was announced. ‘The Wet Spots’ was Kane’s suggested name for it. I was feeling good about it, and about going back on tour; I felt that our vigour would likely be renewed on the road, around all those crazy teenage hormones. At present it was all starting to feel like duty, before we’d even got to execute any of our grand plans: the acid trip in the mountains, the secret weekend in Byron Bay, the peepshow date in Kings Cross, the breaking of each other’s hearts. One minute you had the power to bring someone to their knees, the next you were nagging your friends to read your runes and wondering if this arrangement was as progressive as you thought.
After we hung up, Kane tweeted, ‘Don’t call it goodbye, baby,’ which got a flurry of retweets and the usual weird responses from the diehard fans who believed he spoke to them alone—like paranoid schizophrenics getting instructions from the six o’clock news.
As the plane climbed over Tamworth and the seatbelt sign pinged off, I cranked up my laptop and put in my earphones to play the long-promised song Kane had recorded for me. I listened to it three times.
I’d never ‘drank for two, thinking about threes’. In his dreams, maybe. I didn’t have ‘calico curls’, either.
It was not me. The girl in the song was not me.
20
SOAP SCUM
Forbidden love is a fine thing for lyricists and poets—that’s uncontestable. But can we call it destiny? Can we cry helplessness? No, we cannot. We must own it for what it is—a lowdown, dirty, selfish thing to do, which feels really good.
POUR ME ANOTHER—ALANNAH DALL (SABRE BOOKS)
The last time I saw Rose she was hyperventilating into a paper bag. This time she’d brought someone along for moral support.
We exchanged awkward hugs in the restaurant near our rehearsal studio. I looked at her hair, but didn’t comment. Apparently we were both going to be blondes now.
‘This is Andrea, my PA,’ Rose said of the sour-looking brunette positioned between us like a human shield. Immediately I wondered who was footing the bill for this PA, but Rose was clearly making some kind of strategic challenge, and the new Tamworth-inspired Nina Dall timed her moves more carefully, so I simply took a seat. I was also working on my warmth, so as Rose ordered a pot of green tea I tried to meet Andrea’s eyes so I could smile pleasantly at her. In the end it just looked like I was staring, so I stopped.
I wasn’t pleased that I’d have to convey my enlightenment about the power of The Dolls in front of an audience, but at least we had good news with which to kick off our reunion lunch. Immediately after hitting the studio to record album number two, we’d play Flood Aid at the Music Bowl on a bill full of Australian and international greats. It would be our biggest gig by several tens of thousands. Mickiewicz had called and bawled me out on the importance of not fucking it up, before softening and reminiscing about that last time he brought The Pogues over. Last time I’d seen him I’d done a commando roll out of his car by accident, so he was right to be concerned.
‘So traumatic about Tony,’ Rose was saying, touching a hand to her face. ‘You missed his funeral by just a few days, by the way. He was a really special guy,’ she explained to Andrea. ‘He was my only godfather.’
‘I had shit to take care of in Tamworth,’ I said, distracted. I’d just noticed Rose’s lips. They were bigger, and not just lip-liner bigger. Noticeably, expensively bigger. It was probably good we had a point of difference, though—otherwise we were going to look like Parramatta mallrats with the same hair dye.
I wore: Scotch & Soda jeans with a leather net top; vintage Chanel heels.
Rose wore: Colette Dinnigan cream lace frock; Loriblu calfskin ankle boots.
Andrea wore: sass & bide T-shirt, denim skirt, sandals. She caught me giving her the once-over.
‘You can’t get yo
ur laptop out here,’ Rose said, dropping her voice and looking askance.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not the look the restaurant wants. They want people looking like they’re enjoying themselves and concentrating on the food.’
I reflected on this. ‘What if I was an ugly moll? Would that ruin everything for them as well?’
‘Oh my god,’ she said. ‘Forget it.’
A waitress came over and I ordered raisin toast with feta. Rose was on a gluten- and dairy-free diet, and this would smell amazing.
‘Raisin toast and wine?’ she queried. ‘Okay.’
‘So, how’s it going with Grayson?’ I asked, ignoring her. I could see myself in her mirror shades, hunched and hostile, so I straightened my back.
‘Good,’ she enthused, looking at Andrea for confirmation. ‘He’s coming over this week to hang out. You two really should hang out again, too.’
Her bangle clanked on the table as she gesticulated, again and again. Take it off, I willed her silently.
‘Sure.’
I was remembering a silly argument we had once about which colour hairs were grosser to leave on a pillow—black or blonde. She’d insisted blonde, so she must have forgotten about that.
‘You know Flood Aid is being filmed?’ she asked. ‘The whole concert’s going to be live on prime time, so let’s figure out what we’re going to wear. I was thinking we could both wear black in support of the victims, what do you think?’
‘Or blue,’ suggested Andrea, ‘for water. Isn’t the AIDS ribbon thingy white?’
‘No, that’s yellow, I think,’ said Rose, before showing her irritation. ‘Anyway, we’re not going to wear blue or yellow. I just thought if we both wore black, the boys behind us could too and then they won’t stick out too much. Are you going to fix your hair before then, Nina? I can put you in touch with my stylist. I’ve got a new Lover dress I want to wear and maybe you could go Lisa Ho if you had some extensions.’
‘That reminds me, sweetie,’ she said to Andrea. ‘We’d better hit M.A.C up for a new palette to go with my hair.’
‘So long as we get our priorities right,’ I said, which was supposed to be funny but didn’t come out with enough finesse.
Rose and Andrea sized me up as a team.
‘Why is hair so important?’ I protested, even though I knew it was. ‘The Dolls are bigger than that.’
Rose pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed. She asked sadly after a moment, ‘Were we ever really friends, Nina? Or just thrown together? You’ve never humoured me, even as kids.’
She rubbed her nose in a gesture that was all Rose, a gesture I’d known all my life, and my heart inflated like an airbag. I was about to tell her that it wasn’t true—that as a kid I’d always envied her poise, and that I’d never felt good enough, when she added, ‘Anyway, I finally realised you’re the one with the issues, not me.’
At this, even Andrea had the good grace to look embarrassed.
As Rose pourned her tea a myna bird attacked its reflection in the hub cap of a nearby SUV; I imagined it head-butting itself into a bloody pulp. A coffee grinder went full tilt behind us, adding to my irritation.
‘This hasn’t gone the way I wanted it to go,’ I admitted after a pause.
She smiled weakly. ‘Me neither.’
I forced myself to go on, even though Andrea was listening with interest. ‘It’s like we’re locked in some stupid dance and we just keep doing it.’
‘Families,’ she half-laughed and half-sniffed. ‘Let’s try something new, eh?’
‘Eh.’ I looked her dead in the eyes for what felt like the first time in years. I saw the old Rose; the one who had double-dared me into outrageous confessions in our teenage bedrooms over loose-lipped quantities of alcohol, and yet had never repeated a thing. I’d been able to trust her when I couldn’t even trust myself. ‘Let’s talk about the album. I can’t wait to get in there. This is going to be fucking massive, Rose, even if Noakes produces.’
‘If he can stop programming “modular sequences” for long enough.’
I barked a laugh. ‘I know!’ I was enjoying Andrea’s blank look and I suspected Rose was as well. We were excluding people like the good old Bain Maries days.
She grinned. ‘He hadn’t even heard of the guitar player we’re getting in.’
‘Really?’ I queried. ‘Who are we getting in?’
‘Ryan Bakker—he’s flying in from the States tomorrow to work on my songs.’
‘How come I wasn’t told about that, then?’
Rose tucked her hair behind her ear and sawed a French bean in half. ‘It was on a need-to-know basis.’
I felt my mouth drop open, with my raisin toast only halfway up to it. Let it go. After all, we needed to work with someone with integrity, and they didn’t come more authentic than Ryan. He was uninterested in fashions, credits or glowing reviews. He didn’t have to dismiss them; he was authentically unaware of them. I would barricade him on my side of the studio soon enough. I was the one with the songs.
‘Did you hear about John Villiers?’ Rose asked, completing her one-two attack as she tended to her teapot.
‘No, what?’
‘He’s working with Alannah on a comeback record.’ She waited for me to stop choking on my wine. ‘I don’t know. Could be a good thing, right? If it’s not too embarrassing.’
‘Where?’ I said plaintively.
‘I don’t know. They’ve gone bush somewhere.’
I felt a slice of panic. I’d completely lost my grip on John Villiers. Rose rested her sunnies on top of her head, so I could finally see her eyes. She looked tired as she gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, doll. There’s no wrongdoing, they’re just trying out a few ideas. I’m sure he’ll return to The Dolls, if you just say the word, eh?’
‘Eh.’ I squeezed her hand back.
‘Just stay cool,’ she said. ‘You’ve practically written half an album about him—name me a time that hasn’t worked.’
Andrea offered to run me back into town. Lost in my thoughts, I sat in the back with the window cranked open, as she and Rose murmured in the front like Mum and Dad. Before we were even out of Kings Cross, Andrea had whirred my window up again.
•
In the end, it wasn’t even through party A that I found out about Kane’s other affair. It was through party B: India Arbuckle herself. Sadie had been working as a hair and make-up assistant on Northern Beaches, the soap that had produced more beefcake than any other. It was like a rendering plant, sending pre-packaged Aussie meat off to Hollywood. Sadie was halfway through bronzing India’s freckles when the actress started winding up the assembled girls about Kane Sherman’s scorpion tattoo.
All this Sadie told me as we hovered in the cosmetics section in Myer, where I nearly threw up on my shopping bags. I immediately Wiki-ed India, right there at the Napoleon Perdis counter. In a heartbeat, my connection with Kane went from life-affirming to worthless. He’d been cheating on me. Whatever happened to honour among thieves?
Long, sinewy India Arbuckle came to Northern Beaches as troubled teen Bianca Blake, and five years later was one of the show’s best-loved blondes. She enjoys yoga, meditation and surfing, and studied at the Sydney Dance Company.
Google Images loved India, particularly in a bikini. From her untroubled brow to the rings on her long, brown toes, India was a cool fucking breeze. India was oceans of fucking, fucking calm. The whole time I thought I was the exciting contingent, Kane was seeing an ex-private-school girl with tawny limbs, languid looks and the ability to cross her ankles behind her head. I was just the skanky punk chick from Parramatta; in fact, I must have been a real chore.
I turned to India’s Twitter page, where their entire dalliance was charted out in clear code words in front of a hundred thousand excitable fans for whom the penny was yet to drop. ‘How can she afford to have an affair with a married man and be so brazen about it?’ I demanded of Sadie as she guided me by
the elbow into the cafe. ‘She’s meant to be an earth goddess, not a scheming cow.’
Saide guided me by the elbow as we walked into the cafe, so that I didn’t upset any fucking tables. Kane had recommended India a bunch of familiar songs on Twitter. He’d quoted her bits of Hank Williams and sent her Neil Young clips. She was getting about like she was the first girl to discover Bob Dylan.
‘Jeez, Kane, get some new material,’ I joked, but I thumped the table so hard our neighbours’ teacups jumped in their saucers.
Sadie tried to pacify me but my universe had funnelled down into the black hole of my iPhone screen. Scrolling back a few weeks, I saw Kane tweeting enthusiastically about the Logies and bigging up all the bands he hated. They must have been India’s friends, since she was signing to Natalie Imbruglia’s management and launching a goddamn recording career. She was the sort of person Kane would ordinarily laugh at. I was embarrassed for him, sincerely. That was all.
‘I can’t believe he’d be so stupidly blatant,’ I erupted again. I was outraged on Fiona’s behalf. I made a mental note to scrap the country song I wrote in Tamworth: ‘I wouldn’t be so crass as to say / He wasn’t yours to keep anyway / Isn’t that what they tell you? / You shoulda done what you oughta do / You can call me Jolene / Honey, he don’t call you anything . . .’
In my mind, Fiona and I had an unspoken, agreeable arrangement. I wouldn’t intrude on their marriage, nor embarrass her in public, and she would focus on her second holiday home and turn a blind eye to his occasional absences. This new, very public development was not one I had factored into the equation. And it was ridiculous. We all knew he’d clean up at the next Country Music Awards and walk the red carpet with his wife and sons no matter what, so what was the deal with the inappropriate lovelorn outpourings?
Just as sickness gets worse at night, once I was back home at Dad’s, I found that my anger grew more virulent the later the hour. By two in the morning I’d refreshed India’s Twitter page so many times for further enraging updates that I was furious with her for her neglect of her fans. I’d even examined our hotel on Google Maps, but no Googlemobile had gone by and caught them in a clinch in the past twenty-four hours. Eventually, impulse got the better of me. After hovering my finger I bashed the send button, emailing Kane a link to India’s Twitter account, with a question mark.
Cherry Bomb Page 26
