After the second loop Joseph decided to get out and investigate on foot. Maybe he’d be better able to hear any party sounds that way. Or even see someone else going into a party house. He’d do one loop on foot, and if he couldn’t find it he’d just catch a taxi back to his hotel. He’d noticed a rank around the corner, so that wouldn’t be a drama.
He passed a fifty-dollar bill to the driver as payment.
“Keep the change,” he said.
“That’s a big tip, mate,” the driver said in amazement. “You sure?”
“Sure,” Joseph said, climbing out.
“Mad bloody tourists,” the driver thought as he took off.
God knows what sort of party this was, Joseph thought, walking down one side of the street and still hearing nothing. Perhaps it was a slumber party and they were asleep already?
A car pulled up down the road and several people got out. Joseph watched as they crossed the road and went into a house. The door opened briefly and he heard a faint sound of music. That had to be it. He walked up and knocked on the front door.
“Hi, I’m Joseph, a friend of a friend of Aaron’s,” he started to explain.
The woman who opened the door just smiled and gestured for him to come in, continuing to talk on the mobile phone clenched under her chin.
Moments after Joseph closed the front door behind him, another taxi pulled up a hundred meters down the street. A man and a woman, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts, climbed out and walked up the front path of a redbrick house six houses down.
The woman wasn’t happy. “We’re not staying long, Aaron, okay? You know I don’t like these friends of yours. And I don’t feel like meeting this Pommie friend of Dave’s either.”
“I know, I know,” the man drawled. “You told me. We’ll just stay an hour, all right? And don’t worry about Dave’s friend. He probably won’t even turn up.”
CHAPTER 16
The funky opening notes of James Brown’s classic “Sex Machine” blasted around the room.
Eva bit back a smile as she watched Greg gyrate around the makeshift dance floor, enthusiastically wriggling his behind. Who’d have thought he would be able to do such a fantastic James Brown impersonation? He was just hilarious, Eva thought, laughing out loud. He obviously did have a good sense of humor after all. She hadn’t been too sure. But look at him, he was a natural comedian.
As she kept watching, the song changed. But Greg’s James Brown dancing style didn’t. Eva slowly realized that Greg’s dancing wasn’t an impersonation. It was just his dancing. A kind of energetic combination of groin thrusts and hip swivels, with an occasional double-handed “Don’t mind me, I’m just shaking out the mat” movement. She’d never seen anything quite like it. From the looks on some of the other partygoers’ faces, neither had they. There were more than a few sidelong glances at Greg. More than a few open smiles.
She began to feel a bit embarrassed for him. Her date for the evening had turned into the party sideshow. And her daydream of a holiday romance with a nice Australian man was dissolving before her eyes. God, meeting someone was such a minefield, she thought. Such a series of obstacle courses, a series of judgments. On looks. Personality. Conversation. Behavior.
It was like crossing a rope bridge, she decided. One tiny slip either way and you were over the edge, out of the race. She felt awful thinking it, but Greg’s dancing was sending him very close to the edge of the bridge. It was a shame, Eva thought. He’d been quite nice at dinner. Well, until he’d started all the Celtic hair and Celtic skin carry-on. And started to drink too much. And did that business with the bill.
As for his behavior in the car—he’d driven through a red light, cursed other drivers, and only slowed down after she’d practically shouted at him. She’d almost had to go into battle to get him to stop at a bottle shop so she could buy some champagne for the party.
“There’ll be plenty of drink there,” he’d said, looking across at her in amazement. “Don’t waste your money.”
But Eva had insisted. She didn’t want to turn up empty-handed. Greg roared into a drive-through bottle shop, keeping the car running noisily while she hurriedly chose a bottle of Australian champagne and paid for it, wincing at the noises coming out of Greg’s car behind her. Afterward, she’d sunk down into her seat, praying they wouldn’t crash, sitting up only when they stopped near the party house.
Things hadn’t improved when they came inside the large, stylishly decorated house, filled with beautifully dressed, confident young Melburnians. Eva had felt immediately self-conscious, very out of place. She felt like she was in a drawing from her childhood. “Our artist has cleverly hidden an ordinary person in this room full of supermodels. Can you find her?”
Greg had started parading her around the room, reeling off her fake life story, trying to impress his friends with the company he was keeping. “Do you know she actually lives and works in a caravan in Galway?” she heard him say. “She sang on Enya’s latest album. Bono from U2 has one of her sculptures in his garden.”
A couple of his friends had pointedly looked her up and down as if they were disappointed with her simple black dress. What had they been expecting her to wear? she wondered. A floaty green dress and an Aran sweater? A harp slung over her shoulder?
What had Lainey started that night? And what could Eva do to fix things now? Follow Greg around the room, apologizing and explaining that actually he had it all completely backward. “Oh no, when he said Galway, he actually meant Dublin.” “He said I sang on Enya’s latest CD? Oh, he must have misheard. I actually said I work in a delicatessen in Camden Street.” “You think I’m a successful sculptor? Oh no, no, no, I’m a shop assistant. But they both start with the letter ‘s,’ so I suppose it’s an easy enough mistake.”
No, she was hardly going to do that. Besides, she smiled to herself now, taking another sip of champagne, if the truth be told, she liked the interest these people were showing in her. And she liked the way people reacted when she was introduced as Niamh the sculptor. The way they asked her to spell her name, asked her what it meant. She certainly never got that reaction in her real life.
Greg lurched up to her, a designer beer in his hand. Another full one, she noticed. God, he was lashing them back. “Niamh!” he shouted over the music. “Want to dance?”
She shook her head very definitely.
“Mind if I do?”
She shook her head even more definitely. He hurled himself back on the dance floor. He’d hardly been off it since the James Brown song had been played.
Eva stood back and drained her glass of champagne. Should she just go outside, catch a taxi at the rank they’d passed down the road? Leave him to it? No, she decided. She’d stay a bit longer. She was actually enjoying herself, the spectacle of Greg included. She liked watching people at parties, there was nothing like it for entertainment. But first she’d go to the kitchen and get herself another glass of that lovely champagne.
Joseph asked five people but no one was able to point Aaron out to him. He began to wonder if he had the name right. Could he have misheard Dave? Maybe his friend was actually called Darren. Or Warren. Could it have been Sharon, even? A woman with a very deep voice? No, it had definitely been Aaron. He’d obviously just not arrived yet. Joseph decided to stay another half an hour, and if Aaron still hadn’t turned up he’d just go back to the hotel.
The Australian definition of casual was worlds away from the London one, he thought as he walked through the different rooms of the house. He was in glossy-magazine territory tonight, from the furniture right down to the designer clothing. Even the drinks in people’s hands. The television was so modern it was little more than a slim piece of metal glued to the wall. The CD system took up one side of the room. And the house was enormous. Every room seemed filled with people. He walked through, carrying his daypack, wondering where the kitchen was.
He finally had to ask for directions. On his way there, he passed through a large room that had
been set aside for dancing. The music was booming through the speakers. Joseph was amazed he hadn’t been able to hear it from the road outside. The windows must be soundproofed. There seemed to be some sort of performance art going on, a blond-haired man of about his own age doing a spectacular impersonation of James Brown’s dancing. Joseph watched for a moment. He had to laugh. The fellow had the moves down pat, right down to the flamboyant hand gestures. Maybe he did it as a career.
The kitchen was just beside the dance room. It was like something from a film set, all sleek styling, slate floor and tall cupboards. A dark-haired woman in a short black dress was already in there, standing by the long counter, fitting a silver contraption onto a bottle of champagne. She seemed very intent on her task. Then she spoke over her shoulder. She must have heard him come in.
“Can you believe this fantastic invention I found on the bench here? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt like just one glass of champagne but decided against it because the whole bottle would go flat.”
He recognized her accent. She was Irish.
“But look, if you use this thing,” she kept talking, demonstrating the silver stopper by taking it off and putting it on the bottle again, “the bubbles stay in. Brilliant. Honestly, you ingenious Australians.”
He had to smile at her enthusiasm. It was as if she’d discovered the Holy Grail. “I’m sorry, I can’t take any credit for that incredible invention. I’m English.”
Eva heard the soft accent and turned around completely. He was tall, at least six inches taller than her. Dark hair. And beautiful dark eyes. She took it all in in just a moment, conscious she was staring at him. “Oh. Well. Would you like a glass of champagne anyway? There’s plenty.”
He smiled at her. “You just want to try that invention again, don’t you? Thanks anyway, but this is fine.” He held up his bottle of wine.
She passed him a corkscrew and glass and watched as he deftly pulled out the cork.
The kitchen door opened and a young woman came in, grabbed a glass from the counter and went out again. Before the door closed they both had a clear view of Greg on the dance floor.
Joseph turned to Eva. “So James Brown is alive and well and living in Australia.”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” The champagne made her bold. “You’re not tempted to give him a run for his money? Hit the dance floor yourself?”
“I might. Though I’m probably more of a John Travolta man myself.”
His face was solemn but his eyes were twinkling, she noticed. “Oh, good. You can warm up the crowd for me. I’m planning quite a spectacular Torvill and Dean routine, actually.”
“Both parts?”
“Oh yes. That’s where the real skill comes in.” She grinned at him.
What a fantastic smile she had, Joseph thought. It was like she lit up from inside. He noticed the flower in her hair and the heavy silver pendant she was wearing. It was very dramatic against her black dress.
The door flung open again. A tall, blond-haired man came in, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Niamh, there you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’ve missed some fantastic dance songs out there.”
The James Brown man. Joseph glanced over at the Irishwoman. She surprised him with a very slight wink.
The blond man was giving Joseph the once-over, taking in his clothes and the daypack he was carrying.
“Hello, mate. Haven’t seen you at these parties before, have we met?”
Joseph shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
The blond man put out his hand. “My name’s Greg.”
Joseph shook it. “Joseph.”
Greg moved over next to Eva and put his arm around her. “And this, Joe, is Niamh Kennedy.”
Joseph thought she seemed very uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name,” he said, looking right at her.
“Niamh Kennedy,” Greg repeated. “It’s an ancient Celtic name. The letters ‘m’ and ‘h’ are pronounced as the ‘v’ sound in the Irish language, you see. So it’s spelled N-i-a-m-h, but pronounced Nee-av.”
“Greg, please.” Eva felt very embarrassed. Was this a party or a spelling bee?
Greg gave her shoulder a squeeze and turned back to Joseph. “What’s that accent, Joe? English, are you?”
“That’s right. From London.”
“Uh huh. And what do you do? For a living?”
As they both looked at him expectantly, Joseph decided he was tired of talking about himself. Tired of talking about his work, his designs, ergonomic principles. He’d done nothing else but that at the conference. So he kept his answer brief. “Industrial design.”
Greg nodded. “Right. And are you living in Oz or here on holiday?”
Joseph hadn’t realized Twenty Questions was a common Australian party game. “A working holiday, really.”
The man glanced at his daypack again. “God, you English backpackers, you’re amazing. I swear you see more of Australia than we natives do.”
Backpacker? The idea of it amused Joseph. He didn’t correct him. “Oh, yes, it’s a great way to travel.”
Eva spoke then. “Are you looking for work at the moment? Greg owns a cafe and was just saying tonight that he needs staff, weren’t you, Greg?”
“Is that right? And do you employ backpackers?” Joseph asked.
Greg nodded. “Yes. If they’re legal.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly legal,” Joseph said, enjoying himself even more. This was much easier than talking about his real life. And he was legal. In a business-visa sort of way.
Greg pulled out his wallet and withdrew a business card. “Okay, Joe. Call in and see me if you want.”
“Thanks.” Joseph took the business card and put it away without looking.
“One of the most popular bars in town, that is,” Greg said, seeming a bit put out at Joseph’s lack of interest. “I started it up less than eighteen months ago, and have seen a capital return of more than 10 percent each month since. Now, I don’t know if you understand the business world, Joe, but…”
Eva had heard all this over dinner and she didn’t really need to hear it again. She decided to leave him to it for a while. She needed to find the bathroom in any case. “Excuse me,” she said.
Greg continued his business report for a few more minutes, before stopping midsentence and picking up Joseph’s bottle of wine from the bench. He squinted down at the label.
“Hunter Valley. New South Wales. Not bad, not bad. But if you’re after a really good, full-bodied shiraz, you can’t get any better than…” He stopped again, apparently losing interest in his own monologue. Swaying slightly, he walked to the kitchen door and peered out into the party instead.
“Where’s she gone?” he muttered under his breath. He turned to Joseph. “She’s Irish, you know. Niamh, I mean.”
“Is that right?”
“She’s a very successful sculptor,” Greg went on.
“Based in the west of Ireland. But she’s here working on some commissions. Special clients. VIPs, that sort of thing. And she’s a singer too, you know. She sang on Enya’s last album.”
Joseph was surprised. “Really? I thought Enya did all the singing herself.”
“That’s what most people think,” Greg boasted. “But she gets tired of laying down hundreds and hundreds of voice tracks, so she gets Niamh to come in and do some of them. She even did a sculpture for Bono from U2 recently. For his garden.”
“Who? Enya?”
“No,” Greg said, crankily. “Niamh.”
Eva came back into the kitchen at that moment. As she reached for her glass of champagne on the kitchen bench beside Greg, he moved to put his arm around her again. “My Celtic princess,” he slurred.
Eva decided right then she wanted to go home. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Actually, Greg, I might call it a night, I think. I’m exhausted.”
Greg looked disappointed. “So early, Niamh? Well, look, okay,
I’ll just finish this beer and we can head off. Unless you want to have a quick dance before we go?”
“No, but thank you anyway.” Eva said, a little too quickly. She glanced over at the Englishman. His face was serious but his eyes were smiling at her again. She bit back a smile herself.
Just then another man pushed into the kitchen, also the worse for wear. “Greg Gilroy, my old maaate, how are you? Diane said she thought you were in here. I haven’t seen you for years, mate! How’s that Irish pub of yours going?”
“Jim, maaate! Great to see you.” He slapped the new arrival on the back. “I’m out of that Irish pub business now, Jimbo. Into cafes. Four Quarters in St. Kilda, have you heard of it? I tell you, mate, best thing I ever…” He noticed Eva standing by the door, trying to get his attention.
She spoke quickly. “Greg, look, I can get a cab home, I’ll be grand. I noticed there’s a rank just down the road. You stay here and catch up with your friend.”
Greg started to object, then the other man pulled two beers out of the fridge. He handed one to Greg and opened one himself. He ignored Joseph, who was still standing just a few feet away, watching everything.
Eva smiled over at him. “I hope you enjoy your travels, Joe.”
That smile again, Joseph thought. It was almost luminous. “Thanks, Niamh.” There was a pause. “I like your pendant, by the way.”
She glanced down at it. “Thank you.” She felt very self-conscious all of a sudden. What had got into her this holiday? Taking on false identities. Drinking more champagne than was good for her. And smiling like a lovestruck teenager at perfect strangers. “Well, good night. It was lovely to meet you,” she said.
“You too,” he said.
Greg overheard. U2? Was Niamh talking about that sculpture she did for Bono? “Mate,” he interrupted Jim’s spiel about how successful his golf-buggy business was these days. “Let me introduce you to this lovely Irish woman. Niamh, this is…”
He was too late. Eva had gone.
CHAPTER 17
Upside Down Inside Out Page 12
