The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  Wakefield Press

  Lisa Walker writes novels for adults and young adults. She has also written an ABC Radio National play and been published in the Age, Griffith Review, The Big Issue and the Review of Australian Fiction. Her recent novels include a young adult coming-of-age story, Paris Syndrome (HarperCollins, 2018), and a climate change comedy, Melt (Lacuna, 2018). She has worked in environmental communication and as a wilderness guide and recently spent six months in a Kmart tent in outback Australia. Lisa lives, surfs and writes on the north coast of New South Wales. The Girl with the Gold Bikini is her sixth novel.

  You can visit Lisa at www.lisawalker.com.au.

  Wakefield Press

  16 Rose Street

  Mile End

  South Australia 5031

  www.wakefieldpress.com.au

  First published 2020

  This edition published 2020

  Copyright © Lisa Walker, 2020

  All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without written permission. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

  Cover designed by Liz Nicholson, Wakefield Press

  Edited by Margot Lloyd, Wakefield Press

  ISBN 978 1 74305 719 3

  For my sister, Sue,

  a keen early reader of my work.

  1

  Whenever I see a girl in a gold bikini, I think of Princess Leia. Here on the Gold Coast, gold bikinis are common, so I think of Princess Leia a lot.

  Princess Leia doesn’t stand for any nonsense. When the giant slug made her wear that ridiculous bikini, she whipped out her chain and gave it a thrashing. Then she changed quick smart into something more sensible.

  ‘Dance with the hottest crowd in town, our stunning waitresses will ensure …’

  Punching the radio ‘off’ button, I squeeze my car into a metered spot near Cavill Avenue and glance at my watch. Late again. The good thing about working in Surfers Paradise is that the meter maids will be along soon to stick money in the meter. That’s if they don’t recognise my parents’ bombed-out Daihatsu, in which case they’ll know I’m no tourist, but a shameless leech on the system.

  I jog up the street, jumping sideways to avoid getting wiped out by a guy with a nine-foot surfboard on his head. A tout calls out from a doorway, gesturing towards his shop. Get your stuffed koalas, didgeridoos and Akubra hats here, folks. Or that’s what I imagine he’s saying. As I don’t speak Japanese it’s hard to be sure.

  I nod at the tout. He nods back. Seiji’s All Australian Souvenir Shop and Outback Bar is my regular lunchtime haunt. I don’t buy much but it’s always quiet in there, compared to the hustle bustle of the street. Seiji is nice. He never seems to mind if my ice-cream drips. He’s a good salesman, too.

  As I push through the door of Gold Star Investigations I pause to savour the thrill it gives me. Here I am. Straight out of school and already a private investigator in training. It’s funny, though, how when dreams come true they’re never quite what you expect.

  I hadn’t thought it would be so hard to work with Rosco. He and I are no strangers. We grew up on the same street in Southport. He was one year ahead of me in school, but we hung out together after hours. Rosco was Luke Skywalker and Han Solo to my Leia. We took turns to play Yoda, and very accomplished in Yoda-speak we were. The force was with us. I misheard this phrase the first time he said it, before I watched the movies, and the horse is with you became our little in-joke.

  Rosco ditched me as a playmate when he turned ten and I didn’t see much of him for a while. It soon became clear that he hadn’t ditched me to hang out in the skate park with the other boys, though. Rosco had his eyes on broader horizons. He started his first business when he was eleven, selling funky caps online. At fourteen he switched to designing apps for businesses and made some serious money. Now he’s thrown all this capital into opening Gold Star Investigations. The Gold Coast, he says, is crying out for PIs. He’s changed a lot since we were playmates, but I suppose I have, too.

  Rosco’s been in business for six months and I am his first employee. My relationship with him as a CEO is different to when he was Han Solo. From the moment I started, a week ago, he’s treated me like an IQ-challenged sidekick. My role is clear. I am not Princess Leia, Nancy Drew, or even Batgirl. No, I am Watson to his Sherlock, Hastings to his Poirot, Robin to his Batman.

  Rosco has now become something of an enigma to me. He makes out like he’s a typical Aussie surfer boy, but he’s never been that. How many nineteen-year-old surfers start their own PI business? I know why I’m in the game, but as for him … no idea. He says it’s purely business but I’m not buying it. If he was trying to make money, he’d have stuck with IT.

  As I sprint up the grey-carpeted stairs, my glasses fog up from the effort. I burst into the office and, even through the haze on my lenses, I can see that Rosco doesn’t look happy. ‘Sorry, Rosco. You wouldn’t believe the traffic.’

  ‘Hudson rang, asking after his background check.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll be right onto it.’ I slink off to my corner. My work to date has revolved around two things—internet searches spiced up with a bit of surveillance. This involves sitting in bushes taking shots of men doing things they don’t want you to see. Crouching in bushes is the assistant’s job. Exactly what the manager’s job is, I haven’t yet worked out. Fast-talking and hustling, perhaps. Rosco’s good at that.

  I press the power button, polish my glasses on my T-shirt, and hum the theme music from Star Wars as I wait for my computer to boot up. Everyone has their morning routines.

  ‘Earth to Tatooine. Look out the window and tell me what’s wrong with this picture.’ Rosco is behind me. It’s been ten years since we played Star Wars, but he still knows the theme song when he hears it.

  The music dries up in my throat and I slide my glasses back on. This is Rosco’s form of on-the-job training. I might be earning less than minimum wage, but I’m getting the benefit of his vast experience, he says. When he tells me this I resist the urge to point out he only trained as a PI last year.

  A few times a day he pops up beside me and gives me a grilling. You’re doing surveillance in a suburban street; how do you avoid getting noticed? he’ll bark. Or, Name three good ways to get information out of a reluctant witness.

  I feel like he’ll keep me in after work if I give the wrong answer. Or maybe boot me out for good. Rosco can’t expect a super sleuth on my salary, but a girl who’s learned all she knows from Nancy Drew and Veronica Mars might not be what he had in mind either. He’s having second thoughts about me, I can tell, and he’s not the type of guy to let a childhood friendship cloud his judgement. Business is business. As much as I try to stay cool, I want to keep this job.

  My pulse races as I peer out the window. It’s a typical Gold Coast street scene. Two blonde teenage girls in short shorts. Two blond teenage boys in baggy board shorts with surfboards. One couple—an older man with a girl around my age. A yellow bus with red and blue surfboards painted on the side, stopping to pick up passengers.

  ‘Nothing. It’s a trick question.’ He’s done that to me before. Just keeping you on your toes, he says.

  ‘Look again.’

  I look again. The teenage boys have turned to watch the girls go past. The bus is making its way up the street. Nothing abnormal—code green. There must be something about the couple.

  The man is middle-aged and dressed in what passes for casual on the Gold Coast: ironed polo shirt, tailored slacks and white leather shoes. He looks ready for a round of golf at Sanctuary Cove.

  The
girl is one of those sleek beauties who look like they don’t even need to try. Her glossy hair hangs to the belt of her simple, but probably designer, little white dress. Gorgeous for sure, but her type isn’t exactly unusual on the Gold Coast. Code green, or …

  ‘No suntan!’ I yell like a contestant on Quiz of the Century.

  Rosco smiles—a proud teacher. ‘You’re getting there.’

  The couple pause beneath our sign, glance up and down the street, then open the door.

  I look at Rosco and he nods. ‘They’re coming our way.’

  This is a momentous event. It’s the first time since I’ve started that a potential client has visited the office. Now, the theme from James Bond, The Man with the Golden Gun, starts in my head; Olivia Grace and the case of the—

  There’s a sharp knock. Rosco acts cool. Straightening the collar on his blue cotton shirt he opens the door.

  The couple take off their sunglasses, as if on cue. ‘Good morning, Mr Ledger.’ Their accent is American. If they are surprised to find the office staffed by teenagers, they don’t show it. Rosco has never let his youth affect his confidence.

  The girl is even more beautiful close-up. She’s almost geisha-like with her pale, oval face and brilliant red lips.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my assistant, Olivia Grace,’ says Rosco.

  I bound from my chair, tugging my too-short T-shirt over my cargo pants. I need to make a good impression. How? How? How? Cogs whir in my head. Steam practically comes out my ears, I’m thinking so hard.

  Rosco raises his eyebrows. I’m taking too long. I should say hello, but it’s so boring, so unimpressive. I can do better than that. The couple’s faces are impassive. They think I’m shy.

  I’ve got it. I open my mouth. ‘Howdy,’ I say in a hearty voice.

  It doesn’t go down as well as I’d hoped. They look puzzled.

  Perhaps they didn’t hear me. I try again with a different emphasis and a more encouraging expression. ‘Howdy partner!’

  The girl smiles and I breathe again.

  ‘Oh, you mean howdy pardner.’ She sounds like she’s walked out of a movie set in New York. One filled with yellow taxis and smart-talking street vendors. ‘Your pronunciation is very,’ she purses her shiny, red lips, ‘Australian.’

  The man gives me a small nod. ‘Can we speak somewhere private, Mr Ledger?’

  Rosco ushers them towards his glass-walled office, flinging me a what the hell? look over his shoulder.

  Deflated, I sink back to my seat.

  Rosco is ensconced with the Americans for some time. I complete the Hudson check in a fury of efficiency, print it out and arrange it in a folder. Glancing over at Rosco, I see he is putting everything he has into this pitch. His suntanned face is animated and he doesn’t pause to flick his blond hair out of his eyes. He looks like Han Solo trying to convince Chewbacca to break out of prison.

  I pretend to work until I hear Rosco’s door open. The American couple walk straight to the door. I can’t let them go like that. This is a big job, I can sense it. It’s an American job, a New York job, and jobs don’t come bigger than that. I want in.

  I’m well qualified to liaise with American clients. I lead an exciting multicultural life. Watching Hollywood blockbusters and eating hamburgers is my favourite weekend activity.

  ‘Bye guys, can’t wait to ride shotgun with you,’ I call. That’s what they always say in the movies—ride shotgun. It means to help someone out, I think.

  The Americans swivel at the door. They stare at me, their faces blank, then the girl murmurs something to Rosco. He taps the side of his head with his index finger. I strain my ears but can’t catch what he says. It doesn’t look good.

  Code orange. Code orange. Faster beats my pulse. In times of stress I find Yoda-speak calming.

  As their steps recede down the staircase Rosco turns on me. ‘Ride shotgun? What the hell? I had to tell them you were a few spanners short of a picnic.’

  ‘Did they know what that meant?’

  ‘They got the idea.’

  ‘I was just trying to be friendly. It’s nice to talk to people in their own dialect. It makes them feel at home.’

  He folds his arms and looks stern. The fact that I’ve seen him dressed in his mother’s white dressing gown brandishing an umbrella as a lightsaber should be helpful right now, but it is not.

  Code red. Code red. I’ve seen that look before, he’s about to ditch me. I decide to get in first. ‘Okay, sorry. It’s not working out, is it? If you want me to leave, I’ll go.’ I stand; stuffing the snow-dome surfer I bought from Seiji yesterday into my shoulder bag.

  The corner of Rosco’s mouth quivers.

  I pick up my Surfers Paradise drink coasters and drop them in my bag too. I can’t believe it; he’s really going to let me go.

  Rosco laughs. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen. Everyone makes mistakes. Go get some lunch; I’ll see you back here in half an hour.’

  I pull my souvenirs back out and sit them on my desk. Disaster averted. My pulse settles. Code green.

  Rosco leans against the door frame watching me, his face unreadable. ‘Olivia?’

  ‘Yes?’ I have no idea what he is going to say next. It’s so weird how someone you’ve known since childhood can turn into a stranger.

  He puts his hand in his pocket and jingles his change. ‘Get me a salad roll while you’re out, will you?’

  Nancy Drew and Princess Leia put up with this would not, but I want the job so I put out my hand. ‘White or wholemeal?’

  2

  ‘Excitement is found in all corners of the Gold Coast. Bungee jump in the middle of Surfers Paradise, skydive, paraglide, parasail, hang-glide, abseil, hot air balloon or …’

  The loudspeaker blasts across the mall. Cavill Avenue is bustling as always. Seiji eyes me under his black hair and nods as I reach his souvenir shop and outback bar. You might think this is a strange combination, but in Surfers it’s normal.

  I nod back. This nod is something I’ve been working on. I am a tough and resourceful PI on her lunch break, it says. You don’t want to mess with me. I’m pretty sure Seiji gets it, but as I don’t speak Japanese and he speaks very little English it’s hard to be sure.

  Seiji holds out a mug with a picture of a kangaroo on it. ‘Special. Five dorrars.’

  A kangaroo mug for five dollars! How could you go past it? Seiji knows how to exploit my weakness. I started collecting Australiana many years ago and have a large collection of trinkets at home. Here in Surfers, I’m constantly tempted.

  Our transaction complete, I put the mug in my bag and wander over to order a sushi lunch box from McSushi. You never have to go far on the Gold Coast to find one these days. The McSushi ambassador’s face is plastered across the shiny white walls of the food franchise. It’s Ajay, yoga guru to the stars and founder of the Bikini Beach Body Speed Yoga Boot Camp franchise. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. It’s some combination of those words. Like McSushi, he is everywhere too. In the last week I’ve seen him on the cover of GQ, talking on Sunrise and guest-starring in a panel show. Ajay is like Madonna—he’s so famous he only needs one name.

  Yoga is my life. McSushi is my food, reads the caption on the poster. Dressed in red hotpants, Ajay sits on a rock in lotus pose with a nori roll in his hand. It’s not a look many could pull off, but he does.

  Picking up a copy of the free daily rag, the Gold Coast Times, I wander to the wall lining the beach. Sunbathing hasn’t gone out of style on the Gold Coast. A stiff wind is blowing sand over all the roasting bodies. A clubbie sits watch on the tower. Flags flutter and swimmers frolic in the twin mirrors of his sunglasses.

  I hold onto my floppy hat with one hand and stuff the nori roll in my mouth with the other, while attempting a lotus pose. I don’t pull it off, but I Instagram it anyway, tagging #bikinibodyspeedyogabootcamp #livingmybestlife. Irony can be tricky on social media, but I’ve never let that stop me.

  Putting my phone in my p
ocket, I survey the scene. I can’t believe I’ve ended up working in Surfers Paradise. I grew up on the Gold Coast and it does have some good parts, but I’ve never warmed to Surfers. I eye the seething mass of tourists on the beach and the high-rise towers—Horizons, Mariner Shores, Pelican Sands, Chamonix. I’m like an anthropologist, studying an exotic tribe. Why do people come here? I wouldn’t if I had a better offer.

  Basically, I’m here for the job. The PI thing has been my dream for years. I blame my grandmother. She’s the one who gave me my first Nancy Drew book when I was ten and followed up with more volumes at every birthday and Christmas thereafter. Ever since, I’ve imagined myself roaming the streets, helping out the good guys, bringing down the bad guys. Wiggling out of scary moments with some girl-power ingenuity. Nancy Drew has style and chutzpah, not to mention a snazzy sports car. I have none of these, but what the hell. There’s nothing to stop me trying.

  Mum and Dad aren’t too keen on the PI thing. They want me to go to uni. I applied for law to keep them happy and the offer from the university’s still there. It’s only January and uni doesn’t start until March, so I’ve got a few months to try this out. ‘I’m keeping my options open,’ I told them. I can’t see myself as a lawyer though. I’ve always been a ‘colour outside the lines’ kind of girl and law strikes me as an inside-the-box profession.

  I have another reason for wanting to be a PI. It’s because of what happened in Byron Bay a couple of years ago. I need to find my mojo again and I figure being a PI is a good way to start. So far though, it hasn’t quite worked out that way.

  January is a funny time around here. A lot of the locals clear out. My friends Abbey and Frannie have gone backpacking in South-East Asia to celebrate the end of Year Twelve. I was going too, but once I saw Rosco’s job advertised, that was it, I had to have it. Jobs like that don’t come along every day.

  Also absent are my mum and dad, who have gone trekking in Nepal for a month and rented out our house on Airbnb. For them, the words holidays and hiking are interchangeable. They live to hike. Usually my six-year-old sister Jacq and I tag along, but this year, seeing as I’m tied up, they’ve decided to go without us.