by Lisa Walker
Oh puke. I don’t want Cupid shooting any arrows at me. Not in the Starburst Nightclub anyway. In the sudden lull I hear the background music; James Blunt singing ‘You’re Beautiful’. It’s all way too desperado-ville.
‘You suss out the guys, I’ll suss out the girls,’ says Rosco.
‘Yeah, I bet.’
His brow wrinkles. ‘Professionally, I mean.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘Try and find out if any of them know Ajay,’ he murmurs. ‘Remember, he might not be here for the obvious reasons.’
‘Got it. Nancy Drew 101: how to draw information out of a suspect.’
Rosco smiles, gives me a quick salute and saunters to his seat.
I reach my seat and inspect the guy sitting opposite. As the starting bell rings, all I can think of is high school biology case studies.
‘Biologists got it wrong for a long time,’ my teacher Mrs Sanderson used to say. ‘They over-emphasised the role of the male in the courting process. The flashy peacock, the industrious bower bird, the eagle’s tumbling cartwheels all illustrate one point: those males have to try hard to attract attention. It’s the female of the species who does the choosing.’ Sperm is cheap, she wrote on the board, prompting giggles. Case Study One: The fiddler crab. ‘The female fiddler crab will scrutinise up to fifty males, including a thorough burrow inspection of at least fifteen, before she makes her selection.’ It sounded gruelling.
I feel like a female fiddler crab beginning a long shift.
My first crab is a hippie who works in advertising. The contradiction between advertising, dreadlocks, a Greenpeace wristband and the state-of-the-art iPhone he makes a point of placing on the table gets me. Yep, he knows how to keep his idealism in a box.
On the other side of the room, Rosco leans towards a pretty brunette and laughs more enthusiastically than I believe professionalism requires. Spurred on by his example, I flick back my fake blonde locks and lick my lips. ‘Are you interested in yoga?’
Of course he is. I hear all about it.
The bell rings at last and I advance to a graphic design student. He’s fun, in a one-year-old labrador kind of way. He even looks like a labrador, with his big brown eyes and shaggy blonde hair. Mr Bouncy, I nickname him on my speed dating card—ten out of ten for vitality. He does kickboxing instead of yoga, but on a whim I place a tick next to his name. There’s no rule against mixing business with pleasure, is there?
After that it all becomes a simpering, hair-flicking, banal-questioning blur. I’m like a wind-up speed-dating Barbie doll. Eventually I look up and find Ajay seated opposite me. I should have been mentally prepared for this, but I’m not. My mind goes blank. ‘Ah, hello, are you into yoga?’ I stutter.
Ajay shakes his head. ‘Never done it in my life.’
Clearly he doesn’t recognise me from his yoga class.
His eyes flicker over me as he reaches for his mineral water. I expect I fail the beach-body-readiness inspection. I notice a small tattoo on his wrist—an outline of a man cross-legged in lotus pose. I hadn’t got close enough to him in his classes to see it before.
What’s that on your wrist if you’re not into yoga? I let it pass. ‘Ah, so what brings you here?’
Ajay shrugs and glances around the room. ‘Same as everyone else.’ His eyes come back to me. ‘And you?’
‘Um. Same.’
He yawns. It must take it out of you, being a yoga guru.
My professionalism asserts itself. I must attempt to find out what he’s up to. ‘You seem distracted, is there something bothering you?’
He yawns again and sips his water. ‘I’m not really into this,’ he mutters.
‘Well, I guess it’s a big no then,’ I cross the no box on my card.
His face flushes—I’ve probably spoilt his perfect speed-dating record. I’m relieved the bell goes at that moment. He gets up and walks stiffly to the next table. I glance over at Rosco and see him clink a champagne glass with his date. He isn’t wasting his time checking on me.
The next few dates are hazy, although I come into focus for a guy I nickname the American Bloke. He’s maybe a few years older than me and says he’s into dancing.
‘I’m into dancing too.’ I don’t mention it’s more of a spectator sport for me. Dancing with the Stars is one of my favourite shows. I decide to give him a tick.
Throughout all this, James Blunt is on auto replay. Unbelievable. Maxine scurries around like a gym teacher encouraging us all to ‘Give it our best shot’ and reminding us of the laminated questions if we run out of conversation. It’s about as sexy as a school athletics carnival. I’m surprised they don’t hand out oranges at half-time.
Each time I’m asked a question from the laminated list, I give a different answer. ‘What do you do for fun?’ I drink/go to church/square dance. ‘Why did your last relationship end?’ He was on the run from the police/fell in love with my mother/drank too much and ‘If you could be any animal, what would it be?’ A pit bull terrier/racoon/dolphin.
I glance up from reviewing my dating card to find Rosco sitting opposite. Ajay is at the bar nursing a mineral water again. I hope Rosco’s not going to make me keep following him. I’m ready for bed.
His eyes are on my card. ‘Got a couple you liked, did you?’
I feel my cheeks colour. ‘Just trying to look the part. Have you found out anything re our target?’ I say in my best crisp PI tone.
Rosco shakes his head. ‘Negative.’
‘Did you learn that in PI school?’
‘What?’
‘To say negative instead of no.’
‘Clear communication is good practice,’ says Rosco. ‘You should learn some communication protocols, too.’
‘Roger. I observed that our target seemed tense. He said he’s never done yoga, which is a weird thing to say, considering how recognisable he is. Over.’
Rosco is silent for a moment. ‘Just because we played together as kids doesn’t mean you can pay me out, Olivia.’ He looks unamused.
I always push things too far.
The evening is drawing to a close. The microphone makes squawking noises and chairs are dragged out around us.
‘Hello there, Ross,’ says a loud, New York voice.
I swivel.
Rosco is on his feet already. ‘Brooklyn.’
It’s the American girl who came to our office. I didn’t catch her name at the time. Brooklyn. It’s like calling me Southport. It must be an American thing, naming your children after the place they’re born.
Brooklyn is wearing a clinging black cocktail dress and looks like she’s stepped out of a style magazine. I feel big and ungainly in my op-shop dress. She’s the real femme fatale; I’m just a pretender.
‘Am I early?’ Her eyes flicker to me. The scent of something exotic drifts towards me.
‘No, no,’ says Rosco. ‘Olivia and I were debriefing an operation. We’d pretty much finished, hadn’t we, Olivia?’ Rosco appears to suddenly remember why we’re here. He scans the room.
I do the same. There’s no sign of Ajay.
For a moment I think he’s going to tell me to chase him. I see him weigh up the desire to find Ajay against the need to avoid drawing attention to the fact that we’ve lost our target. A flash of understanding passes between us. ‘Take the rest of the evening off, Olivia.’
I glance at my watch. The face is barely visible through the water droplets, but it appears to be midnight. ‘Gee, thanks. See you at work.’
Twirling my clutch bag, I head for the door.
Maxine is standing next to it. ‘Your card?’ she says.
After a moment’s hesitation I pull my dating card out of my purse and hand it over.
‘Your results will be there tomorrow morning,’ she trills after me.
I glance through the window as I walk back to my car. Rosco is smiling as he and Brooklyn head for the door. A breeze from the street makes her long black hair waft behind her like a silken cloud. If
this was a movie, they would be in slow motion. She gives a loud, honking laugh, which only adds to the effect. I’ve heard people laugh like that in New York movies.
I grind my teeth. Rosco appears to have a date with a beautiful American. Sure why I care I’m not, but it seems that I do.
8
Thousands of red-sided garter snakes slither together in a large den, a hundred males vying for the affections of each female. The nesting balls grow and grow. I am crushed beneath the heavy mound …
Eeoow. Where did that come from?
My dream fades. It isn’t randy snakes, but my sister Jacq who is crushing me. Garter snakes were another biology case study. Those dates last night have triggered something.
The bedroom door hangs open and loud clattering drifts in. This is my grandmother’s Morse code for ‘time to get up’. Jacq wriggles on top of the sheets and I squeeze her, breathing in the smell of shampoo.
‘What’s this?’ Jacq picks up my blonde wig from the bedside table. She sits up and pulls it on, shaking her head about, rock-star style. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
‘How’ve you been going here with Nan?’
‘Good.’ Jacq sounds dubious, still swishing her blonde hair to and fro. ‘I’ve got soccer today,’ she announces, jumping out of bed and tossing the wig back on the table. ‘I’m very busy,’ she calls out as she leaves the room.
I struggle into sitting position. I know I have weekend family responsibilities, but I ignore the pointed hoovering outside my door. Instead, I pull my laptop from the bedside table. Let’s see what kind of impact I made last night. A faint ting tells me my results have arrived.
The subject heading of the email reads ‘Congratulations, you are now an Allure Speed Dating Elite Member.’ I practically swoon with excitement as I read on. Thirteen of the fifteen guys from last night want to see me again. I suspect Ajay and Rosco were the two I failed to impress, but never mind them. Thirteen out of fifteen is pretty damn good. I am the Marilyn Monroe of 9 Seabreeze Crescent! It does cross my mind that it is not me, but my push-up bra, blue contact lenses and blonde wig they want to see again. I dismiss the thought. Let me revel in my moment of glory.
The email continues, ‘You are now entitled to attend events where all daters have a rating of seventy per cent or more in a prior event.’ Yeah, cop that Denise Maxwell and the rest of the high school hot chicks. I’m an elite dater. Immature, I know, but isn’t everyone scarred for life by high school? I seldom have anything to brag about, so I seize the day, sharing a screenshot of the email to Instagram—A typical day in my fabulous life #elitedater.
Jumping out of bed, I wrap myself in a dressing-gown and run a comb through my hair. In the kitchen, Jacq is pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven. She already has her soccer uniform on. Nan enrolled her in a school holiday program and she’s thriving on it. Jacq is the kind of kid who likes to have her days filled up with activities.
Nan, not unusually, looks ready for a garden party with the queen. Every time I see her she looks younger. She’s pushing sixty-five, but today she looks no more than forty. Her blonde-streaked bob brushes the shoulders of her lace dress and I suspect she’s been getting some work done on her face. She’s ditched her heavy glasses too. She’s blind as a bat without them so she must be wearing contacts. It can’t be long before people start thinking I’m her sister.
Kevin, her terrier, is not so stylish. He’s wearing a jacket I knitted him last year. Knitting was trendy at school for a while and I jumped on the bandwagon. I haven’t seen the jacket on him before. It looks like it was made for a dog with more legs than Kevin. I take a photo and Instagram it #knittingfail.
‘Good morning, Olivia.’ Nan glances at her watch. ‘It is still morning, isn’t it?’
‘Olivia,’ Jacq squeals. ‘It’s my turn to do morning tea and I’ve made Anzac biscuits for the team.’
‘Yummo, they smell great. You’re so clever.’ My stomach growls and I stretch my hand towards the biscuits.
‘Olivia,’ says Nan.
I know that tone. Nan has many annoying habits, but her obsession with weight-watching is the worst. Not being bikini-beach-body-ready doesn’t bother me. I am what I am. This bikini-beach-body-ready thing drives me crazy. It’s a multi-purpose expression around here. It may be used as a greeting:
Hi Olivia, are you bikini-beach-body-ready?
Hell yeah!
I figure if there’s a beach and I’ve got a body, I fit the bill. Apart from the bikini, obviously. I don’t wear bikinis. Not anymore.
It may also be used as an excuse for almost anything:
Want to go to the beach?
No, I’m not bikini-beach-body-ready yet.
Have you been studying for English?
No, I’m busy getting bikini-beach-body-ready.
If people on the Gold Coast didn’t spend so much time getting bikini-beach-body-ready they’d have found a cure for cancer by now.
I tighten the string on my dressing gown. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of yoga lately. It makes you hungry.’ I know this will impress. Nan is a recent convert to the ‘amazing benefits’ of yoga and tends to drop ‘My yoga teacher says’ into discussions in a very creative way.
The red or the blue T-shirt? My yoga teacher says blue is a good colour for enhancing communication. Is the mince out of the freezer? My yoga teacher says red meat is bad for your chi. Are The Simpsons on tonight? My yoga teacher says The Simpsons are the root of all evil. Okay, I made the last one up, but, seriously, it’s like living with a kid with a crush on their school teacher. The only positive side is, like all Nan’s fixations, it will pass. Last year, she toyed with the paleo diet, tango dancing and stand-up paddle-boarding.
‘Yoga?’ Nan raises her eyebrows. ‘Since when do you do yoga?’
‘I’ve been tailing that guy from the McSushi ad for work, you know …’
‘Ajay? The bikini-boot-camp-speed-yoga man?’ Nan couldn’t have sounded any more impressed if I’d told her I’d won the Nobel Prize.
I use her excitement as cover to swipe a biscuit. ‘I’ve almost mastered the headstand.’
The downstairs doorbell rings. ‘Must go,’ breathes Nan, picking up her overnight bag. ‘Reggie’s taking me to Springbrook. I’ll be back tomorrow. You can tell me more about Ajay then.’ She gives Jacq a big kiss and turns to me. ‘Her game’s at eleven o’clock; Southport. The coach rang to make sure she’s coming. They’re a few down so they’ll have to forfeit if she’s late.’
I glance at my watch. Ten o’clock, better get my skates on.
I get changed, brush my teeth and grab my shoulder bag—five past—excellent result. ‘Right. Let’s go, Jacq.’
Her eyes fixed on the TV screen, Jacq stands at a speed that would make a sloth look hyperactive. It’s ten past by the time we get to the door. At the bottom of the stairs Jacq remembers her Anzac biscuits.
‘It doesn’t matter. No one will mind if you don’t bring biscuits. We need to get going.’
Jacq’s lip trembles. ‘But I made them specially.’
‘Okay. Run up, fast as you can. I’ll put my board on the car in case the surf’s good up there.’ I want to keep up my surfing roll.
I’m running towards the car with my surfboard, aware that the clock is ticking, when Jacq calls out behind me. I swing around, hitting her plate of biscuits with my board. They fall and break into a million pieces.
‘No! Oh, Jacq, I’m so sorry.’
A red-eyed girl and her guilt-stricken sister finally hit the road at twenty past ten. The universe must have decided I’ve already paid for my sins as the roads are only moderately bad. We make it to the game by five to eleven.
While Jacq does a quick warm-up with her team, I dash over the road to pick up the Gold Coast Times and buy some lamingtons as a replacement morning tea.
Now, I have to confess to something worse than breaking Jacq’s biscuits: I can’t stand to watch her play soccer. It bores me to tears. I would lay down my life for hers
in an instant; fight off sharks or gun-wielding robbers; anything like that. Just not watch her play soccer.
Oh, I pretend to watch. I’m there at the sideline, my face turned in more or less the right direction. But my mind won’t engage, no matter how hard I try. Maybe it would be more interesting if she kicked the ball every now and then. However, if there are two kids standing in a quiet corner of the field having a chat while their teammates chase the ball, you can guarantee one of them is Jacq.
Hence, the Gold Coast Times.
As Jacq’s team runs onto the field I flick to the letters section. In it is a well-argued letter from a regular correspondent—one Olivia Grace.
Re last week’s demand that Sydney recognise the Gold Coast as a cutting-edge city; how can you expect respect when your streets are lined with meter maids in bikinis? In what other city does this happen …
A roar from the side-lines interrupts my reading. For a split second I think they’re applauding my sentiments. My head comes up, hands clapping as Jacq glances across at me. I give her a wave and a thumbs up, then look back at the paper. I flick to the front page and stop in shock.
How did I miss this?
9
Candid Yoga Shock Photos screams the headline. The picture shows superstar Georgia Hansen in downward-facing dog, her famous bottom towards the camera. It’s not the most flattering angle, even for her. Another photo shows Ajay in black hotpants, slapping Georgia’s leg as she struggles to execute a backbend. Teacher or Tyrant? reads the caption for this one. I bet they worked hard on that line. I can see the journalist poring over the thesaurus. Guru or—nah, can’t think of anything; Yogi or—nah, no good. I’ve got it: Teacher or Tyrant. Excellent.
Ajay must be livid. Georgia Hansen won’t be coming back to Lighthouse Bliss now and neither will her high-profile friends. I scan for a photographer’s name, but of course there is none. Photo supplied, says the caption.
This begs the question of how these photos were taken. Where was I at the time? Did the private yoga room where Georgia Hansen worked out have windows? A trilling in my shoulder bag alerts me to an incoming call. I’m pretty sure I know who it is.
