The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  ‘A philosophical difference of opinion?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that—hate each other’s guts is how I’d put it. Mate of mine met Brad at a party—got mixed up and called him Budgie by mistake. He won’t make that mistake again.’ Rosco smacks his fist into his palm. ‘Can’t believe you’ve never heard that story.’

  ‘I don’t follow competitive surfing.’ I gaze at the photo of Maya. Her hair is wet, she has a surfboard under her arm and a medal around her neck. ‘I’ve met her, in the surf. Looked like she had some issues with her dad.’

  ‘Will she recognise you?’

  ‘Nah, it was brief. She’s nice though—let me share her wave.’ I take Maya’s file, realising as I do that I’m on the wrong side of the fence again. Damn.

  ‘She let you share her wave? Sounds like she lacks the killer instinct all right. Okay, it’s up to you, Olivia. Save her from herself. Find out what she’s up to—drugs, boys, punk music. Whatever she’s doing, it can’t be as important as winning that title. Looks like Byron Bay is calling your name again.’

  ‘Doesn’t Byron have its own PI?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of. Maybe I should open a branch there.’ Rosco wanders out to the kitchen for a coffee. While he’s there the phone rings. I pick it up. ‘Gold Star Investigations.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Kenny here.’ The voice on the end of the line is terse. He sounds like I ought to know who he is.

  ‘Do you want to speak to Ross?’

  The man snorts. ‘Nah, tell him Kenny called. He’ll know what it means.’ He hangs up.

  ‘Kenny called,’ I say to Rosco as he comes out of the kitchen.

  ‘Urgh.’ Rosco slops coffee over his shirt. He puts his cup down and tries to mop at it with a piece of paper.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, I’ll be right.’

  I think he’s talking about the coffee rather than Kenny, but I let it pass. I turn to go.

  ‘You’re doing okay, Olivia.’

  I turn back to Rosco. ‘I am?’ Relief washes over me.

  He gives a crooked smile, like Han Solo after he escapes the aggressive space slug. ‘May the horse be with you.’

  My stomach skips. And here was me thinking he’d forgotten.

  After Rosco gave me the flick as his playmate, we didn’t talk to each other for a long time. We moved in different orbits. Then, a couple of years ago, we ran into each other by chance, right outside my house.

  It was late. I’d been at a party and Frannie’s mum had just dropped me off when Rosco came up the street with his surfboard under his arm.

  I paused at the gate when I saw him. ‘Hey, Rosco.’

  ‘Hey, Olivia. How have you been? Is the horse still with you?’

  I laughed. ‘Of course. And with you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I noticed he was dripping wet. ‘You been surfing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘It’s not so dark.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Moon’s almost full. You should try it some time, night surfing. It’s amazing.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ There had always been something different about Rosco, I realised. He never followed the herd.

  We perched on my garden wall and chatted for a while, under the streetlight. He didn’t seem in any hurry to move on. It slowly occurred to me that something was happening. We were holding each other’s gazes, our hands resting closer and closer on the wall. The air around us was still with expectation.

  Mum opened the front door eventually. ‘You coming in, Olivia?’

  I gave her a wave. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  She closed the door again.

  ‘Guess I’d better be getting on.’ I wondered if it was inappropriate to want to kiss someone you used to play Star Wars with.

  ‘Why don’t we go night surfing together some time?’ said Rosco.

  A thrill ran through me. ‘I’d love to. I’m going to Byron tomorrow with Abbey for a couple of weeks. After that?’

  ‘Sure. It’s nice to see you again.’ And then, the moment that I call the Notable Exception happened. He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  A firecracker exploded inside me. My whole body went warm and tingly. What would have happened if he’d kissed my lips?

  I never found out, though, because after what happened in Byron the last thing I wanted was to go night surfing with Rosco or anyone else. I gave him the cold shoulder when he called around to make a date. And that was that.

  I still think about that night sometimes, though, because I’ve never had that firecracker feeling again. Never come close.

  17

  Back in Byron the next day, I hit the streets looking for Maya. If she isn’t doing her duty in the waves maybe she’s in one of the coffee shops that line the main street.

  After doing the rounds of a few cafés, I’m ready for a break. I order a latte and slump into a chair. I glance at the girl sitting at the table next to me. She has shiny red hair and is wearing a tightly fitted singlet and flower-patterned lycra tights. It’s Madeleine from Lighthouse Bliss—she of the perfect headstand, perfect make-up and synthetic clothing. The Yang yoga instructor to Luna’s Yin.

  She has her back half-turned and is writing in a leather-bound notebook. A glass of green tea stands beside her. I can’t help but see the words on the page. Okay, I could have helped it, but I’m paid to be nosy.

  How will I become a rock star yoga teacher? she’s written at the top in neat handwriting. Underneath it she prints the word headstand.

  Interesting. Maybe I’m not so far wrong in my quest. Here’s someone else who feels the answer to getting ahead is a headstand.

  Madeleine underlines headstand three times, then gets a pink highlighter out of her bag and highlights it. Next to it she prints Sydney. She contemplates her words, draws a pink arrow between them, drains her tea and closes the notebook. At this stage I become very interested in a painting on the opposite wall. When I turn around, she has gone. I finish my coffee and go up to pay the bill.

  The café is styled as a funky sixties surf joint. An old wooden Malibu board hangs behind the bar. Signatures of surfers I assume are of some note are scrawled across it. I see Maya’s there and use it as an opening.

  ‘Does Maya come in here much?’ I say to the girl behind the cash register, gesturing at the surfboard. ‘I thought I’d catch her in the surf, but she hasn’t been out at all.’

  ‘Naomi,’ she calls. A teenager with wild springy hair in low-slung jeans and a midriff-baring top looks up from her milkshake. ‘Where’s Maya at these days?’

  The girl shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

  Even Nancy Drew has her dud moments.

  I finally track down Maya at the Byron Bay RSL on Thursday evening. Sipping a beer, I perch at a table down the back where I can take photos without being noticed. It’s open mike comedy night and she’s just taken the stage. The crowd is a mixture—young hip surfies mingled with your typical middle-aged RSL drinkers.

  Maya is wearing a fifties-style dress that hangs loosely off her athletic frame. Yellow ballet shoes complete an outfit that makes her look like a cross between Gidget and a child gymnast. I’d have picked her as a Roxy and Billabong girl myself.

  ‘I got a new longboard for my boyfriend. Good trade huh? No, seriously though, when you’re a girl in the surf you need to have some comebacks ready for those boys who’ve overdosed on testosterone and adrenaline. There’s a lot of them out there—here’s a few suggestions.’

  She’s a natural. The contrast between her cute gap-toothed smile and the stuff she’s saying gives her an extra edge. I snap off a couple of photos.

  ‘You know, Byron Bay gets pretty crowded. I often get confused when I’m sitting in the line-up and think I’m at Blues Fest. I keep thinking I should have worn my gumboots. I’ve found out you can scare off the non-locals with a bit of hocus pocus though. “Watch out; you’re crushing my aura” works well.’

  The
crowd laughs all the way through her routine, and when she finishes she gets a huge round of applause. She jumps off the stage and runs to kiss a guy who’s sitting in the front row. I click and catch his image. He’s in his early twenties—a few years older than Maya. Shoulder length brown hair, a few tatts—cute, in an edgy, self-confident way.

  I put my phone down as a guy in a trilby hat with a cockatoo feather comes to pick up glasses. He’s fighting a losing war with a lock of greasy black hair that keeps falling over his eyes. ‘She was good,’ I say.

  ‘Who, Maya? Yeah, she’s a funny chick.’ He flicks back his fringe with a practised twitch as he stacks the empties.

  ‘Some people have it all, don’t they?’ I prompt.

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Well, surfing, comedy …’

  The glass guy glances towards the front of the room where Maya and her boyfriend are hugging each other. ‘Unlucky in love though.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’ He looks alright to me.

  The glass guy balances his tower of glasses and lets his hair fall over his eyes. ‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with him.’ He obviously regrets saying anything. Without another word he moves on to the next table.

  The announcer picks up the microphone. ‘Our next act is James Goldsworth.’

  Goldsworth. The name sounds familiar.

  Maya’s young man bounds up on stage and it clicks. Budgie Goldsworth, Brad pushed him off his perch in 1992. They haven’t spoken since. Could James be the son of Maya’s father’s nemesis? That would explain the glass guy’s comments.

  I look from Maya to James and back again and only one thing comes to mind—Montagues and Capulets. The man-fish is not going to be happy. And I’m the one who gets to break it to him. I flick through the photos on my phone. Should I delete them?

  I think of Rosco. You stop at a point that lets you sleep at night. For the first time, I wonder if I’m in the wrong game.

  18

  I plonk the report on Rosco’s desk on Friday morning.

  He flicks through it. ‘Good work. Pretty straightforward case for a change.’

  I glance at the photos of Maya in front of the microphone. I feel like a hunter who’s brought down a deer. An uneasy mixture of guilt and pride churns in my stomach. ‘What do you think will happen now?’

  ‘We’ll invoice Brad, he’ll pay.’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘I know what you mean. Not your problem.’ He looks at me. ‘Here’s something you’ll be interested to know. The police checked Luna’s car, found …’ He sorts through the papers on his desk and reads from his notes. ‘Twenty yoga mats, one swimsuit (two-piece, made of hemp), one book (on aura analysis), a pair of chopsticks (used) and … some rat hair. They questioned her, but don’t have enough evidence to lay any charges yet. They’ll be keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘So what’s the next step?’

  Rosco grimaces. ‘We’re off the case. Rochelle isn’t happy with our progress.’

  ‘What? But I’m the one who put her onto Luna. Why’d she dump us?’

  Rosco spreads his hands out on the table. There’s something guarded about his face.

  ‘Was it something I did?’

  ‘She thought it was strange we were there when the photos were taken and the rats released, but we still don’t have any definite ID.’

  We? He means me. ‘Oh.’ The breath puffs out of me. ‘Sorry, I tried.’

  His face isn’t giving much away. ‘Yeah, I know. Don’t sweat it.’ Rosco glances at the clock and pushes his hair off his forehead. It’s ten thirty. ‘Want to have lunch with me today?’ His voice is casual.

  This hasn’t happened before. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Nothing. Just lunch.’ Rosco looks at me innocently.

  I still think he’s after something, but I shrug. ‘Okay, sure. Why not?’

  Going back to my computer, I hum as I type out a report. I might have lost us a client, but at least Rosco and I are friends again. And maybe this lunch signals the start of something new. Maybe he’s going to bring me in on the American operation. I can’t say I’m sorry to have seen the last of Ajay, anyway.

  Something is niggling at the back of my mind. Luna is an animal lover and a hippie. Wouldn’t she find the idea of releasing rats into a yoga studio unethical from a rat welfare point of view? Well, I suppose people are unpredictable.

  My watch alarm goes off spontaneously at twelve o’clock. I really need to get myself a new watch. This one lulls me into thinking it’s got over its incontinence problem and then beep, beep, beep, beep.

  My stomach rumbles. Catching Rosco’s eye, I rub my stomach. He holds up a finger—one minute.

  I go to the bathroom, comb my hair and go back out. As the door squeaks shut behind me, I stop dead in my tracks. A girl is standing in the office doorway, her hand on the doorknob. It takes me a moment to realise who it is—Brooklyn from Brooklyn. She looks completely different and not at all like a Netflix lawyer. She’s ditched the business suit and boutique clothing and is wearing a full-length flowing dress in some sort of tribal pattern. She is make-up free, her nose sunburnt, and she has a hibiscus behind her ear. In her hand is a brightly painted didgeridoo.

  Rosco bounds out of his office. ‘Brooklyn. Been shopping?’

  ‘Yes.’ Brooklyn holds up her purchase. ‘I’ve bought an authentic dodgeridoo,’ she drawls. ‘Isn’t it cool?’

  ‘Didgeridoo,’ says Rosco.

  Brooklyn laughs her honking laugh and flicks her glossy hair. ‘Didgeridoo.’

  But it looks more like a dodgeridoo to me. I’m pretty sure you’d find made in China on there somewhere.

  ‘I have something I need to discuss with you, Ross.’ She ignores me. ‘Can we have lunch?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Rosco. ‘I’ll grab my wallet.’

  I flop onto my chair.

  As Rosco comes out of his office he does a double take. ‘Oh, sorry, Olivia. You don’t mind, do you? It’s business.’

  Yeah, right. I stick a pen in my mouth and grind it with my teeth as they leave, Brooklyn’s shoes clacking down the stairs. The American operation, whatever it is, clearly does not require my input.

  I don’t feel like going to lunch on my own now, so I go out to the kitchen and look in the fridge. Inside are four of Rosco’s Mars Bars. I pick them all up, go back to my desk and rip the wrapper off the first one. What’s Rosco up to with Brooklyn? Work or play?

  My eyes linger on his office as I chew. He’ll have the file in there somewhere. I can find out what’s going on with this American operation. Maybe I can figure out a way to get involved. It’s what Nancy Drew would do. Rosco’s been holding me back; I need to show him what I can do.

  Stuffing the second Mars Bar in my mouth, I go into his office and pull open his filing cabinet. The files are in alphabetical order. I flick to B, but there’s nothing. What’s Brooklyn’s second name? I have no idea. Okay, I’ll have to look at each file. It takes a long time. After half an hour, I’m up to H and halfway through the third Mars Bar. I glance at my watch. He’ll be at least another half-hour.

  I find her under the M’s. As soon as I pick up the file I see it all. Why didn’t Rosco tell me Brooklyn works for McSushi?

  Sitting at Rosco’s desk, I read through the file, my pulse rate rising. No wonder he wasn’t surprised when I told him McSushi sold whale meat, or that they were trying to open a shop in Byron Bay. He’s let me run around chasing up stuff he already knows. He pretended he wasn’t involved with McSushi. Why? I grind my teeth.

  I pull out a company report, flick through it and find a picture of Brooklyn in full corporate clobber—fitted grey suit, pulled-back hair, broad smile, red lipstick. Public Relations Officer, she’s called. I note she has the same surname as the CEO, who is the guy she came in with the first time. She’s probably his daughter.

  I read on. It doesn’t get any better. McSushi has hired Rosco to find out the members of the activist gr
oup who are opposing their new franchise in Byron Bay and, if possible, to infiltrate and bring them down, in order to smooth the way for their north coast expansion. And now, he’s out to lunch with Brooklyn. To be honest, I’m not sure which of these things makes me angrier. He was supposed to be having lunch with me. I hadn’t admitted it to myself, but maybe I’d been hoping for something more than just work talk.

  My cheeks burn as I think back over the past couple of weeks. I’ve been so pleased with my progress, but the whole time Rosco was keeping this from me. I thought we had an understanding. I thought we were friends. Not only did he hide the McSushi contract from me, he was getting me to do his dirty work with Luna’s group.

  It was him in Byron Bay on the weekend—doing his own snooping. He lied to me. I’ve eaten another Mars Bar while I’ve been looking through the file and now I bite on the last one like it’s Rosco himself between my teeth. Taking out my phone, I photograph the pages in the file, in case I want to refer to them later.

  With four Mars Bars worth of sugar racing through my blood, I rip a sheet from his pad, put it on top of the file and, in a furious rush before I change my mind, write, Do your own dirty work. I quit! For good measure, I stuff the Mars Bar wrappers inside the file. My heart is pounding with sugar and anger. Picking up my bag, I fling my souvenirs inside and let myself out the door, banging it behind me.

  I’ve only stomped halfway down the stairwell when the outside door opens and Rosco comes in.

  ‘Olivia? Are you going out for lunch?’

  I gaze at him without speaking for a moment. ‘I left you a note.’ I take a deep breath. ‘You …’ I inhale again. ‘You …’

  He climbs the stairs towards me. ‘Are you all right? You’re not having an asthma attack, are you?’

  ‘You’ve gone to the dark side.’ I push past him.

  He touches my arm. ‘What’s this about? Come upstairs and talk about it.’ He pauses. ‘I haven’t gone to the dark side. You’re the one who’s acting like they’ve gone to the dark side.’