The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  I gaze at the poster and my heart gives a rapid pit-a-pat as I remember what’s happening tomorrow.

  43

  On Friday afternoon, Madeleine, Luna, Brooklyn and I peer through the window of the exclusive Paradise Nightclub.

  The party for the launch of Gold Coast Bliss is in full swing. Beautiful people, buffed, toned and tanned to within an inch of their lives, rub shoulders inside. The media is here too. I see a TV camera and a few reporters with zoom lenses. My mouth is dry and my heart thuds in my chest. Madeleine and Brooklyn look nervous too. Luna, however, is pumped.

  ‘Let’s do it.’ Luna puts up her hand and we all slap it. ‘All for one and one for all,’ she says. ‘No one gets left behind, right?’

  ‘Right,’ we echo dutifully.

  Luna looks disappointed at our muted response. ‘Right?’ she says again.

  ‘You got it, babe,’ drawls Brooklyn.

  A pink flush moves up Luna’s cheeks.

  Dressed in our gold bikinis, high heels and tiny white aprons, we go in the service door and head for the buffet. We stash a backpack under the table, pick up a tray of canapés each, and circulate. I’ve worded up the other meter maids, so they don’t bat an eyelid.

  I hand around oysters, ignoring the guests’ double take at the sight of me in a gold bikini. Madeleine, Brooklyn and Luna raise some eyebrows too. Madeleine and Brooklyn are lily-white and Luna’s legs are au naturel, a soft, golden down covering her calves. At least she hadn’t insisted on a hemp bikini. We are not ‘bikini-beach-body-ready’, but here we are, with our bodies in bikinis nonetheless. Confusion ripples through the crowd in our wake.

  After fifteen minutes or so, the microphone squawks and Ajay climbs to the stage. Luna, Madeleine and I ditch our canapés and pull out the special trays from our backpacks.

  ‘I’m delighted to announce,’ says Ajay, ‘the opening of my new venture, Gold Coast Bliss. Gold Coast Bliss will continue my mission to bring Bikini Beach Body Speed Yoga Boot Camp to the world. It’s an exciting—’

  I press a button on my phone and ‘Rebel Girl’ by Bikini Kill blasts out from the little bluetooth speakers I’ve placed on the stage. Ajay falls silent as Luna, Brooklyn, Madeleine and I sashay up the stairs, holding our trays in front of us, as if to offer him a delicious treat.

  Clearly he recognises us, but he doesn’t look too concerned at first. I’m sure he assumes someone has organised a special presentation. As the music blasts, we dance on the stage next to him, our trays held in front of us. The guests watch this avant-garde performance with interest. A couple of cameras flash.

  As the song reaches its chorus, we whip the tea towels off our trays and pick up the objects beneath.

  ‘One, two, three, go,’ I call.

  Four rubber arms with an inked-in tattoo of a man in lotus position fly into the crowd. We put down our trays. Still dancing, Luna whisks off her apron and strides to the front of the stage. Madeleine does the same, then Brooklyn, then me.

  I look out at the sea of phones, held up to take our photos. Written across our stomachs in large, black letters are: Ajay Keep, Your Hands, to Yourself, #fakearmsagainstharassment. As my stomach provides a broader canvas than the other girls’, I volunteered for the hashtag. We pose for a few seconds, our clenched fists raised.

  A security guard has decided we are not an approved part of the program and is heading towards us. I glance at Ajay before we run off the stage. He is gazing at us with the startled expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  As we race for the door, I hear clapping. I pause and turn. It’s the meter maids. They clap harder and harder. Lena raises her fist in a salute. I smile at them and wave.

  ‘Come on, Olivia,’ yells Luna from the door. ‘No one gets left behind.’

  The security guard is heading for me. I kick off my high heels and run. We race down Cavill Avenue, the security guard gaining on us. He reaches out and his fingers brush my shoulder. I accelerate, passing Zander, where he stands in front of the souvenir shop and outback bar.

  He nods at me and steps in front of the security guard, holding up a life-size kangaroo soft toy to block his path. ‘Special. Twenty dorrars,’ I hear him say as I round the corner.

  Madeleine, Brooklyn and Luna are still running ahead of me. Brooklyn and Luna are holding hands. Somehow, this is not a surprise.

  We reach the car, leap in and accelerate away with the wind in our hair, laughing fit to burst.

  The next morning, Jacq and I jump in the car. On the spur of the moment, I’ve decided to clear out of the Gold Coast for the weekend and go camping in Byron Bay. It might be best to lie low until the dust settles. I stop off at a newsagent on the way, pick up a copy of the Gold Coast Times and scan the headline.

  Meter Maids Disrupt Gold Coast Bliss Launch.

  Ajay, founder of Bikini Beach Body Speed Yoga Boot Camp, has gone into hiding as harassment complaints flood in following yesterday’s surprise demonstration …

  I look at the picture below and smile. Legs apart, arms in the air, Madeleine, Brooklyn, Luna and I look like warriors. We are Princess Leia after she vanquished the giant slug. Rey after she defeated Kylo Ren. Wonder Woman after she thrashed Ares. The horse is with us. It’s not a revolution, not yet, but it’s a start. In some small way I’ve done my best to make the Gold Coast a place I can live in.

  But over, I guess it’s safe to assume, my meter maiding days are.

  44

  Jacq and I turn the radio up loud as we drive under the monorail and past the casino. Every time I leave the Gold Coast I’m reminded of a scene in that old movie Muriel’s Wedding where she leaves Porpoise Spit. Goodbye high rise, goodbye malls, goodbye tourists. It’s not long before we pass the Welcome to New South Wales sign—always an exciting moment.

  ‘Why don’t they have pictures?’ Jacq asks. ‘Like the Queens­land sign?’

  Jacq’s right. New South Wales is lacking in image enhancement. On arrival in Queensland you know what you’re getting—life savers, beaches, happy times. On arrival in New South Wales you know you’re getting your speed checked.

  I tune into Lighthouse FM as we drive towards the town. ‘ … chunderous fat junky mushburgers,’ drawls the announcer. It must be the surf report. That’s thirty-seven words for surf now. We’re going to beat those Inuits, I know it.

  Jacq and I attempt a surf, but the surf report is right. Or mostly right. Grovelling gutless crap would describe it better. Forty words. The waves are all wrong—too sweepy and sucky. I go straight down the face and crash into the shallow sandbank. I keep expecting to see Maya carving it up and putting me to shame but there’s no sign of her.

  In half an hour Jacq and I are swept over a kilometre down the beach. ‘Is it still surfing if you don’t catch any waves?’ Jacq asks as we trudge back to the car park with our boards. Despite the quality of the waves, it’s still good to be out there.

  I’ve arranged to catch up with Luna and Madeleine in a café. Brooklyn should be on her way back to LA by now.

  ‘You sheilas are bonza,’ she said as she hugged us goodbye at her motel. Her hug with Luna lasted much longer than mine.

  ‘It was awesome riding shotgun with you,’ I said.

  She gave a honking laugh and high-fived me. ‘Native dialect, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  Jacq and I are at the café first. I haven’t checked my phone since this morning, so I pull it out now. Messages pop up on the screen.

  Luna and Madeleine burst in, broad grins on their faces. Luna is wearing a brown hemp jumpsuit and Madeleine’s red lycra tights match her glossy hair.

  ‘We’ve gone viral.’ Luna holds out her phone.

  ‘Oh yeah. Three hundred thousand views and rising,’ says Madeleine. ‘Fake arms against harassment is trending on Twitter.’

  ‘Wow.’ I smile at them. It’s a little overwhelming.

  Luna puts up her hand and Madeleine and I smack it. ‘Cool protest,’ she says. ‘I’m pumped. I�
�ve decided protesting is my vocation. I’m thinking of joining that mob who sink whaling ships now.’

  ‘Who, Greenpeace?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah, Greenpeace are wimps. Sea Shepherd—they’ve got the mojos, they just ram ’em,’ says Luna.

  ‘I’m in,’ says Madeleine. ‘As long as they have showers on board and somewhere to do yoga.’

  ‘You’d both be good at that,’ I say.

  ‘You should join too. You were probably a whale in your past life,’ says Luna.

  I turn my snort into a sniff. ‘Maybe.’

  Jacq has been sipping her milkshake quietly and absorbing our conversation.

  Luna turns to her now. ‘You too. You have a beautiful aura. I bet you end up working with whales or dolphins. Would you like that?’

  Jacq nods. ‘I like dolphins,’ she almost whispers.

  ‘I knew it,’ says Luna.

  ‘Hey gang.’ The voice is a loud American drawl.

  We all turn.

  Brooklyn is standing next to the table wearing bib and brace shorts with a red singlet and a red felt hat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Luna’s voice is low. ‘I thought you were on your way home.’

  ‘I was, but … I was at Gold Coast airport and I watched that video of us and, you know, I had another epiphany.’

  Luna blinks.

  ‘I love this place and I love you chicks.’ Brooklyn rests her hand on Luna’s shoulder. ‘And I just felt like I should stay.’

  Beneath Luna’s tan a deep flush runs up her face. She meets Brooklyn’s eyes and they smile.

  On Sunday, Jacq and I climb the steep steps to the Lighthouse. A northerly wind whips at our hair and flattens the surf to whitecaps. Panting, we look over the cliff edge and see two dolphins, a mother and a calf, below us. They don’t seem to be doing anything except enjoying the warm water. I imagine them as the slackers of the dolphin world. I can’t be bothered catching fish. Let’s get takeaways tonight. If I was a dolphin, that would be me.

  Jacq starts back down the track, but I stand and watch the dolphins for a while. It’s only two weeks now until uni starts. Abbey and Frannie will be back from Asia soon. Mum and Dad are back from Nepal on Monday. They’ll be wanting to know what I’m doing.

  I wish I knew.

  45

  Jacq and I drive back to the campsite. A guy is lying on the grass outside our tent with a cap over his face. When he sits up, my stomach feels like it’s been put in a rocket and someone’s pressed launch.

  ‘Rosco,’ squeals Jacq. She climbs out of the car, runs over and jumps on him.

  I follow more cautiously. I thought I’d moved on but, no, my preposterous pounding heart tells me otherwise.

  ‘Your grandmother said I’d find you here.’ Rosco pants as he wrestles Jacq to the ground. ‘I win—you’ve got to give me and Olivia a few minutes to talk now.’

  ‘How many minutes?’ Jacq checks her new digital watch. I bought her one at the same time as I bought a new one myself—hopefully it won’t beep at inappropriate moments.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ says Rosco.

  Jacq starts her stopwatch and runs away towards the playground.

  Rosco sets a timer on his phone and stands, brushing off his board shorts. ‘Hey.’ He flicks his blond hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Hey.’ I fold my arms. ‘Are you down here surfing?’

  ‘You’re joking; in that manky pissweak slop?’

  I pull out my phone, consult my list and pump my fist. ‘That’s it—forty-three words for surf. We’ve beaten the Inuits at their own game.’

  Rosco looks at me blankly. ‘Huh?’

  I drop my hand. ‘It doesn’t matter—it’s this thing I’ve been doing. It’s stupid.’

  Rosco gazes at me for a few moments. ‘I wanted to show you something.’ He picks up an issue of Tracks from the grass next to him.

  He came here to show me Tracks? It’s a ‘boys own’ surf magazine—girls generally only feature as beach decoration.

  Rosco flips it open. The page is titled World Longboard Championships—Waikiki.

  ‘How’d Maya go?’

  Rosco points to a tiny picture in the corner of the page—three girls lined up with surfboards. The rest of the page is devoted to huge pictures of the ‘real’ surfers—i.e. men. ‘She came second.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wonder how Brad took that.

  ‘That’s not the main story though.’ Rosco points to one of the larger pictures, a close-up of two men sitting on the beach. The caption is Feud ended? One of the men is Brad Cahill and the other …

  ‘Budgie Goldsworth?’

  Rosco nods.

  I peer at the photo. The men aren’t smiling. It’s hard to read much into their expressions—a wary acceptance seems to be the mood of the day. I read the article.

  Former world champion Brad Cahill said he ‘couldn’t be prouder’ of his daughter Maya’s second place in the titles. Asked if he and Budgie were now on speaking terms Brad commented enigmatically—‘Me and Budgie … we’ve banged the drum together. Once you’ve done that, well, you know what’s important. Maybe Budgie was right all along. Surfing isn’t about chasing big sponsorship deals. Money goes, but in the end it’s those surfs in the sunshine you’ll remember.’

  I smile. At least one thing’s turned out the way it should.

  ‘You did that,’ says Rosco.

  ‘I did nothing. James and Maya did that.’ There’s a long silence. I thaw a bit. It was good of him to come all the way here to show me the article. ‘How’s your neighbour? Does she still think you’re a terrorist?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s been sorting through my rubbish. It doesn’t bother me too much.’ Rosco glances at his phone. ‘I’ve only got five minutes left.’ He rolls and unrolls the magazine between his hands. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘You too.’ I’m not sure if it is though.

  ‘Brad’s right y’know—about finding out what’s important.’

  ‘Surfing in the sunshine? I thought you knew that already.’

  ‘Yeah, surfing, but other things too. Getting your priorities right, that’s what’s important.’

  I nod. ‘Mm?’

  ‘I saw you out there on the street—meter maiding.’

  I flush, waiting for him to tease me.

  ‘Every time I saw you I wanted to stop and talk, but … your phone message—it sounded like you wanted to move on. I didn’t want to get in your way. I saw what happened at Ajay’s launch though. It made me laugh.’

  I frown.

  ‘Not at you Olivia, not at you,’ Rosco says quickly. ‘At everything, at the system, at how you brought that slimy weasel down.’ He is smiling now. ‘No one except you could have done that. You drive me crazy, but you’re something else.’ He shakes his head. ‘You were like a tornado in the office.’

  ‘Well, I guess the weather must be fine there now.’

  Rosco clears his throat. ‘When I saw you doing that headstand on the street …’ He bites his bottom lip, like he’s trying to suppress a laugh.

  I wait. I’m not going to help him out.

  ‘I’d like you to come back.’ The words come out quickly.

  I take off my glasses, clean them and put them on again. ‘What sort of an offer is that?’

  There’s a long silence. ‘What sort of an offer do you want?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘There’s only one way this could work.’

  He tilts his head. ‘And what way is that?’

  ‘Full partnership. I want to buy in. I don’t want to be your sidekick anymore.’

  ‘Ok-ay.’ Rosco draws out the word. ‘Why not? I’m prepared to give it a go.’

  ‘You are?’ I smile.

  He nods. ‘You’ll need to get your PI license.’

  ‘I will. Do you think we can make this work?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s worth a try.’ He puts out his hand.

  I stare at it.

  ‘Shake.’

&n
bsp; ‘Oh, right.’ We shake hands.

  He glances at his phone. ‘One minute left.’ His eyes meet mine.

  There it is again—that flash, that Spark, that surge of energy. A hot flush spreads over my face and down my neck.

  My flush infects Rosco. His face colours too.

  We stare at each other.

  In the end—what’s the worst that can happen?—I’m the one who moves first.

  And—I knew it! When you get kissed by the right person it’s totally different—like an explosion racing through your body. Zing pow zap. It’s like being on a wave that goes forever. Sixty seconds isn’t long, but it’s just enough time for a heart-stopping, Hollywood-style, red-hot kiss. A Notably Notable Exception.

  We step apart as we hear Jacq’s watch beep over at the playground. It’s probably lucky; I might have gone up in flames if that kiss had gone on any longer. My heart thumps in my chest, my legs are weak, my brain’s forgotten how to think. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’ I touch my lips.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Rosco looks stunned. ‘That was … It was like …’

  ‘Han and Leia in The Empire Strikes Back?’

  He smiles. ‘Exactly.’

  Jacq runs towards us. ‘Time’s up.’

  ‘And here come the stormtroopers, right on schedule,’ says Rosco.

  We smile at each other, slow and dreamy. I have no idea how this is going to work, or if it’s going to work at all, but right now that seems okay. I’ll just have to take it day by day.

  Epilogue

  Rosco and I climb over the sand dunes and down to the beach with our boards under our arms. The wind has died off and the sea is glassy. The full moon casts a silver trail across the water.

  We push our boards out into the water, jumping as the waves splash at us. Paddling hard, we push through the whitewash. When we get out the back, we sit up, breathing deeply. Across the bay, the hills are dark against the sky.

  A wave—a ripple of silver—is coming.