A Pretty Mess

by Carla Caruso

  ‘So what’s the problem, then? Oh, gosh.’ Betty-Lou grabbed Celeste’s arm. ‘You don’t have vaginismus, do you? I read an article about it the other day. It’s when you tighten your pelvic floor muscles too much, making penetration painful. There has to be some reason why you’d forgo fantastic sex. Surely Mitchell can’t be providing any.’

  ‘You’re shocking — and stop being cruel about Mitchell,’ Celeste shot back.

  She could have turned the tables and asked Betty-Lou why she avoided intimacy herself, but she wasn’t that mean. Likely it was their relationship issues, which had first drawn her and Betty-Lou together as friends at TAFE — Celeste doing interior design and Betty-Lou, floral art, just for fun. Celeste knew she was hesitant to fully throw her heart into a relationship because of her parents’ lack of a happy ending, while Betty-Lou had her own issues.

  There was no denying Lenny had an irresistible charm, but that was what made him all the more dangerous to Celeste.

  ‘What did I miss?’ Araminta — late as usual for their catch-up — sauntered forwards from amid the crowd, clad in her usual hairdresser uniform of all-black.

  ‘Lots,’ Celeste replied. ‘My new client — you know, the fitness guru Natalia Samphire? — well, she just fainted. Right when these ladies from that Alliance Française school came up to chat to her. In front of Betty-Lou and me. It was so scary! I think she’s been working herself pretty hard in the lead-up to the Astonvale launch party.’

  ‘Or because she mistook a kale smoothie for a meal,’ Betty-Lou deadpanned. ‘It’s not like those ladies said anything shocking to her in French either. From what I caught, they were just excited to meet her and were fans of her Ballet-Tastic workouts.’

  Celeste stared at her friend. ‘You speak French?’

  Betty-Lou offered a nonchalant shrug. ‘Only a little. Peta’s been getting me to teach the triplets French from a workbook. Wants them to be bilingual. Although, the speed those women were talking at, it may as well have been in … in Gleegan.’

  Celeste frowned. ‘Glee-what?’

  ‘Gleegan.’ Betty-Lou rolled her eyes. ‘You know, someone who eats only gluten-free, vegan food.’

  Clearly that wasn’t Betty-Lou’s kind of food language.

  Araminta butted in. ‘So what’s the story with Natalia anyway? She recently put on a special class at the community hall for VIP customers of her brand. A client of mine tagged along with a friend and said she was shocked by some new risqué dance moves Natalia pulled. Supposedly they’d rival Kylie Minogue in that “Sexercise” film clip. She wasn’t sure exactly what dance school Natalia studied at. Then again, this client also happens to think Miley Cyrus is the devil incarnate.’

  Betty-Lou blinked at the hairdresser. ‘Have you seen what Miley does with a sledgehammer?’

  ‘True.’ Araminta rummaged in her black leather tassel bag. ‘Nicely, though, the client did give me this futuristic-looking Ballet-Tastic water-bottle she got in her gift bag.’

  Araminta held up a turquoise-and-clear flask. ‘See, it’s got a straw built in and a sippy-style spout, so you don’t have to tip it to drink from it.’

  Betty-Lou raised dark eyebrows. ‘Because tipping a bottle is so strenuous.’

  A frown creased Araminta’s forehead. ‘Well, it’s also so you don’t have to fuss with a lid when exercising. See!’ Araminta demonstrated the bottle’s use by glugging down some water.

  Celeste was distracted by the chunky red stone on a silver band on Araminta’s finger. ‘Nice ring.’

  Araminta held out her hand for Celeste to have a closer look. ‘It’s by Renee Blackwell, that fabulous Queensland designer. I’m thinking of dying my hair red to offset it, I adore it so much.’

  ‘Then you’d have to get a ginger cat, too,’ Betty-Lou quipped with a grin. ‘Redheads always have ginger cats.’

  Celeste could imagine Lenny shaking his head at the strange tangents her friends’ conversations took off on.

  ‘Speaking of hair,’ Araminta closed in on Celeste, peering downwards, ‘from this angle I can see your regrowth’s starting to show, plus your bob’s getting too lanky. Shouldn’t you be coming in for a cut-and-colour soon?’

  Sometimes Celeste felt bullied into paying Araminta’s salon a visit. It wasn’t like her friend gave her much of a discount. And as much as she liked to be fastidious about her appearance, right then it would help her save money to stretch out the visits a tad more — especially when she was yet to see any dollars from her first client.

  Still, she found herself muttering ‘I’ll make an appointment next week’, like the sucker that she was.

  Araminta arched an eyebrow. ‘You’d better or your split ends and I will be having words.’

  ‘Celeste, it’s Ursula!’

  ‘Ursula who?’ It was late Monday morning and Celeste had her mobile pressed to her ear as she worked, sorting through Natalia’s ginormous walk-in wardrobe. The images of an IKEA hot dog and a crinkled, stained white shirt flashed in her mind. ‘Oh, sorry, Ursula from school. Of course!’

  She could blame her brain being a little fuzzy on working on Natalia’s wardrobe. It was rather overwhelming. Bigger than Celeste’s own bedroom, the robe had lilac walls, silver shelves and a whole area devoted to the guru’s signature ballet flats with springy soles. Likely Lenny had overseen its fit-out, while it was her job to sort out what should go where. The wardrobe was like something out of the movies, albeit marred by a jumble of stuff. Celeste had already sent Flip to Goodwill to get rid of some items Natalia wanted dispensing with. Surely one woman couldn’t really own that many jumpsuits?

  ‘Yes, that Ursula,’ Celeste’s old school-friend continued down the line. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because the features ed loves the idea of my doing a piece on your new business for the paper. Isn’t that great? You’re my first interview!’

  ‘Oh … brilliant. Wonderful. Thanks.’

  ‘You sound busy?’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m just in the middle of working on a project for a client … sorry.’

  ‘Ooh, really? What kind of project?’ Ursula pressed. She was really quite confident on the phone, with not a hint of the shy, retiring type of old.

  ‘Um, well, I’m organising a walk-in wardrobe at the moment, but I’ve already worked on the client’s home office and I still have several more rooms to do.’

  ‘Wow, sounds like they’ve got pots of money, then! So who is the lucky client?’

  ‘Oh, I really can’t say. I prefer to keep those things confidential. As good as it might be for me as a newbie in business to name-drop. Sorry!’

  ‘Can’t you just give me a little hint?’ Ursula cajoled.

  ‘No, I really shouldn’t …’ Celeste reached over several items to put a pair of tangerine ballet flats on a shelf, feeling like she was competing in one of Natalia’s famous lunge challenges. Even if she wasn’t doing a proper interview yet, Celeste was well aware that Ursula was a journalist.

  ‘You can’t even say what industry your client works in?’ her old schoolmate wheedled.

  Good grief. Ursula had somehow become even pushier than one of Flip’s cleavage-enhancing bras. ‘Well, I suppose just mentioning the industry would be okay,’ Celeste said between puffs as she next moved to push a stack of shoeboxes from one corner to the other. ‘It’s fitness. And wellbeing.’

  ‘Fitness and wellbeing … hmm … Huh! I know who it is,’ Ursula squealed as Celeste’s stomach dropped several storeys. ‘What’s the name of that chick who just moved into a crazy big mansion in Astonvale? The one who fainted on the weekend? Oh, I’ve got it. It’s Natalia Samphire, isn’t it? It’s her!’

  The top shoeboxes fell from the stack mid-action, thudding on the zebra rug. ‘Umm …’

  ‘Don’t say a thing, Celeste! But, gosh, how exciting for you.’

  Celeste took several steps back, plonking down on Natalia’s king-sized bed. The mattress wibble-wobbled beneath her, the surprise of it nearly sending he
r off-balance. It was a waterbed. Sheesh. She hadn’t seen one since the ’eighties. Maybe it even contained reverse-osmosis filtered water.

  ‘Look, Ursula, I really should go—’

  Unfortunately, it took Celeste a further five minutes before Ursula seemed ready to wind things up, even though Celeste barely had a chance to ask the journalist what she’d been up to during the past eleven years.

  At a break in conversation, Celeste, at last, asked, ‘So when should we meet up to do this interview? It’s just I’m in the middle of things at the moment.’

  ‘Oh … that was the interview!’

  ‘Sorry? I thought we were just catching up.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we journos rarely have time to do face-to-face interviews these days. Not with all our pressing deadlines and the social media we have to keep an eye on. But we should definitely catch up for a drink soon, outside of work hours. Oh! My editor’s yelling for me. I’d better go. The piece should run in a week or so. Bye.’

  And just like that, Ursula — whom Celeste had desperately struggled to get off the phone — was gone. Celeste’s feet felt leaden as she stood up and headed back to the wardrobe. Surely Ursula wouldn’t print anything unpleasant about her. Or reveal the identity of Celeste’s current client. They were old schoolmates. They’d moaned to one another about their crushes on the elite schoolboys at the bus stop, who never once looked their way. Ursula hadn’t even asked for a picture, so certainly the story would have to be postage stamp-sized. Because the last person Celeste would want to upset was Astonvale’s resident celebrity guru. Especially when Celeste was so new in the biz.

  She moved to the maxi-dress section of the wardrobe, hoping that attacking a different area would help get her mind off Ursula’s interview. Organising the gazillions of flats according to their colours and patterns had begun to make her head swim.

  A few dresses in, she reached for a pistachio-green frock at the far end and her hand brushed against something metallic and jingly on the inside wall. Frowning, she pushed the dress aside and found a small silver key glinting back at her from a hook. A key that looked like it was meant to be kept hidden. Secret.

  Suddenly, Celeste’s mind somersaulted to the desk drawer in Natalia’s home office, which the fitness guru had been dead against having opened.

  Should Celeste … could she possibly test the key out? While the mansion was quiet, with Flip out, and — more importantly — Natalia, Minka and Lenny busy at Natalia’s new studio?

  Celeste’s professional side said a firm no, but then other things began colliding like dodgem cars in her mind. Like the crumpled blackmail note she’d found underneath the desk and Natalia’s bizarre fainting episode at the French market — it hadn’t really been that warm, had it? — and the mysterious words uttered by the retired judge across the road. One thing Celeste didn’t like was for things to be left messy, unfinished.

  With resolve, she yanked the key from the wall, her hand already sweaty. She’d give it a go, and if nothing came of it give her paranoia surrounding Natalia a rest. Hey, she risked life and limb every other day fighting traffic with the yummy mummies in their four-wheel-drives, what danger could she really get herself in with a simple desk drawer?

  Celeste’s footsteps echoed on the polished wood floor as she headed down the hall. The mansion was deathly silent with all the renovation noises having temporarily stopped. She pushed on the door to the home office, pleased to see that it all looked as tidy inside as when she’d left it, aside from an emptied packet of goji berries on the whitewashed desk. Which took all her willpower not to bin and, in turn, give herself away. Still, her new way of organising things must have been working well for Natalia. A fact that pleased her.

  Heart thumping, Celeste moved behind the desk, the key slippery in her hand. The smell of pomegranate lingered in the air. Immediately, a chant of ‘should I or shouldn’t I?’ started up in her head.

  The need to know won out. Biting her lip, she dived forward, fitting the key in the lock, and sent a prayer up above that Natalia didn’t have hidden cameras installed about the place, that her ‘love, light and peace’ philosophy didn’t lend itself to such things. Wincing a little, Celeste turned the key to the right … and heard an agreeable click. Cripes. The situation had just got more real than an episode of Hoarders. Squeezing her eyes shut, Celeste at last yanked the drawer open, a crinkly, rustling sort of noise sounding in her ears.

  She unpeeled one eyelid, then the other, unable to believe what she was seeing. Though she supposed it could have been worse. It was just such a shock.

  The drawer was chock-full of chocolates — not even the dark variety or raw organic, but the full-fat kind. Tiny Mars Bars, Bounties, Milky Ways, Cherry Ripes, Time Outs and more.

  The fitness guru did have a secret, one which contradicted her clean-living image: a sweet tooth. No wonder she’d kept the treats under lock and key.

  But, just as suddenly, Celeste thought of her Trunk of Shame and of her dad living on an old bus with his house overrun by junk. One thing Celeste understood was secrets.

  Quietly, she closed the drawer, locked it, and tiptoed out of the room again, only imagining what Ursula Zink would do with information like that.

  9.

  Lenny’s diamond-tipped grinder blade had broken, right when he was about to cut some tiles at Natalia’s studio. He hated when that happened. Nothing for it, he’d had to go to the hardware store to get a new one, as well as grab some other building supplies. Of course, he could have sent Bill or someone else from his team to do the job, but explaining what he needed would have taken longer. Sometimes it was just easier to do things himself.

  Leaving the hardware store, he climbed into his ute, exited the car park and moved into the traffic. He was trailing a red Holden Barina with a sticker on its back window that read Love is like a fart — if you have to force it, it’s probably crap. Charming. Still, he had to admit, he agreed with the sticker’s sentiment, badly described as it was.

  His phone rang. Maybe it’d be Bill informing him of some other headache which would hold things up at the gym. But it wasn’t a number he recognised. He switched the device to hands-free.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lenny, hi,’ a soft female voice echoed through his ute’s speakers. ‘It’s Shandee. From the other night — at the zoo party. I’m just calling quickly from work.’

  For a millisecond, his mind wafted to Celeste in her short, blue dress on the night, getting all frowny and cute trying to defend her idiot of a boyfriend. Lenny wondered what it’d be like to have those luscious legs she’d shown off wrapped around him—

  ‘I … I was just wondering if you were up to anything tonight?’

  Shandee sounded nervous. He could almost hear her twirling her auburn hair around her finger. Models and the like were no different to other women. They had insecurities, needs, just like everyone else. Keeping them interested wasn’t hard, it was the cutting them loose part that was.

  But when he was ready to settle down, he wanted to find a woman who was more than just a pretty face. Someone who could provide stimulating conversation, who could challenge him, who had dreams of their own, a sense of humour. The whole package. Someone a lot like Celeste Pretty, actually, if she weren’t so … so uptight. Pedantic. He pulled to a stop at a red traffic light.

  ‘Unfortunately, Shandee, I’m busy tonight. And all this week.’ His voice sounded dull, flat, even to his own ears. But he could usually tell early on whether a woman was on the same page as him, whether one date could extend to several without any risk of attachment. With Shandee, it was an open-and-shut case: she wanted more than he was willing to give. He had to nip it in the bud early, be cruel to be kind.

  ‘Oh …’

  Despite sensing the disappointment in her voice, he was too distracted to answer by a figure at an automatic teller machine on the other side of the street. A woman with a curly blonde ponytail poking out the back of her grey baseball cap, who looked a
lot like Natalia Samphire. Except Natalia was meant to be taping some new online show, which was why he hadn’t been able to run through a few last-minute building details with her that morning.

  The woman, wearing an all-navy tracksuit, turned around, just in time for Lenny to see her shove a wad of cash into her handbag. Despite her face being obscured by dark shades, he was positive it was her. Celeste’s words danced in his head, asking how he’d found working for Natalia, about how she’d noticed a few strange things at the mansion, about the alleged blackmail note.

  The woman climbed into an aubergine-coloured Tesla parked on the street and he felt the air hiss out of him. That was her car. Gut instinct told him something wasn’t right about the picture he was seeing, not at that time of day. That maybe there was even some truth in what Celeste had said earlier. Well, he’d put too many man-hours into the building project not to at least check out the situation. To do like in the movies and follow that car.

  ‘Lenny? Are you there? I said what about next week?’

  Bugger. Shandee was still on the line and the light had just turned green. ‘Listen, Shandee, I’m going to have to call you back.’

  He hung up. Shandee would hopefully get the message when he didn’t do as he said. Up ahead, he did a quick U-turn, heading back in the direction Natalia was travelling in. It didn’t take long to have her Tesla in his sights again, although he kept a safe distance between them. Being caught trailing his client wouldn’t be a good look. Already he felt slightly ridiculous. Is this what a week of knowing a girl as tightly-wound as Celeste had done to him?

  Hang on, Natalia was turning left. Into a car park behind a row of shops. Could prove interesting — possibly. A few cars on, he did the same. Where could she be going with all that cash?

  Her Tesla slid past the back of a drycleaner’s, then a butcher’s, as did his. She was turning again. Into a McDonald’s drive-through. Okay, not so strange. Just a detour on her way someplace else— Hold up. Natalia was meant to be a clean-living vegetarian, according to her business paraphernalia, and he was pretty sure Macca’s didn’t have a veggie burger on its menu. He remembered one date complaining about it on the way home from a night-spot.