‘Good afternoon.’ A middle-aged man with floppy grey hair and thick-rimmed glasses appears from behind the curtain. He seems flustered, and pushes his glasses higher up on his nose as he stares openly at her. ‘I’m Richard Headley.’ She tries not to smirk at his name. ‘And you must be Brigitte Weaver?’ He shakes her hand. His is smooth and white. ‘Is Brigitte spelt the same as Brigitte Bardot?’
‘Yes. My mother was a big fan of hers.’
He holds the curtain aside and tells her to come through. She follows him to a desk stacked with folders. He gestures for her to take the seat next to his. Photographs of glamorous models in evening gowns and lingerie are displayed on the wall above his desk, next to a few wedding shots.
Richard offers her tea or coffee, and she asks for coffee with no sugar and a tiny bit of skim milk, if he has it.
‘Good girl. Sounds like you know how to watch your figure — so many girls come to see me with no idea about diet.’ He’s funny. Old fashioned. She feels safe with him.
He goes to make the coffee. A black-lacquered screen, featuring a painting of a geisha girl, conceals the far side of the room. She hears a kettle boiling. There must be a kitchen out there. She looks around. Along the wall, next to Richard’s desk, there’s a filing cabinet, and a bookshelf filled with photography books, magazines, and boxes of film rolls. A peacock chair stands in the corner. A camera on a tripod points at a white dropsheet against the opposite wall.
Richard comes back with weak instant coffee in a Playboy mug.
‘Brigitte, let me tell you about what I do, so you can decide if you’re interested in joining Lipgloss Promotions’ books.’
She sips her dishwater coffee.
He glances at the framed photo next to his phone of a plump woman and two smiling children, and tells Brigitte he runs the agency with his wife. She does all the bookwork. Photography is part of the business — he waves a hand at the photos on the wall — weddings as well as fashion and glamour. Some of ‘his girls’ have been in Vogue, as well as Penthouse. The work’s usually for People, Picture, magazines like that. His girls also do promotional and hostessing work. And he supplies lingerie and topless barmaids to hotels.
Brigitte nods.
‘The rules?’ he says. ‘I forbid any alcohol or drug-taking during jobs.’
Uh-oh.
‘And no sleeping with clients.’ He looks over his glasses with fatherly eyes, and tells her the agency takes 10 per cent of modelling, promotional, and bar work. And 20 per cent of anything that goes to television.
‘Television?’ She sits up straighter.
‘Yes, occasionally we get a commercial. One of my girls even went on to a bit part in Neighbours.’
‘Do you think I could get work?’
‘I think you could do very well. You have a fresh face, and, from what I can see, a great figure. Have any marks — scars or tattoos?’
‘No.’
He notes that on her details form, and asks what kinds of modelling she’s interested in.
She looks at the photos on the wall. ‘Lingerie, swimwear, I guess.’
‘Fashion?’
‘Aren’t I too short for that?’
‘I’ve got a couple of girls on my books who are only five-foot-six, and they do fashion. How tall are you, Brigitte?’
She shrugs. ‘Five-six, maybe.’
He points to the height chart stuck to the wall, and instructs her to slip off her shoes and stand against it. She stretches up as tall as she can while he measures her. His armpits smell of Old Spice.
‘Five foot four. Just. Never mind,’ he says. ‘You have great boobs. You’ll get lots of glamour work.’ He crosses fashion off the form. ‘Can I take some photos of you?’
‘What, now?’
‘We need to get your portfolio started so I can put you forward for jobs.’
She smiles — he must really think she’s good.
He walks across the room. ‘How about a black backdrop? It will look nice behind your hair.’ He pulls a cord that changes the white sheet to a black one. ‘There’s a rack of costumes behind the screen for you to try on.’
‘Should I leave my underwear on underneath?’
‘No. The costumes are clean. I get them dry-cleaned after every shoot.’
Behind the screen, she chooses a red bustier and G-string — a costume she saw on one of the models in a photo on the wall. She picks up a hand mirror from the little dressing table to check her make-up. There’s a crack down the middle, so that her reflection is distorted unless she looks to one side. A piece falls out.
Richard calls to be careful of the broken mirror. Too late — she’s sliced her right index finger on the sharp edge of it. Blood trickles down her hand, and she reaches for a cloth to wipe it before it drips onto her costume. The cloth is a white silk negligee.
‘Nearly ready?’ Richard says.
‘Nearly.’ She’ll have to leave him some money for extra dry-cleaning. ‘Do you have a Band-Aid?’
He tells her to look in the first-aid box in the kitchen.
Richard stops what he’s doing — light checks, or something with a contraption the size of a mobile phone — when she comes out. He shakes his head, and tells her she has an amazing body. He directs her to stand in the middle of the dropsheet while he does more light checks and snaps a couple of Polaroids.
He talks her through some ‘glamour model poses’, and takes photos with the camera on the tripod. She keeps her bandaged finger hidden discreetly behind her back.
She changes into a fluro-green bikini, and he takes some ‘casual beach girl’ shots. He says she’s a natural, and suggests some topless photos.
It’s just skin — no big deal. She undoes the ties, and pulls off the bikini top unselfconsciously. Her body has been merely a tool of her trade, but she feels a twinge that maybe what she’s doing is wrong. What would Matt say if he knew? But it’s just work. She doesn’t answer to him, anyway. And he did say she doesn’t have to tell him everything — it’s OK for them to have their own lives.
‘Wow. That’s fantastic, Brigitte. You’re making my glasses fog up.’
He gets her to tussle her hair and do some ‘Brigitte Bardot pouts’. It’s kind of fun — when she lets go of her Matt-guilt. She drapes herself over the peacock chair for some nude shots, but refuses to do open-leg poses. Richard says she could try for Playboy, but not Penthouse. ‘Penthouse has to see everything, inside and out, so to speak,’ he says.
It feels a bit sordid, but at the same time very business-like. The session ends abruptly, with Richard packing up his camera and saying it’s time for him to pick up his kids from school. He keeps talking to Brigitte as she dresses behind the screen.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Brigitte. You did really well today. I can’t believe it was your first time in front of the camera. I’ll choose some prints, and send them to you when they’re ready.’
She asks how much it’s all going to cost, and he says not to worry — he’ll deduct it from her first modelling job. He walks her back through the orange curtain, and says to say hello to Al.
‘Don’t think I’ll be seeing Al. I’m not working at the Gold Bar anymore.’
‘Where are you working?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh, well, you’ll need something straight away then. I can get you some bar work to start with. And I’m looking for a couple of girls to hostess at the car races. Would you like me to put you up for that?’
She nods, sure that hostessing won’t be too difficult — whatever it is.
She thanks him, and they shake hands. What a strange man. She blinks in the sunlight as she steps back into the real world with the feeling that she’s leaving Oz or Narnia or somewhere.
She catches a train back into the city. Eric�
�s still touring Bullet Brain, so she walks to Matt’s place — her knee feels stronger since she stopped dancing. She buys a bottle of good white wine on the way. Christmas decorations are already in the shops.
She takes out her key and hesitates, uncomfortable with just letting herself in. She knocks.
She kisses Matt as soon as he opens the door. Her heart skips; it feels like she hasn’t seen him for a long time.
‘Wow, you’re chirpy today.’ He wipes her cherry-red lipstick off his face. ‘And you’ve got a lot of make-up on.’
He has a dazed, faraway look in his eyes, and his hair is all messy. He must have been working — on his novel, or on an article for Mad Monster Trucks.
‘I have a new job,’ she says as she climbs the stairs.
He follows her to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. ‘Really. What about David Jones?’
‘I’m going to be a model.’ She puts the wine in the fridge. ‘Today I got an agent, and had some photos taken for my portfolio.’
She thought he’d be happy for her, but he’s not smiling when she turns to face him. ‘Where’d you find this agent?’
‘Carnegie.’
‘What kind of modelling?’ he asks suspiciously.
‘Clothes, swimwear, you know — a bit of everything.’
‘What the fuck are you doing, Brigitte? Go do some study. I’ll help you with your application.’
‘I need to earn money, Matt.’
He sighs, shakes his head, and goes up to the living room. She follows him.
‘Why so serious?’ She sits next to him on the couch. ‘Where’s my funny Matt?’
He is silent. She kisses his neck.
‘Stop it. You can’t get away with that with me.’ He pulls away from her.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I know you’re smart. I don’t want to watch you waste it. I won’t accept that.’
Why is he talking to her like this? He’s not her teacher anymore. And he’s not her father. She tries to kiss him again, but he pushes her away.
‘I said stop it.’
She sits back, and sticks out her bottom lip like a naughty child. Matt ignores it. He reaches for the remote on the coffee table, and turns on the TV. In the news: the Gold Bar has been closed down because of a shooting out the front. A blonde reporter in a pearl-blue suit is standing in front of the club, saying that alleged drug baron Alphonse La Rocca has been shot dead in front of the strip club he managed and allegedly laundered money through … Footage shows a sheet-covered body lying on the footpath behind police tape. The tip of a brown crocodile-skin shoe pokes out from underneath the sheet.
Matt walks out of the room.
41
Brigitte throws the heavy duffle bag, containing her belongings, over her shoulder, and looks around the apartment one last time. Her ‘Dear Eric’ letter stands against a crystal vase on the breakfast bar. Her Lovers print hangs above the couch; it’s too big to take with her. It’s for the best — it would just be a reminder of this place, this time.
In the quiet foyer, the sound of the door closing echoes behind her. There’s nobody around to say goodbye to. Sean’s office door is shut. Maybe she’ll call him when things have settled down. Her heels click on the marble steps as she walks down towards the glass front door.
As she steps into the street, she looks up and sees a sky-writing plane overhead. She tries to make out the word it’s forming, and almost crashes into a couple with a baby in a pram and a pre-school-aged boy in hand. The mother is blonde, pretty, young. Brigitte apologises, and they smile at her. They look so happy, so nice. She freezes.
Back inside, she tears Eric’s goodbye letter into a million pieces and throws it in the bin. She unpacks her bag and puts her things away.
When Eric gets home, she’s sitting on the sofa, beneath the David Boyd, sewing sequins onto a costume. He looks fatter, and he’s jubilant after the Bullet Brain tour, ready to play house again. He shrugs out of his grey-leather bomber jacket and throws it over the back of a chair. He smiles, produces a little black box from his suitcase, walks across, and hands it to her. She hesitates, he nods, and she opens it. Inside is a gold link bracelet. He helps her fasten it around her wrist.
‘Let’s go for a drive, Pet,’ he says.
The phrase body dump flashes through her head. ‘I’m a bit tired, Eric.’
He pulls her by the hand, not taking no for an answer. His driver is waiting out front in a limo.
Eric tells his driver to take them to St Kilda.
They drive along the beach road. Eric has dark sunglasses and an inane grin stuck to his face. He runs his window down, and a salty breeze tussles their hair — Brigitte’s hair, anyway. Eric has little hair to speak of. He twists, leans back, and groans as he reaches into his pocket for a pack of squashed Juicy Fruit.
‘Chewy?’ He takes a piece, and offers one to Brigitte.
She shakes her head.
He turns on the radio. It’s Nirvana — all you hear anywhere these days.
‘We were in negotiations to tour them next year. Would’ve made a mint. Fucken Cobain.’ He changes the station.
She thinks about Matt sitting at his desk typing, pulling at his hair. Is he wondering where she is? Is he still annoyed with her? Still judging, still not accepting? She deserves more than that. She touches the bracelet.
Eric asks if she feels like stopping for lunch soon.
She’s looking at a boat on the ocean. Torn. What does she deserve? What does she want?
‘A bit longer, then we’ll head back to the city,’ he says as he lights a cigarette.
The waiter knows their names and finds them a table, even though they don’t have a reservation. Eric orders a bottle of Bollinger.
‘What have you been up to while I’ve been away, Pet?’
She twists the bracelet around her wrist. ‘I got a new job.’
‘King Street?’
‘No. David Jones.’
‘David Jones!’ He chokes on his champagne.
She frowns.
‘Can’t imagine you working there.’ He takes out a cigarette, and the waiter glides across the red-carpeted room to light it for him. ‘There are plenty of new clubs you could try.’
She nods, and scans the menu.
‘Should we order a banquet to share?’ Down-lighting glints on the bald part of his head. It’s as shiny as the polished-wood pillar behind him.
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘I’m starving.’ Eric waves the waiter over, and orders a three-course banquet.
She looks at her fingernails. They need refilling; she hasn’t been to the beauty salon for a while.
‘What’s wrong, Pet?’
‘Nothing.’
After a couple of glasses of champagne, she tells him about her day at David Jones. He laughs loudly, and coughs. The birthday party at the next table turn their heads to look.
‘You weren’t cut out to be a shopgirl, Pet.’
He’s right.
He pours more champagne. ‘Seriously, if your knee is that bad and you need time off, I could give you some extra cash to get by. You don’t have to work at David Jones.’
The waiter covers their laps with crisp napkins, and serves the banquet, starting with plates of lamb dumplings, quail, and Peking duck, followed by red emperor fillets, a chicken dish, and grain-fed eye fillet. Brigitte picks at the food, and Eric eats most of her share.
‘Another bottle of champagne, Pet?’
She nods.
She sways and leans against the wall as Eric opens the apartment door. A sick, acidic taste rises in her throat, and fills her mouth; she swallows it, and wants to lie down.
‘How about a thank you for your present, Pet?’ he say
s when they’re inside. The bracelet swings as he kisses her hand, her wrist, along her arm. He grabs one of her breasts and pushes her up against the wall. His teeth grind against hers in a rough kiss — Juicy Fruit, alcohol, and cigarette taste in his mouth. She turns her face away. She can’t do this. He pushes his other hand up under her skirt. She struggles and squirms out of his hold.
‘What’s wrong?’ He forces her face up so she has to meet his eyes. A sliver of Peking duck is lodged between his front teeth. The lift dings in the foyer.
‘I …’ She thought she could.
‘What?’
‘Can’t.’ She looks at the door.
A blast of loud music from a car driving past fills the silence.
‘Can’t?’ He holds her wrists above her head, against the wall. ‘Maybe I can’t pay the rent then.’
There’s no way out of this. The best thing to do would be to get it over with, to close her eyes and shut her mouth, but she keeps talking. ‘I’m sorry. I — ’
He slams her hands, balled into fists, against the wall.
‘Eric, I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘I know who he is, Brigitte.’
Fear flickers in her eyes, and the nausea subsides for a moment.
‘Or should I say was.’ Eric smashes her hands, her knuckles, against the wall again. One of her fingernails snaps. ‘Haven’t you heard what happened to your boyfriend?’
What the fuck is he talking about?
‘Al.’ Eric nods, his eyes watering. He lets go of her wrists, puts two fingers to his temple, and pulls the trigger with his thumb. ‘Now you know what happens to people who fuck me around.’
Whack! He smacks her across the face, and she gets an instant blood nose; the tinny taste of it runs down the back of her throat.
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, and steadies herself against the wall. ‘Eric, I’m really going to be sick.’ He lets her go to the bathroom.
She vomits in the toilet, reaches up to flush, and rests her head on the seat. She watches a glob of blood swirl and flower in the bowl. She feels for a towel, drags one down, holds it against her nose, and pulls herself up on the rail.
Please Don't Leave Me Here Page 21
