I was gawping at her miserably—I couldn’t help it. I’d never heard a story like that before. She smiled at me gently.
“I know my life is weird to some people,” she continued. “But I’m happy now. I’m happier than Debbie Brent, and she supposedly has everything. She’s the one smiling out of the social pages while I go home on the train to the suburbs, but she’s the one who has to fill her body with chemicals in order to feel elated. I feel elated just walking down the street knowing my body doesn’t have any of those toxins in it anymore.”
“You’re amazing, Liinda,” I said. I meant it.
“Oh, get out of here.” She put her cigarette out. In my noodles. “Now, tell me about the orgy on Sunday. I want to live vicariously. Why are you so interested in Billy Ryan? Did you root him?”
“No, I did not root him, as you so delightfully put it. I came stupidly close to it, though.” And even though she’d used my love life as a coverline that morning, I felt that after the story she had just told me, she’d earned a confessional in return. So I told her about my weekend. The whole lot. She listened, she laughed, she bugged her eyes, she lived it with me. And of course, she asked me what star signs they all were.
“Liinda, I don’t know what sign Billy is. I don’t even know what street he lives in. I know very little about him apart from the fact that he’s a great dancer, he knows the names of all the stars, he’s good fun and he has an unusually good body. And an unusually flaccid penis.”
“You nearly slept with the guy and you don’t know what sign he is?”
“How am I supposed to ask him? Hello, my name’s Georgia, I’m a Gemini—what sign are you?”
“Exactly,” she said out the side of her mouth as she lit up again.
“Oh, come on! That sounds so corny.”
“It’s better than falling in love with him and finding out afterwards that he’s a Taurus.”
“What wrong with Taureans? My grandfather’s a Taurus and I adore him.”
“There’s nothing wrong with them, but it would be hopeless for you.”
“Are you telling me you ask every vaguely attractive man you meet when he was born?”
“No. Not just the attractive ones. All of them. And until a law is passed making it compulsory for all men to have their date, time and place of birth tattooed on their foreheads I will continue to do so. I ask all women too.”
“Well, I promise I’ll ask him next time I see him. And Rory. But you should know what sign Jasper O’Connor is already. He said he knew you.”
She looked up at me quickly and shifted in her seat.
“Yes, I do know him. Well, I used to. The scumbag. He’s a Gemini like you but there’s also a lot of Pisces in his chart, and as you have Scorpio rising there would be an attraction there, but—”
“Is he really a scumbag?”
“No, he’s not really, but he smokes too much pot and it makes him behave like a scumbag. He forgets to pay back money to people. He’s always late. He doesn’t do what he says he will. It’s boring.”
She was rubbing her forehead and not meeting my eye. Suddenly what was going on in the restaurant seemed a lot more interesting to her.
“How did you meet him?” I persisted.
“Oh, you know,” she shrugged, “around. We worked together a lot at Glow.”
“Why doesn’t he work for Glow anymore? He wasn’t very flattering about Maxine . . .”
Her left hand came down on the table with a surprisingly loud thwack and she finally leaned forward and looked at me, with a big sigh.
“Or me, I bet. Jasper’s getting really bitter because he knows he fucked up. At first it was great working with him—he was so much fun on a shoot—but then he messed something up and we stopped using him. It was no longer amusing. We were good friends for a while, but I just can’t be around people who won’t acknowledge their addictions. That’s it.”
I didn’t think it was, but it did sound like the end of the conversation as far as Jasper O’Connor was concerned. Liinda lit another cigarette. I thought I’d try another gambit.
“Do you know Antony Maybury?” I asked.
“Know of. He’s that dressmaker guy. Really camp queen. Big friend of Deb-rett’s, in fact I think he was making her wedding dress . . . Not my type, darling.”
“What do you mean? Because he’s gay?” I said, stiffening with indignation.
Liinda shook her head. “I’ve got nothing against homosexuals. There’s a leather queen I really like who goes to one of my groups, but I just don’t like really camp men. I don’t get them and they don’t get me because I don’t shave under my arms.”
I couldn’t imagine life without my gay friends. The campier the better. They were the centre of my universe. The chilli on my hot dog. The pom-poms on my mules.
“I thought all strong women loved gay men,” I said, suddenly missing my boys in London terribly. “They’re like oxygen for me. I prefer them to straight men most of the time.”
“That’s an interesting pathology,” said Liinda, getting her coverlines expression. “Why?”
“Because you know they like you just for you. With straight men there’s always that element of thinking: Does he think I’m attractive? Do I think he’s attractive? Would he make a good husband? With gay men you don’t have to worry about all that.”
“I think that’s really weird,” said Liinda. “But then I’m not sure I really like any men much, and I certainly don’t trust gay ones any more than straight ones. I think that’s such a fallacy. They all hate women deep down.”
I didn’t agree with her, but it wasn’t the time for an argument, seeing as she’d just told me about her horrendous childhood and then listened to me droning on about my silly little five-minute romance. We walked back to the office, with Liinda smoking all the way.
When we got there I thanked her for telling me her story and for listening to my recent adventures. Then she left my office, only to stick her bird’s nest around the door again.
“And if I were you, I wouldn’t bother finding out Billy Ryan’s birthdate. He sounds like a complete flake. But I’d be interested to know about that Rory,” she said, and disappeared.
I spent most of the afternoon rewriting an unintelligible article we’d paid someone a fortune for when I heard Maxine barking my name through her office door. A summons.
“GEORGIE! GEORGIE! COME HERE, I’VE HAD AN IDEA.”
When she was excited about something, Maxine didn’t need a phone. She was a human megaphone. I ran in.
“What?”
“I’ve had a great idea for a picture story and I want you to write it. We’ll rope in five couples and get the men to direct make-overs on the women—you know, hair and make-up, that kind of thing. What do you think? I love it. ‘How He Would Really Like You to Look.’ It’s a good coverline. Could you go and talk to Debbie about setting it up next week?”
I’d be delighted to, I thought, thrilled to have an excuse to go and talk to Debbie. Just being near her made me feel closer to her handsome cousin Billy. I dashed into the beauty office, where Debbie was standing on her desk wearing the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. I wolf-whistled.
“Va va va voom. You look incredible. Where did you get that gown? It’s magnificent.”
“Gown” was the only word for it. It was sculpted around her upper body so it lifted her breasts and made her waist look tiny. Then it fell in bias-cut panels revealing layers of leopardskinprint silk and georgette with huge red roses on it. There were bits of silk plaid and paisley all mixed together, but somehow it worked. I was just about to ask her again where she got it from, when a spiky black head popped up from behind the desk with eyebrows in full flight.
“Antony!”
“Hello, Georgia. So glad you like my little creation.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it—it’s wonderful.”
“Oh, just an amusement. Anything looks gorgeous on Debbie.”
And Debbie ce
rtainly seemed to think so. She was completely ignoring me, so transfixed was she by her image in a full-length mirror being held up by her assistant, Kylie, who was pink with exertion.
“Kylie, keep that mirror still, would you. You’re making me seasick. Antony, don’t you think the décolletage should be lower?”
“No, darling. Let’s leave something to the imagination. Anyway, you’ve only got an hour for hair and make-up before you go and I still have to get this hem fixed up—there’s no time to do anything else. You’re being picked up at seven, remember? It is now five to six.”
“Kylie, did Christian call?” said Debbie. “He’s meant to be doing my hair and face. Ring up and see where he is and then I want you to go down to the courier dock again to see if my shoes have arrived.”
“Christian just called,” Kylie replied. “He’s on his way, and Ted in the courier dock is going to ring me when the messenger arrives with the shoes.”
Debbie seemed happy now she knew all her minions were in order.
“Is she going out in that tonight?” I asked Antony. There didn’t seem any point in addressing any more remarks to the Tsarina on the desk.
“No, it’s for a charity ball in Melbourne on Saturday night. It’s white tie or fancy dress—very smart. This is just the dress rehearsal.” His left eyebrow nearly met his hairline.
“But I thought you said she was being picked up at seven . . . and the hair and make-up artist is on his way.”
“Oh, that’s just for tonight’s date. Dinner.”
“Which is not fancy dress?”
“Right.”
We waggled our eyebrows in perfect synch.
“OK . . . Well, you look amazing, Debbie. I’m sure you’ll be the belle of the ball on Saturday,” I said.
She smiled at me absently, intent on mastering the art of opening and closing a huge fan with suitably coquettish grace.
“I’ll come and talk to you tomorrow about a story idea Maxine’s had, OK? Debbie?” I said, raising my voice as if she were deaf, than gave up. “Antony, why don’t you come and say hi in my office when you’ve finished?”
“I’d love to.”
At five minutes to seven, after he’d styled Debbie’s dinner outfit and supervised her hair and make-up, Antony came and flopped down on a chair in my office. He was talking to me, but his eyes were wandering all over the room, taking in every detail of the pictures I had stuck up on my pinboard.
“Sweet of you to wait, Georgiana dear. Jeez Louise, what a princess!” he said, sniffing the roses on my desk. “Ten minutes ago she wanted me to ring the manageress of Bulgari—at home—to ask her to come and re-open the boutique so she could borrow—borrow, mind you—a necklace she saw in the window today. She was serious.”
“How did you get out of that?”
“Told her the line was busy and then distracted her by telling her how beautiful she is. Sweet dog,” he said, picking up a framed photo of Gaston on my desk.
“Why do you put up with it?” I asked.
“Debs? You know what happened to her fiancé, don’t you?”
I nodded wearily. I was almost sick of hearing about it. “But does that justify her behaviour?”
“Believe me, Drew Stewart was really divine,” said Antony, getting up to look at the books on my shelves. “I would have married him myself. He was funny, too. It was a devastating thing to happen to anyone. I was doing a fitting on Debbie’s wedding dress when she got the phone call. When you go through that with someone you can’t just desert them afterwards. Ooh, you’ve got a book about Cecil Beaton I haven’t seen before.”
“But is indulging her whims really going to help her in the long run?” I persisted as he turned my teacup upside down to look at the mark on the bottom. “It’s Spode, Antony. Doesn’t she need to face reality and see a shrink or something?”
“Yes, I like that pattern. Oh, I don’t know, it’s up to her. I’m just going to support her in any way she wants. Plus I’m madly in love with her father.” He grinned, wickedly. “Wait till you see him. He makes Robert Redford look like an ugly man. But it’s not just his looks, he oozes charm and sex—and money. I want a cigarette. Can we please leave this horrible building?”
So we left that horrible building and went to another horrible building. Well, it looked horrible on the outside, but as for the inside, I’d never seen such an amazing place. Antony lived in an ugly old warehouse, built of cheap brick, on a mean little street in Surry Hills. There was a dark entrance that smelled strongly of stale urine, and a nasty metal lift that creaked and groaned.
The place felt distinctly dangerous, but when he unbolted a metal front door it opened onto a kind of paradise—a big white space with floor-to-ceiling fold-back windows on one side, leading out to a huge roof garden. And it was a garden, not just a terrace. There were full-sized trees, many of them in bloom; there was even a stretch of lawn and flowerbeds edged with lavender hedges. I could see water features and real butterflies. Yet it was surrounded by the roofs of semi-industrial buildings.
“Voilà,” said Antony, pushing open the sliding wall of glass and indicating the view with a flourish. “Les toits de Sydney, which make a pleasant change from les twats de Sydney, don’t you think?”
“Antony—this is so gorgeous. But how come you have full-grown trees up here? How long have you lived here?”
“I’ve lived here five years, but the person who had it before me lived here for ten and the trees were half grown when he put them in. He was a film director—he could afford that kind of thing. He left me this place in his will. I would rather have him back, but I’m glad that something good has come from the plague.”
“The plague?”
“AIDS, darling. That little fauteuil over there was another bequest. Hello, Stephen darling. And that mirror. Hello, Roger. And hello, Lee darling, of course. Lee was the one who left me the studio. Not that he has entirely left the studio. I can feel him here sometimes. The lights flicker on and off when he finds something amusing.”
Although it was huge the main room had very little in it. There was a kitchen along one wall, with a gleaming stainless-steel bench, a matching fridge and stove, and a long line of stainless-steel pans hanging from a ceiling rack. A row of bar stools ran along one side of the bench and there was a large tray at the end crowded with bottles of alcohol. The opposite wall, the only one with no windows, had a steel rail stretching the length of it with about six dresses on it, each as extravagant as the one I’d seen Debbie in. Hanging above them were enormous hats covered in plumes, like something from a Gainsborough portrait. There was very little else apart from the small red armchair, the gilt mirror mounted with two imperial eagles and an ormolu console table stacked with invitations.
The only other furniture was a bed, standing on a Persian rug right in the middle of the room, and covered in pillows and cushions, with a huge chandelier hanging over it. Next to it there was a small table with just one book on it. This surprised me, as I thought Antony would be the reading type.
There was no sofa, no dining table, no TV and no curtains. And there was no sewing machine, no pins, threads or patterns, or any sign at all of where he made those extraordinary dresses. Music had started playing—Ella Fitzgerald—although I couldn’t see the hi-fi. Antony was opening a bottle of champagne and didn’t seem to mind me gawping at his home.
“I suppose you get used to people staring,” I said.
“Not many people see it—I do all my fittings at clients’ houses—but I thought you’d enjoy it,” he said, handing me a long flute of champagne. “I imagine you are wondering three things: Where are his books? Where does he go to the loo? And where does he make those funny dresses?”
I laughed.
“I’ll show you.”
He walked out onto the roof garden and I saw that there was another room running perpendicular to the main room and about half the size. This was his studio. Great bunches of patterns hung from hooks next to a long work-top
with a cutting table, a sewing machine and an overlocker. Along one wall was a shelving system filled with bolts of fabric. There were two dressmaker’s dummies, another set of shelves stacked with cardboard boxes marked “ribbon, silk, tartan, red,” “buttons, pearl,” etc., and a whole shelf of Barbie dolls in fabulous outfits. The other walls were covered in . . . stuff: pages torn from magazines, little snippets of fabric, feathers, plastic toys, badges, shells, stickers, matchbooks. Magazines were piled up everywhere. Unlike the rest of the place, the workroom was a total mess.
“This is where I make the dresses,” said Antony. “And this is where I ablute.” He gestured towards two doors between the shelving units. He opened the left one, revealing a bathroom that was like a cave. Apart from a loo and a basin, the rest of the space was filled with large grey rocks. A giant showerhead dominated the centre of the ceiling and the entire floor sloped down towards one central drain.
“It’s a steam room,” said Antony. “Lee put it in. My workroom was originally his bedroom, but I like more space to sleep in.”
The other door opened into a square room lined from floor to ceiling with books, with one of those old-fashioned library ladders to get to the top shelves. In the middle stood a round table with more books on it and a very comfortable-looking dark red leather club chair.
“This is wonderful, Antony. I can’t believe this place. It’s my fantasy to have a library. I just have books everywhere—all over the floor in my new place, actually.”
“This used to be Lee’s gym. I have different interests. Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
“Omelettes,” he announced.
We went back into the big room and I sat on a stool while he whirled around with eggs and whisks. He sent me out into the garden to get some fresh basil and oregano.
Pants on Fire Page 7
