“Well, you passed that test,” he said when I came back with them. “You didn’t ask me where they were.”
We ate our omelettes, which were very good, finished the champagne and started on another bottle. We told each other our life stories. They weren’t that different: Antony had grown up in the New South Wales countryside, five hours from Sydney. His father was the doctor for a huge area. Mine is a country solicitor. My blonde hair and freckles come from my Scottish mother, Antony’s dark skin and black hair from his half-Spanish mother. He has two older sisters, I have one older brother. We both went to local junior schools, then boarding school, and we both hated riding although we liked the idea of horses. And we both played obsessively with Barbies. Well, Antony’s was actually an Action Man, but he wore women’s clothing, systematically pinched from Antony’s sisters’ dolls or created out of anything he could find.
“I had never heard of drag queens,” he told me, polishing a fresh glass for each of us, because he thought the first ones were a bit stale. “I didn’t know they existed, but one day I had the idea of making Action Man a wig. I made the first one—a beehive—out of a cotton-wool ball, which I coloured yellow with a felt-tip pen. It was quite successful, but I really wanted hair I could comb. So I paid a girl at school $1 for a lock of her straight blonde hair. I mounted it on sticky tape and attached it with glue. It didn’t look quite right, so I made a scarf out of a bit of material and tied it over the top, to hide the join. It looked fine with day wear, but I wasn’t so happy with the effect for after six.”
It was a funny story the way he told it, but I could detect a little sadness in his eyes. “My father found Action Madame one day,” he said, sighing. “In his wig and a fine silver lamé gown. It was the only time he ever beat me.”
He drained his glass in one and demanded to know more about me.
I told him tales about my glorious years at Edinburgh University and Antony explained that he’d gone to art school to study fashion, but had dropped out after a year. He really only wanted to make fabulous dresses, he said—he wasn’t interested in the commercial side of things. So he scraped together a living making evening gowns for his female friends, until one of them was spotted by a woman who worked in the wardrobe department of Opera Australia.
After ten years working at the Opera he had gone freelance, and now he made a few costumes when they needed something really spectacular, but he mainly specialised in wild gowns for costume parties—which Sydney seemed to have a lot of—and charity balls.
“I don’t make much money, but I don’t need much,” he told me. “Lee left me quite a bit of capital along with this place, so I don’t have to work any more than I feel like. I really just do it so I can look at beautiful women in beautiful underwear.”
I must have looked very surprised. He started chuckling and doing the eyebrow thing—he’d obviously guessed what I was thinking.
“Yes, darling, I am gay, but I still like looking at beautiful underwear. And I can still find women attractive, you know—there are no rules against window shopping.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but he got in first.
“Yes, I have slept with a woman. More than one, actually. No, I didn’t find it revolting. I found it quite pleasant, but I prefer having sex with men. I like the roughness of it. I like to keep sex and emotions separate and that’s easier with other men. Especially if you don’t know their names. Don’t looked shocked. I use protection. I just like anonymous sex. Oh! Hello Lee!”
The lights were flickering on and off.
“See?” Antony smiled. “Say hello.”
“Hello Lee,” I said. The lights flickered one more time and stopped.
“I think he likes you,” said Antony. “Anyway, enough about my sordid sex life. I want to know more about you. How did you get into journalism?”
So I told him how I’d got into magazines when I was working as a bilingual secretary for the managing director of a publishing company. Then he asked me why I had moved to Sydney and, for the first time since I’d arrived, I told the whole story. I had only told Liinda the bare outlines—fiancé found with other woman—and I hadn’t told her what the other woman did for a living and what the fiancé was doing at the moment of discovery. For some reason, though, I told Antony everything.
He laughed so much I thought he was going to have a conniption. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“That’s the funniest thing I have ever heard. A gym slip. HA HA HA. He thought you wouldn’t mind, HA HA HA.” Suddenly he snapped out of it and looked at me seriously. “What a complete asshole.”
“Well, he is and he isn’t. Rick has his good side.”
“His money?”
“I didn’t care about that. It was nice sometimes, but it wasn’t why I was with him. He made me laugh. He was exciting to be around.”
“Especially when he got his cane out . . . Oh I’m sorry, poor you. It must have been such a blow to think you had your future all set out and suddenly, a blank page. So have you come out to Sydney to meet a broad-shouldered Australian man?”
I think I blushed.
“Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed. And I hope you don’t think Jasper O’Connor is it, because he really isn’t. He’s nice looking, I can see that, but he’s a total flake.”
“Yes, I have been warned.” All these pronouncements about Jasper were beginning to irritate me. I’d only talked to the guy and everyone was warning me off him like he was radioactive or something. If anything it made him sound more interesting.
“Did you meet anyone else on Sunday?” asked Antony. “Who were you dancing with? I can’t remember. Got too out of it later and blasted those particular brain cells.”
I hesitated, not sure if I should tell him. He might tell Debbie and I didn’t want to short-circuit the whole thing, whatever kind of thing it was. Yet even as I thought this, I could hear my mouth saying “Billy Ryan.”
“Billy! That’s right, I remember now. You are a fast worker.” He narrowed his eyes and did some eyebrow dancing. “Or did he hit on you?”
“Well, he dragged me onto the dance floor and put his tongue in my mouth.”
Antony sighed deeply.
“What’s wrong? Is he notorious for snogging girls he hardly knows?”
“No, he’s not notorious, it’s just that through Debbie, I know a bit more about Billy than most people. He’s a lovely guy, but he’s rather confused. What happened between you two?”
I told him. I made it into a funny story, complete with me falling asleep with a mouth full of crisps. I waited for the HA HA HA—it didn’t come. Another bottle of champagne did and Antony looked uncharacteristically serious. The dancing brows were meeting in a frown.
“Georgia, I’ve only know you five minutes, but I really like you. We are going to be friends. I don’t make new friends very often, but when I meet someone and we click, that’s it. So I’m going to tell you exactly why Billy behaved the way he did, because I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
I felt a bit sick. “Is he gay?” At least I got a laugh that time. “No, he is not gay. It would be easier if he was. No, Billy’s problem is that he’s in love with his own brother’s wife.”
“He’s what? I don’t believe this town. His best friend is Rory Stewart, whose brother was engaged to Debbie Brent, who is Billy’s cousin . . . oh, I give up . . .”
“It gets better. Or worse. The woman Billy is in love with—the one married to his brother, Tom—is . . . wait for it . . . Rory’s sister.”
“Rory’s sister? Hang on, doesn’t that also make her the sister of Debbie’s dead fiancé?”
Antony nodded.
“This is ridiculous. You’ll have to draw me a Venn diagram. Is everyone in Sydney related?”
“Pretty much. At the top end of ‘society’ they are, anyway. The Ryans, the Stewarts and the Brents are three big country families. They all grew up together. That awful plane crash makes the whole thing seem a
lot more gothic, but they’ve all been marrying each other for a hundred years. That’s why Debbie’s ghastly little common mother was a good thing—some fresh blood. Debbie and Drew’s children would have been really something, but I think it will be good if she marries outside the clans now.”
“But hang on, tell me more about Billy. He’s in love with his sister-in-law, Rory’s sister. What’s her name, anyway?”
“Elizabeth Ryan, née Stewart—known as Lizzy.”
“Is this Lizzy in love with Billy?”
“Yes.”
“Are they doing something about it?”
Antony nodded as he drained his glass.
“Does her husband—hang on, Billy’s brother—know?”
“No. Tom doesn’t know about them, but he does know something weird is going on.”
This was incredible. “Does Rory know?”
“Yes.”
“How does he feel about it?”
“He’s not very happy about it, but he doesn’t say anything. Remember, his sister is his last living sibling and she suffered a lot after the crash too. I guess he reckons it’s her—er—affair, so he and Billy just never talk about it. They both pretend it’s not happening. That’s why Billy kissed you like that—to show Rory he’s still chasing women.”
“But Rory dared him to do it . . .”
“That’s typical too. He hopes Billy will meet someone else and leave Lizzy alone. All part of the game.”
I must have looked crestfallen. I was just a pawn. A porn.
“But why was he so passionate in the park?”
Antony paused and seemed to look at me closely.
“Georgia, you are a very attractive woman, you know.”
I pulled a Quasimodo face.
“Stop that,” he said, flicking me with his napkin. “I’m sure Billy would have been chasing you for real a few months ago, before he got together with Lizzy. But really, this thing between them has been going on since they were teenagers. Everyone was mystified when she married Tom—it was like, uh? Wrong brother. But Billy just left it too long to ask her. He wanted to play the field, just one more year, one more year . . . So she married Tom, because he did ask her.”
“A Ryan in hand—”
“Is better than a Ryan in the park, as you discovered.”
“Well, I feel like a total idiot, but it does explain his weird behaviour. You know when he left the café on Monday—would he have been going to see Lizzy?”
“Definitely. Tom would have been playing golf.”
“Does everybody in Sydney know about this?” I was beginning to wonder if Liinda knew and that was why she’d told me to forget about Billy.
Antony patted my hand. “No. Absolutely not. I only know because Debbie tells me everything. And I’ve only told you because I want you to put him out of your mind. He’s basically a nice guy—a bit thick, but very attractive, I do admit—and Debbie says it’s tearing him up behaving like this. But he really does love Lizzy. It will all come out in the end, I’m sure.”
“So I guess he won’t be ringing me then.”
“Well, he might, because he’s a gentleman and I’m sure he enjoyed your company, and in his doltish way he’ll think it would be nice to be friends. Plus it will help him cover if he’s seen around town with a beautiful girl like you.”
“Oh Ant, you’re so gallant. I wish it was true. Anyway, it’s nice to have an esteem boost when I’ve just found out that my dream man is involved in a psycho-incest love triangle. What an unholy bloody mess. But to tell the truth, he is a bit of a dunderhead really, it was just the package that got me going.” I held out my glass. “Give me another drink, bartender.”
Maybe it was all the champagne and Antony’s effervescent company, but I wasn’t desperately upset about Billy. It was such a ridiculous mess I couldn’t take it personally, but I did thank God I hadn’t slept with him. Then I would have felt used. And somehow being told by Antony made it OK. He was scrabbling around doing something under the kitchen bench. Suddenly the music changed and the Astrud Gilberto which had been playing was replaced by the opening bars of “We Are Family.”
“Let’s dance,” said Antony. “I want to see you shake that cute arse of yours.”
So I did. And Antony turned out to be a pretty good dancer too, whirling around in that big white room. It was a hoot. We danced until we were pooped and then we flopped onto Antony’s big bed, because there was nowhere else to flop. It had a head-board and a footboard carved with flowers and washed with white paint, which were very comfortable to lean against.
While I had the chance, I wanted to ask him about all the new people I’d met.
“Antony,” I said, getting comfortable. “What do you know about Rory Stewart?”
“Very nice man. Sometimes I wish Debbie would marry him, but he’s actually too intelligent for her. She’d drive him mad. Although they did go out when they were sixteen and she was having a temporary falling out with Drew . . .”
“Oh God, don’t tell me any more. It’s a miracle this lot don’t all have two heads.”
He looked at me closely. “It’s a shame, really, because Rory would have been nice for you.”
It was my turn to do some eyebrow raising. “Well, I must say I don’t find him unattractive. He’s not as stunningly good-looking as Billy on first sight, but when you get to know him, he’s so nice and kind you start to find him gorgeous in his own way. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed he didn’t ask me for my phone number . . .”
Antony’s brows were doing the cancan.
“Good God, no!” he cried. “He couldn’t possibly do that—you’re Billy’s squeeze.”
“What? But Rory knows Billy is having it off with his sister—he knows he’s not really interested in me.”
“I know that, you know that, they know that, but they’re pretending it isn’t happening, remember? That’s all part of the double bluff: Rory couldn’t ask you out, because he’d be moving in on Billy’s turf. They’re mates. Mateship is a great Australian tradition,” he continued. “A real Aussie bloke would put his mate before his girl—and Billy and Rory have been friends since they were born. They’re maaaates.”
I shook my head, bemused. “They’re nuts, that’s what they all are. They might be heavenly looking dream husbands, but they’re all barmy. I thought the English middle classes were hung up, but this lot are positively constipated—I’m going to give them all a very wide berth.”
“I think that might be wise. And whatever you do, don’t tell Debbie about it. Don’t even tell her you met them. She’ll be ridiculously jealous. She thinks all those men are her property, and in a way they are. Nothing has really been right in those three families since Debbie Brent grew breasts.”
I looked at my watch. It was after one and I was facing my second hangover in a week. And it was a school night. Good going, Georgia, I thought. You’ve been in Australia two weeks and you are already a drug-taking alcoholic embroiled in an ugly family scandal. I told Antony I had to go and he called me a cab.
When it arrived he came down in the lift with me and put me in it.
“Bye darling,” he said, kissing me warmly on both cheeks. Then he stopped, looked at me for a moment, and kissed me full on the lips.
Chapter Five
The next day I didn’t feel quite as bad as I had on Monday morning. And a bacon sandwich at my desk first thing made me feel even better. Then I remembered that I had to pin Debbie down to arrange the shot for the couples makeover story that Maxine was so excited about.
I walked round to the beauty office. She wasn’t in yet. It was ten-thirty and Kylie looked embarrassed. She was too nice a girl to be able to lie with any conviction and I had the strong impression that Debbie wasn’t “doing appointments,” as Kylie was now telling me.
Then Debbie strolled in. With wet hair. I raised an eyebrow at Kylie, wondering if I’d caught the habit from Antony. Debbie was smiling broadly. She didn’t take her sunglasses o
ff.
“Hello girlies. How are we today? Having a little chinwag? Anything I should know?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re planning to steal your ball dress. How was your dinner last night?”
She wrinkled her perfect little nose. “Really boring. I met Peter at a weekend party in Bowral. I thought he was fun, but he turned out to be a major snore. Didn’t have any coke on him and didn’t even want any of mine when I offered it, which I thought was bloody rude. And he didn’t want to go dancing after dinner. He said he wanted to ‘talk’ more. What a drag.”
“So did you have a nice early night then, Debbie?” asked Liinda, popping her head round the door.
“Oh no, darling—five a.m. I made him take me to the Blue Room for some drinks and then I met this really nice guy. Quite yummy, actually. We had a really good time. Ended up at the Midnight Shift, can you believe it?” She started singing “Believe” by Cher and snapping her fingers; she was even dancing a bit. Liinda gave me a look and mouthed the word “ecstasy.”
“Debbie,” I said to her boogying back. “Maxine has had an idea for a shoot involving ten real people—”
She turned round and made a face. “Real people are so ugly. The pictures will be hideous. What is her stupid idea, anyway?”
Liinda sloped off—not enough raw emotion for her.
“She wants us to find five real couples and get the men to direct makeovers for the women, to see what kind of hair and make-up men really like on women.”
Debbie brightened up. “Great, if they’re re-styling each other you won’t need me, the stylist, will you? Kylie can organise the shoot and they can make each other look disgusting while I do something useful instead. OK? Now, Kylie, can you go and get me two coffees? Skinny lattes. Would you like a coffee, Georgie? OK—add a fat latte to that, Kyles, and whatever you want. I’ll give you the money later—I need to go to the autobank. Actually, you could go for me, here you are. Get me $500. You know the number. So Georgie, how are you, anyway? How are you settling in to Glow and to Sydney?”
She was being amazingly friendly. She was smiling at me. Even if it was drug-fuelled, I liked it. No one could be unmoved by Debbie’s smile on high beam.
Pants on Fire Page 8
