Pants on Fire

by Maggie Alderson

  “She’s got beautiful bones,” said Zoe.

  “Bones are all she’s got!” said Maxine. “We can’t use these pictures—they’re dangerous to young women. Please take them off the projector. You and I will have a little talk later. In the meantime, does anyone have any other cover suggestions? Or will I have to draw a picture? We have two days to get it ready for the printer.”

  Zoe slumped into a chair, shell-shocked.

  “I’ve got some shots I did for the May beauty story,” said Debbie. “They just came in—I’ll get Kylie to bring them through.”

  She picked up the phone. Maxine had her head in her hands. Liinda passed me the Tim Tams.

  “Welcome to the snake pit,” she said.

  Kylie came in with the pictures and Debbie indicated with one imperious gesture that she should load them onto the carousel.

  “So what are these about, Debbie?” said Maxine.

  “It’s a skin story, so there isn’t much make-up, but the hair is nice. She’s an Aussie girl. Go on, Kylie.”

  A radiant face filled the screen. Dead-straight honey-blonde hair framed her face. She had big blue eyes with ridiculously long lashes. Big pouty lips. It looked exactly like Debbie.

  Maxine sighed loudly. “Ten thousand ways with a blue-eyed blonde. Did you know, Debbie, that some people actually consider dark-haired women like me and Zoe and Liinda quite attractive?”

  Debbie was totally unperturbed.

  “Nice shot, isn’t it?” she said. “Click on, Kylie.”

  They were lovely shots, but all pretty much the same, very close up and not smiling.

  “Yes, they are beautiful, Debbie, like all your pictures, and I think Harper’s Bazaar or Vogue would love to have them on their covers. But they don’t make a Glow cover, because she doesn’t look like someone our readers could sit down and have a chat to about men and mascaras. She’s too snooty. Funny that—SERAPHIMA, CAN YOU GET THE COVERS FILE OUT PLEASE?”

  She turned to me.

  “You know, Georgia, I have two very talented stylists on this magazine, who work with all the best photographers in this country and have their pick of the models, yet month after month they are incapable of producing one little picture I can use on my cover. Fortunately, however, I am a little more resourceful. Would you mind loading the carousel, Sera? My fingers are covered in chocolate.” She took another Tim Tam. So did I.

  “Thank you Seraphima, I’ll take over now.” Maxine stood up and came over to the carousel. “OK, what do we have here?”

  She clicked and up came a beautiful picture of a blonde model laughing in a red and white gingham bikini top. “Might save that for summer,” said Maxine. She clicked again. A magnificent-looking brunette in a fuschia stretch bikini. “Not bad after a baby,” said Maxine. “But I’m saving it for the body issue in September.”

  Click. Up came a gorgeous dark-haired girl with beautiful green eyes and very full lips wearing a dark denim shirt unbuttoned to reveal a phenomenal cleavage.

  “Now that is a Glow cover,” said Maxine. “The improbably named Laetitia—do you think they call her Titty for short? What a fantastic girl. She’s stunningly beautiful, but approachable. You feel like you might know a girl like that. I mean, you wouldn’t introduce her to your boyfriend, but she looks like she’d enjoy a laugh. That is a Glow cover. Not anorexics. Not snotty-nosed bitches. Beautiful, nice women. Have you got that, Zoe? Debbie? Because I’ve had to buy this picture from Madame Figaro in France and it’s cost me $2,000. I can’t afford to do that every month and I’m sick of running myself ragged negotiating with nightmare agents in New York to buy French pictures and doing calculations in three foreign currencies to cover your arses.” She patted the carousel. “So this is our April cover—but for our May one I want an Australian model taken by an Australian photographer. Do I make myself clear? OK. Good. Now get out. Except Zoe. I want you to stay. And Liinda—can you stay in your office, for an hour or so? I might need you.”

  Debbie followed me into my office. She didn’t seem at all bothered about what had just gone on and I decided not to say anything. I’d had enough drama for one day.

  “I’ve spoken to Mum about you coming up to Bundaburra,” she said. “That’s the name of our property—and she suggested this weekend. It’s the annual rodeo in Walton, near where the farm is. Mum thought you’d enjoy it. It’s heaps of fun.”

  Debbie’s naughty smile told me she was implying heaps of cute men. The words “fun” and “attractive men” seemed to be interchangeable in her language.

  I must have looked a bit doubtful. I was rather off men as a concept.

  “Real men, George,” she added. “Wearing chaps—and not to go to Mardi Gras. And you only have to look, we don’t have to talk to them or anything.”

  “Mmm,” I said. “I love cowboys. Will they be wearing big hats and cowboy boots too?”

  “Shit yeah.”

  “Yee haw. Tell your mum I’d love to come. Oh and Debbie, explain something to me—why did Maxine want Liinda to stay behind? Is she going to get a bollocking too?”

  “No. Maxine wants her to hang around because she might need her counseling skills for Zoe. Liinda’s had her own head shrinked so much she’s actually quite good at helping other people, although she does get a bit carried away with it. She tried to get me to go to some godforsaken AA meeting once, can you believe it? I told her to get fucked, but Zoe does need some help. I wonder if they’ve got something called Pukers Anonymous that Liinda can take her to. See you later.”

  Debbie was appalling, but I couldn’t help liking her. She was spoilt and excessive and selfish, but she didn’t pretend not to be. And I really liked the sound of the rodeo. At lunchtime I went out and bought myself a pair of RM Williams boots to celebrate. I already had a beaten-up old straw Stetson I’d bought in Texas years before on a trip with Rick, and the boots would complete my look. I always like to be correctly attired.

  When I got back to the office Seraphima had a look on her face that I’d come to realize meant she Knew Something.

  “OK Sera,” I said. “Spill it.”

  She took a deep breath as she sat down in my office. “Maxine has sent Zoe home. Liinda’s taken her in a taxi. It was her third warning in three months, so Maxine’s decided to suspend her—on full pay—until she ‘shows she is prepared to do something about coming to terms with her bulimia.’ ”

  I could tell by Sera’s voice that this was a direct through-the-office-door quote.

  “I’ve just given Maxine the name and number of the specialist who looked after my sister and she’s on the phone to Zoe’s mum with it.”

  “Zoe’s mum?” I couldn’t believe Maxine would do that.

  Sera shrugged. “Maxine says there’s no point in pretending it’s not happening—it’s much better to get it all out in the open.”

  I’d had enough drama for one day and went back into my office to try to do some work. I was admiring my new boots when the phone rang.

  “Hello,” said a loud happy voice.

  “Ant, how nice to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I’m very well. More to the point, how are you? I hear you got bitten by one of Australia’s most venomous creatures—Pants On Fire Pollock. I wish I’d warned you, not that it ever does any good . . .”

  “How on earth did you know about that?”

  “No secrets in this town, sweetie. It’s good you found that much out quickly.”

  “Who told you, Antony?” I persisted.

  “Debbie.”

  “I don’t believe it—I thought she was a friend . . .”

  “Georgia, it’s just the way this town is. Debbie is no worse than anyone else. It’s like a big village. You’ll get used to it. Soon you’ll be gossiping along with the rest of us, spreading rumours, making up juicy details, planting joke rumours to see how quickly they come back to you. It’s hilarious. Don’t people gossip in London?”

  “Of course they do. But unless you’re worl
d famous it is possible to maintain a level of privacy. You can keep different parts of your life in separate compartments—that doesn’t seem to be possible here.”

  He snorted. “Sounds boring to me. Anyway, do you want to come out with me and drown your sorrows?”

  “I drowned them at birth, but I’d love to come out. Where are we going?”

  “Art galleries—it’s Tuesday. Then we can have dinner. Have you had your nails done yet?”

  “No I haven’t, but Debbie’s already sent her assistant into my office with her manicurist’s card.”

  “HA HA HA . . . So have you made your appointment? Consuela’s impossible to get in to.”

  “No, I have not! I threw it in the bin. I don’t have manicures. They’re a total waste of time and money. I used to know Princess Diana’s personal hairdresser in London and he told me she always did her own nails. If it was good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.”

  “At least she had her hair done. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs at six. Goodbye.”

  What was wrong with my hair and nails? My nails were clean and short, my hair was—well, it was hair. I went into the loo and had a look at it. Seraphima came out of one of the cubicles and washed her hands next to me. Her blonde curls were pulled back neatly with a tortoiseshell slide. My lank locks were pulled back in an elastic band I’d found on my office floor. I inspected an incipient pimple on my chin. Seraphima got lip pencil and lipgloss out of her pocket and applied it carefully. Maybe I did need to look at the grooming issue, I thought.

  I went back to my office and started reading the last few articles for the next issue, including “Phone Torture,” which I had to admit made a bloody good read. As I was finishing it the most extraordinary sound came floating through my office window. It sounded like a maniac was outside.

  I looked up and a small, squat, no-necked bird was sitting on my windowsill—on the fourth floor of an office block, in the middle of the Central Business District. I realized it was a kookaburra. And it was laughing.

  Chapter Nine

  The art openings were great fun. The first one was in a converted factory in Redfern and the second was in an old shop in Surry Hills. Don’t ask me about the art—I didn’t get a chance to look at it. Antony knew everybody at both parties and introduced me to so many people I was starting to get dizzy.

  Then I saw Danny Green, who accosted me with his usual kisses and pushed me together with someone for a photo opportunity. It was Jasper O’Connor, without penis hat or bright pink trousers and looking rather attractive for a scumbag.

  “Jazzy!” I greeted him with the fervour born of knowing no one else in the room. He put his arm round me and we smiled for the camera.

  “Gorgeous, you two,” said Danny, kissing us again and then running off to fuss over his next subjects.

  “Hello, Pinkie darling. What a nice surprise this is. Who brought you to this major event for Sydney’s bohemian A list?”

  “Antony Maybury.”

  Jasper pulled a face and I suddenly realized there was something different about him.

  “You’ve shaved off your goatee.”

  “Yes,” he said, rubbing his chin and making an endearing little moue. “You like?”

  “Oh yes, it’s much better. I can’t bear facial hair. You know, all that stuff about looking like you’re trying to hide something.”

  “I was. My age.” He laughed infectiously, and I could see how he would charm his subjects when he took their photos. He was certainly charming me.

  “Is your underage girlfriend here tonight, Jasper?”

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you Pinkie?” Jasper put his head on one side and looked at me through those narrowed green eyes. “I’d like to take your picture, Pinkie,” he said. “In that hat you were wearing at the party. ‘Pinkie in the Pink,’ we could call it.”

  “Don’t try and worm out of it with your devastating charm. Where is Little Lotus Blossom tonight?”

  “Fucked if I know. Somewhere with her new boyfriend, I expect. Riding around in his Porsche, probably, seeing as that’s the kind of thing that impresses her. She refused to be seen in my car because it was more than a year old.”

  “How old is it?”

  “About twenty-five years.” He laughed again. “So how’s life at the convent?” he asked. “Debbie still the only woman in that place getting her portion and everyone else’s?”

  I’m not sure if I blushed or looked shocked.

  “It’s well known that the Glow girls talk and write about sex incessantly but never actually get any themselves,” Jasper continued. “Liinda’s too crazy, Maxine’s too ugly and Zoe’s too thin. Debbie is another matter altogether and almost more of a worry for it—she seems to be a nymphomaniac—but you, Pinkie, you strike me as a normal girl with normal appetites.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Luckily Antony did, sliding up behind me.

  “Well, I hope she has got a normal appetite because I’m taking her out to dinner. Now. Goodbye Jasper.”

  “And goodbye to you, An-thu-ny,” said Jasper, putting a special emphasis on the middle syllable. Then he turned to me. “Goodbye Pinkie. I’ll give you a ring again soon—even though you were a total bitch the last time I called.”

  “Sorry about that. I was having a really bad day. See you.” I smiled at him sheepishly. As Antony frogmarched me to the door, I turned back and caught Jasper winking at me. That wink of his was very sexy.

  “Whatever were you talking to that deadbeat for?” demanded Antony. “I can’t stand people who call me AnTHUNy. It’s TUNNy. Tunny, like the fish.”

  “I like Jasper. He’s funny.”

  “Funny in the head. Anyway, I must tell you what Sophie Paparellis was just telling me. Apparently the entire Chic fashion department is going to resign if . . .”

  And he chattered on like this in the taxi all the way to the third gallery. I didn’t have a clue who any of the people were that Antony was talking about, but he was enjoying himself so much that I did too.

  “I’ve saved the best party to last. This one’s going to be hilarious,” he said, as we walked through the door of a lovely old terrace in Paddington. “Trudy! Trudy! Come here, I want you to meet Georgia.”

  I met Trudy. He was lovely. Trudy was a man. So was Betty. And Norma. And Mary. And Antony had suddenly turned into Dolores. They weren’t drag queens, they were Antony’s best friends and they all called each other by their mother’s names.

  “It works,” said Antony. “Look how the names suit them.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re right. Especially Dolores. It’s perfect for you, Antony. I’m going to call you Doll.”

  “What’s your mother’s name, Georgia?” asked Trudy, a tall, slim man with rather bouffant hair, dressed in head-to-toe Prada.

  “Shouldn’t it be my father’s name?”

  “Oh no,” said Betty, a short, chubby-faced fellow with a shaved head, a big earring and stubby beard. “We only like girls’ names.”

  “Well, my mother’s called Hermoine—”

  “Ooh, that’s a love name,” said Betty. “Are you Greek?”

  “—but everyone calls her Pussy . . .”

  Dolores was laughing so much his wine came down his nose.

  “Pussy! Oh, that is too good. I’m always going to call you Pussy from now on.”

  Then he proceeded to introduce me to everybody at the party as Pussy. I was past caring. I thought Dolores was so funny I didn’t mind being Pussy a bit—and he was right, it was a fun party. Eventually I had to go to the loo and on my way back to find Delores, I finally got to see the art. It was an exhibition of Robert Mapplethorpe’s black and white photographs. I’d seen them before in a book, but blown up into huge prints they were a bit confronting. One of them was called “Man in a Polyester Suit” and featured a beautiful black man in a cheap suit. Except he had forgotten to do up his fly and something very large and surprising was hanging out of it.

  “Gorgeou
s, isn’t he, Pussy?” said Betty, taking my arm in a chummy way and guiding me on a tour of his favourite penises in the exhibition. As we walked around the gallery I became aware that I was one of only about ten women in a very crowded room. And the only one wearing lipstick.

  “Is this a gay art gallery?” I asked Betty. “Or just a gay show?”

  “Well, one of the guys who owns it is gay, but it’s a regular gallery—or as regular as anything gets in Sydney.” He shrieked like a pantomime dame. I liked Betty. He was cosy, which isn’t easy to achieve in leather chaps and steel-toed boots. Under his leather waistcoat I could see his nipples were pierced with thick silver rings, and on his bicep there was something that looked like a cattle brand, which said “100% AUSSIE BEEF.” He looked quite terrifying but he sounded as if he was just going to pass the vicar some nice hot scones.

  “This show is part of the Mardi Gras arts festival,” he told me. “You are going to come to the party, aren’t you? You’ll love it.”

  “Pussy! Pussy! Where are you? Here puss, puss, puss!” I could hear Antony shouting from the other side of the gallery.

  I pushed my way back through the crowd.

  “Hello Dolly,” I said.

  He grinned. “Come on, Pussy Galore, we’re going to dinner.”

  He drained his glass, deposited it with a passing waiter and walked straight out of the door, with me obediently following along behind him.

  “I never say goodbye,” he explained. “It takes too long. I saw all of those people on Saturday night and I’ll probably see them all tomorrow. No point. We can walk to the restaurant.”

  We were on a lovely street of terrace houses with curly wrought-iron railings on their balconies. There were lofty leaf-laden trees all along it, with branches meeting in the middle.

  “This is a beautiful street,” I said.

  “Paddington Street. Yes, it is lovely. Your friend Billy Ryan lives just down there.” He pointed to a side street. “And Debbie Brent lives round the corner that way. It’s her own house, lucky bitch. Really, she doesn’t need a rich husband—it’s such a waste—but she’ll get one. I used to live in Paddington but I was glad to escape to my grungy little corner of Surry Hills. I got sick of seeing le tout Sydney every time I went out for the paper.”