Pants on Fire

by Maggie Alderson

  Chapter Nineteen

  That Monday morning I went into work full of new resolutions to be open and honest about everything, starting by telling all to Liinda. But somehow when she came back into the office, the first day after her Hawaiian trip, looking quite tanned (she never went near the beach in Sydney) and totally relaxed, I couldn’t bring myself to dredge it all up. She was looking happier than I’d ever seen her—she was singing in the office—and I couldn’t bear to bring her down.

  As the weeks went by I missed Jasper much more than I’d expected to. I missed our spontaneous little jaunts. I missed his funny phone messages and the stupid cartoons he used to fax me at work. For the first time since our road trip I began to feel aware of how alone I was in Sydney.

  One particularly homesick Sunday morning I rang Hamish to see when he was coming over and he told me—uncharacteristically bluntly for him—that he’d “cooled off” on the idea, which was very disappointing.

  Spending weekends going round Kirribilli market and the Paddington art galleries on my own again, I started to wonder if there was something wrong with me. Why was every man I met in Sydney already hopelessly entangled with other people in my life? In London you could go to a party and bingo—you could just meet someone completely unconnected to the rest of your life. But it seemed impossible here.

  I knew Antony would just tell me to stop being boring and have another drink if I broached the subject with him, Liinda would suggest I went to Co-dependents Anonymous and Debbie would just look at me blankly, so I decided to ask Zoe about it. Apart from her forays into binge eating, she seemed to be one of the saner people I knew, and certainly the one I had the fewest friends in common with.

  “Is there something wrong with me?” I asked her one lunchtime, as we settled down with chicken laksas at our favourite grungy food court. “Or is it normal that the three men I’ve had flings with since arriving in Australia all have complex relationships with everyone else I know well?”

  “It’s pretty normal,” Zoe said, ignoring her own food and spearing something out of my bowl with her fork. I smacked her hand. “Apart from blissful holiday romances in Europe, I’ve never gone out with a man who hasn’t previously gone out with someone I know. I went to kindergarten with Ben. He came to my fourth birthday party. Now we are lovers.”

  “But how does that happen?” I asked her. “Sydney’s a big place . . .”

  “Yes, but it’s divided up into very distinct sets. Take you—you’ve arrived here and moved straight into the Eastern Suburbs groovy A list. Fashion, art world, media, some stylish foodies and a few glamorous stockbrokers, that’s pretty much it. They all live in Potts Point, Elizabeth Bay, Paddington, Woollahra and Bondi. Right?”

  I ran through a mental Rolodex of my friends. “And Surry Hills.”

  “OK. And maybe the odd one in Point Piper, but that’s it. Now I move partly in that set, because of my job, but I’m really one of the Eastern Suburbs young professionals B list. I’ve been part of it since I was born. Bellevue Hill, Vaucluse, Rose Bay, Double Bay. We went to school together, our parents all know each other. It’s not as glam as your crowd, and it’s certainly not as gay, but there’s plenty of money in it. That’s my scene. Remember how we went out on Mardi Gras night and bumped into a crowd of my friends?”

  I nodded.

  “You didn’t really relate to them at all, did you? You can be honest.”

  I froze with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth.

  “Well, no I didn’t, but I adore you and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t love your friends.”

  “It’s not your crowd. I bet you’ve liked every single friend of Debbie’s you’ve met. Right?”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s your tribe, you see? The different Sydney scenes don’t mix much. So there are lots of people you could socialise with who wouldn’t have heard of Jasper O’Connor, or Nick Pollock, or Antony Maybury, but they’d bore you to death . . . Like my friends did.”

  “I’m sorry, Zoe.”

  She sucked in a single piece of vermicelli with a theatrical slurp.

  “Doesn’t worry me a bit. I couldn’t spend very long with your darling Antony and all his screaming bum chums, let me tell you.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments, trying to convey laksa from bowl to mouth without passing T-shirt. It wasn’t easy, especially for Zoe who was also trying to avoid the coconut cream element and the deep-fried tofu.

  “Maybe I could try another tribe then,” I said eventually. “I seem to have really fucked up with this one. What else is there?”

  Zoe abandoned her soup and snapped open her bottle of spring water.

  “Well, you’ve got the alternative feral crowd—gay and straight—in Newtown, Erskineville and Enmore.” She grinned at me. “Don’t see you at the Metro listening to an indie band somehow. Then there are the groovier inner-city feral trendies—Darlinghurst, Surry Hills, Strawberry Hills, Redfern. They’re cool, but a bit po-faced for you. No sense of humour. Then you’ve got your inner-west yuppies—young lawyers, professionals and journalists from the Sydney Morning Herald—they’re a funny lot, they only seem to marry each other. Very amusing some of them, but not glam enough for you.”

  I could see she was enjoying herself. I was glued.

  “Then there are the super-straight Mosman young mums and dads,” she continued. “Nice people. You’d kill yourself. Then there’s the Upper North Shore Liberal brahmins. You’d kill them. There’s a well-off arty boho set in Balmain and Rozelle that you could possibly mingle with, but they don’t wear good shoes.” She shrugged. “I think you’ve landed where you belong. Is it really so different in London?”

  “Well, there are cliques there too, of course, but it’s not just one small gang of people going round and round holding on to each other’s tails, and they certainly don’t all live in one part of town—I had friends in every corner of London.”

  Zoe took a swig of spring water. “Well, here it’s one crowd, one area. So don’t blame yourself for your complicated private life. It’s just the way Sydney is.”

  “I’ll just have to get used to it then, won’t I? But I must say, I do like the way I just bump into my friends here all the time. In London you have to plan your social life like a military campaign and you practically declare a national holiday if you see someone you know by chance on the street. Here it’s an everyday occurrence.”

  And it happened again that Saturday, when Antony and I went to Randwick Races for the June Stakes. It was one of the biggest winter race days and we’d both been asked to judge the Fashions in the Field. I was thrilled to be at the track. Although I don’t like riding myself, I love racing and I’d been studying the form in anticipation. Antony had been studying my outfit—nagging me endlessly, to make sure I had a felt hat and leather gloves, otherwise he said he’d refuse to be seen with me.

  He came over to pick me up and declared himself happy with my light-grey wool shift-dress and matching coat, my black crocodile shoes, black bag, black suede gloves and mauve felt hat, with a pheasant feather. I had my good pearls on too.

  “Perfect for a little Pussy,” he said, eyeing the hat with satisfaction. Antony looked very dashing himself in a dark suit, blue shirt and bright Hermès tie with little cats all over it, which he said he’d bought in my honour. He had a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and a Louis Vuitton cover for his race guide.

  We had a few glasses of champers to get us in the mood (one of the big champagne houses was sponsoring the competition, which was the main reason Antony had agreed to do it), and then took our judges’ seats to assess the thirty semi-finalists that had been selected by “spotters” in the crowd. At least half of them were wearing black, which struck them off my score chart straightaway.

  “Save your little black dresses for after six, girlfriends,” I whispered to Antony.

  “Perhaps they’re going to whip their pinnies back on afterwards and serve us our tea and scones,” h
e replied. Loudly.

  Most of them were wearing straw hats, which nearly brought Antony to tears, and another large proportion weren’t wearing stockings. There were plastic handbags and a go-go. Gloves we could whistle for.

  “Look at them,” said Antony. Very loudly. “No fucking idea. How could they have got this far? The spotters should be shot. SHOT. Or given guide dogs. Look at her—open sandals, no stockings. She must be suffering from exposure for one thing, but I bet she thought, “These are my best shoes and I’m going to wear them even if it is sixteen degrees because they’re so smaaart.” Look—she’s had a lovely pedicure specially.”

  I did look. I stared. It was Fiona Clarke. In a straw hat, the same red suit she’d had on at the party, and very high heels. She did have quite a pretty face, I conceded, and the bosoms were unmissable.

  “Do you know her?” I asked Antony.

  “Yes. She’s a ghastly PR. Always trying to get me to go to hideous cocktail parties in appalling rabbit-hutch apartment buildings. She once rang up and asked me to make her a dress to wear to one of her ‘events,’ as she called it. I declined. Very particular about who wears my gowns, as you know. That girl in the chalkstripe suit looks less hideous than the rest. Nice bag. Nice teeth. Let’s give her the prize and get back to the champagne tent.”

  “That’s the girl Rory Stewart is knobbing,” I said.

  “What, that little thing in the chalkstripe? Bit ordinaire for a Stewart, isn’t she?”

  “No—Fiona Clarke.”

  “WHAT? You must be joking. She’s appalling! He’s a Stewart —one of the most eligible men in the whole country. Why is he rooting a little strumpet like that? I bet she’ll get pregnant and trap him. Oh, this is too awful, it’s Johnny Brent all over again. Come on, now I really do need a drink.”

  I did too. Antony was a terrible snob, but I couldn’t really stand the thought of Rory with Fiona Clarke either. Though for rather different reasons.

  “Drink . . . drink . . .” said Antony, walking like a man who was lost in the desert.

  And drink he did. He drank himself senseless, to the point where I knew I had to get some food inside him or he’d fall over. They were only serving mimsy little hors d’oeuvres in the champagne tent, which Antony had already been extremely rude about—“What do you call that? A lump of snot on a cracker?”—while cramming them in with both fists. I thought I’d better get him out of there and look for something starchy in the main area behind the stand.

  We found a pie counter and I pushed Antony onto a stool and ordered two pies and two Coca Colas, hoping it might have the same medicinal effect on him it had on me at the hat party.

  He was just grumbling at me about being made to leave the lovely champagne tent and not wanting “this shit” when I looked up and saw Rory Stewart. He saw me, then Antony, and got the same look on his face he’d had when he saw me leaving Cordelia’s party with Jasper.

  “Hi!” I said, rather pathetically, and then the weirdest thing happened. I couldn’t remember his name. I was so embarrassed to be seen with Antony in this state it just seemed to wipe my memory banks. I stood there gaping at Rory like a goldfish. I couldn’t introduce him to Antony because a) I had forgotten his name and b) Antony was a gibbering drunk. At that moment he started to bang his head on the counter.

  “Hi Georgia,” said Rory. “Is your friend OK?”

  “Oh yes, ha ha, I’m sure he’ll sober up soon . . . too much champagne.”

  “Go and get fucked,” said Antony distinctly. I knew he was talking to the pie, because I knew Antony, but anyone else might have thought it was aimed at them. I saw Rory sigh and I felt physically sick.

  “Well, I’ll see you then, Georgia. Have a good day.”

  “Bye,” I said, feebly. Whatever your name is. I sat down next to Antony and put my head in my hands. Rory. Rory Stewart. Gorgeous Rory Stewart. How could I possibly have forgotten his name? I groaned. Antony turned and looked at me.

  “Who was that arsehole?” he asked and threw up all over his pie.

  Great, I thought. Fiona Clarke is at the races with Rory Stewart. I’m at the races with a vomiting homosexual. Hello Sydney.

  Antony rang me at work, full of excitement about something. I was still furious with him for humiliating me in front of Rory like that, but he couldn’t understand why. The Vomity Pie Incident, as he’d named it, had taken place over a week ago. Ancient history to Antony.

  “Pussy darling, you must come to dinner tonight. You must. Debbie’s coming, and Betty and Trudy—it’s just going to be the four of us.”

  “That’s five, but sure Dolores, I’d love to. What’s the special occasion?”

  “Don’t you know what the date is?”

  “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it—26 June, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. It’s five months today since we met.”

  “Crikey. Is it five months since that hat party? Good heavens. How nice of you to remember. I’m not sure five months is really a significant landmark, though. Is it our clingfilm anniversary or something?”

  “Well, it’s an excuse to open a few bottles of shampoo, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t think you ever needed an excuse, but it would be fun anyway.”

  “Actually, why I’m really calling is that we have to discuss our Cointreau Ball outfits. You got your invitation, didn’t you?”

  “Did I? I don’t know—what does it look like?”

  “You don’t know if you got one or not? Are you mad? Anyway, I know you’re getting one because I rang up and checked and you’ve made it onto the list. Five months in Sydney and you’re on the Cointreau Ball list—good work, Pussy.”

  “What is it, anyway?”

  “Oh, don’t you know anything? It’s the party of the year. There are only 400 invitations—for the whole of Australia, that is—and only the most In of the In crowd are asked. It’s always a fabulous night.

  “The location is a secret,” he continued in a flutter. “They pick you up in a limo and you don’t know where you’re going till you get there, and then there’s the most amazing decor, hot and cold running grog, great food and two first-class tickets to Paris for the best costumes, which we are going to win, darls.”

  “That does sound good. What does the invitation look like?”

  “Go and ask Debbie, I’ve got to start cooking. Come straight from work. Bring costume ideas. Goodbye.”

  I ran round to Debbie’s office. She was wearing a crown.

  “I see your true status has finally been recognised,” I said.

  “Do you think it’s moi?” she asked, twirling her chair around.

  “Lovely, Your Highness. Is it for a shoot?”

  “No, darling—it’s my Cointreau Ball invitation. The theme’s Royalty. Haven’t you got yours? Antony said you were definitely invited. I’ll ring Sera.” She picked up the phone. “Sera darls, is there a crown on your desk for Georgie? Good. Bring it round, would you?”

  So then we both sat in her office wearing crowns, coming up with ideas for our Royal costumes.

  “Should be easy for you, Georgie. Antony says your grandparents live in a castle. Can’t you just send home for the family jewels?”

  “Well, it’s more of a fortified house really. My grandmother does have a tiara, but I don’t think she’d want to put in the post. She says I can wear it on my wedding day. I’ve told her it might be a while . . .”

  When we arrived at Antony’s place the boys were already in a state of high excitement. They were all wearing their crowns. Betty had pinned on a few fake diamond brooches as well to get himself in the mood. Trudy was standing up very straight—practising being regal, he explained.

  “You lot aren’t going to need costumes,” I said. “You can just go as a bunch of old queens.” And from that point on the shrieking didn’t stop.

  As we sat down at the table (three candelabras for extra royal effect), Debbie made a formal announcement that she would not be going to the bal
l as Princess Diana.

  “I know she had legs similar to mine, but it’s just too obvious,” she said.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” said Antony. “Because I thought you could go in a swimwuit with wet hair and be Diana in her last few happy months with Dodi . . .”

  She perked up visibly at the prospect of going out in public wearing practically nothing.

  Betty said he was going as the Queen because he already had the right name. “I’m going to look up corgi breeders on the Internet,” he announced.

  Antony said that was fine—Betty could be frumpy Betty in her later years, perhaps in the lovely outfit she had worn at the Millennium Dome—but I would be going as the glamorous young Lizzy, because we were going as a themed pair and he wanted to be the young and beautiful Princess Margaret.

  “Princess M. is perfect for me,” he said. “We’ve got so much in common. We both love platform shoes, gin, smoking, camp queens . . .”

  “So does the Queen Mother,” I told him. “Maybe you should black your teeth out and go as her. You’d look lovely in mauve. I definitely don’t think you should go as the young Margaret. Those 50s dresses are so unflattering to the more mature figure. Go as Mustique Margaret. Much more glamour.”

  “Perfect! I’ve already got the kaftan . . .” and he disappeared off to the workroom, coming back moments later in a pale-blue swirly print mu mu, with matching turban, sunglasses and some badly applied coral lipstick. More shrieking. Trudy put Antony’s crown on top of the turban.

  “Bring me black men!” cried Antony. “Bring me gin! Off with their heads!”

  The lights suddenly flickered.

  “Hello Lee!” we all shouted together. They flickered again.

  “I’ve got a more lateral idea,” said Trudy, who I knew couldn’t have borne to have gone to the ball as anyone unfashionable. “Let’s go as a royal flush. The jack, queen, king and ace of hearts. You could have someone as Jack Nicholson for the jack . . .”

  “Someone as Antony,” I said. “For the quee—”

  He threw a piece of bread at me.