“I say, Big Bum,” he said. “Gorgeous girls here . . .”
Antony loved him. Hamish turned up at the apartment to meet him for the first time in a polo shirt bearing the legend C.R.A.C.—Cirencester Royal Agriculture College—and Antony was plum gone.
“Dolores—you are fluttering,” I hissed cruelly in his ear as he fussed over long drinks in the kitchen. In the meantime Hamish was regaling Betty and Trudy with tall tales of his adventures in the Argentinian pampas. He really knew how to tell a story, and he loved an audience.
“Well, Pussy, you didn’t warn me he was totally divine,” said Antony, putting an extra shot of vodka in a drink I guessed was destined for Hamish.
“Hame? He’s just a silly old horsehead,” I said fondly. “And you’d seen pictures of him.”
“Well, it didn’t fully prepare me,” said Antony. “He’s a Scottish Johnny Brent.” And he swept off to flutter around Horsehead some more.
We had a glorious Christmas. I took Hamish to the Fish Market at three a.m. on Christmas Eve and we bought a tray of mangoes, which we ate standing in the water at Camp Cove on Christmas morning, letting the juices run everywhere.
After a celebratory champagne breakfast with Michael and Cordelia, we went home and opened our presents—a pair of moleskins from me to him, an illegally imported haggis and a tin of my grandmother’s shortbread for me, plus three issues of The Beano. Then I dressed him up like a country boy at the Easter Show in his moleskins, newly acquired RM Williams boots, striped shirt, his old school tie and his Akubra hat. After a few days on the beach he already had the pink cheeks and really looked the part. I thought Antony was going to pass out when he opened the door.
It was a very gay Christmas, and Hamish was perfectly happy. He didn’t judge anyone, as long as they weren’t boring, and none of Antony’s pals could be accused of that. It was the usual shrieking and drinking affair, and with Hamish there I felt free to let myself go again like I used to. As always we ended up dancing.
And when I turned round to see Horsehead doing the bump with Dolly, I knew he was going to fit in perfectly.
Chapter Twenty-four
“How about ‘How to Know When You’ve Found the One’?”
“That’s a great idea, Zoe. We’ll go with that. Any other ideas?”
“Ten Signs He’s Perfect?”
“That’s good too, Liinda. Perhaps we could use both of them, or we could save one for later in the year. Make a note of them, would you?”
“Or how about this . . . ‘How You Know He’s the One—Take Our Test’ . . . or—hang on, I’ve got it—‘You Know He’s Perfect—Take Our Test and Prove It.’ ”
“Oh, that’s great too, Liinda. I like all of them. What do you think, Georgie?”
What to Do When All Your Colleagues Have Gone Ga Ga? I was lost for words, I couldn’t think of anything. They’d all gone nuts.
“Well, they’re all . . . really . . . nice, Maxine,” I said. “But they don’t present much of a challenge to the reader. I mean it’s a sweet problem to solve—Is He Mr. Right?—but does it make you want to grab the magazine?”
“Oh, it doesn’t all have to be bad news, does it?” said Maxine, passing round the Tim Tams. “We can use an upbeat idea to sell a magazine too, you know. Some people do find happiness in love.”
There was a collective sigh so intense it nearly blew me out of Maxine’s office.
“I know,” she said. “We’re one person short with Debs not here—let’s get Seraphima’s input. Good to get some young energy. SERA DARLING, COULD YOU POP IN PLEASE?”
Seraphima came in. She was always such a pretty little thing, but these days she seemed to have added some ingredient X to the package. Corny as it sounded, in the twelve months I’d been working on Glow she’d turned from a girl into a woman.
“Got any ideas for coverlines, sweetie?” said Maxine, with her legs on her desk and her arms behind her head. “We’re planning the next six months of issues and we need some real winners.”
Sera narrowed her bright blue eyes.
“How about ‘Taming the Monster—Getting the One Who Got Away from Everyone Else’?”
My jaw was in Tasmania. The line was a bit long, but we could easily polish it up—the point was it had so much punch.
“That’s great, Seraphima,” said Maxine, sitting up. “Did you get that down, Georgie? Got any other ideas?”
“The Fine Art of Pussy-Whipping—An Expert Tells All.”
Maxine and I just looked at her in amazement. We both knew raw talent when we saw it—and we were seeing it.
“Or,” she was enjoying herself now, “Girls on Top—Running a Relationship Your Way.”
We clapped.
“This is fantastic, girls,” said Maxine. “We’ve really moved things along. Isn’t it amazing what a difference a day makes?”
She was serious.
“I’m seeing the dawn of a whole new age on Glow: positive coverlines. Empowerment, not solidarity in misery. Go, girlfriends! Go and make these stories happen. You see what you’ll be missing, Georgie? Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay?”
I shook my head sadly.
“OK, fuck off then. All of you. Except Seraphima.” She was smiling. “Can you stay back, please?”
While Sera was occupied in Maxine’s office negotiating a pay rise and a new job title, I took the opportunity to inspect the incredible number of bouquets and floral displays which were on her desk. I watched Zoe and Liinda disappear to their offices with exotic lilies and a flowering cactus respectively, and then had a good nosey at the others. There was a huge architectural display for Maxine (done by Cordelia, I noted) and, biggest of all, an enormous bunch of long-stemmed dark red roses for Sera. I looked at the card—I had to.
“To my angel—gloria in excelsis. N.”
Mmm. Very interesting. Wonder who N was. Norman? Nigel? Neddy? There was one more bunch—they were for me. Hurray! They were from Nivea. “Thank you for the great writeup of the body range.” You’re welcome.
I couldn’t believe it was my last week on Glow. A couple of days to finish packing up the unit and that would be it. My year in Australia would be over. Except for one thing—my leaving party.
One year later. Same room, same hat and a lot of the same faces. Except this time, I knew who most of them were. I was back at Danny Green’s Australia Day party, which was also my official leaving celebration. When he’d heard I was going back to London, Danny had rung up and kindly offered to “lend” me his party to say goodbye to everyone. So here I was, back in his studio in Elizabeth Bay, wearing my pink feathery hat and my Pucci catsuit, which seemed the appropriate thing to do. That was how I’d looked when I met most of them for the first time; that was how I wanted them to remember me.
I’d also decided that I wanted to arrive at the party on my own as I had done the year before, to see how different it felt. The answer was: very. The second I put my big feathery head around the door a huge cheer went up and I was immediately surrounded by throngs of people wishing me well and asking for my address in London. Good job Antony had given me some beautifully engraved change-of-address cards as a leaving present. I remember with a smile how he’d bobbed up when I was standing by the drinks table a year ago, but now I couldn’t even see him.
I could see Danny, who was wearing the Mad Hatter’s teapot on his head, complete with dormouse. Betty and Trudy were resplendent in two of Antony’s more lavish hats; Cordelia was wearing a big straw number swathed in ivy and Michael was wearing his barrister’s wig.
Antony had done the guest list for me and, looking round the room, I could see all the people who had meant something to me over the past year—including Jasper, wearing a giant red and white spotted toadstool on his head. He came over and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. I was really pleased to see him.
“Pinkie personified,” he said. “As perfectly pink and perky as ever. I’m sorry I was so horrible to you that day. I felt like a r
at in a trap and it made me shitty. Anyway, I enjoyed our kooky times together. You’re still a babe, by the way. A babe with a brain, that’s my Pinkie.”
“Thanks, Jasper.” I kissed him back. “I’ll never forget our Blue Lagoon. It was very special. And you weren’t that horrible to me—I deserved it. By the way, I’m sorry about Caledonia, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.”
“Bastards, aren’t they? But that’s OK, we’re living in a boat shed on Scotland Island. It’s pretty cool. See you later in the Persian room, Pinkus.”
And off he went, while I wondered who the “we” was.
I looked around the room again. Maxine was there, wearing a man’s fedora with a card saying “PRESS” tucked into the band, and at last I was able to meet the man who was making her so gooey at work. He turned out to be one of the therapists from Debbie’s rehab clinic—which explained Maxine’s expertise on the subject.
Zoe was there in a nurse’s hat, holding hands with Dr. Ben, who was wearing a green theatre cap on his head. And there was Liinda, with her Jazzpa in tow—he’d moved to Sydney and they were living together in numerological, astrological, NA bliss. No need for him to put on a hat specially for the party. He was a Rastafarian and always wore an enormous knitted red, green and gold tea cosy affair to contain his dreadlocks. Liinda had put a red gerbera, a marigold and a big green leaf in her stack of hair to match.
Looking round the crowded studio, at all these people I adored, I knew I should have been having a fabulous time, but it was actually a bit of a blur. What do you say to people you’ve seen every other night for a year and suddenly may never see again? I felt like I was mouthing the same thing over and over again to everybody: “Yes, I’m really sad to be leaving. Yes, I’ll come back and see you. Please come and stay with me in London. Yes, here’s my address. Yes, I have email. Love you too.”
I was starting to feel like a walking, talking Georgia doll. Pull the string and hear her talk. My face was aching from smiling and I was beginning to remember how much I’d hated my London leaving party. I was very glad when Liinda rushed over and grabbed me.
“Quick, come over here, I’ve got to tell you something before you see it and have a heart attack and die.”
“What?”
“Sera’s here, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“With her new boyfriend.”
“Poor little pussy-whipped Nigel, or Norman, or whoever it is.”
“It’s Nick Pollock.”
“Plonker Pants On Fire Pushead Priapic Pollock?”
“Yes, the very one.”
“If he hurts that little girl I will personally have him killed . . .” I began.
“Georgia—it’s not like that, he’s ga-ga over her. He’s her slave. She met him at a party and he tried the handwriting analysis bullshit on her and she told him to get lost. She said she’d heard all about what a fuckwit he was and she wanted nothing to do with him. He’s had to pursue her relentlessly and she still only returns half of his phone calls.”
“Well, I’ll be buggered.”
And there they were. Seraphima was wearing a very small white dress with a large pair of white feather wings and a gold halo. She looked completely angelic—until you noticed the fierce Gucci stilettos on her feet. Plonker was wearing devil’s horns and was looking at her “like a monkey looks at a banana,” as Liinda put it.
Grinning, I turned to see Jasper walk over to the bar with Tania on his arm, wearing a smaller version of his toadstool. She was holding on to him very tightly. Guess that explained who the “we” was. Suddenly I realised that everyone was in neat little pairs. Well, good on them, but I didn’t even have Antony to play with. Where was he? I looked round the room again and saw another happy new couple: Billy Ryan, wearing exactly what he’d been wearing when I met him a year before, except that this time he had a new accessory—Lizzy Stewart, in a matching hat.
“Georgie, there you are,” said Billy. “We can’t believe you’re going back to London before we’ve even had a chance to have you over for supper. When are you leaving? You will come back and see us, won’t you? Can we have your address, in case we need somewhere free to stay in London? Just kidding. Have you got email?”
I answered all the standard questions and then Lizzy asked me one which surprised me.
“Is Rory here yet?”
“I haven’t seen him,” I said. “I . . . er . . . I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Oh, he’s definitely coming,” said Billy. “He’s driving down with your brother and Deb—ow, why did you kick me, Lizzy?”
“Really? Hamish never told me. He said it was just him and Debs . . .”
“I think they just got here,” said Lizzy, glaring at Billy as three more Akubras in various states of repair walked in.
“Porgie Pie!” said Hamish, rushing over, and then it all deteriorated into a mess of hellos and kisses and how-gorgeous-to-see-yous. When we’d all calmed down again Rory went off to get everyone drinks and Hamish was stolen by Trudy and Betty who wanted to hear all about his adventures on the farm. I had a good look at Debbie. She looked wonderful, and even more golden than before now that the strain had gone from her eyes.
“Debs, you look great,” I said.
“Thank you, I feel great. No drink, no drugs, no men, no free facials—I haven’t felt this good in years. It’s fun at the farm with Hamish around. He’s a great guy; Dad loves him. It’s like having a brother of my own. Oh, by the way—he told me it’s Georgia, not Georgie. Sorry about that.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m used to it . . .” I started to say, until I realised that she wasn’t listening to me. She was watching Hamish, his arms flailing around as he entertained Trudy and Betty with bogus bush adventures.
Rory returned with the drinks, but before he could hand them round Hamish had come back to grab Debbie to dance with him. It was “Disco Inferno”—one of his favourites.
“Would you like three glasses of champagne and a mineral water?” Rory asked me, as we watched them disappear.
“Thank you. Although I’m being a little bit more careful about my alcohol consumption than I was at this party last year . . .” We looked at each other.
I felt self-conscious, remembering Jenny’s words and the night on the hilltop.
“Your brother’s a good bloke, Georgia,” he said. “The Brents love having him and he’s been over to our place a few times too. My folks like him a lot too. He really fits in up there.”
We turned from each other to see Hamish and Debbie on the dance floor. Interesting, I thought.
“I can’t believe it’s only a year since this party,” I said.
“It’s a year since we met, Georgia,” said Rory.
“And look,” I said, hurriedly, “there’s Billy and Lizzy together. Who would have thought it, a year ago?”
“You’re telling me!” He laughed and shook his head, fondly.
“And now you’re going back home to London, so who knows where you’ll be in a year’s time, eh Georgia? When do you actually leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good old QF1, eh?” he said, raising his glass and clinking mine.
“Yes—how did you guess?”
“Afternoon flight to London, had to be QF1. All packed and ready?”
“Everything except this hat.”
“What have you done with all your drawings?” he said, leaning against the wall. “Are you taking them home?”
“How did you know about them?”
“Lizzy gave me your cow sketch. It’s really good. I draw cows too, you know.”
“She told me. I can’t believe she gave it to you—it was just for fun. I’m not a proper artist like you.”
“Well, I like it. I’ve got it on the fridge door.”
Suddenly I felt really shy again and was quite relieved when a big pack of Antony’s friends arrived and swamped me with the usual hugs and questions. By the time I’d finished answering th
em, Rory had disappeared. Typical, I thought.
I stayed at the party until about one and then slipped away without telling anyone. I couldn’t say goodbye to everyone again and I’ve never worked out how to do it so it has any meaning anyway. I did one last fruitless check around the rooms looking for Antony—and, if I was honest, for Rory—then I took off my hat to avoid notice and melted away.
I felt numb as I walked down the stairs. I’d done all my crying about leaving Sydney already, now I was just charged up to go. And it wasn’t until I got out on to the street that I realised Rory Stewart was just about the only person at the party who hadn’t asked for my new address in London. So much for him.
When I got home, I set about doing my last little bits of packing, but I was still too keyed up to go to sleep. I was also really furious with Antony for not coming to the party. It was after two a.m., but I was so cross I rang him anyway. I was surprised when he answered the phone. His voice was very slurred.
“Oh, Pussy darling, sorry I couldn’t come to your little party. Ring me tomorrow,” he said and put the phone down.
I did ring him the next morning. I rang his doorbell repeatedly for a very long time. Eventually a very croaky voice announced: “Whoever you are, fuck off.”
“Antony—it’s me. Let me in. I am not leaving without saying goodbye to you.”
He pushed the buzzer and when I got up to his floor the front door was open but he was back in bed. With his eye mask on. The place was a mess—something I’d never seen before. There was a pizza box on the kitchen counter, full ashtrays, and empty wine and beer bottles everywhere. I jumped onto the bed as hard as I could and bounced up and down until I elicited some kind of reaction—sort of an uueeueeerrgh noise.
“Dolores. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you come to my party? Looks like you had a party of your own here . . . Don’t you want to hear about it? There’s lots of excellent gossip . . .”
Pants on Fire Page 30
