by Clare Naylor
“Rubbish. You’ve got to think big. Trust me. Now first of all we have to get the invitations done. I’ll take care of that tomorrow. You just get the stock in order and make sure we have enough samples to send out to, let’s think . . . about five hundred journalists and stylists and personalities. That should cover it.”
“Samples of what?” Liv asked. She’d had her daydreams about Greta’s Grundies being worn by movie stars, but she’d never really believed it. Which seemed, she realised, to be the story of her life. Oh well, if Alex could help her make one of her fantasies see the light of day then she’d be thrilled.
“I think a G-string each would be really nice. Just that sheer but not obscene fabric. Leopard print. Slutty but a little more Fifth Avenue than Frederick’s of Hollywood.” Alex drew a sketch of the G-string she had in mind.
“Fine,” Liv said, biting back her financial reservations. “I’ll do a costing and we’ll find a way of buying the fabric.”
“Good.” Alex clapped her hands together and lay back on the sofa. “Now what are we going to wear?”
“Well, you’ll probably have to make do with a tent,” Liv said, and gave Alex a big hug. “So I think I’ll wear your favourite little red Prada suit, if that’s okay?”
Chapter Fifteen
The Nature of the Beast
As Liv lay in bed that night she tried to fathom out how she ever got to be so hopeless. That her best friend could be conducting an illicit affair under her nose with Rob of the Eyebrows and actually be heavy with child (well, not quite heavy—Liv hadn’t even noticed an early-morning dash to the bathroom to throw up or a sudden interest in stories about curious places for your water to break yet) had left her speechless. As she looked through the window at the moon high above the city, the Southern Cross just discernible behind the drifting clouds, Liv had to fight with her new, liberated, experimental side not to wish she were lying here now with Ben. And maybe even a little Ben between them. How amazing to have such a dazzling man for a husband and father. Other women would fall in love with him, he’d flirt outrageously as he played doubles tennis with friends’ wives, but he’d always be hers.
Then as the clouds blacked out the moon and darkness covered the sea, Liv remembered that this was Amelia’s story. And yet didn’t she feel sorry for Amelia, being humiliated while Ben flirted and slept his way into Liv’s affections? Didn’t she remember what Alex had told her so often, what she had told so many of her friends over the years from the vantage point of Going Out with Mr. Perfect? That if you acquired a man via his being unfaithful to somebody else there were no guarantees? In fact, the only guarantee was that he’d be very capable of doing the same to you? In an ideal Spice World of tough talking and girl power Liv would just have the sex and shoot through. Still, Ben was different. There really was some connection there, Liv told herself. It was just in the eyes, the way they looked at each other.
“Oh, Liv, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Laura emerged from her studio with a remarkably realistic blood colour smeared across her face.
Liv was still stumbling around in her nightie and a bit taken aback. “Laura. Listen, I just want a quick pee and then I’ll come and have a cup of tea with you,” Liv croaked, and walked into the frame of the bathroom door. Ugh, the last thing she wanted right now was a philosophical chat about filling up your love tanks with vitamin S (for Self) and learning to accept miracles in your life. She’d had all the miracles she wanted on Saturday night and was very much looking forward to another this afternoon. Now, had she said she’d call Ben or was he going to call her? she wondered as she walked back out into the kitchen. All she wanted now was to know where their blissful lunch was going to be.
“So what did you get up to this weekend?” Laura twiddled her thumbs nervously at the breakfast table.
“Oh god, I had the most fantastic weekend. I think I’m totally in love.”
“Wow. Erm, anyone I know?” Laura swiped another bloody streak across her temple.
“His name’s Ben. The guy I was telling you about,” Liv said. She knew that this was probably going to be a touchy subject, given the Amelia debacle that Laura had endured, but she had to broach it sometime. In fact, it could actually be good for her. Maybe it would give her closure or something Californian like that.
“Liv. There’s something I have to tell you. You’ll think it’s awful that I’ve waited so long, but shit, I don’t know how to say this.” Laura took a chunk out of what was once her thumbnail but now looked like a prop in a horror movie.
“Oh, Laura, if it’s about you and Amelia, then don’t worry. I know. I don’t know what she did to you, but I think you’re probably well rid of her and Jo-Jo’s gorgeous and I only wish you’d told me sooner, because the thing is . . . ,” Liv puttered on until she looked up and saw Laura, who was now fiddling with a paintbrush that had been lying on the table, and her hand was trembling as though she’s been on a pub crawl through every licensed establishment and a few illegal watering holes in the eastern suburbs last night.
“You can tell me all about it if you like,” Liv ventured bravely. She feared it was going to be a long haul.
“It’s Ben Parker, isn’t it? The guy you’re in love with?” Laura asked, her pretty eyes burning crossly from beneath the streaks of paint on her face. She rubbed her hand down her dungarees and took a deep breath. “Livvy, I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but we had an affair. Six months ago.”
“You and Amelia, right?” Liv said, but she was no longer certain that Laura was talking about Amelia.
“The moment I met him I fell in love with him.” Laura’s voice was bitter yet calm. Liv imagined that she’d had this conversation in her head, doing role-play with her shrink, before the mirror, lying alone in bed, many, many times.
“But you don’t go out with men.” Liv giggled nervously, trying pathetically to delay the moment of truth.
“Which is what made me so attractive. Ben clearly thinks that a lesbian is like a spare room—something you convert. He couldn’t have me. So he went to town on me—phone calls where he’d just hang up, staring at me across bars, promises. And eventually I couldn’t resist any longer. I really believed that he loved me. I was going out with this great girl called Estelle and eventually we broke up. . . .” Laura flashed a very fleeting look at Liv and it wasn’t lost on her. She felt embarrassed that she’d ever said anything foolish about Ben being in love with her to Laura now. And even more insane for believing it. “. . . but the minute we got together, the moment we had sex, he didn’t want to know me. He just pulled on his boxer shorts and fucked off.” Laura was certainly firing on all cylinders, but she also looked damned cool. The trembling had subsided and she was pink with rage, with her red hair spilling out of her ponytail like lava from a volcano.
“I had no idea.” Liv could no longer stomach a single mouthful of cereal. She felt sick to her stomach.
“I should have told you before. I’ve been trying to protect you by deleting his phone messages,” Laura said.
“Okay. I think I need to go to my room and be by myself a bit. Thanks for telling me, Laura, I know it can’t have been easy.” And Liv stood up and went to her room, though her legs felt for all the world like they might just buckle at any second.
“Oh, and, Liv, don’t say anything about this to Jo-Jo, will you? I think it might upset her a bit.”
Liv couldn’t imagine why this would upset Jo-Jo, but neither did she particularly care right now. She just needed to lie down.
After an hour of lying on her bed with every thought and feeling swirling in mind and still no phone call from Ben, Liv began to clean her room in a frenzy of activity—she couldn’t take the cacophony of shock and confusion a moment longer.
“Displacement activities.” Laura stood in the doorway and watched Liv as she tipped up three carrier bags of makeup and began to dust her lipsticks.
“Of course displacement activities.”
“It may
be different this time, Liv. He could have changed.”
“Yeah, right. You’ve spent hundreds of dollars on therapy and you believe that’s possible,” Liv said sarcastically but not unkindly. After all, this wasn’t Laura’s fault and Liv was loathe to turn into the sort of woman who blamed the messenger and not the maggot who had perpetrated the crimes in the first place.
“Not really. But you’re special. He really might be in love with you.”
“Thanks for being sweet, Laura. I guess that’s because women are from Venus, hey?” Liv said in a bid to appease her and make her leave.
“You’re so right. Now, I know you’ve been damaged by this. You may not think so yet, but the thing is—” Laura had mysteriously edged her way into Liv’s room and was now ensconced on the edge of the bed. In fact, she couldn’t have been more ensconced if she’d brought her duvet, paintbrush, and a change of clothes with her.
Liv dredged episodes of Frasier for the right phrase; she played back Oprah, struggled for the psychobabble. “Actually, Laura, what I’d really like right now is some alone time.” She was impressed with herself when it came out so well. So resounding. Such conviction. Psychobabble was great. It was like a microwavable meal. Just right with little thought or inspiration. Perhaps life would be easier if you saw the Shrink worldview. Men would be from Mars—you’d never trust them and be permanently suspicious. Women would be from Venus and be as deliciously ripe and tender as week-old peaches and be allowed to cry and rant. You could feel the fear and do it anyway and never ever, this was the best bit, have to have a single thought of your own. Anyway, it did the trick with Laura. She was gone in a heartbeat, leaving Liv with nothing more than an understanding pat on the shoulder.
Liv sank her head into the bed and contemplated tears. Laughter. Pillow rage. Still, it was only ten o’clock in the morning and maybe Laura was right. Maybe he did really like her and want more than sex and the conquest. Just because he hadn’t called to confirm the details of lunch didn’t mean that he was another sad example of a dog run amok.
“Dave, please, please, I’m sorry I poured scorn on your theories and I’m sorry I was the worst pupil never to graduate from dog-handling school, but I will try harder next time if you promise to meet me for a coffee in Sloane’s. I’m a broken girl!” Liv wailed down Dave’s phone. It was two-thirty and not lunchtime any longer and the phone had not rung.
“I have a job to do, honey. How bad is it?”
“I had sex with him and he hasn’t called and oh, he has a history of this kind of thing. He did it to Laura.”
“And why is this news to you, Liv?” Dave sounded almost bored. “It’s the nature of the beast. But if you refuse to house-train him, then of course he’s going to shit on your carpet. This was lesson one.”
“Then I didn’t revise hard enough for the exam. Can I do a re-sit?” Liv pleaded.
“Sloane’s in half an hour. But this may well lose the company sixty-seven million dollars, you know that, don’t you, you hopeless minx?”
“Sorry.”
Sloane’s cafe was heaving with teenagers who’d just spent the last dollars from their paper rounds and waitressing jobs. They were making their smoothies last as they pulled bottle after bottle of bath oil and nail polish and cucumber cleansing creams from brown paper bags, sniffing each one and passing it around. The waiter weaved in and out of tightly packed tables in his denim shorts and purple T-shirt and pointed Liv to the table where Dave was sitting sweating in his suit.
“Sorry sorry sorry.” Liv sat down.
“My only consolation is that you look wretched,” Dave informed her.
“You were great at Mardi Gras, by the way. I took about three rolls of film before . . .” Liv looked sheepish. “Actually, I think it’s all your fault for letting me party alone. If you don’t help me I’ll just shop you to the police.”
“Don’t push your luck.” Dave drained his smoothie and lit a cigarette. “So you fucked up big-time then?”
“Yes. But why do I want to say it was almost worth it?”
“I have a theory on that, too.” Dave sat back and inhaled deeply. “Love causes the female body to produce the same hormones as childbirth, because though you were kicked to the kerb by Tim and then Will you seem to have forgotten how incredibly painful it all was. You’ve totally blocked out the agonising screams and the cries of, ‘I’ll never do this again; it wasn’t worth it,’ and instead, at the merest hint of an invitation to repeat the misery, you go all watery-eyed and say, ‘Ooohhh, yes, please!’ It’s a huge design flaw that women have.”
“I want to teach him a lesson,” Liv said firmly.
“Because you still fancy him like mad and hope he’ll love you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hate him and his kind.”
“Then ignore him. Treat him with the contempt he deserves and never speak to him again,” Dave suggested disingenously.
“No, I mean of course I bloody well fancy him like mad, but I’m not a masochist. I think that he needs to be taught a lesson and the mean, bitter, resentful part of me that self-help books will never reach is just mad for revenge. And I need to know that I can have him before I dump him or my ego will resemble take-away food the morning after with a cigarette butt squashed on top. Is it too late?” Liv asked.
“I think we can salvage something from the wreckage. But you’re going to have to be tough and stop being such a girl. Think Barbara Woodhouse, not Barbara Cartland. Okay?”
Chapter Sixteen
Barbara Woodhouse Lives On
Will? Is that you?” Despite the fact that it was only six-thirty in the morning, Liv flashed her perfect newly minted smile and shook her pristine ponytail in an energetic manner.
“Liz?” Will the Weasel reared his sweaty head from beneath a punch bag and blinked at the vision of loveliness before him.
“I had no idea you were into boxing. Imagine.” Liv watched him scramble to his feet for a few seconds and then spun on the heel of her new trainers (the sporty equivalent of Manolos in the way they flatter the feet and ankle, Alex had assured her) and made for the dumbells without so much as a backward glance.
“Got to catch them off guard,” Dave had told her. “When they’re peeing or bounding around in the park. Or sniffing another dog’s bum. Then you show them the ball and walk away. It’s the only way you’re ever going to get that leash back around their neck.” In light of which advice Liv and Alex had spent all week planning this predawn assault on Will. Liv wished it weren’t quite so early, because, well, if the truth be told, Will hadn’t been much of an oil painting after his shower and morning ablutions, but his grey vest and his sausagy little legs exposed in shorts really created a very bad look. Liv couldn’t believe she’d actually allowed him near her with a ten-foot pole. But there was the remarkable power of hormones for you yet again. When a girl needs to get laid a girl needs to get laid. And he was as diametrically opposed to Tim as day was to night. Which had helped at the time. Anyway, as Charlie was still Alex’s boyfriend to all intents and purposes and he was also Will’s boss at the news network, the girls had been able to wheedle enough information out of him to catch Will off guard at his gym at 6:00 A.M.
“Liz. God, how are you? It’s been a while.” Will arrived panting at Liv’s side as she picked up the dumbells and swung them about in as Jane Fonda a way as possible.
“Yes, it has.” She didn’t smile, just watched her biceps intently in the mirror and shuddered at the thought of having to kiss Will again. Which wasn’t even slightly part of the plan, but if she was going to have to have a date with him, as was the plan, then he might come over all presumptuous and lunge at her.
“You’re looking great.” He was just standing there with his tongue practically hanging out and his hair all plastered to his head after his fifty push-ups.
“You’re a bit out of breath.” Liv smiled patronisingly at him and then had to raise her fragrant, newly laundered, intensely feminine lilac towel
to her face to hide her sniggers. This was so disgracefully easy that she wondered why she even had to bother to use Will for Ben Bait. Couldn’t she just turn up on one of Ben’s archaeological digs somewhere wearing a push-up bra and cycling shorts and skip this Will part of Dave’s plan?
“Yeah, well, I, erm, actually, I was going to call you. Yeah, I mean I was going to ask Charlie for your number and then I was going to call you because, well, you’re looking really well and I wondered if perhaps . . .” Liv turned to him and raised an eyebrow that said go-ahead-you-worm-I-dare-you-after-all-these-weeks.
“. . . we could have dinner.”
“Like last time when you fucked me and then never called me?” Liv got down on all fours and did a few stretches that served no other purpose than to expose huge, gaping amounts of cleavage.
“Oh, Liz, I can explain. Actually, I’d just got back from Bosnia, as you know, and I think I was suffering a bit from post-traumatic stress disorder. You know it’s really terrible.” He did a hangdog big-eyed thing and Liv nearly vomited.
“Yeah, actually, I had it myself after I’d slept with you.” She pretended it was a joke and smiled as she said it just so he didn’t get too offended and bash her over the head with a boxing glove.
“Ha ha . . . that’s, erm, really a great one. Not just a pretty face, eh, Liz? I love a woman with a sense of humour.”
“You’d have to.” Liv climbed to her feet and pulled herself up tall just so she was looking down on him by about an inch. “Oh, and by the way, Will, it’s Liv.”
When Liv arrived back from her surfing lesson she picked up the post from her box. Mostly junk asking her to eat more pizza at lower prices and a couple of bills for Laura. There was also a letter for Liv Elliot, Managing Director of Greta’s Grundies. Liv sniggered and tossed the bunch of mail into her basket. Alex was getting too big for the boardroom again. Considering they didn’t have one. Liv flicked on her answerphone. You never knew.
