Across the table I spied cone shaped nori rolls dangling from red laquered holders, crammed with salmon, rice and wasabi. Peaks of Japanese mayo crowned their tops, and tiny, translucent pearls of orange salmon roe glistened in the sun.
I reached over and plucked one out, sucked off the top and pressed the fish eggs between my tongue and palate till they burst and their salty juice mingled with the creamy mayonnaise. It tasted so good I did a Chloe-style butt wiggle as I bit through the rest and barely heard the cough behind me. I only registered a presence after a high, nasal female voice said, ‘Excuse me!’
I turned around. The woman glaring at me was tanned to within an inch of her life and wore a tight white miniskirt with a matching jacket and camisole top. The teased and curled blonde locks cascading over her shoulders were the texture of fairy floss and a marvel of modern hairspray, and her clinking jewellery was the same yellow-gold as the chardonnay in her oversized glass. Judging by her smooth forehead, plump lips and slightly starey eyes, she’d had a bit of work done and it was hard to tell how old she was. From the wrinkling on the back of her hands I guessed she was somewhere around my mother’s age.
That and the skin on her surgically enhanced chest, which was as brown and speckled as a free range egg.
‘Mmm …?’ I hadn’t managed to bite all the way through and the roll was hanging together by a slender but stubborn thread of salmon. If I kept gnawing the thing was likely to disintegrate all over my top, so I shoved the lot in and felt my cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s. I tried to chew but there was so much food in my mouth my teeth couldn’t get any purchase.
If anything, the roll was expanding and the rice transforming into a swollen, glutinous glob.
The woman crossed her arms, one high, strappy sandal tapping and her whole body quivering with suppressed rage.
‘Standing idle, eating my food and drinking my champagne while my guests go without. This is not what I’m paying you for. It’s a disgrace. Get your apron back on or I’ll call the agency immediately.’
‘Buuuh …’ I tried to talk and white paste oozed out my lips and trickled down my front. I clamped my mouth shut and swallowed painfully as the roll went down sideways and ended up somewhere behind my clavicle, perhaps lodged in a lung. The wasabi kicked in like a nest of fire ants had scurried up my nose and tears sprang from my eyes. Trying to explain my situation through mime, I pointed to where Trip had been standing but he, and the redhead, had disappeared. Damn that man was a slut.
Luckily Sam Doyle saw what was happening and hurried to my rescue. He was wearing a black outfit very similar to the one he’d had on the night before, his hair was quiffed back, and dark sunglasses hid his bright blue eyes.
‘Rochelle, she’s not a waitress, she’s the private detective I was telling you about, Simone Kirsch.’ He pulled a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from an ice bucket, filled a glass and handed it to me. I gulped half in one go and the liquid dislodged the sticky mass from my throat. I gulped for air.
‘Oh.’ She looked me up and down, laughed nervously and then said, ‘Goodness. I’m so sorry.’
I coughed and took a deep breath. ‘That’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s Trip’s actually. He insisted I come along and I really didn’t have anything to wear. It was a mistake. I should leave.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sam refilled my glass and a froth of bubbles foamed over the side. ‘Stay.’
‘I’m really underdressed …’ I gestured toward my outfit.
Rochelle smiled, teeth white and even as piano keys, and grabbed my free hand with hers. ‘I can lend you something. It’s the least I can do after mistaking you for one of the serving staff. Honestly, how embarrassing.’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Sam told me about how you’re trying to find our waitress, and that you were with Gordon when he …
I’m very interested to talk to you.’
Very interested? Most people blocked me and I was forced to lie, misrepresent myself and break and enter to get information. Here they were offering me clothes and champagne and inviting me in with open arms. I was desperate to know why.
‘Well …’
‘Great.’ Sam smiled and patted my shoulder. ‘Rochelle will sort you out. God knows she’s got enough bloody clothes in that closet of hers.’
Rochelle rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue as if to say
‘Men!’ She led me back through the immaculate living room and up a set of plush, gold carpeted stairs. I tried to tread lightly knowing there was probably dirt on the soles of my boots.
At the top of the stairs we passed a closed door and I could have sworn I heard the faint rhythmic thumping of a bed-head whacking into a wall, although Rochelle didn’t appear to notice. A pornographic image manifested itself and I shook my head to dislodge the thing. Trip Sibley had half the female population fantasising about him, and probably a fair proportion of the males. One more might cause his already inflated head to explode.
At the end of a carpeted hallway we reached a series of interconnected rooms. The first was an office, the last was the master bedroom and a walk-in wardrobe separated the two.
Each of the rooms was fitted out in the same plush, minimalist white and gold scheme as the rest of the house, and all opened out onto a veranda that wrapped around the first floor and overlooked the harbour. Rochelle ushered me into the walkin and pressed a button that made a mirrored wall slide open, revealing row upon row of designer clothes, most in plastic drycleaner bags. Coathangers clicked as she riffled through the outfits.
‘You have a lovely home,’ I said. I knew this was how you talked to rich folks. I’d seen it on TV.
‘I’m going through a bit of a white and gold phase, can you tell?’
‘Wasn’t going to say anything.’
‘It’s just so crisp, classic. Timeless, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely.’ God I could be a suck.
‘Dress?’ she asked. ‘Suit? Skirt and blouse?’
‘Maybe just a top to go over my pants so I don’t get mistaken for a waiter again.’
‘Sure. How about this? It’s from my hot-pink period.’ She selected a hanger and lifted the plastic, revealing a sleeveless top with scalloped lace around the edges and a little bow on the front. Not exactly my style but cute nonetheless. I just hoped I could fill out the boob area.
Rochelle pulled at the fabric as though reading my mind.
‘It stretches. Try it on, I’ll be back in a second.’
She disappeared into the bedroom and I removed my black top and dumped it on the dressing table that ran the length of the wall. Picking up the pink number I got a squiz at the label.
Chanel. Holy fuck. I couldn’t. Okay, I could, but no red wine, rolling in the dirt or inhaling finger food like a pig at a trough.
I slipped the blouse over my head, careful not to swipe lipstick or mascara on the neckline, and checked myself out in the mirror. The garment sucked my gut in and spilled me out above, creating the illusion of a small waist and abundant bust.
Wow. The tops I bought from the five dollar rack had no such supernatural powers. A knock on the door and Rochelle pushed her head in.
‘Looks great on you.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try my best not to spill anything on it.’
She laughed, thinking I was joking. I turned to head back downstairs. She held her hand up.
‘Not so fast, miss. You can’t wear Chanel without hair and makeup.’
I was already wearing makeup, but obviously not enough.
‘It doesn’t bother me … if you have to get back to your guests …’
She nudged me onto the bench seat and flicked a switch so the bulbs around the mirror lit up. ‘I’m very fast. I have a knack for this sort of thing.’ Rolling over on a padded stool, she set down her wine and rummaged around in the drawers underneath the table, pulling out Velcro rollers, hairspray, and a big silver cosmetics box. Her French manicured fingernails clicked a
gainst everything she touched and I decided that if she’d sworn a bit more and had a pack of Winfield Blue stashed between her tits, she’d have been a dead ringer for a fifty-something Chloe. I missed my ex best friend for a second, until I remembered the fight on Fitzroy Street and how she’d only give me work if I stooped to jelly wrestling. With friends like that …
Rochelle began winding my hair onto fat pink and yellow rollers and up close her perfume had a strong, almost powdery scent. She sniffed, pinched her nose as though trying to stop herself sneezing, tipped her head back and apologised.
‘Sorry. Terrible hayfever. So how did you get involved in the search for our missing waitress?’
‘My mum and Andi’s mum Joy used to share a house. Joy hired me.’
‘Sam’s talked to the police about it. They told him she was writing an article about the girl who went missing all those years ago.’
‘That’s right.’
I wondered where she was going with the conversation as she brandished the largest can of hairspray I’d ever seen and aimed it at me. I must have looked alarmed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘this stuff is fantastic. It has polymers. Close your eyes.’
I squeezed them shut and held my breath as a toxic cloud enveloped my head. When I finally opened my eyes I had to snap them shut again because she was coming at me with an eye shadow applicator.
‘You know I met Andrea on a couple of occasions when we were down in Melbourne,’ said Rochelle. The brush tickled my lids and it was like being nuzzled by a baby rabbit.
‘She seemed so nice. It was a bit of a shock to find out she was dredging up that horrible business. It was hard enough the first time around.’
The stroking stopped and I opened my eyes. She was looking at me, green irises flecked with amber, eyebrows perfectly arched and coloured fawn, her nose too thin for her face. Probably the result of an overenthusiastic eighties rhinoplasty and it gave her a pinched look. She sipped chardonnay and I took the opportunity to toss down some champagne.
‘The police exonerated Sam.’ Her tone was almost pleading. ‘There was absolutely no evidence. The only thing they had against him was the fact that he used to go out with her. You’d think that would be the end of it but mud sticks and we’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to distance ourselves from the past. We’ve built up a successful business, contributed to the community, Sam’s donated a lot of money to the church lately but no, he’ll always be the “colourful” Sydney identity and I’ll always be his slutty wife.’ She took a large mouthful of wine and put the glass down next to the makeup case.
‘Because you used to work at the Love Tunnel?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ She swished a larger brush through a compact containing bronzer, tapped the excess into a tissue and swept it onto my cheeks in downward circles. ‘Of course stripping was a lot different then to what it is now. More of a cabaret, I suppose, feathers and sequins and artistic routines. We didn’t even go nude and honestly, people wear less at the beach these days. If I’d known it would follow me around for the rest of my life though, I don’t think I’d … not that I had much choice. I was only nineteen when I started, from a broken home in the western suburbs, no prospects, no education. Sam was in the same boat. He grew up very poor, big family all squeezed into a two room cottage. I think that’s why we got on so well, we both aspired to something more. In America they consider that admirable but here in Australia no one lets you forget where you came from. Trip mentioned you were a dancer too?’
‘Yeah. I’m saving up to open my own detective agency.’
‘That’s great, but remember what happened to Sam and me.’
‘I don’t really care what people think of me,’ I said, wondering whether that was actually true.
‘Well, good for you, honey. I wish I could say the same.’
She picked up a lip brush and dabbed it in a pot of gloss.
‘Now open your mouth, just slightly.’
After she’d painted my lips she began to unravel my hair.
‘Did you know Melody, the girl who disappeared?’ I asked.
Rochelle pursed her fleshy lips and snorted air through her nose. ‘Horrible little thing. A junkie. Lying, thieving. Rip you off as soon as look at you.’ As she talked about her she tugged harder on the rollers, pulling my hair. I didn’t squeal, just made like a kung fu master and took the pain.
‘Half of Kings Cross probably wanted her dead. I don’t like to speak ill of … but you’re in the industry so you’d know what I mean. Some girls are bad news, looking for trouble.’
She took a break to sip her wine and my scalp was grateful.
‘God, listen to me, I must be boring you to death going on about myself like this. Tell me about you. Are you married? Kids?’
I laughed so hard I almost choked. ‘Hell, no.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘Divorced. Dad’s in computers, lives in the States, new wife, young family. Mum lectures in gender studies. She’s here in Sydney.’
‘Has she married again?’
‘No, but she lives with a guy. Actually, I wanted to ask if you knew her. Peta Kirsch. Or maybe Joy Fowler, Andi’s mother?’
‘No.’ She frowned. ‘Should I?’
‘It’s just that I mentioned Sam’s name to them and they freaked. It’s like they were scared or something, and that doesn’t seem to square with the man I met last night. Sure, he might have been a hell-raiser in his younger days, but your husband doesn’t strike me as particularly evil.’
‘Did they tell you why they were so frightened?’
‘Nope. Wouldn’t reveal a thing.’
‘Sorry, but the names don’t mean anything to me.’
‘Sure? They both lived in Potts Point, were involved in the women’s movement, radical feminists …’
‘Feminists?’ Rochelle sat straight up. ‘I think I know how they know Sam.’
Chapter Thirty-three
‘Tip your head forward, shake it out and flip it back.’
I did as Rochelle asked, endured another squirt of noxious mist and looked in the mirror. Bloody hell. I was her twin, only dark haired and twenty years younger.
‘Thanks,’ I said, not adding ‘I think’.
‘Now let’s go talk to Sam. He can tell you what happened.’
As we passed the bedroom I noticed the thumping was still going on. The same session or were they onto round two or three? Not that I gave a shit, I reminded myself, gritting my teeth and walking on by.
Downstairs the party had gotten louder and the band was bashing out an instrumental version of ‘The Lady Is a Tramp’.
I sang along under my breath, substituting ‘lady’ with ‘chef ’.
Sam was talking to a group of urban professionals and when Rochelle trotted over and whispered in his ear he turned to me and held up his finger as if to say ‘just a moment’. On her way back Rochelle dragged a pink-shirted man over to meet me.
‘Simone, this is Perry, a good friend of mine.’
Perry had straight, light brown hair, a square jaw and was handsome in a bland, forgettable sort of way. I shook his hand.
His grip was strong and his teeth were almost as white as Rochelle’s.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Same,’ I said, glancing over at Sam, eager to find out what he had to say.
‘What do you do?’ Perry asked.
‘Private detective. You?’
‘Kickboxing instructor, consultant.’
‘Great,’ I drawled, trying to be polite.
‘Perry won silver in the last WSA Championships at Surfers,’ gushed Rochelle. ‘He is sooo strong.’ She squeezed his bicep and looked from me to Perry and back again. It was an odd, almost expectant look and I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. Was she matchmaking, trying to set us up? She’d been terribly nice and forthcoming and although she didn’t seem to be quite the ‘bitch on wheels’ Dillon had described, I’d never been able to do the whole ‘inst
ant best friend’ thing. I was starting to feel a little hemmed in and decided that as soon as I’d talked to Sam I was out of there.
Sam excused himself from the group he was talking to and walked over. He’d rolled up his sleeves against the heat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt and I noticed the ropy scar and a small crucifix nestling in his chest hair, dangling from a chain.
I hadn’t picked him for a god-botherer, especially after his comment about blowjobs and wilted spinach, but with a surname like Doyle and a cross around his neck—Irish Catholic for sure.
‘I think I do know your mother,’ he said. ‘Come to the boathouse and talk?’
‘Sure.’
We dodged a couple of Grecian urns, rounded the swimming pool and crossed the manicured lawn. Sam looked me up and down.
‘When you and Rochelle came down the stairs it was like some mad scientist was cloning a master race of big haired ex strippers.’
‘Tell me about it.’ I patted my ‘do’. ‘I get back on the Ducati there’ll be no need for a helmet.’
We reached the bright, white boathouse via a worn set of steps, sandstone like the house. The abundance of yellow rock gave Sydney a sunny, colonial air and made Melbourne’s buildings seem dark and brooding by comparison. Of course, dark and brooding had grown on me in the past few years.
Water sloshed around the wooden piles, the jetty creaked and a strong salt and barnacle smell rose from the harbour. Sam held the side door open and I saw the sparse, rectangular space had been converted into a very basic studio apartment. The bare floorboards were unpolished, a small bathroom with a sliding door slotted into one corner and in the middle of the room a kitchen of sorts hugged the wall. Sink, bar fridge and a bench with one of those two-plate gas burners you get from camping stores. There was no TV, but a stereo unit sat on a wooden packing crate opposite the kitchen. A row of mostly black shirts and pants hung from a pine clothes rack, next to a neatly made futon on the floor. At the end of the room, where double doors opened out onto the water, two red vinyl armchairs were angled to take in the view. I thought back to the master bedroom. There had been no sign of Sam, none of his clothes hanging in the closet, no blokey stuff that I could see.
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