by J M Donellan
29
You Hit Me in the Head with a Friendship Rock?
***
“Gosh darn it, I can’t find the pineapple cutter anywhere! Freya, do you know where it could be?”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Drat! We’ll have to make the punch without it.”
Rosaline shoots her best the-show-must-go-on grin to the small gaggle of mannequins. She’s already introduced Freya to them all, but their names entered and exited her head with unsurprising ease. Dressed in jeans and a treasured but well-worn PJ Harvey T-shirt, Freya stands out like a Banksy among a milieu of Monets.
Jack slides behind her and places his hand lightly on the small of her back. She takes a second to register his fingers, newly welcome visitors to the territory of her flesh. “So, Rosaline, who else is coming to this little shindig?”
“It’ll just be a few of us: the girls from my Zumbalates class, some others from my yoga for mums and babies group, you, me, Evelyn, Harland…and Niki, of course.”
“Niki’s coming?”
“Oh, yes! We made such good friends at Maria’s funeral. She’s so lovely! She can’t make it to the wedding tomorrow because she’s flying back to Colombia to tie up some things with Maria’s will, but she’s going to drop by tonight.”
The doorbell rings, Rosaline screams like a kettle and claps her hands. “I’ll get it!”
“Whose hair are you wearing?” Lisa or Lucy or possibly Liesel asks Freya.
“Um…it’s mine?” she answers, not sure if she’s being made to look the fool or is entertaining one.
“Silly! I know that. I mean, who’s it by? That colour is amazing!”
“It’s the colour I popped out of the womb with.”
“Oh shut up! I don’t believe that for a second! It’s simply divine!” gushes Laura or Lana or possibly Leena.
Freya smiles politely and tries to think of something to say, but fails. Silence hovers between them for slightly too long before Lauren/Lily/Leanne says, “Well, I’d best go check on the other girls…” and scampers off to her mass of mannequins.
“Apparently I’m not the only one around here who struggles with relating to the rest of the species,” says Jack.
“Hey, if you want to relate with this member of the species again any time soon you’ll keep those remarks to yourself.”
Jack opens his mouth to respond just as Rosaline’s exultant yelping bisects the room. Freya looks towards the door to see Niki arriving, clad in a chic silver and black gown. Niki’s eyes meet Freya’s from across the room.
“Does she really think it’s smart to invite the niece of your recently murdered maid into the place she was killed?” whispers Freya.
“Rosaline’s not thinking about anything that isn’t borrowed, blue, old, or new at present,” Jack replies, taking a strawberry and dipping it into the fondue fountain that looks as if both Louis XIV and Willy Wonka collaborated on its design. “Where did you hide the folder?”
“Under your mattress.” Freya neglects to mention that she’s slipped one of the photos into her handbag. Just in case, she’d told herself. But in case of what, she isn’t sure. She turns to greet Niki with a smile. “Hi, how are you?”
Niki embraces her warmly and places a thick Colombian kiss on both of her cheeks as she whispers, “Any luck finding evidence?”
Rosaline interrupts them before Freya has a chance to answer. “Shall we head out to the pool for more cocktails?” She is every high-school girl on prom night compressed into an impossible mass of glee. Freya wishes she had some Valium to slip into Rosaline’s drink, just to lighten the mood.
The party moves to beside the pool where the outdoor speakers are blasting a playlist that Freya decides should be titled, Songs To Make Freya Want To Shove Her Head Into A Trash Compactor. The mannequins clink glasses and titter at the same high pitch and Freya looks up to check if there are any bats in the immediate vicinity that might have their flight patterns disrupted.
“Don’t you just love Bryan Adams?” says Rosaline.
“What I would love, Rosaline, is a Moscow Mule,” Freya says, heading towards the poolside bar with belligerent knives of orange stabbing at her eyes. If she ever meets Bryan Adams, she’s going to beat him with a six-string until he can no longer even remember the summer of sixty-nine.
Rosaline stands on one of the chairs and clears her throat loudly. “Everyone, thank you so much for coming! I can’t believe my day is almost here! I’m nearly ready. I’ve got something old, that’s my favourite doll, Magic Wedding Dress Rosaline. Something blue, that’s my hairband. Something new, that’s the earrings I bought yesterday. Now I need something borrowed. Does anyone have any ideas?”
Freya swishes down the Moscow Mule in a few easy gulps, her head swimming with schemes and machinations. At first Rosaline’s words wash over her, until an idea thrusts itself into her mind with such potency all other thoughts seek momentary refuge. “I know!” she shouts. “What about something of Elijah’s?”
“Frey! Brilliant! Do you think you can get me something?”
“Will do! Back in five.”
Freya leaps out of her chair, glimpsing Jack’s desperate for-the-love-of-God-don’t-leave-me -alone-with-these-people glare as she runs inside. She races down the almost endless corridor of locked and unlocked doors, then takes the stairs two at a time. Freya flings open the door to Elijah’s room and says, “Hey ’lijah, I…”
The sentence makes it halfway out of her mouth before it nosedives to the ground. She recoils and latches her hand onto the door to steady herself. Dozens of flickering candles light the room, casting Elijah in an unearthly, almost arcane glow. Lit by the mercurial play of light and shadow, he looks alarmingly like his brother. They could almost be twins.
“Excuse me…I didn’t mean to…” Another verbal miscarriage tries to clamber out of her mouth.
“Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude not to knock?” says Evelyn, who Freya now recognises as she steps out of a darkened corner, speaking in her usual blend of nonchalance and malevolence. Her gown shimmers as she moves, the light twinkling off her pearl earrings and necklace. The shadows sketch dark lines over her face, hiding her eyes and drawing sharp focus to her thin red lips. Harland too steps out of the dark, holding up a box, the shadows suggesting it’s intricately carved.
“You should go, Freya. We’ll be down in a moment,” he says in a low and even tone. His eyes are fixed on the box.
“Sure. I thought I left something in here…but, um, I guess…” Evelyn and Harland stare at her with a shared expression that makes her feel an entirely new and unwelcome sort of discomfort.
“I should go.” Freya turns and swiftly exits, deftly snatching up the razor she’d earlier left soaking in a bowl of water on the bench. She runs back down to the guests, trying to pretend she hasn’t seen whatever the hell it was that she just saw.
“Got it! I brought his razor.” She places it on the drinks table and notices one of Niki’s eyebrows rise.
“What a curious choice. May I see that?” Niki asks as her fingers creep towards it. “Such excellent craftsmanship. Is this real silver?”
“Only the best for our Elijah!” says Rosaline.
Niki’s fingers rest on the silver handle and a short, sharp pulse ripples through her body. She closes her eyes and mumbles something in Spanish, then places the razor back on the table.
“Well, that’s everything! Shall we have a toast?” Rosaline smiles so wide it threatens to compromise the structural integrity of her face.
“To what?” asks Leena/Lisa/Liana. The mannequins shoot a flurry of perplexed glances at each other but come up with nothing. Words, evidently, are not their forte.
“To love against all reason!” toasts Jack and downs his drink. Freya snaps her hand over her mouth to trap the laugh.
Rosaline glares at Jack. He
catches her eye but looks quickly away. Her smile slowly returns with its potency redoubled. “I need to go check on the mini-quiches!” She sails towards the kitchen and leaves a cold, clumsy silence in her wake.
“Niki, would you come with me to the ladies’ room?” asks Freya.
“Gladly!”
The pair practically sprint to the bathroom and Freya slams the door behind them.
“Have you found any evidence?” asks Niki.
“I have. Enough to bury them for a few lifetimes.”
Niki sighs in relief and mutters a thankful Gracias a Dios. “Show me.”
“It’s hidden in Jack’s room.”
“Then why have you brought me in here? In two days, I will be in Colombia and have to look into the eyes of Maria’s brothers and sisters and tell them she was murdered. Before I do that, I need some scrap of hope that these people will spend the rest of their lives in prison.”
“From what I’ve seen, you can tell them the Vincettis will rot in a rat-filled cell. But right now, I need to know what you saw when you touched the razor.”
“What I saw?”
“Yes. I know there was something. Tell me.”
Niki meets her gaze with furious eyes. “First you give me my evidence, then I’ll tell you.”
“I’m not the enemy here.”
Niki studies their reflections in the mirror and fiddles with her hair. “I found a grey hair yesterday. It’s like I’ve aged a decade in a few days. I can’t sleep. She visits me when I’m dreaming. Tells me to get revenge. Tells me to bury them. Even in my dreams, she is still cleaning. Scrubbing. Dusting. Did she tell you about the bar she used to own in Bogotá? She was a legend there. Her voice, her smile. Men would throw themselves at her feet. And now she is a lowly cleaner, even in the afterlife. She talks always, pleading for penance. Begging me to bring justice. Maria, por el amor de Dios, let me sleep…”
Niki’s head hangs low, she places her hands on the sink to steady herself, then reaches out to Freya’s gloves and runs her fingers over them. “Always these gloves, what are you hiding?”
“It’s an Audrey Hepburn thing.”
Niki smiles at her. “You aren’t such a great liar.”
“Actually, I am a fantastic liar. I’m just tired. In normal circumstances, I’m quite the silver tongue.”
Niki nods and drums her fingers on the marble benchtop. “Usually, with my family, with those who are my blood, the voice is strong, loud. Maria, she was so soon passed it was like screaming through a megaphone in my head. But with this Elijah, he is not my family; I have never met him. It was hard to hear. His voice was like a whisper in the heavy rain. There was so much confusion…like static on the radio, you know? Like haruschhhhhhhhhh…a constant buzzing. But I can tell you one thing, he is a much better liar than you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s been—” Niki holds her sentence as Evelyn barges into the room.
“Hope I’m not interrupting? You two girls gossiping about anything important?” asks Evelyn.
“Oh, you know, planning my outfit for tomorrow. Should be quite the party!” says Freya.
Freya and Niki scramble out the door only to almost collide with Rosaline in the corridor as she carries a tray of pastry parcels.
“Mini-quiches anyone?“ she asks.
“Thanks, I’ll take one. Great party, Ros,” says Freya, watching Niki slink away down the corridor towards the front door.
“Thanks, lovely, I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. Could I ask you to help me with one little thing?” There is a slight tremor in her voice and a look in her eyes that Freya has not seen before.
“Ah, sure.”
“Would you mind, if it isn’t too much trouble, telling me what the fuck this is?” She puts the tray down on a console and slides out the photo she had been holding underneath it.
Freya frowns at the blur of metal and meat. “Where did you get that?”
“Your handbag. Lauren had a headache and I thought you might have some painkillers in there.”
“Rosaline, I can—”
“How could you do this to me?”
Freya grabs her by the wrist and leads her through the mess of mannequins, who are looking at them as though they are already planning how to gossip about this little contretemps. Once they are clear of the spying eyes, Freya swipes her card over the nearest door and shoves Rosaline inside. She flicks on the light switch and opens her mouth, ready to explain, when she notices the boxes piled behind them.
“Christ, you have got to be kidding me.”
“Freya Miller, what the hell are you laughing about? I tell you all about…what happened to me, I share my home with you and this is how you repay me? You are a monster!” Rosaline’s eyes are brimming with tears, her lip trembling.
Freya wraps her arms around her and whispers, “Shhh. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just, look where we are. Look. This room.”
Rosaline sees the piles of boxes, their contents spilt over the floor.
“The jumper storage room.”
“The penguin jumper storage room. One of the weirdest rooms I found when I first came here. A room with a secret, the first of many. Fucking penguin jumpers for pre-planned oil spills.”
“Pre-planned!” says Rosaline. Freya notices that she’s clutching something between the perfectly manicured fingers of her right hand.
“The reason I had that photo, why I’ve been creeping around, is because the Vincettis are corporate criminals. They caused the oil spill as an elaborate PR stunt. They want you to marry Elijah so they can control Firmatel. They killed Maria for snooping and they’re going to prison, as soon as the wedding’s over. I swear it’s true. I have the evidence.”
“I don’t care! It’s my wedding Freya, my wedding! The happiest day of my life, and you want to spoil it with these silly stories about conspiracies and…and…oil spills…and…”
Freya can’t help but feel sorry for this fragile figure whose crystal kingdom has been suddenly shattered by the intrusion of reality. Rosaline is shaking like a freshly lit roman candle. Freya prays for movement, for more screaming, for anything but the dreadful stillness.
Rosaline raises her right hand, a smooth grey object partially visible between her fingers. In the fraction of a second before it hits her face, Freya feels almost proud of Rosaline for finally unleashing her long-suppressed anger. Then this thought and all others are knocked out of her brain as the object collides with her skull, filling her head with klaxons.
Freya clutches at the blood oozing from the wound and stumbles backwards, as Rosaline’s face melts from anger into shock and then into regret. She rushes forward, crouches down and takes Freya in her arms.
“OhGodImsosorryImsosorryImsosorry. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore! It was supposed to be a fairy tale, I was supposed to be a princess. I just wanted to be a princess.”
The blood reaches Freya’s lips. It tastes sickly sweet. She tries to remember the last time she tasted blood. The room spins with stars.
“What the fuckballs did you hit me with?” she slurs.
Rosaline is sobbing, but she reaches out, grabs the missile and hands it over to Freya. It’s a smooth stone with the word “friendship” engraved in Comic Sans.
“It’s a friendship rock. It was going to be a present for you. That was the real reason why I opened your handbag. I wanted to put it in there for you as a surprise.”
“You hit me in the head with a friendship rock?”
“Yes.”
“You are one fucked-up bitch.”
Rosaline almost laughs through her sobbing, and says quietly, “I wish you wouldn’t curse so much.”
“I could probably make a pun here about throwing the first stone, but—”
“Are you alright? I don’t
know what came over me.”
“I’ll live. Possibly with reduced brain function but, let’s face it, the alcohol would have done the same job sooner or later. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes?”
“What was your name, before it was Rosaline?”
Rosaline blushes and mumbles, “Oh, no, it’s a bit embarrassing.”
Freya points to the blood smeared on her forehead and says, “Kinda feel like you owe me a little something for this right here. And I’ve got a sense of curiosity that just won’t quit. Cough it up.”
“Well, I haven’t told this to anyone in a long time, but my name was, um, Jezebel. Jezebel Jones.”
Freya’s eyes and grin expand as though her face is painted onto an inflating balloon until a giggle escapes her lips and she surrenders to roaring with laughter. “Oh God Ros, that is fucking tragic! Were your parents trying to raise a drug-addled stripper?”
“Hey! That’s mean! They just wanted to name me after a biblical princess. But I guess…I think they just saw a list of biblical princesses and liked the sound of it—I don’t think they read her history. My parents were never big readers.”
“Had they never heard the term ‘Jezebel’ used in regards to a woman who is controlling and promiscuous?”
Rosaline shakes her head, frowning. “I don’t know, I guess a hooker’s client can be called a ‘John,’ right? I don’t know what they were thinking. Growing up everyone used to call me Bel, which I liked a lot better obviously.”
Freya draws herself upright, dabbing at the blood with a penguin jumper. The pain is fading from Olympic stadium to high-school gymnasium volume. “Well, Jezebel Jones—shit, it just gets funnier each time I say it—I can see why you changed it.”
Rosaline pulls her face close to Freya’s. “Those things you said…you’re really sure? About the Vincettis?”
“Yes. They killed Maria. And I’m pretty damn sure they either attacked those corporate figureheads we’ve seen in the news, or hired someone to do it for them.”
“But, Elijah didn’t do any of that, right? He’s not bad like them?”
Even through the throbbing, the naivety spilling from Rosaline’s lips stings her. “Ros, he’s in a coma, so that’s a pretty solid alibi.”
