‘I got a really good response,’ said Blythe. ‘And on Sunday they’re doing a play at the Varuna Writers’ Centre. Agatha Christie’s Black Coffee. I’m playing Lucia Amery.’
‘Congratulations, Blythe,’ beamed Les. ‘You’re an actress as well as a writer.’
‘I’d rather write,’ said Blythe modestly.
Les finished his drink and offered to buy Blythe one. Blythe accepted and had a Brandy Alexander. Les had another gin. A double. They sat sipping politely away and Norton found himself starting to feel pretty good along with Blythe’s dress starting to look even shorter.
‘Are you here for the festival too, Mr McNamara?’ asked Blythe.
Les held up a hand. ‘Please. Forrest will do. No, Blythe, I’m up here to interview a writer. I’m trying to get him to join Roulette.’ Les smiled over his drink. ‘It’s called head hunting.’
‘Goodness,’ said Blythe. ‘Who is he?’
Les shook his head solemnly. ‘I’m sorry Blythe. But I can’t tell you at the moment.’
‘I understand,’ said Blythe. ‘You’re still secretly negotiating.’
‘Exactly.’
Blythe took a healthy hit of her brandy. ‘So which poets and writers do you publish, Forrest?’ she asked politely.
‘Publish?’ Les tried to look thoughtful for a moment. ‘Adolph Glunshnutter, the German author. Marvin Schwartz, the Jewish author.’
‘Marvin Schwartz?’ said Blythe. ‘I think I’ve heard of him. What did he write?’
‘Abraham’s Ashes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Amongst our Australian authors we’ve got Murray Scrartenvitch, Raymond Tracy, Georgina Brennan, Wilhelmina Dunleavy. To name a few.’
‘I can’t say I’ve come across them in Bathurst,’ said Blythe.
‘You haven’t?’ Les stroked his chin. ‘I must make a note to contact our country rep when I get back to the office and see that he gets some out there.’
‘It sounds like you run a pretty tight ship at Roulette Publishing,’ said Blythe.
‘Oh yeah, we’re out there, Blythe,’ said Les. ‘We’ve got our finger on the publishing pulse. We’re watching the watchers.’
Blythe looked at Les for a moment. ‘Would you like to hear some of my poetry, Forrest?’
Les nearly swallowed all his drink. ‘Why I’d … only be too delighted, Blythe.’
‘It’s in my room. I’ll get it.’
Les watched as Blythe skipped up the stairs like the white rabbit again, giving him another glimpse of her knickers when she reached the first landing. Christ! This is going to be nice, he thought. Stuck with some bimbo trapped in an Agatha Christie time warp while she reads me her poetry. I think I’d better get another couple of drinks. Still, I wouldn’t mind shoving my face into Miss Selby’s present participle, if she’d grab me on the personal pronoun. Agatha bloody Christie. God! If only old Miss Crowther could see me now. Les got two fresh drinks and sat back down on the lounge before Blythe returned with a book binder and made herself comfortable next to him. She opened the folder and started up.
‘This one’s called “The Singularity Of Narcissism”,’ said Blythe.
‘Fired with desire
I peered into the river of
X-rayed souls
trawling for mythical endurance.
My view obscured
by thoughts
too perceptive to be dreamed.’
Les caught his reflection in a mirror near the bar. He’d seen that expression before. In the meatworks when a steer cops it in the back of the head with a stun-gun. He took another slug of gin as Blythe served up her next offering.
‘This one’s called “Uncompromisation and Patience”:
‘She wanted solitude
so she clothed herself in delusion
knowing the demons of antiquity
would soon be knocking on the door of
redemption.’
Before long Les was looking for the cyanide pill. Blythe’s poems would stink in a deep-freeze. They made absolutely no sense, and any that did weren’t worth listening to. Eventually, after what seemed like days, she came up for air.
‘Well,’ she asked shyly. ‘What do you think so far, Forrest?’
Les looked at her impassively. ‘Wonderful, Blythe,’ he said quietly. ‘Just wonderful. Did it take you long to write them?’
‘Oh, yes. Years.’
‘I thought they might have. They’re so full of hidden passion. Or dare I say, more, an assertive passion. You’ve obviously written these poems from your heart, Blythe.’ Only because your arse was probably blocked up at the time.
‘Yes. Yes I did.’ Blythe touched Les on the thigh. ‘You obviously know literature, Forrest. Would you like to hear some more?’
‘I certainly would,’ said Les. ‘But I’ve got an idea. How about while you’re reading your … works, I compare them to some of the poets in here.’ Les held up The Portable Beat Reader. ‘I’d like to balance your writing against these people. I feel it would make an interesting comparison.’
‘All right,’ smiled Blythe. ‘That sounds like a great idea. This one’s called “Irreligious Shadows Killed The Rainmaker”.’
While Blythe waffled away, Les immersed himself in his book, looking up every now and again to smile and nod his head in approval. Norton’s book was still heavy going, but compared to putting up with Blythe, it was like reading Peanuts. After a while, Blythe ran out of steam and her voice developed a slight croak. Les applauded softly.
‘That was absolutely marvellous, Blythe,’ he said serenely. ‘The comparisons between you and some of the writers in here, especially Diane DiPrima, are absolutely fascinating.’
‘Diane DiPrima,’ gushed Blythe. ‘Surely you’re not saying my poetry’s in the same class as hers?’
‘In the same class?’ Les reached over and touched Blythe on the leg. ‘It’s almost as if Diane could learn from you.’
‘Oh dear, I … I don’t know what to say.’
Les riveted his eyes on Blythe. ‘Blythe,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s something I have to ask you here.’
‘Certainly, Forrest. What is it?’
‘Would you be interested in Roulette publishing some of your works?’
‘Publish my works?’ squealed Blythe. Her knees started to shake and it was all she could do to stop from peeing herself. ‘Oh yes. Yes. That’s been my dream.’
‘Excellent,’ said Les. ‘Then how about we discuss it further over dinner? Would you care to join me?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘All right. Let’s go have a literary luncheon. Dinner … whatever. And we can have another drink too.’
‘I’ll just go to the Ladies first.’
‘I’ll wait here for you,’ smiled Les.
As Blythe skipped off to the Ladies, Les caught his reflection in the mirror again. The girls at work have got a name for blokes like you, he told himself. SAAB. A swine and a bastard. Les gave himself a look of grudging approval. Fair enough. But I prefer dropkick, myself. It’s got more of an Australian ambience to it. Blythe returned from the Ladies and Les stood up.
‘Are you ready to eat?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Blythe, and picked up her poetry.
‘Excellent.’ Les motioned with one hand, ‘After you, Blythe.’
Les opened the door for Blythe and they took the corridor past the gaming room and foyer, through another door leading into a long, gently sloping corridor lined with huge, velvet chesterfields, lamp tables and indoor plants. Landscapes, hunting scenes and framed etchings hung on one wall, the other was arched windows overlooking the Megalong Valley. The corridor ended at a staircase and access ramp leading into another room full of more art-deco furnishing, mainly cream and white; with chess sets, a library and an enclosed bar at one end. A doorway on the left led along a shorter corridor to the dining room.
Les and Blythe stepped into a dining area with room for over a hundred, one half b
locked off where it was divided by an arch across the middle. About twenty diners were seated round polished wooden tables with crisp, white tablecloths. Again it was all very plush; thick red carpet on the floor, cream and gold decor round the walls; chandeliers above and tiny white lamps on the tables. There was a velvet lounge setting as you walked in on the right, with a grand piano in the middle and an old fortune-telling machine against one wall. Music from the 1920s played softly in the background and several waitresses in black uniforms and black bowties hovered round the guests. Wearing an immaculate grey suit, a maitre d with a shaved head stood behind the bookings desk on the left. On his lapel was a name tag. Angelo. Les caught his eye as he looked up from the guest list and had a fifty palmed into the maitre d’s hand quicker than it took him to shampoo and condition his hair.
‘Good evening, Angelo,’ said Les brightly, producing his door key. ‘I believe you have a table for me. Mr McNamara. Room 123. Forrest McNamara.’
The maitre d had seen this many times before. He ran a highlighter across the guest list then bowed and scraped like his head was going to fall off and roll across the dining room. ‘Of course, Mr McNamara,’ he said, then made a gracious, sweeping gesture with one well-manicured hand. ‘This way, sir.’
‘Easy as one, two, three,’ smiled Blythe.
‘Something like that,’ winked Les.
Angelo led them to a table for four facing away from the other diners. He placed a wine list in front of Norton while a waitress removed the unnecessary cutlery. ‘What sort of wine would you like, Blythe?’ asked Les.
‘I think I’ll have the same as what you were drinking before,’ she answered. ‘A gin and tonic.’
‘Make that two gin and tonics please, Angelo.’
‘Certainly, Mr McNamara. Tanquerray …?’
‘Bombay Sapphire.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Mr McNamara.’ The maitre d laid on some more bow and scrape and sent one of the waitresses hurrying out to the bar.
‘Have you been here before, Forrest?’ asked Blythe.
‘Once or twice,’ replied Les.
‘They certainly look after you.’
‘Yes. I guess it just comes with the territory. Publishing.’
‘I can’t wait to see my poems in print,’ fluttered Blythe.
‘Me either,’ said Les.
Two crisp gin and tonics arrived and Les proposed a toast to Blythe’s success. Blythe modestly accepted that. She had another sip of gin and looked at Les.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, Forrest?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ shrugged Les. ‘What is it?’
‘How did you get that broken nose?’
‘Playing rugby union at university.’
‘You went to university? Which one?’
‘New South Wales.’
‘I never went to uni. I went straight into Dad’s business when I left school.’
Les clinked her glass. ‘You never know, Blythe. It might have been all for the best.’
Les went for the smoked salmon and asparagus mille feuille for starters and veal Illawarra with plums and Madeira and macadamia nut mashed potatoes for mains. Blythe sensibly just had mountain stream trout with basil and Spanish onion salsa.
They nattered away about different things. Les said he’d get her phone number and address before he left. She’d send him a copy of her poetry, his company would send her a draft agreement. They’d discuss the advance later.
‘I’m going to get an advance?’ gasped Blythe.
‘Only a small one at this stage, Blythe,’ said Les. ‘Just a few thousand. It’s only your first book, remember.’
‘Just a few thousand …’
Blythe was a completely shot bird. Between the drinks and getting a contract she hardly knew which way was up. However, despite taking advantage of Blythe’s gullibility and his outright filthy lies, Les was one hundred per cent certain he wasn’t going to throw Blythe up in the air. No one ever got rooted in an Agatha Christie novel. The female characters kept their legs clamped together with superglue; tighter than the women in Barbara Cartland. And you could bet Blythe would play the part to the letter. Still, there was no harm in dropping a quiet sexual innuendo should the occasion arise or making a cultivated lewd comment.
The food arrived and neither could complain. It was tasty, well-presented and served with an absolute abundance of bow and scrape. They had two more gin and tonics and finished with coffee. They didn’t bother about sweets.
‘Did you enjoy your meal, Blythe?’ asked Les.
‘Yes. It was absolutely lovely. Thank you.’
‘What would you like to do now?’
Blythe smiled and gave her shoulders a dainty shrug. ‘I don’t really care. I have to be up fairly early in the morning, though.’
‘Me too,’ inclined Les. ‘So how about we go back to the Kurrajong Room and have a couple more drinks before we call it a night. There’s something I was thinking of doing.’
‘Okay.’
Les put the bill on his room, gave the waitress a fifty, the maitre d gave him some more bow and scrape then they walked back to the Kurrajong Room.
There were a few people clustered around the fire and two couples playing pool in the corner. Les and Blythe sat at the same lounge as before and Les went to the bar, returning with two more gin and tonics. Blythe took Les’s book, flopped around on the lounge and started reading one of Bob Dylan’s songs as a poem. ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.’ Whether it was all the gin he’d soaked up, Norton wasn’t sure, but he had to admit Bob Dylan’s songs made great poems. Blythe hit him with two clunking choruses of Philip Lamantia’s poetry then closed the book. Les was more than glad because he was starting to develop corns on his ears.
‘And to think you compared my work to what’s in here, Forrest,’ sighed Blythe. ‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘Yeah. It’s hard to believe all right,’ agreed Les. He looked at Blythe over his gin and tonic. ‘Blythe, did Agatha Christie ever write a book called Death in the Cigar Room?’
Blythe thought for a moment. ‘Death in the Clouds. Death on the Nile. Death Comes as the End. There was The Body in the Library.’
‘Blythe,’ suggested Les, ‘why don’t you get your drink and that and follow me over to the cigar room?’
‘All right, Forrest,’ smiled Blythe, rising a little unsteadily to her feet.
A row of full length windows curved round the cigar room to the doorway. Inside was a high ceiling and more plush furniture. A tapestried lounge setting filled one corner and a maroon velvet lounge sat against the opposite wall. Paintings of smokers looked down from above the velvet lounge and next to the front windows was a polished teak cabinet. Sitting on top was a cigar menu, an ashtray and several books of matches. Les had noticed a menu at the bar and it made him curious. He picked up the one on the cabinet and showed Blythe. There were several cigars on the menu: Cuban, Dominican or Canary Islands. They ranged from Tobacos Vargas Capitolios at $9.50 to Galeon Robusto at $15.50 or Romeo y Julieta Dedros de Luxe No. 3 at $18.50.
‘How would you like to puff on a nice Cuban cigar, Blythe?’ said Les. ‘Like Mr Justice Wargrave might do, writing a letter to Constance Culmington.’
‘Oh yes,’ enthused Blythe. ‘That sounds exciting.’
‘Wait here, my dear.’ Les gave a slight bow and walked round to the bar as Blythe sat down on a tapestry lounge chair in the corner.
In a couple of minutes Les was back with two fresh drinks and two Romeo y Julietas, snipped at the end and ready to fire up.
‘There you go, Blythe,’ he said, handing her a cigar and an ashtray.
‘What do I do, Forrest?’ she asked. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Les. ‘But just put your lips round the end and suck. And don’t inhale.’
Les struck a match and held it to the end of Blythe’s cigar; after about half a dozen puffs she was away. Les got his going and sat down opposite her as swirls of sweet
blue smoke drifted above them. Although Les was a non-smoker, the cigar didn’t taste too bad. Pretty much like what it said on the menu. Dark, sweet, with a hint of cocoa beans and coffee and a core of earthiness. Les began feeling quite contented as he puffed away and sipped his gin and tonic. Blythe looked like she was feeling quite contented also. She was all over the lounge chair, her top loosening noticeably, giving Les a nice glimpse of snow white breast behind the crepe de chine. And her skirt had crept up considerably, giving Les an eagle’s eye view of Blythe’s sweet little map of Tasmania beneath her lace knickers.
‘So what do you think, Blythe?’ asked Les. ‘Something different.’
Blythe tapped some ash into the ashtray. ‘Yes. They’re nice. Sort of sweet. And rich.’
Les blew a smoke ring across the room. ‘What was it Ernest Hemingway said? A woman is a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Blythe. ‘But I don’t think it was Monica Lewinsky,’ she giggled.
‘No,’ replied Les slowly.
‘What do you think, Forrest?’
‘I don’t know, Blythe,’ replied Les. ‘I haven’t finished my cigar yet.’
Blythe managed to blow a smoke ring and Les blew one into it. He held up his cigar and smiled. ‘Romeo y Julieta. That’s us, Blythe. Hasta la vista and buenas noches.’
‘Oh Forrest, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.’
‘I don’t,’ replied Les. ‘I speak in tongues. And if my tongue could talk right now, you know what it would say, Blythe?’
‘What would it say, Forrest?’ purred Blythe.
Les nodded to Blythe’s crumpet poking out under her pleated dress. ‘That looks good enough to eat.’
‘Ooohh Mr McNamara,’ fluttered Blythe. She spread her legs a little more. ‘Well, like Candye Kane says, all you can eat, and you can eat it all night long.’
Les almost ground the end off his $18.50 Romeo y Julieta. ‘Why don’t we go back to your room when we finish these, Miss Selby, and discuss your draft agreement some more? Mine’s a little untidy at the moment.’
Leaving Bondi Page 8
