by Ann Michaels
Chapter 7
The Evening of Friday November, 18, 1988
Dana Roberts is Sally Brown
Spy in the House of Love
For various reasons, it is not the easiest thing for a woman to walk into a nightclub by herself. For a start, there are packs’ of women out on the prowl, who eye you with animosity, calculating the cost of your clothes and your hair-do. And then, there are the sleazy blokes, who are on the lookout for fresh meat. I’m not saying everyone is like this, but definitely, if you are looking for shallow people, this is the place to find them. But, I feigned an ice-queen kind of confidence, and sauntered in to the throbbing, jam packed club, to the sounds of ‘New Sensation’ by INXS, and headed straight for the bar. I ordered a glass of champagne, to give me a bit of false confidence, and then, turned around to find a not-too-bad-looking-bloke, blocking my way.
‘Hello. I was wondering if you would dance with me?’ he mouthed over the thumping music, as he waved his hands about.
‘Sure’ I replied, ‘but let me finish my drink first. Can I get you one?’
He looked affronted at this suggestion and shook his head vigorously. ‘The woman does not buy the drinks for the man’.
It was then that I caught his Italian accent and I groaned. Italian men are often very handsome and charming, but their general, male chauvinism, can be hard to take. I recalled visiting Italy a couple years ago, whilst on a European tour and the hordes of men on the streets, who would accost the females of our group, with cries of ‘Ciao Bella!’ and pinching our backsides. I had also noticed that the Italian women were off limits, though, and always appeared to be chaperoned. I was very independent and opinionated woman, and generally, I didn’t have the patience to pander to mother’s boys –which essentially, all Italian men are. However, I reasoned, I was simply here to get information, not to find a life partner and…Well; I liked the aroma of his aftershave.
After buying himself a glass of wine and more champagne for me, Angelo, escorted me over to a quiet corner and as we sat down on the high, black leather stools; he told me how he had been living in Sydney for six months, but that he would return to Milan soon. His job out here had been to research the market for Italian, handmade shoes and handbags. He decided it wasn’t great. ‘They prefer cheap here to quality, I think. Like the thong,’ he said sadly. I nodded. If you wore a pricey pair of handmade loafers about town, few people would even notice, and those that did, would most likely think you were a bit of a wanker, with tickets’ on yourself. But then I thought, this is changing, the old egalitarian ways are going and people are becoming what they term ‘aspirational’. It was a good thing in some ways, I supposed.
We chatted for a while, as I sipped my champagne slowly, as the spinning disco ball zapped beams and waves of light about, creating an alternate universe of freakish inhibition. Bodies writhed and thrashed on the small square dance floor, reminding me of a snake pit, which was somehow mesmerising.
I asked Angelo if he had been to Julianna’s before.
‘Yes, many, many times. It reminds me of home’. I wondered about that answer.
I sipped the photo of Tabra Hayden from my beaded purse and said. ‘This is my cousin, Tabra, she used to come to this club, until recently, but she has disappeared, and I am looking for her’.
Angelo’s eyes lit up and he pointed an elegant finger at her image. ‘I danced with her one night! I thought her very sexy. But her boyfriend he was jealous’.
‘Who was her boyfriend? Do you remember?’
Angelo looked up and across the room. I looked too, to where his eyes pointed. ‘She came here with that persona’. He said. And there, stood Peter Ruslen, in the flesh, looking as though he owned the joint.
This was not good. I had an undercover job as a drinks’ hostess working for Ruslen tomorrow night and it would look mighty suspicious, if he saw me here as well. However, as I continued to gaze stupidly in Ruslen’s direction, it became apparent that things had just got worse, as I saw my police colleague, Harry de Groot, strolling in behind the handsome Peter Ruslen, with a group of women who looked like they were celebrating a hen’s party.
‘Now we dance’, Angleo announced, grabbing my champagne glass and pacing it firmly on the bench. And so, I felt myself being propelled toward the middle of the dance floor, under the shimmering, mirrored disco ball, as, ‘What Have I Done to Deserve This’ by The Pet Shop Boys, began to fill the room.
Angelo’s dancing was as smooth as his looks, but I kept gazing over his shoulder to see, Ruslen and de Groot, both staring back at me with pointed eyes. Sighing, I decided to throw myself into the music, and I was soon gyrating and swaying with the best of them. Thankfully, Harry kept his distance, pretending that he didn’t know me. Anyway, he was otherwise occupied with a woman who looked like his ex-wife, Linda. She was slobbering all over him and nuzzling his neck. I thought it likely that her latest marriage, which was only one year old, according to Harry, might already be on the rocks. The bride- to-be, however, was also looking at the pair of them, with eyes like poison darts, so I thought that trouble may erupt from that direction, too.
After a while, Angelo and I took a rest from our strenuous dancing and I indicated that I was off to the Ladies’ Room. He nodded, looking a bit sulky. As I told you, these mama’s boys are hard work: threatened by a trip to the toilet. Too bad, I thought, as I flounced off, through the milling, groping crowd.
I was sitting in one of the stalls, having a bit of a rest on the old, china throne, as I enjoy being by myself, as I suppose I am a bit of a loner, or at least an introvert, when slowly I became aware of two women talking on the other side of the door, near the sinks.
One twangy kind of voice said. ‘I’m telling you, don’t drink any of the drinks he buys you, OK; as he generally likes to throw a few ludes or roffies into the mix. And if you do, you might need to be carried out of here and…….’
‘I can look after myself’, replied a defiant, though, young, sounding voice.
I knew that ‘ludes’ and ‘roffies’ were slang names for the sedative drugs Quaaludes and Rohypnol. So, I tried peeking out through the crack in the door and saw what looked to be a petite woman of Mediterranean background, wearing a short, white dress and very high, gold shoes. She was the young defiant one. The other woman was a willowy, strawberry blonde, who was wearing what amounted to little more than a purple handkerchief.
The willowy one then said earnestly, ‘I am only trying to help you out because these things have happened to me before. Pete’s really generous and he will show you a good time, but you’ve got to learn to protect yourself and look after your own interests.’
The shorter woman said nothing; she just began to apply red lipstick very carefully. Her hand was shaking slightly, though. The taller woman could see this and it seemed to push her to continue. ‘Look I am only involved in this scene until I finish my thesis, and earn my doctorate.’
The shorter woman turned around and stared, mouth agape, as the willowy one continued. ‘Look I’ll go first… later on, OK…….. He is always crazier at first. The other woman nodded very slowly and swallowed. Then, with a final adjustment of their skirts, they tottered out. As the door opened and the cacophony outside invaded my toilet sanctuary, I could hear the strains of Paula Abdul’s ‘Knocked Out’ travelling from the dance floor.
As I re-entered the nightclub after my toilet interlude, I noticed that my Italian Stallion, Angelo, had moved on to a very young woman, almost an embryo really, who was wearing copper lamé hotpants. Easy come easy go, I thought. I looked about and noted that Harry was still trying to keep his ex-wife Linda at arm’s length. Or was he? I reminded myself that he didn’t belong to me; ours was a causal relationship and that was the way I wanted it. Didn’t I?
So I decided to dance by myself. I love dancing in case you haven’t noticed. Some people pray, others meditate: I dance. So there I was bopping out to this song called ‘Spy in the House of Love’, whe
n I became aware that I was dancing with someone and that someone was Peter Ruslen. He was smiling at me, and my body, as though operating without the aid of my mind, felt a ping of attraction, which shocked me. I was also thrown for a moment, to be dancing with the prime suspect in the mysterious disappearance of three women, but then, I decided to go with it, and I continued grooving away.
That’s the good thing about disco style dancing; it’s pretty much the same whether you are dancing with a partner, or alone. Surreptitiously I stole a glance at Harry. He was eyeing me with what looked like alarm. But I thought that he had his own worries with Linda, who looked like she was trying to remove his trousers.
After a time, Ruslen grabbed my hand and began to tow me over to his table, where I could see the willowy, strawberry blonde and Mediterranean looking lady, from the ladies toilets. But I whispered into his ear, ‘Sorry, I can’t. I am actually working for you tomorrow night as a drinks’ waitress and I have to go home for some shut eye. And besides, it simply wouldn’t be very professional’.
Luckily or unluckily, my Italian Stallion, who had been deserted by his embryo, returned at that moment and propelled me in another direction. I looked back helplessly at Ruslen, who actually laughed and gave me a little wave. Suddenly I felt very exhausted. So, I made a decision. I leapt forward into the hordes of people, and then zigzagged about, before hurtling through the door, to escape, and to bed.
It had felt like a long day. But there was no reprieve, as when I climbed into bed, between the cool, white sheets, it became evident that the love-in, next-door, was again in full swing. So, I picked up my pillow and repaired to the lounge room, where I spent many hours awake, listening to the sounds of the night, and thinking about what the tall, blue eyed, Harry, might be doing right now. I looked at the lonely moon, floating so far above the Earth: so mysterious, so familiar, so near, and yet, so far.
Just after 3am, when I had finally fallen into a light doze, a stone shattered the window of the empty bedroom. Groggy and shocked, I staggered into the room to investigate. I saw jaggered fragments of glass covering the floor and the bed. Was someone after me? Or was this a random attack?
I did not know.
