Pants on Fire (6 page)

We got up and walked back through the park, Billy holding his shirt out from him as if it was radioactive.

“What a waste of a good shirt,” he said, dropping it in the first garbage bin we came to. “And I loved that one. It was my special Easter Show shirt. I always had a good time in it. But it doesn't matter how many times I wash it, it would always be the dog shit shirt now. People who don't pick up their dog's droppings should be shot. Why would you have a dog in the city, anyway? God, I feel stupid walking around with no shirt on.”

He didn't look stupid—even though he still had my hat on. He looked magnificent. His back was muscly, he had marvelous shoulders and, I noticed, a tattoo of a tiger on his left bicep.

“Nice tat, Billy.”

“Oh yeah, had it done when I was sixteen. Rory and I got drunk and went together. It was his idea.”

That surprised me—Rory had seemed so straitlaced. “What has he got?”

“A Maori symbol he found in a book. It's pretty cool. It means strength.”

“What does yours mean?”

“Grrr!” he said, making tigery faces and pretending to claw me.

When we got to the door of my building I suddenly realised I hardly knew this guy, and here I was letting him come up to my apartment. This was foolish behaviour. But he
was
Debbie Brent's cousin, I told myself, and I did work with her, so he wasn't a total stranger. I turned the key. I just hoped he understood that I was only inviting him in because his back was covered in excreta. It didn't mean I was asking him to stay the night.

“I wouldn't normally expect to come up to your place, Georgie,” he said as I opened the door to my flat. Mind-reader. “But they
are
slightly unusual circumstances—and I also need to apologise for kissing you on the dance floor ten seconds after we met. I'm sorry about that. It was rude, but I was just showing off to Rory. In fact, he dared me to do it . . .”

A dare? What was he talking about? Why would Rory dare Billy to kiss me? Was it because I was so ugly? Not judging by his performance in the park. I didn't know whether to feel insulted or just to let it pass. It was all so weird.

“Oh, that's fine,” I said, suddenly all brisk. “The bathroom's in there. There are clean towels in that basket and you can use my back brush—or maybe not . . . I'll get you a T-shirt.”

He disappeared inside. I didn't pour any drinks. I didn't put soft music on. I didn't take my clothes off. I just paced around, not knowing what to do with myself. One of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen was naked in my shower—I could hear the water running and him singing ‘car wash . . . woo ooo ooo . . .” through the door—and my heart was still racing from a combination of all those little platey licks and our passionate snogfest under the stars. So I did what I always do when I don't know what to do. I had a drink of water. When I turned round from the sink, Billy was standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair wet and slicked back, a white towel around his waist and that smile on his face.

Seconds later we were in my bed.

Now, I'd been working on women's magazines long enough to know that the best way to kill a romance before it begins is to sleep with a guy on the first date. But he was gorgeous. All over. Not an ounce of fat on the man. I felt like I was losing consciousness.

Then something funny happened. Or rather, it didn't happen. His body was hard as rock all over—except for the one place it really mattered.

“Georgie,” he said, as it became patently obvious to both of us that things were not quite right. “I don't think this is a good idea.”

“You're right,” I said, secretly relieved. “I'm sorry. I never should have let it get this far, but it was unusual circumstances like you said.” Not to mention that I'd ingested about twenty-five fingerfuls of Class A drugs, two bottles of champagne and several puffs of supersonic hydroponic Sydney smoko.

“I'm the one who should be sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to take advantage of you, but it was such an amazing night and it just sort of happened. I think I'd better go home. Would you mind?”

“No, it's a good idea, before we do anything else stupid. I'll get you that T-shirt.”

I got up quickly, glad he was going—it meant I wasn't a slut after all. But I was also sad, confused, disappointed and embarrassed. What had gone wrong? He'd been like a raging bull in the park and then, when we were in a more appropriate locale, it had all closed down. Had he suddenly realised I was repulsive? What was the matter with me? First I had made Rick turn to hookers and now I'd made macho-man Billy Ryan turn to jelly. Was this all part of the dare with Rory?

“Georgie, give me your phone number. Please. I'm not a bastard, really. I would like to see you again. I'd really like to be friends.”

Friends?
What was that supposed to mean? I found a business card and gave it to him. If he wanted to be “friends” he could ring me at work. He looked at it and looked back at me, with a winning half smile.

“Can I have your home number as well? I'll call you tomorrow. We can go and have brunch or something.”

Yeah right, I thought, but I wrote my home number on the back anyway. He gave me a warm kiss on the cheek and left. I pulled horrible faces at the closed door for a while and then, after five more glasses of water, I got into bed and screamed into the pillow.

Chapter Three

I don't want to dwell on how I was feeling physically when the phone woke me up the next morning. It was not good. It took a while for the far-away bell in my dream to register as the phone. My voice must have sounded even huskier than Liinda's.

“Hurro?”

“Georgie! I was just about to give up on you. Thought you'd gone out for a jog. How are you?”

“Uh?”

“It's Billy. You know, Dog-shit Billy.”

“Oh Billy, hi, how are you.” That's romantic, I thought. Dog-shit Billy. Lovely.

“How am I?” he replied, in a disgustingly perky voice. “I'm bloody starving and I thought you might like to come and have some brekkie. I presume you don't have to go to work today? Too bad if you do, because it's nearly eleven-thirty. Why don't you come and have breakfast with me at Bondi? Get some sea air into your lungs, that'll wake you up.”

I felt a bit better already at the thought of seeing Billy's face again. And Billy's shoulders.

“That would be lovely. Where shall I see you?”

“I'll come and pick you up. Can you be ready in fifteen?”

Years, maybe, I thought as my mouth said, “Sure, sure. Great. See you in er . . . fifteen, then?”

“Beauty,” he said and hung up.

I flopped back onto the pillow. I was feeling so sick—just moving my head was torture. But I was grinning. Beautiful Billy, the farming broker, the disco king, the perfect man with perfect manners (apart from the odd unannounced tonguer), had rung me less than twelve hours after I'd last seen him. Rock and roll. I now had twelve minutes to get ready.

I spent six of them in the shower, hoping that the therapeutic effect of water on the head would make me feel better. After forcing down a banana as a pill cushion, I swallowed two painkillers and six glasses of water, while fantasising about Antony's bottle of Coca Cola. The phone rang. It was Antony.

“Hello. How are you this fine and glorious morning?”

“I are terrible, how is you?”

“Oh, I'm marvellous. Just walked in the door. Starving. Want some breakfast?”

I couldn't believe it. “You just walked in the door? From last night?”

“Ye-es,” he said, as if I'd asked a peculiar question. “And I don't feel ready to sleep yet, so I thought you might like to have some bloody marys and a steak sandwich with me at the Bourbon and Beefsteak.”

“That would have been lovely, Antony, but I'm already doing something. I'm just rushing out the door, actually. Perhaps we could do it some other time?”

“Whatever. Have a nice time. Goodbye,” he said, completely unperturbed.

A quick look out of the window revealed a perfect summer day, so I threw on a very short, striped T-shirt dress, a pair of slides and my old Panama hat, with the lack of care that comes only from feeling extremely ill and having one minute to get ready. The doorbell rang at exactly 11:45. And it wasn't until I was riding down in the lift that I remembered I hadn't given Antony my phone number.

Billy was waiting for me on the pavement, looking just as attractive in daylight as he had by the light of the Milky Way. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt and his hair was wet again. I wondered idly what kind of car a farmer broker would drive and was secretly thrilled when he walked up to a really beaten-up old “ute.” He opened the passenger door for me and I was met by a hot wet tongue.

“Scoobs, stop it!” came Rory's voice from inside. “Don't worry, she's just being friendly. Scoobs, stop it. Come here.”

“Hello Rory,” I said, surprised. “Hello Scooby. How lovely to meet you. I see even Australian dogs like to tongue-kiss people they haven't been introduced to. Did you dare her as well, Rory?”

He laughed heartily and Billy went red, which made me feel vindicated. Then, with Scooby sitting on Billy's knee, both front legs and her entire upper body hanging out the window, and me sandwiched between the two men, we set off for Bondi.

The three of us made jokey chit-chat about the party and the outrageous hats, while I tried not to let the throbbing diesel engine and the smell of Scooby make me feel even sicker. Behind the talk, my head was racing. Was I abnormal for thinking that it was a little strange of Billy to bring Rory along?

It was Billy I had snogged. It was Billy who had lain naked in my bed (not for long, admittedly). Rory seemed nice enough, but I thought I was having a let's-get-to-know-each-other-better breakfast with Billy, not Rabbit's friend, relations and pets as well. Perhaps they were gay, I thought for a moment, but then I stopped caring.

The sun was shining and Crowded House came on the radio singing “Weather with You.” The happiest guitar break in history always makes me smile and when Rory turned it up, saying “I love this song,” we all sang along. Scooby howled. OK, I thought, my hot date is a foursome, including a dog, and my mouth feels like the inside of a junk-shop handbag, but my life could be worse. And as Billy's leg pressed into me on one side and Rory's hand touched my knee every time he changed gear, I thought, yes, it could be much worse.

All too soon we pulled up at a café with outside tables and views right over the surf. It was only the second time I'd been to Bondi and it still amazed me. Such incredibly ugly buildings and then that jaw-dropping beach. But even covered with people as it was on this bank holiday morning, once you turned your back on the awful cheap brick apartment buildings and burger shops, it had such a powerful vibe.

“You should go for a swim after brekkie,” said Billy. “Get your head under the surf. Guaranteed to cure a hangover.”

“What makes you think I've got a hangover?” I asked him, crossing my eyes.

“Just an informed guess.” That smile again.

Scooby came with us, carrying her own bone, which Rory had thrown to her from the back of the ute. She sat quietly under the table and was given a bowl of water by a waiter who knew her name. Rory poured some milky coffee into it.

“Love your coffee, don't you Scoobs?” he said.

She certainly lapped it up eagerly. When she seemed settled I slipped off my slides, and put my feet on her warm, furry back and scrungled my toes in her smooth fur. Dog therapy. She turned her head and licked them a bit and then went back to her bone.

The boys had the full hangover breakfast, but I was still feeling sick so I ordered plain toast. This was unusual. I'm normally the one who has two fry-ups, a brace of cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels and then heads to Burger King to fill up after a big night out. This morning, though, the thought of crispy bacon was repellent. I didn't want to own up to myself that this might have something to do with Antony's dinner plate and the magic white powder. Not good, I thought, wondering if there were any public loos in the vicinity. They could come and film some up-to-date anti-drug propaganda for schools starring Georgiana Abbott as the Class A desperado.

Rory was speaking to me.

“Sorry? What?” I said.

“How long have you been in Sydney?”

“Oh, um, two weeks yesterday.”

“How do you like it?”

“It's great. I've found a really good place to live in Elizabeth Bay—I can see water, which is thrilling—and the job seems OK. It's all very new still, but everyone's been so friendly.”

“What do you do?”

“I work on
Glow—
”

“Oh that's right, with Debs. How is she?”

“She's great. Really great,” I said, wondering if we always had to talk about Debbie, who seemed to have quite enough male attention as it was, judging by the amount of flowers that arrived at the office for her every day.

Billy was rather quiet. In fact, he was reading the paper. Great. And it was the real estate section, not even the times of movies or something interesting like that. Rory leaned down to give Scooby some bacon scraps and smiled up at me when he saw my feet on her back.

“I hope you don't mind me er . . . borrowing your dog,” I said, feeling as if I'd taken a liberty.

“Not at all. I'm glad you like her. Do you have a dog back in England?”

“Yes.” My eyes immediately filled with tears. “He lives with my parents, but he's my dog. Gaston. He's a French bulldog.”