Pants on Fire (11 page)

I must have looked crestfallen. I was just a pawn. A porn.

“But why was he so passionate in the park?”

Antony paused and seemed to look at me closely.

“Georgia, you are a very attractive woman, you know.”

I pulled a Quasimodo face.

“Stop that,” he said, flicking me with his napkin. “I'm sure Billy would have been chasing you for real a few months ago, before he got together with Lizzy. But really, this thing between them has been going on since they were teenagers. Everyone was mystified when she married Tom—it was like, uh? Wrong brother. But Billy just left it too long to ask her. He wanted to play the field, just one more year, one more year . . . So she married Tom, because he did ask her.”

“A Ryan in hand—”

“Is better than a Ryan in the park, as you discovered.”

“Well, I feel like a total idiot, but it does explain his weird behaviour. You know when he left the café on Monday—would he have been going to see Lizzy?”

“Definitely. Tom would have been playing golf.”

“Does everybody in Sydney know about this?” I was beginning to wonder if Liinda knew and that was why she'd told me to forget about Billy.

Antony patted my hand. “No. Absolutely not. I only know because Debbie tells me everything. And I've only told you because I want you to put him out of your mind. He's basically a nice guy—a bit thick, but very attractive, I do admit—and Debbie says it's tearing him up behaving like this. But he really does love Lizzy. It will all come out in the end, I'm sure.”

“So I guess he won't be ringing me then.”

“Well, he might, because he's a gentleman and I'm sure he enjoyed your company, and in his doltish way he'll think it would be nice to be friends. Plus it will help him cover if he's seen around town with a beautiful girl like you.”

“Oh Ant, you're so gallant. I wish it was true. Anyway, it's nice to have an esteem boost when I've just found out that my dream man is involved in a psycho-incest love triangle. What an unholy bloody mess. But to tell the truth, he is a bit of a dunderhead really, it was just the package that got me going.” I held out my glass. “Give me another drink, bartender.”

Maybe it was all the champagne and Antony's effervescent company, but I wasn't desperately upset about Billy. It was such a ridiculous mess I couldn't take it personally, but I did thank God I hadn't slept with him. Then I would have felt used. And somehow being told by Antony made it OK. He was scrabbling around doing something under the kitchen bench. Suddenly the music changed and the Astrud Gilberto which had been playing was replaced by the opening bars of “We Are Family.”

“Let's dance,” said Antony. “I want to see you shake that cute arse of yours.”

So I did. And Antony turned out to be a pretty good dancer too, whirling around in that big white room. It was a hoot. We danced until we were pooped and then we flopped onto Antony's big bed, because there was nowhere else to flop. It had a head-board and a footboard carved with flowers and washed with white paint, which were very comfortable to lean against.

While I had the chance, I wanted to ask him about all the new people I'd met.

“Antony,” I said, getting comfortable. “What do you know about Rory Stewart?”

“Very nice man. Sometimes I wish Debbie would marry him, but he's actually too intelligent for her. She'd drive him mad. Although they did go out when they were sixteen and she was having a temporary falling out with Drew . . .”

“Oh God, don't tell me any more. It's a miracle this lot don't all have two heads.”

He looked at me closely. “It's a shame, really, because Rory would have been nice for you.”

It was my turn to do some eyebrow raising. “Well, I must say I don't find him unattractive. He's not as stunningly good-looking as Billy on first sight, but when you get to know him, he's so nice and kind you start to find him gorgeous in his own way. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed he didn't ask me for my phone number . . .”

Antony's brows were doing the cancan.

“Good God, no!” he cried. “He couldn't possibly do that—you're Billy's squeeze.”

“What? But Rory knows Billy is having it off with his sister—he knows he's not really interested in me.”

“I know that, you know that, they know that, but they're pretending it isn't happening, remember? That's all part of the double bluff: Rory couldn't ask you out, because he'd be moving in on Billy's turf. They're mates. Mateship is a great Australian tradition,” he continued. “A real Aussie bloke would put his mate before his girl—and Billy and Rory have been friends since they were born. They're maaaates.”

I shook my head, bemused. “They're nuts, that's what they all are. They might be heavenly looking dream husbands, but they're all barmy. I thought the English middle classes were hung up, but this lot are positively constipated—I'm going to give them all a very wide berth.”

“I think that might be wise. And whatever you do, don't tell Debbie about it. Don't even tell her you met them. She'll be ridiculously jealous. She thinks all those men are her property, and in a way they are. Nothing has really been right in those three families since Debbie Brent grew breasts.”

I looked at my watch. It was after one and I was facing my second hangover in a week. And it was a school night. Good going, Georgia, I thought. You've been in Australia two weeks and you are already a drug-taking alcoholic embroiled in an ugly family scandal. I told Antony I had to go and he called me a cab.

When it arrived he came down in the lift with me and put me in it.

“Bye darling,” he said, kissing me warmly on both cheeks. Then he stopped, looked at me for a moment, and kissed me full on the lips.

Chapter Five

The next day I didn't feel quite as bad as I had on Monday morning. And a bacon sandwich at my desk first thing made me feel even better. Then I remembered that I had to pin Debbie down to arrange the shot for the couples makeover story that Maxine was so excited about.

I walked round to the beauty office. She wasn't in yet. It was ten-thirty and Kylie looked embarrassed. She was too nice a girl to be able to lie with any conviction and I had the strong impression that Debbie wasn't “doing appointments,” as Kylie was now telling me.

Then Debbie strolled in. With wet hair. I raised an eyebrow at Kylie, wondering if I'd caught the habit from Antony. Debbie was smiling broadly. She didn't take her sunglasses off.

“Hello girlies. How are we today? Having a little chinwag? Anything I should know?”

“Yes,” I said. “We're planning to steal your ball dress. How was your dinner last night?”

She wrinkled her perfect little nose. “Really boring. I met Peter at a weekend party in Bowral. I thought he was fun, but he turned out to be a major snore. Didn't have any coke on him and didn't even want any of mine when I offered it, which I thought was bloody rude. And he didn't want to go dancing after dinner. He said he wanted to ‘talk' more. What a drag.”

“So did you have a nice early night then, Debbie?” asked Liinda, popping her head round the door.

“Oh no, darling—five a.m. I made him take me to the Blue Room for some drinks and then I met this really nice guy. Quite yummy, actually. We had a really good time. Ended up at the Midnight Shift, can you believe it?” She started singing “Believe” by Cher and snapping her fingers; she was even dancing a bit. Liinda gave me a look and mouthed the word “ecstasy.”

“Debbie,” I said to her boogying back. “Maxine has had an idea for a shoot involving ten real people—”

She turned round and made a face. “Real people are so ugly. The pictures will be hideous. What is her stupid idea, anyway?”

Liinda sloped off—not enough raw emotion for her.

“She wants us to find five real couples and get the men to direct makeovers for the women, to see what kind of hair and make-up men really like on women.”

Debbie brightened up. “Great, if they're re-styling each other you won't need me, the stylist, will you? Kylie can organise the shoot and they can make each other look disgusting while I do something useful instead. OK? Now, Kylie, can you go and get me two coffees? Skinny lattes. Would you like a coffee, Georgie? OK—add a fat latte to that, Kyles, and whatever you want. I'll give you the money later—I need to go to the autobank. Actually, you could go for me, here you are. Get me $500. You know the number. So Georgie, how are you, anyway? How are you settling in to
Glow
and to Sydney?”

She was being amazingly friendly. She was smiling at me. Even if it was drug-fuelled, I liked it. No one could be unmoved by Debbie's smile on high beam.

“It's great, thank you. So far I really love it. Everyone is being so friendly . . .”

“That's great. I'm sure you'll fit in here. Have you met any nice men?”

“One or two. I went to Danny Green's hat party on Sunday, that was really fun.”

“Oh, I normally go to that but I couldn't be bothered this year. Had a big night on Saturday and I forgot to get Antony to make me a hat, so I had nothing to wear.”

“I met your friend Antony. He's really lovely.”

“Well, don't go falling for him, will you—he's gay. A poofter. Useless.”

“I meant he's lovely as a friend. He's so much fun.”

“Oh yes, he makes beautiful frocks, but you don't want to be seen hanging around with gay men in public too much. Puts real men off. So, did you meet anyone else?”

“Jasper O'Connor.”

“Yeauuch. So you've met a screaming queen and a pathetic failure—not doing very well are you? I know all you English girls come out here to get laid, so we'd better do something about it. Mind you, I don't blame you. I spent a year in London after I finished school and those Pommy guys were hopeless in bed. One of them kept apologising.” She started laughing. “I'm so sorry,” she said in a good take-off of an English public-school voice. “I'm frightfully sorry, I'm afraid I just had a little orgasm. I do hope you don't mind.” She laughed and laughed. “What a waste of time. So I can understand why you moved out here. I wonder if we know any people in common in London. I go there so much. Where did you go to school?”

My obscure Scottish boarding school didn't impress her, but when I told her my brother had been to Winchester she perked up.

“Oh, do you know Freddie Swinton and Toby Ayres? They both went to Winchester. They're both gorgeous. Toby's mother is Italian . . .”

It went on like this for quite a while and then she opened her diary and pulled out a big pile of invitations.

“Now what do we have this week? What can I take you to that will be throbbing with Australian manhood . . . Mmm, an opening at the Glenmore Road Gallery—oh, that was last week; launch of a new Ralph Lauren fragrance tonight, which I'm going to, but there won't be any men, just single beauty editors—although there will be free perfume, which makes it worthwhile. Someone's launching a new mobile phone next week—that'll be good for suits, we should go to that—but I want to take you to something this week, so you'll realise that there are men in Sydney apart from queens and potheads. What else? Another gallery opening tonight, which I'll call in at on my way to Ralph Lauren. Do you want to come to that?”

“No, I'm too tired. And I look awful—I had a big night last night.”

She looked at me over the top of her shades.

“Yes, you do look a bit blotchy. Let's see what else is here. The welcome party for some boring person at Opera Australia—give that a big miss, wall-to-wall poofters. Opening of a shoe shop in Mosman—over the bridge, forget it. Aha! This is perfect—tomorrow night's the fashion parade at David Jones. It's the preview of the new winter collections and it's always a good party. Lots of men at that. OK? We'll leave straight from here, no time for hair and make-up—I'll get Marco to blow-dry my hair in the morning—but you'll have to dress up a bit.”

She looked me over like a horse she wasn't at all sure about buying. I wondered if I should show her my teeth.

“Yes. Wear a dress. Something skimpy. And you might try combing your hair. Do you ever go to the hairdresser?”

“It has been known. Don't worry, I'll wash it. And thanks, Debbie. It's really nice of you.” I sat on my hands so she couldn't see my nails.

“You're most welcome.” She gave me one of her arc-light smiles, and once again I could see why the entire Stewart and Ryan families had been in love with her. “I'd hate you to get the wrong impression of Sydney. And you can introduce me to all your brothers' friends next time I'm in London. So, you'll tell Maxine that Kylie will organise her shoot—OK?”

I nodded, aware that my audience with Her Highness was now over. Sure Debbie, I thought, as I went back to my own office, I'll take all the flak for you not wanting to do a shoot specially requested by the editor, if you'll introduce me to some men. What was I coming to?

 

 

Debbie was right about the smorgasbord of suitable men at the David Jones fashion parade—I just wish I'd inspected the buffet a little more closely before filling my plate. Because the one I chose was Nick Pollock. Also known, by quite a large sector of Sydney's female population, as P.O.F.—which stood for Pants On Fire. But I didn't know it then.

It was a great party, I must say. Lots of ladies in Chanel suits accompanied by their po-faced husbands, and a good smattering of Bright Young Things to make it look less like a plastic-surgery convention. I was an honorary BYT, tagging along with Debbie, who'd been to All the Right Schools and told me she knew All the Right People for me to meet. Because I had gone to an OK school in Scotland and my brother had gone to a very OK one in England, I was granted instant membership to her exclusive group of polo-playing, beach-house-owning, BMW-driving, bond-dealing, cocaine-snorting buddies.