Pants on Fire (17 page)

It was quite a nice flat in a 1920s block, with views of a little marina full of boats and out into the harbour, which was so thrilling after living in London. It was light and spacious, but practically empty. I'd assumed I would be moving into a furnished place and hadn't brought a thing with me apart from clothes and essential books and photos. Not that I owned anything practical anyway, because although I'd lived with Rick for five years, it was very much his place and his stuff—his Alessi kettle, his Fornasetti china, his Conran Shop cutlery. So I'd spent my first two days in Australia buying a bed, a kettle, one mug, one plate, one bowl, one knife, one fork, one spoon, one saucepan, one wooden spoon, and hiring a fridge and a telly.

Looking at my sad little kitchen, with one of those lonely half-pint milk cartons in the fridge, I remembered all the mad dinner parties we'd given at our place in Holland Park. A Burns Night with four fat haggis and Rick, looking wonderful in a kilt, reciting Robbie Burns's “Ode to a Haggis,” while Hamish played his bagpipes. The Ebony Dinner when everyone had to wear black and all the food was black to match. The Guilty Secrets Evening where everyone had to wear their secret garment and bring their secret food fetish—sweetcorn out of the tin, uncooked cake mix, condensed milk out of the tube, that kind of thing (mine was some of Gaston's biscuits). The dinner when everyone brought their pets and Rick's show-off friend Tony brought his horse (which I later found out had been drugged to keep it docile—I was furious) and someone else's ferret went missing.

I turned on the TV.
The World's Funniest Home Videos. The World's Worst Drivers.
A film from Iraq. A documentary about the last days of the Third Reich. And there, on Channel Seven,
Pick the Pony
—a brainless game show involving plastic horses in a pretend race with “our glamorous hostess—Phoebe Trill” wearing a red satin gown. I nearly puked as she flashed her silicon breasts and silicon smile at the camera. Mind you, it wasn't her fault her fiancé was a philandering bastard—I actually felt quite sorry for her—but that didn't mean I wanted her in my living room.

To distract myself, I started unpacking some of the boxes that had just arrived from England. The first thing I came across was a photo album. There were pictures of my entire family at a point-to-point, where Hamish had been competing. He looked so handsome and sweet with his cheeks bright red from exertion and his jodhpurs plastered in mud. There were pictures of me and crowds of loving friends sharing happy days at university. Pictures of a hilarious villa holiday in Greece with my three best friends. Me and Rick in Mexico and Iceland and Japan. I sobbed. What was I doing in this strange country where I didn't know anyone, when there were so many people (and dogs) back in Britain who loved me?

Suddenly the intercom buzzed and I picked it up, assuming it was a mistake.

“Special delivery,” said the voice of someone who was clearly holding their nose to disguise their identity.

“Who is it?”

“Special delivery for Ms. Abbott.”

I pressed the buzzer and opened my front door, ready to slam it again if necessary.

When the lift opened Liinda, Debbie and Zoe sprang out.

“Surprise!” said Zoe, holding up a plastic carrier bag containing several takeaway containers.

“We've brought you dinner,” said Debbie. “Sushi . . .” and they all collapsed into laughter and stumbled past me into the flat.

“Oh dear—reckon we got here just in time,” said Liinda. “She's been looking at photo albums . . . Mmm, like the guy in the leather pants . . . very Dylan McDermott. Look Debs, here's one for you, he's on a horse . . .”

I took it out of her hands and slammed it shut.

“Where are your glasses?” asked Debbie, shoving several bottles of white wine into my fridge.

“I've only got one and it's next to my bed, full of dusty water,” I said. “Is this a home invasion?”

“Yes,” said Liinda, who was banging kitchen cupboards and drawers open and shut. “Where are your ashtrays? Here's the corkscrew, Debs. Catch.”

“I haven't got an ashtray. I don't smoke. Why don't you use my head, Liinda?” I still hadn't forgiven her. She gave me the finger, but she was smiling.

“I'll go and ask your neighbours,” said Debbie. “I used to date a guy who lived in this building. He was a real spunk—maybe there are more of them.” She disappeared.

Zoe was unpacking the food. There were boxes and boxes of raw fish all over my floor.

I heard Debbie through the open front door and could tell by her voice that she was talking to a man. She came back with three wine glasses, an ashtray and a full report.

“Not bad, actually. Nice hair, but he was wearing a cheap watch.”

She opened a bottle of wine and sat on the floor with Zoe. Liinda joined them, opened a can of Diet Coke and lit a cigarette. They all picked up a piece of sushi and looked up at me.

“Come on,” said Zoe. “Come and have some sushi.”

“To what do I owe this honour?” I asked, sitting down. Debbie handed me a glass of wine. Zoe handed me a piece of tuna-topped rice. Then they all raised their pieces of fish and touched them together like they were making a toast. Debbie indicated I should do the same. Too depressed to argue, I did.

“Sushi sisters!” they said in unison, eating the fish followed by a large swig of wine or, in Liinda's case, Diet Coke.

“Come on,” said Debbie, and I ate mine too. “OK, now pick up another bit and say it with us.”

“Why?”

“Just do it,” said Zoe. “Humour us.”

What the heck, I thought, it was better than watching
Pick the Pony
on my own.

“Sushi sisters!” we cried.

“What's this all about?” I asked. “Why are we sushi sisters?”

They were grinning.

“We're sushi sisters . . .” said Zoe.

“Because we've all slept with the same man . . .” said Debbie.

I looked at each of them in amazement.

“Nick Pollock,” said Liinda.

“All of you?”

They nodded.

“Sadly Maxine couldn't join us,” she continued. “Or Kylie.”

“Kylie?”

More nods.

I couldn't believe it. “Has the entire
Glow
staff slept with him?”

“No,” said Debbie. “Only the really pretty ones.”

It was so appalling it actually made me feel a bit better.

“So I wasn't the only idiot to be taken in by his unctuous charms and the stories of his genius father?”

“No, we've all been fully sucked in,” said Zoe.

“And spat out,” added Liinda.

“I swallowed,” said Debbie, and they all roared with laughter. I was still too stunned by what they'd just told me to join in.

“But didn't you warn each other? And why didn't you warn me?”

“It's always too late,” said Zoe.

“He makes every woman think
she
is the special one,” Liinda explained. “Even multiply psychoanalysed me. Even devastating Debbie. Even Maxine the mighty. Even tiny little Zoe. Even smarty pants you. That's his talent. He can make intelligent, independent, normally rational women believe his bullshit. That's why we call him Pants On Fire—because he's the most unbelievable fibber and he is permanently horny.”

I looked at her in amazement. “But how does he do it? He's not that gorgeous . . .”

“He has an unerring instinct for what will work for each victim. With me it was endless discussions of the psychopathologies of our twisted families—and astrology.”

“For me it was shopping for clothes and going to the gym,” said Zoe, putting half a piece of raw fish back in the container.

“For me it was sex.” Debbie smiled at me as she drained her glass and poured us more wine. “And great drugs. He's got some secret source of the most wicked ecstasy I've ever taken . . .”

And that's when I started laughing. It was so ridiculous. All that crap about Shakespeare and books and what we would call our children. I told them about it and we laughed and laughed. And then we compared notes on his sexual performance, which we all agreed almost—
almost
—made it worthwhile.

And that led us on to the next bottle of wine and the filthy details of all our other disastrous romantic encounters and sexual escapades. By the third bottle I knew the exact circumstances in which all of them had lost their virginity (Liinda went to the loo at that point, I noticed), their first big loves, their favourite sexual positions, the best sex they'd ever had, their number-one turn-offs and the most treacherous things men had done to them. High on all our lists was Phone Torture, except for Debbie, who said her problem was men who wouldn't stop calling, but she could see it was a dastardly concept.

I grinned evilly at Liinda. “There's a coverline idea for you—oh, too late, we've already thought of it . . .” which was my way of letting her know I'd forgiven her.

At eleven-thirty I started yawning.

“I think I'd better go,” Zoe announced. “My personal trainer is coming at six tomorrow morning.”

“And I've got to get back to Wahroonga,” said Liinda.

“Where's that?” I asked.

“It's miles away,” said Debbie. “It's on the Upper North Shore—a really boring suburb.”

“It's a lovely suburb,” Liinda corrected her. “Full of nice middle-class families and their lovely children—and nowhere to get drugs, thank you Debbie. And it takes a while to get to work, which gives me plenty of time to read. You know, Debbie—books. Remember them? Those things you had at school, with pages.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Do you want to come out, Georgie? These two bores can go home and we can go to the Soho Bar, or the Blue Room. It's only quarter to twelve.”

“Debbie, it's Monday night . . .”

“Oh yeah, the Blue Room is closed on Mondays, but I think the International's open. Or Fix. Come on, it'll be fun.”

“No. I think I'll be boring and go to bed too, thanks. This has been fun, though. Thanks so much, all of you. I was feeling really homesick before you came—I was about to ring Qantas to find out the next plane I could get on. It was really nice of you.”

“Oh, get out of here,” said Liinda. “We couldn't let a sushi sister suffer.”

I went to bed laughing to myself. Bollocky Pollocky Pants On Fire.

Chapter Eight

The next morning we were all back in Maxine's office, sharing Panadols and laughing at new private jokes. For the first time I really felt part of the gang.

“Well, you're all in a good mood,” said Maxine. “Let's hope you're still smiling when we've finished looking at these cover pictures, eh? SERAPHIMA, CAN YOU BRING US SOME COFFEE AND TIM TAMS!” she shouted through the door.

Zoe had turned out the light and drawn the blinds and was now fiddling with a projector. She seemed nervous and kept dropping slides on the floor. Maxine was leaning back in her chair with her feet up on the desk and her hands behind her head.

“These had better be good,” she said. “I don't have money in the budget to keep shelling out for vastly overpriced pictures from American magazines. As I've told you time and time again,
Glow
is an Australian magazine and I want Australian models on the cover.”

Zoe knocked the entire carousel of transparencies onto the floor.

“Oh Jesus,” said Maxine. “Get your shit together, Zoe. Why do I have a sinking feeling? SERAPHIMA, WHERE'S THAT FUCKING COFFEE?”

I caught Liinda's eye. She took the cigarette out from behind her ear and clamped it between her teeth.

“Fasten your seat belt,” she growled out of the side of her mouth. “It's going to be a rocky ride.”

Seraphima came in with Maxine's coffee and a packet of biscuits.

“Ah,” said Maxine, tearing it open. “Tim Tams.”

“What's a Tim Tam?” I asked, looking at them curiously.

Maxine stopped with the biscuit halfway to her mouth and stared at me. “Are you telling me you've never eaten a Tim Tam?”

“I've never even seen one. What are they?”

She leaned forward conspiratorially and turned on her desk lamp. She held an oblong chocolate biscuit under the light and turned it over with reverence, as if she was showing me a precious artefact.

“This,” she said, “is a Tim Tam. Not just a chocolate-coated crispy biscuit sandwich with creamy chocolate filling, but a totem for Australian womanhood. This biscuit is our source of comfort when men turn bad, jobs turn boring and life, in general, sucks. Retiring to bed with a packet of Tim Tams is a crucial part of the heartbreak recovery process. It is with Tim Tams that we break our diets and mend our hearts.”

She looked at the biscuit with love, turned off the light and bit it in half.

“I'd better have one of those,” I said. It was great. Really munchy. “Mmm . . . these are good.”

“You should try one when you've had a few joints,” said Debbie.

“You should try them on a hot day after they've been in the fridge,” said Liinda.

“You should try one that's been frozen—you can use it as a straw to drink your coffee through,” Zoe chimed in between bites.

We all looked at her, astonished. She was actually eating a chocolate biscuit. And I hadn't seen any carrots in the vicinity.

“Do you really not have these in England?” asked Maxine. I shook my head. “You poor deprived little Pommy. Do you have an equivalent?”

I thought hard. “Well, milk chocolate digestives are popular, but I've always considered them overrated. Maybe Jaffa Cakes—I love the contrast of the crispy dark chocolate, the smooth tangy orange filling and the rough sponge—but they pall after a while and some people hate them. Club biscuits are good, especially the orange ones, but it's a bit hard on the teeth to eat more than one. A Penguin biscuit would be the closest, but I don't really like them. They were always a disappointing substitute for real chocolate. But these—” I took another bite, “—these are something special.”