Dog Handling (7 page)

“Going to a party?” Liv asked.

“Just a club night in Oh so low,” he replied.

“Oh so low? What’s that?”

“It’s what we call Soho, honey. Real dive, but I’ve been at the office all day so needed a little deeee-stress.” He smiled. “I intend to get totally arseholed tonight. So you’re new in town?” he asked.

“How can you tell?” Liv picked up the ice cream and grabbed a packet of Oreos, too, as they headed for the checkout together.

“Your skin’s blue. Clearly not a native.” He examined her shopping closely. “Night in alone, eh?” he asked sympathetically.

“Yeah.” Liv confided, “Had quite a few of those lately. I was pissed on from a great height by the man I was supposed to marry.”

“Never? But you’re gorgeous, darling. What was he thinking?” He pouted as Liv loaded her shopping into a plastic bag. This was exactly the kind of response she loved. Yeah, dumbass Tim.

“That he could do better. Clearly. You know, I haven’t so much as kissed another man for five years.” Liv was beginning to know how people felt on
Springer.
Once you got into the habit of confessing the stuff of your soul to total strangers it was hard to stop.

“You are kidding me?” He stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes lit up. “Well, fate could not have been kinder to you tonight, sweetness. We are going to a party.” He took Liv by the arm and led her out of the shop. “I’m Dave, by the way. Venture capitalist by day. Miss Pussy Whiplash
par nuit.”
He held out his Schiapperelli pink–nailed hand, Liv wasn’t sure if she was meant to shake it or kiss it.

It wasn’t until several hours later that Liv realised that the sticky mess at her feet signalled the sad demise of her Rainforest Crunch. And as it was by now one in the morning and she’d been on the Orgasms for the last few hours, neither did she care. She was perched on a bar stool in a sweaty room surrounded by drag queens and the cutest taut-chested, high-bottomed men she had ever seen. And bar a few females who looked like they could be the bouncers, she was the only woman in the place. Not that this improved her chances of anything other than being able to shamelessly ogle the talent. Some men were dressed as devils, others glittered as angels, and one was Monica Lewinsky with attendant cigar and large hair. The floor show was about to begin and the lights dimmed in preparation for Dave’s entree.

For Dave just happened to be the most spectacular live act this side of the opera house, and, having introduced Liv to all his friends and plied her with innumerable Orgasms (the alcoholic variety, he had reassured her when he offered her one and she looked dubiously at his frock), was now about to entertain her. Along with about five hundred gay men.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Pussy Whiplash. Please give her a warm hand.” The compere pouted as the strains of Cher’s “Life after Love” began. Dave exploded into the room and began to belt out his number. With sucked-in cheekbones he mimed his way through the song, and Liv couldn’t help thinking that if Cher were there she might be very flattered. Dave had the best set of legs this side of a
Sports Illustrated
calendar and all the men, and even the bouncer-women, were enthralled. As the audience whistled, Dave leaned across the bar and flicked one fake-eyelashed eye at the man standing next to Liv. Liv had already deduced this was Dave’s boyfriend, James.

“Lucky you,” laughed Liv, and waved her hands in the air in what passed for a dance to the untrained eye. The last time Liv had moved to music with such abandon had been to “The Land of Make-Believe” by Bucks Fizz when she was eleven.

“Ooh, baby, he was great. So, James, how long have you guys been together?” Liv asked as the lights went up again and Dave, alias Cher, clicked his heels backstage to disrobe, or whatever one does after a bout of Cher-ness.

“Call me Greta, darling. I’m only James when the sun’s above the yardarm.” James smiled. He had arched eyebrows and a cigarette in a holder. “About eight years, which doesn’t seem to have been even slightly impaired by the fact that we work for rival city firms.”

“Two investment bankers in one night.” Liv pondered. “So it is possible to work in finance and be interesting. Must just be me who isn’t.”

“Oh, for sure.” James—sorry, Greta—smiled. Actually, James pronounced it “Greeter” with a heavy Aussie accent and it was a reference to his Greta Garbo apparel, which was disturbingly convincing. Except for the fact that Greta was beginning to sport a two-in-the-morning shadow—but Liv figured that just added to his moody Swedish allure.

Two hours and even more Orgasms later, Liv was trying very hard to focus on Greta, but her eye had begun wandering in a spastic fashion to Dave and a member of the New Zealand Ballet Company, who were rhumbaing the early hours away on the bar.

“All over the world women are being slowly murdered by their lingerie,” Greta whispered. “Too tight. Too constricting. Which is fine for a night like tonight. But for day wear? A woman needs comfort and support.”

“You can say that again,” said Liv, now downing her seventh Orgasm. “And not just from her bra.”

But Greta wasn’t in the mood to discuss emotional dalliances. Greta had business in mind. “Which is why Greta’s Grundies are going to be headline news internationally. A bra that looks binding but fits like it’s not there at all. Know what I’m saying?” He winked at Liv and she nodded seriously. She made a point of never laughing when paralytic. It was the only rule she could remember, but it stood her in good stead. It meant that she didn’t offend anyone and therefore never got her nose broken. Unless, of course, she tumbled headlong into a bar stool or table.

“So if I pay, you promise me you’ll do it?” Greta asked. What felt like minutes but must have been hours later, given that Liv now had no feeling in her left leg and the Rainforest Crunch was now just a cluster of nuts. Liv found herself staring into the heavy-lashed eyes of He-Greta and trying to remember what terrible thing she’d agreed to do.

“Sure. You’ve got my number. Just call me,” she said, trying to cast her mind—well, what was left of it—back to a moment earlier in the evening when Greta had offered her money for something. Not old rope. Not her body, she didn’t think. Though that was pretty old rope–ish itself. God, she had to remember. Think, Liv. Think. What was the meaning of life and what on earth have you promised you’ll do for this Greta Garbo with facial hair?

Chapter Six

Liv Makes a Clean Breast of Things

L
iv had taken the precaution of closing the shutters so that a random Peeping Tom on his yacht on the ocean couldn’t get a butchers at her through his telescope or on his radar or whatever. Then, recollecting a
Blue Peter
recipe, she mixed up some flour-and-water paste, took out a copy of yesterday’s
Sydney Morning Herald,
and began to mould the papier-mâché to her chest. What she had drunkenly agreed to do was be at work at their market stall on Saturday mornings and be the sample size for Greta’s Grundies lingerie. The boys had made some very pretty but, understandably, rather distorted underwear because it had been modelled on Dave, who had only foam boobs and more round the front than round the back in the knickers department. They’d spotted Liv’s very average girl shape at once and, dressed in business suits and city attire at lunch the day after the big night, had persuaded her to offer her body up for their services.

Though working in a market stall and flashing her tits wouldn’t have been her career of choice, it was a lot more fun than spreadsheets. She gasped as she slapped the papier-mâché on her skin, but the cold was quite soothing in the outrageous midday heat and so as not to crack the mould she lay down on the sofa. Every ten minutes she knocked on the newspaper, but it wasn’t drying. Eventually she picked herself up and shuffled over to the bathroom and took the hair dryer to her chest. But just as it was setting, just as the newspaper and glue hardened over her bust, Laura walked in the door, trailing a ceiling-scrapingly tall woman. Not wanting to seem rude, Liv reached out to shake her hand.

“I’m Liv Elliot. Nice to meet you,” Liv said as though having Laura Train Wreck and her friends wander through the house as though it were an art gallery was the most normal thing in the world. Well, it was certainly a regular occurrence. And as she held out her hand the papier-mâché chest fell to the floor, leaving Liv decorated only by a few columns of weather forecast and the cricketing news.

“I’m Suzanne. I’m a psychotherapist,” the woman replied, and nodded sagely at Liv. A grimace formed on Laura’s brow.

“Just helping a friend out,” Liv twittered, plunging to the floor and reapplying the cast before it set. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I just have to go and finish myself off.” Liv closed the bathroom door behind her and splashed some water onto her mould to soften it.

When Liv turned the tap off she heard hushed and urgent tones filtering in from the living room.

“She’s English,” Laura whispered.

“I think that girl probably has some issues,” Suzanne muttered. “Serious case of exhibitionism. It’s a power thing, I think. In keeping with the lingerie fixation. The lingerie is about placing a veneer of unattainability between herself and the world outside.”

“But did I tell you that I think she could be abusing substances, too? It stinks of glue in there. And that talk about finishing herself off. You don’t really think she’ll commit suicide, do you?” Laura asked grimly.

Needless to say, Liv couldn’t imagine who Laura and the woman were discussing. She presumed that it must be an actress from Laura’s theatre company. Though she couldn’t think why they’d be surprised at an actress being a pathological exhibitionist. Just as long as they didn’t bring her anywhere near the house; otherwise Liv’s position as acting landlady would be severely compromised.

When Liv finally emerged from the bathroom wielding the perfect impression of her average breasts which James could use to make his bras, Laura and her shrink had gone, leaving Liv free to test-drive the leopard print G-string in comfort and privacy for the rest of the afternoon. Though it wasn’t a comfortable experience at all. She realised at once that if these knickers were for women, the first thing to be done was to remove the sagging pouch of fabric from the front and add it to the back, where a woman was grateful for all the coverage and support she could get.

“So you’ve met Laura then?” Alex asked as she swept across the airport car park with a slick wheelie suitcase in tow, looking sickeningly tanned and relaxed after her trip away with Charlie.

“She’s really sweet—all that therapy stuff’s a bit much, though. What happened to her?” Liv asked.

“Dunno. Charlie hasn’t said. But I guess we’ll worm it out of her eventually. Have you hung out with her much?” Alex walked to the front of the taxi queue and jumped into a waiting car ahead of a dozen businessmen. This was a perk afforded only to those confident few who had never had to suffer the indignity of camel-toe when they tried on their jeans.

“Nah, she pops up occasionally like a piece of toast, but I haven’t really seen anyone all week,” explained Liv.

“Well, I’m here now.” Alex gave Liv a huge hug. “Aren’t you glad to see me? Bet you’ve been bored out of your brain,” Alex said as the taxi sped away.

“Actually, I’ve sort of got a job. And I know I said I’d go sightseeing with you tomorrow, but I’ve got to work,” Liv said, feeling guilty at getting Alex over here on emergency standby and then dumping her.

“Not tomorrow you haven’t,” said Alex, pulling a couple of badges out of her bag and waving them under Liv’s nose. “I’ve got tickets for the gee-gees.”

“Horseracing?” Liv took the bright orange badges and examined them. Judging by the gold trim and little safety pin on the back, they were the business. Royal enclosure. Undoubtedly sitting on the Queen’s lap. Champagne, et cetera. Though she expected no less from Alex, Liv was actually quite looking forward to her first day of work.

“Well, I suppose I’d quite like to meet Charlie. But I reckon you’d have much more fun if you came to the stall with me,” Liv said, slipping the tickets back into Alex’s bag. “You’re going to love the boys.”

“What stall?” Alex pulled on her sunglasses and took in the blue sky as the driver went haring down the road.

“I’ve become a muse.” Liv tried to make her new job as a professional chest model sound glamorous. “This designer, James, wants me to be at the stall tomorrow to be the approachable face of high-fashion lingerie.”

“Who’s James?” Alex asked as they tore along the Pacific Highway.

“James is a designer. He’s part of a they. James and Dave. A gay they. I just should be there. It starts at six in the morning.”

“No way. We need our beauty sleep. It’ll be so much fun at the races. Charlie can give us some money to put on the horses with cute names and we’ll drink champagne until we fall over. That beats standing in the rain on some grotty market stall, doesn’t it?”

“Correction: Charlie will give
you
the money. I haven’t done anything to earn Charlie’s money and I’m going to the stall to make some dollars to feed myself. Plus this is Sydney, not Leeds. It won’t rain,” Liv reminded her.

“So where is he now?” Liv asked.

“Oh, he’s gone down to Royal Sydney for a round of golf. So have you heard from Tim?”

“Not a word.”

“Bastard probably thinks he’s being kind. Well, only a couple of months to go till he’s on his hands and knees grovelling in the gravel on our front path. I promise.”

But Liv was gone. Until now she’d not really had anything to remind her of Tim. Except of course for the collage of photos she’d pinned of him next to her bed and the Tiffany bean necklace he’d bought for her birthday, which she wore every day, and the fact that she could smell him on the T-shirt she wore at night that she deliberately hadn’t washed yet, though it was beginning to rot just a bit under the arms. Liv wanted to ask Alex if she’d heard any news of him from her network of globe-trotting friends, whether he’d been spied in any Notting Hill watering holes with unidentified blondes. Been seen in tears at the wheel of his car as he waited at traffic lights listening to “Can’t live if living is without you. . . .” But she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She had specifically instructed Alex not to tell her if she did have news of Tiny Tim, so unless she brought up the subject herself she’d never know.