Pants on Fire (16 page)

“Hello, this is Hamish Abbott. You know the drill. . .” Just as I was about to start howling with frustration he picked up.

“Hurrrgh?” said a very croaky voice.

“Hamish?” I asked. I wasn't sure.

“Hurrghggggh . . .”

“Horsehead?”

“Hey, Big Bum—is that you?”

“Yes, it's me—what on earth is wrong with you?”

“Point-to-point. Fell off. Wagon. Fell off . . . Got in at six, feel indescribably awful—thought you might be someone who was at the Cross Foxes last night ringing to remind me what I'd done. Was trying to keep my options open re: identity, mine.”

I had homesick tears in my eyes, but I was grinning. Billy Ryans and Nick Pollocks may come and go but some things never changed, including my party-animal brother, his flair for getting into trouble and his ability to make me laugh.

“Hamish, you are terrible. How many girls did you kiss?”

“Hueeurrrrgh . . .”

“That bad, was it?”

“I'm a very bad boy, Porgie. I think somebody put something in my drink.”

I snorted. “Yeah, more drink probably.”

“Hmmm. How are you, anyway? How are the colonies? Found me a job yet? Found yourself a husband?”

“No, to all of the above. The colonies are great, but Hame . . .” I let out a very wobbly sigh. “Oh, why are men so awful?”

“I wish I knew. Then I might be able to stop myself. It's just that women are so very attractive . . . Want me to come over there and kill him for you?”

“Yes.”

“Find me a job on one of those big farms they have in Australia, where all I have to do is ride around all day and there's a decent pub within two days' hack, and I'll come over and kill him, OK? No, I'll horsewhip him, that's even better. Preserve the Abbott honour.”

I couldn't help smiling, Hamish always made me feel better. “OK, it's a deal. Now go back to sleep and try not to break any more hearts than is strictly necessary.”

“Wilko. Bye-bye, Big Bum. Lots of love.”

“Lots of love to you, Horsehead.”

Chapter Seven

So that was my Sunday, and on Monday morning I went in to work and an ideas meeting where I couldn't believe my ears.

Liinda was suggesting a story called: “Phone Torture—Why Guys Don't Call.”

“Not bad,” said Maxine. “Torture's a good word and you feel like you're getting some inside info, but it's still a bit bald. Have you got any ideas, Zoe?”

“Er . . . ‘How To Make Him Call You'?”

“No, not tortured enough. We need pain and suffering, hope and possible catastrophe. The tension of the unringing phone. Debbie?”

“What's it about? Men who don't call when they say they will? That's never happened to me . . .”

“Somebody please hit her. Why did I even ask you? Just go back to sleep and when we're working on a story called ‘What It's Like Being a Goddess,' I'll wake you up. OK, come on the rest of you, someone has an idea, surely?”

I had a very good idea. It involved a sharp implement and Liinda Vidovic's head, but as we were in a public place I thought I'd better restrain myself.

“So what we're really looking at here,” I said between gritted teeth, “is, ‘Why Some Total Shits Lose the Use of Their Arms and Don't Call You When They Say They Will'?”

“Exactly.”

“OK,” I continued. “What about—”

“How about ‘Why Guys Say They'll Call and Why They Don't'?” This was Liinda, of course.

“Liinda, shut up for a moment, would you?” I snapped at her and turned back to Maxine. “What about ‘The Date Was Great, But Will He Call Again?' ”

Maxine beamed to me. “That's brilliant, Georgia, we've got it. But I think we'll use the ‘Phone Torture' line as well.”

“Or,” I added, “we could just tell the truth—‘The Fuck Was Great, But Will He Call Again?' . . . eh, Liinda?” I punched her arm in a gesture that could have been seen as playful, except I was deadly serious. I had to get out of there before I did her some grievous bodily harm.

“Maxine,” I said. “I've got to make some calls to New York, before it's too late. Can I duck out?” I stood up. “And I'll see you later,” I hissed into Liinda's ear as I passed her.

I was furious with her. OK, so we'd had that conversation about her using friends' experiences for inspiration, but she knew how upset I was about Nick Pollock and I couldn't believe she was doing this while it was all so raw. I was amazed that she could be such a good friend one day and so totally treacherous the next. Of course I shouldn't have been stupid enough to tell her, but I'd needed somebody to talk to and I really didn't think she would be so shameless.

I sat at my desk and fumed for a while until I heard the meeting break up. Then I phoned Seraphima and told her to go and tell Liinda I wanted to see her immediately.

“She's just gone downstairs for a cigarette break,” said Seraphima.

“GO and GET her,” I said, instantly regretting being short with Sera, whom I was beginning to adore. I don't get angry often, but when I do I can spark nuclear fission with a look. And I was furious with Liinda. Although of course the person I was really furious with was Nick Pollock and, more than anyone, with myself. But Liinda would do.

At that moment the phone rang.

“Pinkie?” It was Jasper O'Connor. Great. Just what I needed. Another slimeball who comes on like Elvis Presley at a clambake and then turns up moments later with a supermodel on his knee. I pretended not to know who it was.

“Hello? This is Georgiana Abbott, deputy editor,
Glow
magazine, how can I help you?”

My voice could have etched glass. It has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that Alfred Hitchcock would have loved me in this mood. The ice maiden cometh.

“Pinkie—it's Jazzie.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Jasper—Jasper O'Connor, I met you at Danny Green's hat party. We danced on the roof . . .”

“Oh, yes. I remember now. How are you?”

“I'm perfect, Pinkie. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Rather busy, actually. Is there something I can help you with?”

There was a pause. I was being a total bitch. I didn't care.

“Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come and sit on my verandah this evening and have a long drink.”

“Oh that's terribly sweet of you Jasper—” no one can make the word “sweet” sound more patronizing than a pissed-off Pom, “—but I've got something on. Perhaps we could catch up for a coffee sometime? Why don't you call me next week? Anyway, I must go. Goodbye.”

I hung up. At that moment the creature from the black lagoon walked through my door, her mouth open ready to say something.

“Shut the door. Shut up and sit down.” Liinda looked a bit surprised, but she did what she was told. I folded my arms and just looked at her. She didn't have her bag with her. Good, no knife.

“How could you?” I said after a long silence.

“How could I what?”

“That coverline idea of yours—‘Phone Torture.' I used those exact words to you on the phone yesterday. How could you do it? The very next day!”

She turned up her palms. “I warned you, Georgia. I warned you that I do this. You still rang me. My conscience is clear.”

“But you were so supportive and kind to me yesterday and then this morning—this! How could you be so insincere?”

“I was completely sincere yesterday. And I'm still really sorry that he hurt you like that. But I never let a good coverline pass me by. I owe that to Maxine. And it is a brilliant coverline. Phone torture has happened to every woman at some time and that will make them buy the magazine. Stop being so self-centred. Think about the common good.”

“Is this magazine a communist regime?”

“Oh come on, George. I'm sorry I hurt you, but that's me. I told you—I do it to my best friends all the time.”

“Well, you could have waited a few weeks.” I stood up and paced around the room, kicking things. “This is not what I call friendship, Liinda. This is sick behaviour and I'm not as stupid as your so-called friends. I will not be coming to you with any of my problems in future. I think everyone on this magazine is gone in the head. You're all junkies or bulimics or tragic princesses, and all the men in this town are psychos too. I don't know why I came here. You all smile and dance all the time and the sun's always shining but you're all totally fucked.”

And I burst into tears. Liinda got up and came and put her arm round me.

“FUCK OFF! Don't come near me with your fake friendship and your twelve-step bloody bullshit. I'm sick of it. Go away and leave me alone.”

She did and I sat at my desk crying. Seraphima came in with a cup of tea and a box of tissues and went out without saying anything, little treasure that she is. I didn't stop crying until I glanced up and saw Debbie looking at me. Great. Now the beautiful Debbie Brent was going to see me with snot running down my face and a red nose. She put a jar of Chanel eye gel on my desk.

“This will help the puffiness,” she said and went to the door. “I'm sorry I don't have anything for red noses . . . And Georgie, I really am sorry about Nick Pollock, we should have warned you. I just never dreamed he'd move in on you like that—I thought he was serious about Phoebe and I didn't think he'd do it. There are good men in Australia, Georgie. Believe me.”

She looked very sad and, with her glamorous front let down for just a moment, she looked more beautiful than ever. I knew she was thinking about Drew.

“That's OK, Debbie,” I said, in between sniffs. “It's not anyone's fault except his. I'll get over it, but it's all been a bit much when I'm so far from home. I've been so buoyed up with the excitement of moving here, but this has made me feel really homesick.”

“Do you like the bush?” she said suddenly.

I must have looked dense. I was thinking, what bush? What is she talking about? A rhododendron? The burning bush?

“The country,” she explained.

“Oh, yeah. I love the country. I grew up in the country.”

“Good. Well, perhaps you'd like to come to my parents' farm one weekend. It's really beautiful. You can ride or walk, or just lie around. My parents would love to meet you.”

I looked up at her in surprise. She was genuine. “I'd love that. Thank you.”

She smiled and left.

It was very sweet of Debbie, I thought as I sat and drank my tea, not to mention bloody amazing for her to think about someone else for a millisecond. It would be nice to spend a weekend in the country, but I wondered if seeing someone else with their loving parents might just make me miss mine even more. Because at that moment I was missing them like crazy.

If I'd ever felt as miserable in London as I did that Monday at my desk in Sydney, I would have got straight on the phone to my mum. Hamish always made me laugh, but Mum really knew how to comfort me. She'd never have grasped the particular subtleties of the situation (and I certainly wouldn't have told her the grisly details), but in her endearingly vague way she would tell me funny stories about what Gaston had been doing and the latest chapter in his ongoing love/hate relationship with her haughty cat, Clarissa (Gaston loves Clarissa, Clarissa hates him). Or she'd tell me about a new rose that had bloomed for the first time, and my father's latest mad project for a watercourse in the garden.

But all that cosiness was 12,000 miles and twenty-four very uncomfortable hours away, and I couldn't ring them because it was the middle of the night there. Maybe moving to Sydney hadn't been such a bright idea. I knew nobody here—not a soul apart from the lunatics I worked with and a few people I'd met at parties.

I went out on my own at lunchtime into the still-unfamiliar streets. All the people looked weird. The women were wearing appalling suits. The men looked too tall and lummocky. The buses were too noisy. The crossing signal sounded gross and stupid. It was incredibly humid and my clothes stuck to me. I wandered around in a hideous underground food court looking for something I could bear to eat. In the end I just bought an apple and drifted into Grace Bros., thinking some retail therapy might help. But one look at a display of terrible handbags sent me straight out into the street again, more depressed than ever. As I walked back to the office, a thought suddenly stood me still in my tracks. What the fuck was I doing here?

Back in my room I took one bite of the apple, which had a thick, highly waxed skin and floury flesh. I threw it in the bin, thinking of the crisp Cox's Orange Pippins in my mother's orchard.

I turned to work for distraction, reading through the regular contributors' columns for the April issue before passing them on to the sub-editors. I was pleased to note that Geminis like myself could look forward to “the chance to meet new people and have a lot of new experiences. But you also have an important lesson to learn, Ms. Gemini. Trust your instincts and life will seem a lot less mysterious.”

Well, my instincts hadn't done me much good with Nick Pollock who, as a Pisces, could anticipate “new starts in many parts of your life. Your horizons are expanding, but maybe the real love of your life is closer to home than you think.”

Yeah, I thought, in the mirror . . . and the new starts would be the five other women he'd slept with since me.

The phone didn't ring all afternoon and nobody came into my office. Maxine was out at a meeting with an important advertiser. Seraphima had been taken on a fashion shoot with Zoe as a treat, and Liinda was giving me a wide berth. Who knows where Debbie was—probably having a free facial somewhere. At five p.m. I decided I couldn't stand it anymore and went home. Or “home,” as I thought of it.