Pants on Fire (7 page)

“What's the difference between a French bulldog and a British one?”

“Well, the main thing is he's not nearly as ugly as a British bulldog and he's as black as a liquorice allsort and he has a white bib on his chest and his ears stick straight up and when he runs his front legs go from side to side, it's the sweetest thing . . .”

A sob escaped. How embarrassing. “I'm so sorry, but I really miss him. Scooby's fur feels similar.”

“Well, you can borrow Scooby as a footrest any time you're missing Gaston. You'd be happy to help, wouldn't you Scoobs?”

We both put our heads under the table to look at her at the same time. She glanced from one to the other and gave a big doggy yawn. Rory really did have a sweet smile.

Billy was now absorbed in the business news, eating with one hand and holding the paper with the other. Rory clearly felt it was his responsibility to make conversation with me. I was glad somebody did.

“So why did you move here?” he asked.

I still didn't have a pat answer for this question worked out.

“Oh you know, I just felt like a new challenge and I've always liked
Glow
and I was sick of London—terrible traffic jams, too hard to do anything, so expensive, and it seemed like an exciting time to come out here.”

And my fiancé was shagging PROSTITUTES and all the men were wacko and hated me . . . I changed the subject.

“So, Billy tells me you're a farmer.”

“Yes. So they tell me.”

“My brother is a sort of farmer. He went to agricultural college, to do something called ‘estate management,' which just seemed to involve going to lots of parties at big houses and shooting a lot of innocent creatures. Did you do anything like that?”

Rory's expression changed. His shoulders went a bit slumpy and I had the feeling I'd said the wrong thing. Oh no—the brothers. The father. The farm. I'd forgotten the full horror of the story. What had Billy told me?

“No. I went to art college,” he said. “Not very useful for cattle farming, I know, but then I never expected to be a farmer.”

I decided to go by my grandmother's principle and seize a difficult subject rather than tiptoe around it. “Billy told me about your brothers, Rory. I'm so sorry, it must have been awful for you. Such a terrible shock.”

He looked surprised, but also relieved that he didn't have to explain the tragic story to me himself.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “It has been pretty tough.”

“What were you doing at art college?”

“Painting. I had an MA already and I was hoping to get a part-time teaching job and carry on doing my own work, but I had to go and help Dad with the farm. I couldn't let him sell it—not on top of everything else; that would have been the last straw. The property's been in the family for over a hundred years—that's a long time in Australia.”

“Sometimes doing the right thing is so hard,” I said. “You're very brave to stick to your principles like that. Do you still paint?”

“No. I just closed that part of my brain down. I couldn't bear to be a weekend painter. It was never a hobby for me.”

It didn't seem like the right moment to tell him it was very much a hobby for me and that I was actually searching for a good life-drawing class to go to in Sydney. Rory looked very sad. I turned to Billy for help—he was studying the stock prices. This was the strangest date I'd ever been on, I thought. First he brings his friend and then he ignores both of us. Rory seemed to feel the awkwardness of the situation too.

“Hey, Bills,” he said, winking at me. “I think I made thirty cents profit last week, at the sheep sale. Seen any can't-miss shares I should buy with it?”

Billy looked up. “No, just hold on to the land, mate. Most valuable asset you have. So, Georgie, how are you feeling? You haven't eaten your toast.” Oh, so he had remembered I was alive. “Maybe you should have another coffee. Rory? Another latte?”

Rory nodded and Billy went inside to find a waiter. When he came back he was pushing his wallet into his back pocket and looking at his watch.

“Well, I've got an appointment at one, so I'd better be off. Good to see you, Georgie. Let's catch up again soon. I've got your numbers; I'll call you. See you at the Four in Hand later, Roar? I've fixed this up. OK, bye you two.”

And that was it. He hailed a taxi that was just coming round the corner and left. I was glad I was hung-over. In my stunned state I couldn't process the full weirdness of Billy's behaviour. We met. We danced. We snogged. He called me. We went out. He left me. This cycle normally takes more than twelve hours. Rory didn't seem too perturbed by it. Was I missing something here?

“Have you got something to rush off to, Georgia, or do you fancy a walk when we finish these coffees? Scoobs would love to take you for a walk, wouldn't you Scooby?”

Great. Perhaps Rory was planning to leave too, so it would just be me and the dog.

“I'd love a walk,” I said, all the same.

So we finished our coffee and strolled down the hill to the promenade. It was very hot and the beach was packed with people enjoying the public holiday. There were families, with big fat grannies in black dresses and cardigans, but most people seemed to have improbably good bodies. Girls in tiny bikinis and guys in brief Speedos Rollerbladed along the concrete walkway. There were buskers playing pan pipes and a circle of drummers in front of the pavilion.

“Those drums remind me of the crazy jungle drum pedestrian crossings here,” I told Rory. “I think they're hilarious. They always make me feel I should limbo dance across the street.”

“What else have you noticed since you arrived here?” he asked and I felt that, unlike Billy last night, he was genuinely interested in hearing my answer.

“Well, everyone is really friendly. Even the people on the phone when you ring the gas board. In England they hate you, on principle. And taxi drivers here are amazing. They don't always know the way, but sometimes they round the fare down when they give you the change. That would never happen in London.”

Rory was a good listener and one I get started I can really go on. But he didn't seem to mind. He listened and laughed and smiled and nodded and Scoobs padded along by our side, sniffing everything keenly.

I wanted to ask him more questions, about his life on the farm and his life before it, but it seemed too intrusive and I felt it was better to keep prattling. And of course, this was an ideal opportunity for me to probe him subtly about Billy. About how long they had known each other and all the things they'd done together—the tattoos, the first youthful drinking binges, the sporting achievements—until I managed to drag the subject round to what I really cared about: girlfriends.

It's useful being a journalist sometimes. It trains you to be able to get things out of people without them realising. We did first girlfriends and important girlfriends, girlfriends fought over and girlfriends still pined over, and then I directed him to the subject of current girlfriends—as in girlfriends, current, did Billy have one? No. No, he didn't have a girlfriend and neither did Rory. He was very firm about it. And then I masterfully changed the subject. Oh wow, look at those skateboarders . . . Shall we stop and watch?

We sat on a park bench and watched them do their impossible leaps and flips until Scooby decided it was really boring and we walked back to the ute. By now I was feeling ready for my afternoon nap and as Rory drove me home I fell asleep, with Scooby draped across me, her head out of the window, ears blowing in the breeze.

I woke up with a start when we stopped outside my building. With manners as impeccable as Billy's, Rory jumped out and came round to open the passenger door. No man under the age of sixty had ever done this for me in London. I was about to kiss Scooby goodbye when I remembered something.

“Rory—Billy told me that Scooby is a champion jumper. Will you show me?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning. He put his head back into the ute and came back holding a dog biscuit. “Scoobs!” he said, holding it above his head. “Biscuit!”

Scooby leapt straight up in the air. It was amazing how high she went. I clapped and Rory gave her the biscuit.

“You should be in the Olympics, you clever old high jumper,” I said to Scooby, giving her a big kiss. She gave my face a good licking in response. Rory was beaming as he walked me to the door. Then there was a slightly awkward moment.

“Well, that was really fun,” I said shyly. “Thanks for driving me home and thanks for the dog-replacement therapy.”

“It was our pleasure. Wasn't it, Scoobs? Well, I'll be off then. It was great to meet you, Georgia. Hope to see you again next time I'm up in Sydney.”

“Yeah, that would be great. As long as you bring Scooby.”

I kissed him on the cheek and he stayed still for one extra beat. There was something hanging in the air at that moment. I didn't know what to do, so I just went inside.

I was cream crackered. What a weird twenty-four hours. I put on my comfiest nightie and lay on the sofa with a packet of Kettle Chips (the grease craving had just kicked in) and pondered all the events since I'd arrived at Danny Green's party the day before.

Jasper O'Connor's dickhead hat and jungle joints. Antony Maybury and his dancing eyebrows. Billy Ryan's unannounced tongue kiss and unerect penis. About twenty-five new best friends whose names I couldn't remember. The wicked plate. The heavenly dancing. The heavenly snogging. The unheavenly dog poo. The stupidity of the bed incident and subsequent embarrassment. The surprising morning phone call followed by the incredible disappearing date. Rory Stewart's kind smile. Scooby dooby doo.

What was Billy playing at? Talk about hot-cold hot-cold. One minute he was kissing me, then he was running away laughing, then he was nearly ravishing me in a public place, then he was running away, then we were having a cosy breakfast, then he was running away. If he wasn't so gorgeous I probably would have dismissed him as a kookalooka, but he was the perfect package. The full
Town Like Alice
fantasy. My parents would adore him. Even my brother would like him. My grandfather would be beside himself. He'd hated Rick—too urban. Couldn't comprehend a man who didn't like fishing. Billy was bound to like fishing, and shooting too. Perhaps we could divide our time between Australia and Scotland. Wouldn't that be the perfect life? I wondered when he would call me again.

But as I fell asleep, my mouth full of half-chewed crisps—or chips, as I was learning to call them—I realised what was odd about the moment with Rory at the door. I think he'd been about to ask me for my phone number. And I was slightly disappointed that he hadn't.

Chapter Four

“OK, how about ‘Why Running Away from Heartache Never Works'?”

“No, too depressing,” growled
Glow
's editor, Maxine Thane. “It's just a statement, it doesn't offer a solution. Who's going to buy a magazine that promises to make them depressed? Could you all think before you open your mouths, please? Liinda, this story was your idea, what have you got?”

“Well, how about ‘You've Left Him, But You're Still Carrying the Baggage'?”

“Not bad, we're getting somewhere—baggage is a good word and it's quite funny, but it's a bit clumsy. Have you got any ideas, Zoe?”

“Er . . . ‘The Great Guy Who Got Away'?”

“What? Pay attention, will you?” said Maxine, not a woman inclined to put tact before getting her point across. “I know you're thinking about all the lunch you're not going to eat, but ‘The Great Guy Who Got Away' is another story entirely. Actually, it's not a bad idea—make a note of it, Liinda. We could get single women in their late thirties to talk about the one guy they still think about. Put it on the list for the May issue. It would be cheap to do. We can ring all our friends and ask them. Now, what are we going to call this bloody man-baggage feature? Debbie?”

Debbie was looking down at her manicured nails and hardly lifted her glossy blonde head towards Maxine to answer. She sighed deeply.

“Oh, I don't know. What's it about? Dumping a man and not being over him? That's never happened to me. I can't imagine it. I just dump them and never give them another thought.”

“Oh, you make me sick,” said Maxine. “I don't know why I have you at these meetings. You might look like Grace Kelly, but I've met more intelligent handbags. Just sit there and look beautiful, darling, it might inspire somebody. OK, come on the rest of you, someone has an idea, surely?”

Up until now I'd been gazing vacantly out of the window, mesmerised by the vivid blue sky. I turned back to the other four women in the room and sat up.

“So what we're really looking at here,” I said, “Is ‘Why a Perfectly Normal Person Might Move to the Other Side of the World to Get Over Some Stupid Man.' Is that right?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, funnily enough, I think I might be able to come up with some input on that—”

But before I could finish I was interrupted by a very pale woman with an enormous tower of black hair piled up on her head like an out-of-control bird's nest, with a large pink hibiscus flower that appeared to grow out of the middle of it. Liinda Vidovic.

“How about ‘You've Left the Country, But Have You Really Left Him Behind'?” she said, determined that the editor's attention stay on her and “her” story idea.

“Mmm . . . That's pretty good, but it's a bit long,” Maxine replied.

“I've got a better idea,” I said, turning towards Liinda. The bird's nest swung around in irritation. “What about ‘You've Left Him, But Have You Left Him Behind'?”