Fury (8 page)

Holding court and greeting us like we were royalty, stood two rows of mannequins in the most luscious dresses I had ever seen.

“Go—take a look,” Lexi hissed in my ear and gave me a push forward.

“Oh dearest!” came a light girly voice from behind us. “Your friends have arrived and you did not let me know—silly girl.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” whined Ella. “I just wanted to show them your sewing room.”

“Silly girl!” repeated Mrs Dashwood breathlessly, as if those words gave her pleasure.

“Mother, this is Eliza and Alexandria.”

“Miss Boans,” she said and her eyes lit up. “My, aren’t you as lovely as your mother herself? The famous Mrs—
Ms
—Electra Boans. I saw your mother in the newspaper last week; she was wearing the most flattering colours.”

If I was expecting an OTT fashionista wearing leopard print, I would have been disappointed. Mrs Dashwood was short, ruddy and mousey haired, and not all that notable except for the fact she was wearing some sort of Jane Austen dress in the middle of the day.

“Oh, call me Lizzie, all my friends do.”

“Why Miss Boans—
Lizzie
—what a compliment that you bestow such intimacy upon me. I am sure we will become very much acquainted in time. I see you are looking at my recent creations.”

Now I’ve figured out why Ella talks that funny way.

“Yeah. Sure. We can become, um, fully
acquainted.
You really made these yourself?”

“Why yes,” replied Mrs Dashwood breathlessly. “Do you like this one? It is only a simple one, an early Regent half-dress. Do you know much about Regent fashion?”

I’m not dumb. I know that a half-dress is a like a regular Armani gown on a local socialite. Full-dress is like an Armani Privé collection gown on an A-list actress walking the red carpet at the Oscars.

“We’re studying
Pride & Prejudice
at school?” I suggested.

“Why, what a good girl! My Ellanoir regrettably does not have the head for it. Come with me, I have something to show you that I have not shown anyone else. This way, dear Lizzie.”

Mrs Dashwood took my hand and led me to a little alcove on the left side of the room. In the small space underneath the plaster archway rested a bulky expanse of white cloth.

“This is my latest commission. I was hoping that I could show it to someone who might appreciate it a little more.”

Mrs Dashwood whipped the cloth away like a magician. Underneath was another dress on yet another mannequin, but—this was the moment I died and moved to a higher plane of fashion consciousness.

The dress was the colour of the sky on a summer’s day, when the blue becomes almost white. It was really simple: empire-line, scoop-necked and made as if from one seamless piece of silk. I could just imagine myself in it, the dress fitting like a glove, the soft-as-butter fabric against my skin. It was the most beautiful dress in the world.

“This is what you call Regency full-dress,” said Mrs Dashwood knowingly, “but for the contemporary woman.”

“You don’t say!” I made googly eyes.

“This one has been commissioned by an actress currently starring in a popular soap opera, although for confidentiality reasons I cannot reveal her identity.”

I wondered if I was allowed to touch it, the dress belonging to some soapie poptart and all. Behind me, Ella and Lexi were
clustered around a mannequin wearing a pale pink dress. Mrs Dashwood looked up and saw Marianne standing by herself on the other side of the room.

We’d forgotten all about Marianne. We couldn’t believe it when she agreed to tag along. Funnily enough, the words Dot & Dash had changed her mind.

Marianne was standing in front of a white dress so delicate that you could see the black velvet of the mannequin underneath. Diaphanous and elegant. Just like Marianne herself.

“This is a mull dress in the neoclassical style,” explained Mrs Dashwood. “The whitework embroidery—tambour, French knots and satin stitch—is all done by hand.”

“This is so beautiful,” said Marianne softly. She reached out to touch the front of the dress.

Mrs Dashwood bent down behind the mannequin and fluffed up the small train.

“I am so sorry, dear, this one has already been sold. Or else I would ask you to try it on for yourself. Oh—I am afraid Ellanoir has not yet introduced us. You must be Jane.”

The serene look on Marianne’s face faded. She dropped her hand away from the dress.

“Sorry, you’re mistaken. I am Marianne Jones, Mrs Dashwood.”

“Oh, Marianne!” exclaimed Mrs Dashwood. “Silly me! How ever many new friends my little girl has! Please accept my most sincere apologies.”

“That’s fine,” replied Marianne softly.

I know what makes Marianne act so funny at any mention of Jane Ayres, but we never talk about it. Marianne believes some things are best left buried in the past, where they belong. My thoughts were interrupted when my phone rang.

“Hello? What are you doing back—? Fine. Bye.”

I tapped Ella on the shoulder.

“I have to go.”

“Go?” repeated Ella with a confused expression. “But we’re having so much fun!”

“Well, what a shame. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Say thanks to your mum for letting us come over, okay?”

I kissed Ella on the cheek and headed quickly for the stairs.

“But we haven’t had afternoon tea and Mum’s little cakes yet!” Ella’s voice echoed after me.

“Thanks.”

I make a conscious effort to be polite as the waitress plonks my burger and chips in front of me and passes Dr Fadden’s plate to him over my head.

I pick up one of the chips and sniff it gingerly.

“Do you think they use olive oil? It better not be animal fat. Lenworth Henry’s brother worked at a fish and chip store once, for community service—
long story
—anyway, overnight the frying oil would harden into this huge block of
lard and the next day they would melt it and use it again.”

I pop the chip into my mouth.

“You sure have plenty of stories about other people. Makes me think that you’d rather not talk about yourself.”

“I love talking about myself; it’s not like I’m not self-absorbed, is it?” I say and then I pause and nothing more comes out.

“Come on. Tell me something about yourself that’s not on the files they’ve given me.”

“What? Like what music I like?”

I stiffen up because I’m scared he’s going to launch into a discussion of what is “trendy”.

Dr Fadden swallows his glass of wine in one go.

“Sure. I read an article recently that said people over the age of 35 don’t listen to pop music. I think I defy that stat—I mean, I watch Channel V and I like the Top 40.”

I cringe, but I look his face up and down. “That’s definitely a lie,” I say.

“And so you have me there. I like the old time stuff. The real rhythm and blues, not that stuff they call R&B these days with the gangstas and the homies.”

I cringe some more.

“In fact, I think my favourite song is
Devil With the Blue Dress.”

He looks at me when he says that. I look down at my blue trench coat.

“They try to steer you toward doing forensic anthropology
if you choose to study it so that you can become useful as a crime scene investigator—but I find the social anthropology, the stuff that says there’s a devil inside of all of us, more interesting. Maybe more insightful.”

He sighs wistfully.
Enough of that.
I reach over, take his wine glass and plonk it on the empty table behind me so he won’t be tempted by a refill.

“So where are you going after here? Catching up with that ‘female colleague’ you mentioned earlier?”

“I am going back to my office to type up my notes,” replies Dr Fadden. He doesn’t answer my second question.

“Is that back in the police station?”

“No.”

“What about me?”

“You’re going back to the police station.”

“No!”

“If the parents of the children at your school could see you now, out of your holding cell and having the freedom to pick out your tomatoes like that, what would they think?”

“I hate tomatoes,” I reply, removing a slice and sticking it on the edge of my plate. “And don’t pretend this is some fancy restaurant. I don’t care what they think. They don’t know the whole story.”

“Then you better keep talking. You haven’t told me, for instance, why you have refused to see your mother since you’ve been here. Or the lawyer she’s hired for you. Do you even realise how much you self-sabotage?”

“I’d rather face the consequences than watch my mother pathetically try to save her reputation,” I reply. I press my burger down and cut it in half. “Actually, I’d like to see her reputation go down. Who is the lawyer anyway?”

“Nova Devangari.”

“Lipstick lesbian.”

“She’s one of the best defence lawyers there is. And she likes to take on the sympathy cases to bolster her public profile.”

“Exactly what I just said. And I am not a
sympathy case.”

“I don’t know, Eliza. I think you might be trying to make me feel sorry for you. Because otherwise, you would have stopped talking by now, and you’d be as good as guilty. And I don’t believe you are simply
just guilty.
Even you don’t believe so, Eliza. I know that.”

“Whatever,” I say and I look down at my plate.

Dr Fadden sits stonily in front of his uneaten dinner.

“They have set up an temporary office for me back at the station. I can work from there if I have to.”

“If you don’t go I will promise to keep talking.”

“You keep talking and I will think about it.”

When I got back from Ella’s house, the beige-coloured Mercedes with the vanity plate that reads YES MAN was parked on the driveway, screaming “look what I got from the divorce!” to the entire street. Inside the house, the Gucci
handbag on the coat-stand was now joined by a Louis Vuitton suitcase and overnight bag underneath.

“Mum?”

A plastic bag full of white cardboard boxes stood in the middle of the dining table, along with three unopened bottles of wine. They looked sleek and dangerous. Like bullets.

“In here, honey.”

I followed the voice to the kitchen. There was my mother, opening the wine-glass cabinet in the kitchen. Fluid in her black jersey dress—Armani, of course—and towering in a pair of Cavalli four-inch leopard heels.

Everyone says that we look the same. I don’t think so. She wears her hair curled and chin-length—my hair is long and straight. She has her highlights done by some hairdresser in King Street who apparently does the newsreader’s hair on channel seven—our hair hasn’t been the same colour for the last twelve years. It’s as if she is purposely trying to distance herself.

Lexi says that we can pass for sisters, but I don’t want a best friend or confidante. I want a mother.

“I got some takeaway for our dinner from that new Japanese. I thought we could stay in. You didn’t want to eat out, did you?”

“No.” I replied. “It’s a school night.”

My mother catches her beautiful reflection in the glass splashback. The beautiful reflection frowns.

“There’s streaks on this. That serv—
cleaner,
and the
amount I pay her too! You just can’t get decent paid help these days. They all seem to want a whole lot more to do a whole lot less…”

“I messed that up,” I said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve still been living here while you’ve been gone.”

“Oh,” replied my mother.

She went back to opening her wine bottle.

“I am going to talk to her anyway. Why I have a cleaner coming on a Sunday, I have no idea. How is anyone supposed to relax when there’s a cleaner bloody banging about?”

I was tempted to remind her that she’d spent the Sunday just past on the other side of the country, but I held my tongue.

“How was the business trip?” I asked instead. “I thought you were supposed to be gone for two weeks? But you’re back already.”

“Oh yeah, the business trip,” said Mum. She beamed her large, fleshy smile at me. “Would you like a drink, honey?”

“No,” I said. “I am not old enough to drink. It’s against the law.”

“Rubbish. Kids in Europe drink red wine.”

“We are not in Europe.”

“Well fine, little Miss
Provincial.
Suit yourself.”

My mother sidestepped me with her generously filled glass.

“It wasn’t really a business trip.”

“What?”

I followed my mother as she clicked her heels into the living room.

“It was more a
pleasure
trip.”

She plonked herself onto the white couch. Drops of wine from her overfilled cup dotted the white linen.

“I’ll go get a sponge,” I said and turned around.

“No, leave it,” she replied. “Don’t worry honey, we’ll get it re-covered. I am so bored with this couch anyway. Sit down, why don’t you?”

I sat down on the white leather Barcelona chair.

“I went with Peter McDoherty.”

“McDoh—
eww.
Isn’t he like fifty years old? And more importantly—isn’t he married?”

“Technically, yes. But—”

“
Technically?
No wonder no one trusts lawyers. Just look at you mum! Y’know what? I reckon you’re such a committed divorce lawyer ’cos you’re still cut up your own marriage failed!”

“You
did not
just say that!”

“Yes, I
did!”

My mother smiled at me. I knew exactly what that look meant. It’s the one thing I did inherit from her.

“You may not know this because—
surprise, surprise
—I wanted to protect you, but your father wasn’t an angel either, honey. The truth is, he didn’t leave me—I kicked him out.”

“And why was that?” I scoffed back.

“I don’t think it matters anymore,” she replied and her
eyes glazed over slightly. “If you only stopped thinking of yourself for one moment in your precious little life, then you might actually figure it out.”

I hated when my mum became like this: drunk. I was so fed up with her.

“By the way, thanks honey for asking me how I’m feeling,” she continued, sarcasm thick in her voice. “There’s no need to worry. The trip ended early because it turned sour. I’m okay about it.”