Pants on Fire (18 page)

Maxine bestowed one of her radiant smiles on me.

“You are definitely going to fit in here, Georgia,” she said. “Now Zoe, what about these cover shots. This is for April, so it's going into winter, but we're not ready for woolly jumpers.”

“I've got the cover tries we did on that trip to New Zealand in December,” said Zoe. “They're swimsuits, but I think they work for April and it is an Australian model.”

She turned on the projector and clicked the carousel round to the first shot. I stared in amazement. Was she serious? The picture showed a girl in a tiny turquoise bikini standing calf-deep in water. She was so thin you could practically see her internal organs. Her head looked like a skull. Her rib cage looked like a percussion instrument.

“What the fuck is that?” said Maxine in a deadly voice.

“It's a new girl from Perth called Katrina, and that's a Bondi Babes bikini,” Zoe replied.

“Oh, it is human is it?” said Maxine. “Are you sure it's not a chicken? Because I've never seen arms that thin on a human being. Did you take her pulse, Zoe? I find it hard to believe someone that thin is still breathing. And look at that—the goose pimples on her thighs are bigger than her breasts. Isn't that lovely?”

“Well, maybe this isn't a very good shot,” Zoe mumbled. “Let's look at some others.” She started clicking the carousel round. They were all just as bad and there were some side views that made the model look even thinner.

“STOP!” Maxine roared. “I don't want to see any more pictures of this human skeleton.”

“There's a different cozzie here somewhere,” said Zoe, clicking wildly until a picture appeared of the plucked chicken wearing a black bikini with a bandeau top. It was even worse.

“I said STOP!” Maxine thumped her fist on the desk. “Zoe. How many times have I told you? I will
not
have anorexics on the cover of my magazine. This girl is sick—and so are you. What were you thinking when you cast her and why didn't I get to see her book before you went on the trip?”

“You were away—”

“So who approved the casting? Debbie, was it you?”

“Yes, Maxine,” said Debbie. “I did see her book—but she didn't look like this. She was much bigger. Really. But I didn't see her in the flesh, I admit.”

“Great help you are. Thank you. You fucked up big-time. And tell me, Zoe,” she said, turning her icy gaze to her. “Did you actually see this model before you got to the airport?”

“Yes.”

“And was she this thin?”

Zoe looked surprised. “I don't think she's thin.”

There was a moment's stunned silence. Zoe's left hand was crumbling up the Tim Tam she'd been nibbling. I held my breath.

“Zoe,” said Maxine, quietly. “If you don't think this girl is thin, there is something seriously wrong with you.”

“She's got beautiful bones,” said Zoe.

“Bones are all she's got!” said Maxine. “We can't use these pictures—they're dangerous to young women. Please take them off the projector. You and I will have a little talk later. In the meantime, does anyone have any other cover suggestions? Or will I have to draw a picture? We have two days to get it ready for the printer.”

Zoe slumped into a chair, shell-shocked.

“I've got some shots I did for the May beauty story,” said Debbie. “They just came in—I'll get Kylie to bring them through.”

She picked up the phone. Maxine had her head in her hands. Liinda passed me the Tim Tams.

“Welcome to the snake pit,” she said.

Kylie came in with the pictures and Debbie indicated with one imperious gesture that she should load them onto the carousel.

“So what are these about, Debbie?” said Maxine.

“It's a skin story, so there isn't much make-up, but the hair is nice. She's an Aussie girl. Go on, Kylie.”

A radiant face filled the screen. Dead-straight honey-blonde hair framed her face. She had big blue eyes with ridiculously long lashes. Big pouty lips. It looked exactly like Debbie.

Maxine sighed loudly. “Ten thousand ways with a blue-eyed blonde. Did you know, Debbie, that some people actually consider dark-haired women like me and Zoe and Liinda quite attractive?”

Debbie was totally unperturbed.

“Nice shot, isn't it?” she said. “Click on, Kylie.”

They were lovely shots, but all pretty much the same, very close up and not smiling.

“Yes, they are beautiful, Debbie, like all your pictures, and I think
Harper's Bazaar
or
Vogue
would love to have them on their covers. But they don't make a
Glow
cover, because she doesn't look like someone our readers could sit down and have a chat to about men and mascaras. She's too snooty. Funny that—SERAPHIMA, CAN YOU GET THE COVERS FILE OUT PLEASE?”

She turned to me.

“You know, Georgia, I have two very talented stylists on this magazine, who work with all the best photographers in this country and have their pick of the models, yet month after month they are incapable of producing
one
little picture I can use on my cover. Fortunately, however, I am a little more resourceful. Would you mind loading the carousel, Sera? My fingers are covered in chocolate.” She took another Tim Tam. So did I.

“Thank you Seraphima, I'll take over now.” Maxine stood up and came over to the carousel. “OK, what do we have here?”

She clicked and up came a beautiful picture of a blonde model laughing in a red and white gingham bikini top. “Might save that for summer,” said Maxine. She clicked again. A magnificent-looking brunette in a fuschia stretch bikini. “Not bad after a baby,” said Maxine. “But I'm saving it for the body issue in September.”

Click. Up came a gorgeous dark-haired girl with beautiful green eyes and very full lips wearing a dark denim shirt unbuttoned to reveal a phenomenal cleavage.

“Now
that
is a
Glow
cover,” said Maxine. “The improbably named Laetitia—do you think they call her Titty for short? What a fantastic girl. She's stunningly beautiful, but approachable. You feel like you might know a girl like that. I mean, you wouldn't introduce her to your boyfriend, but she looks like she'd enjoy a laugh. That is a
Glow
cover. Not anorexics. Not snotty-nosed bitches. Beautiful, nice women. Have you got that, Zoe? Debbie? Because I've had to buy this picture from
Madame Figaro
in France and it's cost me $2,000. I can't afford to do that every month and I'm sick of running myself ragged negotiating with nightmare agents in New York to buy French pictures and doing calculations in three foreign currencies to cover your arses.” She patted the carousel. “So this is our April cover—but for our May one I want an
Australian
model taken by an
Australian
photographer. Do I make myself clear? OK. Good. Now get out. Except Zoe. I want you to stay. And Liinda—can you stay in your office, for an hour or so? I might need you.”

Debbie followed me into my office. She didn't seem at all bothered about what had just gone on and I decided not to say anything. I'd had enough drama for one day.

“I've spoken to Mum about you coming up to Bundaburra,” she said. “That's the name of our property—and she suggested this weekend. It's the annual rodeo in Walton, near where the farm is. Mum thought you'd enjoy it. It's heaps of fun.”

Debbie's naughty smile told me she was implying heaps of cute men. The words “fun” and “attractive men” seemed to be interchangeable in her language.

I must have looked a bit doubtful. I was rather off men as a concept.

“Real men, George,” she added. “Wearing chaps—and not to go to Mardi Gras. And you only have to look, we don't have to talk to them or anything.”

“Mmm,” I said. “I love cowboys. Will they be wearing big hats and cowboy boots too?”

“Shit yeah.”

“Yee haw. Tell your mum I'd love to come. Oh and Debbie, explain something to me—why did Maxine want Liinda to stay behind? Is she going to get a bollocking too?”

“No. Maxine wants her to hang around because she might need her counseling skills for Zoe. Liinda's had her own head shrinked so much she's actually quite good at helping other people, although she does get a bit carried away with it. She tried to get me to go to some godforsaken AA meeting once, can you believe it? I told her to get fucked, but Zoe does need some help. I wonder if they've got something called Pukers Anonymous that Liinda can take her to. See you later.”

Debbie was appalling, but I couldn't help liking her. She was spoilt and excessive and selfish, but she didn't pretend not to be. And I really liked the sound of the rodeo. At lunchtime I went out and bought myself a pair of RM Williams boots to celebrate. I already had a beaten-up old straw Stetson I'd bought in Texas years before on a trip with Rick, and the boots would complete my look. I always like to be correctly attired.

When I got back to the office Seraphima had a look on her face that I'd come to realize meant she Knew Something.

“OK Sera,” I said. “Spill it.”

She took a deep breath as she sat down in my office. “Maxine has sent Zoe home. Liinda's taken her in a taxi. It was her third warning in three months, so Maxine's decided to suspend her—on full pay—until she ‘shows she is prepared to do something about coming to terms with her bulimia.' ”

I could tell by Sera's voice that this was a direct through-the-office-door quote.

“I've just given Maxine the name and number of the specialist who looked after my sister and she's on the phone to Zoe's mum with it.”

“Zoe's mum?” I couldn't believe Maxine would do that.

Sera shrugged. “Maxine says there's no point in pretending it's not happening—it's much better to get it all out in the open.”

I'd had enough drama for one day and went back into my office to try to do some work. I was admiring my new boots when the phone rang.

“Hello,” said a loud happy voice.

“Ant, how nice to hear from you. How are you?”

“I'm very well. More to the point, how are you? I hear you got bitten by one of Australia's most venomous creatures—Pants On Fire Pollock. I wish I'd warned you, not that it ever does any good . . .”

“How on earth did you know about that?”

“No secrets in this town, sweetie. It's good you found that much out quickly.”

“Who told you, Antony?” I persisted.

“Debbie.”

“I don't believe it—I thought she was a friend . . .”

“Georgia, it's just the way this town is. Debbie is no worse than anyone else. It's like a big village. You'll get used to it. Soon you'll be gossiping along with the rest of us, spreading rumours, making up juicy details, planting joke rumours to see how quickly they come back to you. It's hilarious. Don't people gossip in London?”

“Of course they do. But unless you're world famous it is possible to maintain a level of privacy. You can keep different parts of your life in separate compartments—that doesn't seem to be possible here.”

He snorted. “Sounds boring to me. Anyway, do you want to come out with me and drown your sorrows?”

“I drowned them at birth, but I'd love to come out. Where are we going?”

“Art galleries—it's Tuesday. Then we can have dinner. Have you had your nails done yet?”

“No I haven't, but Debbie's already sent her assistant into my office with her manicurist's card.”

“HA HA HA . . . So have you made your appointment? Consuela's impossible to get in to.”

“No, I have not! I threw it in the bin. I don't have manicures. They're a total waste of time and money. I used to know Princess Diana's personal hairdresser in London and he told me she always did her own nails. If it was good enough for her, it's good enough for me.”

“At least she had her hair done. I'll be waiting for you downstairs at six. Goodbye.”

What was wrong with my hair and nails? My nails were clean and short, my hair was—well, it was hair. I went into the loo and had a look at it. Seraphima came out of one of the cubicles and washed her hands next to me. Her blonde curls were pulled back neatly with a tortoiseshell slide. My lank locks were pulled back in an elastic band I'd found on my office floor. I inspected an incipient pimple on my chin. Seraphima got lip pencil and lipgloss out of her pocket and applied it carefully. Maybe I did need to look at the grooming issue, I thought.

I went back to my office and started reading the last few articles for the next issue, including “Phone Torture,” which I had to admit made a bloody good read. As I was finishing it the most extraordinary sound came floating through my office window. It sounded like a maniac was outside.

I looked up and a small, squat, no-necked bird was sitting on my windowsill—on the fourth floor of an office block, in the middle of the Central Business District. I realized it was a kookaburra. And it was laughing.

Chapter Nine

The art openings were great fun. The first one was in a converted factory in Redfern and the second was in an old shop in Surry Hills. Don't ask me about the art—I didn't get a chance to look at it. Antony knew everybody at both parties and introduced me to so many people I was starting to get dizzy.

Then I saw Danny Green, who accosted me with his usual kisses and pushed me together with someone for a photo opportunity. It was Jasper O'Connor, without penis hat or bright pink trousers and looking rather attractive for a scumbag.

“Jazzy!” I greeted him with the fervour born of knowing no one else in the room. He put his arm round me and we smiled for the camera.