Pants on Fire (19 page)

“Gorgeous, you two,” said Danny, kissing us again and then running off to fuss over his next subjects.

“Hello, Pinkie darling. What a nice surprise this is. Who brought you to this major event for Sydney's bohemian A list?”

“Antony Maybury.”

Jasper pulled a face and I suddenly realized there was something different about him.

“You've shaved off your goatee.”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his chin and making an endearing little moue. “You like?”

“Oh yes, it's much better. I can't bear facial hair. You know, all that stuff about looking like you're trying to hide something.”

“I was. My age.” He laughed infectiously, and I could see how he would charm his subjects when he took their photos. He was certainly charming me.

“Is your underage girlfriend here tonight, Jasper?”

“You don't miss a trick, do you Pinkie?” Jasper put his head on one side and looked at me through those narrowed green eyes. “I'd like to take your picture, Pinkie,” he said. “In that hat you were wearing at the party. ‘Pinkie in the Pink,' we could call it.”

“Don't try and worm out of it with your devastating charm. Where is Little Lotus Blossom tonight?”

“Fucked if I know. Somewhere with her new boyfriend, I expect. Riding around in his Porsche, probably, seeing as that's the kind of thing that impresses her. She refused to be seen in my car because it was more than a year old.”

“How old is it?”

“About twenty-five years.” He laughed again. “So how's life at the convent?” he asked. “Debbie still the only woman in that place getting her portion and everyone else's?”

I'm not sure if I blushed or looked shocked.

“It's well known that the
Glow
girls talk and write about sex incessantly but never actually get any themselves,” Jasper continued. “Liinda's too crazy, Maxine's too ugly and Zoe's too thin. Debbie is another matter altogether and almost more of a worry for it—she seems to be a nymphomaniac—but you, Pinkie, you strike me as a normal girl with normal appetites.”

I didn't know what to say. Luckily Antony did, sliding up behind me.

“Well, I hope she has got a normal appetite because I'm taking her out to dinner. Now. Goodbye Jasper.”

“And goodbye to you, An-thu-ny,” said Jasper, putting a special emphasis on the middle syllable. Then he turned to me. “Goodbye Pinkie. I'll give you a ring again soon—even though you were a total bitch the last time I called.”

“Sorry about that. I was having a really bad day. See you.” I smiled at him sheepishly. As Antony frogmarched me to the door, I turned back and caught Jasper winking at me. That wink of his was very sexy.

“Whatever were you talking to that deadbeat for?” demanded Antony. “I can't stand people who call me AnTHUNy. It's TUNNy. Tunny, like the fish.”

“I like Jasper. He's funny.”

“Funny in the head. Anyway, I must tell you what Sophie Paparellis was just telling me. Apparently the entire
Chic
fashion department is going to resign if . . .”

And he chattered on like this in the taxi all the way to the third gallery. I didn't have a clue who any of the people were that Antony was talking about, but he was enjoying himself so much that I did too.

“I've saved the best party to last. This one's going to be hilarious,” he said, as we walked through the door of a lovely old terrace in Paddington. “Trudy! Trudy! Come here, I want you to meet Georgia.”

I met Trudy. He was lovely. Trudy was a man. So was Betty. And Norma. And Mary. And Antony had suddenly turned into Dolores. They weren't drag queens, they were Antony's best friends and they all called each other by their mother's names.

“It works,” said Antony. “Look how the names suit them.”

I smiled at him. “You're right. Especially Dolores. It's perfect for you, Antony. I'm going to call you Doll.”

“What's your mother's name, Georgia?” asked Trudy, a tall, slim man with rather bouffant hair, dressed in head-to-toe Prada.

“Shouldn't it be my father's name?”

“Oh no,” said Betty, a short, chubby-faced fellow with a shaved head, a big earring and stubby beard. “We only like girls' names.”

“Well, my mother's called Hermoine—”

“Ooh, that's a love name,” said Betty. “Are you Greek?”

“—but everyone calls her Pussy . . .”

Dolores was laughing so much his wine came down his nose.

“Pussy! Oh, that is too good. I'm always going to call you Pussy from now on.”

Then he proceeded to introduce me to everybody at the party as Pussy. I was past caring. I thought Dolores was so funny I didn't mind being Pussy a bit—and he was right, it was a fun party. Eventually I had to go to the loo and on my way back to find Delores, I finally got to see the art. It was an exhibition of Robert Mapplethorpe's black and white photographs. I'd seen them before in a book, but blown up into huge prints they were a bit confronting. One of them was called “Man in a Polyester Suit” and featured a beautiful black man in a cheap suit. Except he had forgotten to do up his fly and something very large and surprising was hanging out of it.

“Gorgeous, isn't he, Pussy?” said Betty, taking my arm in a chummy way and guiding me on a tour of his favourite penises in the exhibition. As we walked around the gallery I became aware that I was one of only about ten women in a very crowded room. And the only one wearing lipstick.

“Is this a gay art gallery?” I asked Betty. “Or just a gay show?”

“Well, one of the guys who owns it is gay, but it's a regular gallery—or as regular as anything gets in Sydney.” He shrieked like a pantomime dame. I liked Betty. He was cosy, which isn't easy to achieve in leather chaps and steel-toed boots. Under his leather waistcoat I could see his nipples were pierced with thick silver rings, and on his bicep there was something that looked like a cattle brand, which said “100% AUSSIE BEEF.” He looked quite terrifying but he sounded as if he was just going to pass the vicar some nice hot scones.

“This show is part of the Mardi Gras arts festival,” he told me. “You are going to come to the party, aren't you? You'll love it.”

“Pussy! Pussy! Where are you? Here puss, puss, puss!” I could hear Antony shouting from the other side of the gallery.

I pushed my way back through the crowd.

“Hello Dolly,” I said.

He grinned. “Come on, Pussy Galore, we're going to dinner.”

He drained his glass, deposited it with a passing waiter and walked straight out of the door, with me obediently following along behind him.

“I never say goodbye,” he explained. “It takes too long. I saw all of those people on Saturday night and I'll probably see them all tomorrow. No point. We can walk to the restaurant.”

We were on a lovely street of terrace houses with curly wrought-iron railings on their balconies. There were lofty leaf-laden trees all along it, with branches meeting in the middle.

“This is a beautiful street,” I said.

“Paddington Street. Yes, it is lovely. Your friend Billy Ryan lives just down there.” He pointed to a side street. “And Debbie Brent lives round the corner that way. It's her own house, lucky bitch. Really, she doesn't need a rich husband—it's such a waste—but she'll get one. I used to live in Paddington but I was glad to escape to my grungy little corner of Surry Hills. I got sick of seeing
le tout
Sydney every time I went out for the paper.”

The restaurant was a large oblong space with a bold black and white mural of people having dinner all along one wall. The waiters wore long aprons and all the diners looked polished and well fed.

Antony kissed the maitre d' on both cheeks. “Hello, darling. We'll need a table for eight.”

As we sat at the bar waiting for a table to become available, Trudy, Betty, Norma and Mary came in, with two new fellows I hadn't met before—Joanna and Ingrid.

“So,” said Ingrid, once we were introduced, “how is your spanking ex doing without you? Still with your friend, is he?” I turned to glare at Antony, but he was telling Joanna all the
Chic
gossip.

“No, I believe Rick has decided to join an order of gay Franciscan monks,” I told Ingrid, straight-faced. “In Iceland.” Right Antony, thanks for the tip, I'll just wait to see how long it takes before that little pigeon flies home.

The dinner was riotous. A lot of the talk was about the Mardi Gras—who was in the parade, who was having liposuction to get into their costume, who had the most reliable source of good ecstasy, who didn't have tickets and who the surprise performers were going to be.

“I heard Madonna,” said Betty.

“Yeah, right,” said Antony. “She'll probably do a duet with Barbra Streisand. And Elvis. I heard Cher is coming but I don't believe it.”

“Yeah—and Tom Cruise, Prince Edward and Richard Gere are the go-go dancers,” said Norma.

They were screaming with laughter. So was I.

“So, are you going to come to the party?” asked Antony. I'd noticed they all called it that.

“I'll think about it,” I said.

“Well, don't think too long. I'd have to make you an outfit. Probably something topless.” He looked me up and down. “You'd look good in one of those outfits the women wear at the Rio carnival. You have just the right body shape—little perky tits and a big round bottom. I'd like to see you in a G-string and a feather headdress. A sparkly G-string. Fuschia. Lots of fake tan. Mmm . . .”

After dinner there was much hugging and kissing and lots of see-you-soons and gorgeous-to-meet-you-darlings. Then we all jumped into cabs and went our separate ways, except that Antony insisted on dropping me off first “on his way,” which it wasn't.

“I want to see where you live,” he admitted.

“I should warn you I have no possessions,” I told him. “I thought I'd be living in furnished digs and I brought hardly anything with me apart from some clothes and handbags, and a few books and CDs I can't live without. Actually, that was all I really had anyway. I've had to buy things like kettles. So boring.”

“I've got a load of stuff like that you can have—I've got all my own gear and then I inherited all Lee's things, so now I've got two of everything. My place is like Noah's ark . . . I see what you mean about bare,” he said, wrinkling his nose when we got inside. He marched straight into my bedroom and opened the wardrobe doors.

“Where do you keep the handbag collection then?”

“Well, I only brought a few with me. They're in this hat box.”

“Divine. I love hat boxes. Mmm, I like this little one shaped like a pot of violets. That's very sweet. This is cute—is it vintage?”

He looked at every one, then he commented on my bed linen, which he approved of because it was old and embroidered. Then, after looking through all my CDs and thrusting Frank Sinatra at me to put on, he sat on the floor and asked if I had any photo albums with me.

“Yes I do, actually.”

“Oh, good. I love photo albums.”

He wasn't kidding. Antony looked through all my albums, demanding a running commentary on every picture. After some initial embarrassment I happily went into all the details of who was who. He got the hang of it all very quickly.

“Oh, look at your brother Hamish. He's gorgeous. I love that high colour in his cheeks. Very Scottish. He looks like a handsome version of James Hewitt.”

I hit him with a cushion. “He does
not
look like that cad.”

“Does he play polo? Look at his shoulders. All polo players have those gorgeous shoulders. Even Prince Charles. Oh look, there's Real Pussy.”

“Real Pussy?”

“Yes, you're Pussy now, so your mum is Real Pussy, otherwise it gets too confusing.”

“Right . . .”

“Why is she called Pussy, by the way?”

“I honestly don't know. She does like cats, but she's been called Pussy since she was a little girl.”

“Oh, is that one of your father's water features? Marvellous lion's head. Look at you here—how old are you? Eight? Is that needlepoint you're holding? How sweet. Oh, look at Real Pussy in a straw hat and espadrilles, she was glamorous, wasn't she? Is that in Provence? Thought so. Got any pictures of your grandparents? Look, they're both in tartan skirts, how funny! Yes, I know his is a kilt, but you know what I mean. Dear little dogs. Look at Gaston's ears sticking up. OK, now I want to see pictures of Rick.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes. Give me that. Ah! He is heaven. Look at those long legs. Leather pants. He's a major spunk. Darling, I can see why your friends thought you were mad to leave him. All that and money too. And there he is in a suit. Got any pictures of where you lived?”

And so it went on until Antony had worked his way through my entire life—and a fair amount of my whisky—like termites going through a house. He seemed as interested in the physical and material details of my previous life as Liinda was in the emotional ones. I felt validated and violated at the same time—but at least Antony wasn't going to be in a coverlines meeting with me in the near future.

“He may have gone too far, though from what you've told me, that Rick is going to be hard to replace. Shame Nick Pollock came along when he did, but you're over him, aren't you? I'll have to get you out as much as possible meeting people. What are you doing this weekend?”

“I'm going to Debbie's parents' farm.”