Pants on Fire (23 page)

“I suppose I can understand that, but she was the one who got drunk. I was looking forward to going to the bush dance with all of them. I wanted to see Johnny Brent dancing so I could torture you about it.”

“Did you have a good time with Rory then?”

Nice try, Antony.

“Yeah, it was OK,” I said casually. “It was a funny little dance in a funny little country town. You can imagine.”

“Did you have the last waltz with Rory Stewart. Just like the song?” He started singing it in a high falsetto.

Was he a witch? How did he know? Had someone told Debbie?

“Oh, I can't remember, I danced with lots of people. You know what those things are like, you keep changing partner. I danced with a lot of arthritic old men and spotty adolescents and one enthusiastic six-year-old. It was fun. There were dogs running around and babies.”

“Hmmm. Well, I wish you luck with Debbie at work tomorrow. I've been through all this before with her. She nearly took a contract out on Maxine when she had a fling with another brother—Alex Stewart. I'd just give her a wide berth for a day or two—she'll get over it pretty quickly. Anyway, stuff all that, I wanted to talk to you about something else. We've got lots of parties to go to this week. Get your diary.”

And that was just the way it was. Debbie was vile to me for a couple of days and then gradually thawed, until we were back on our old footing and things settled down at work. But she never mentioned the weekend at all. It was like it had never happened.

Over the next week, leading up to Mardi Gras, Antony and I went out every single night, sometimes meeting for lunch and breakfast as well, to post-mortem the night before. The parties got more and more charged, as Antony's crowd became increasingly excited about the big night on Saturday. And it wasn't just his crowd. The whole city was cranking up into a fever of sexual tension. You could feel it in the air.

Hordes of gay tourists had arrived from all over the world and were marching around the CBD hand in hand, wearing back-packs, big boots and no shirts. Lesbian couples kissed passionately on street corners. Nobody gave them a second look. Oxford Street was pumping twenty-four hours a day and Seraphima told me she'd seen a man sitting at a pavement table completely nude except for a pair of chaps and a hat. At lunchtime.

Despite Antony's gang telling me what a marvellous time I would have, I'd decided not to go to the party itself. I knew that “breeders” did go and I was sure it would be a great night, but I just didn't think a honky straight chick had any business muscling in on such hard-won fun. But I wasn't going to miss the parade for anything.

Antony was really pissed off with me, telling me my attitude was totally “suburban,” until Debbie announced she was going to go with him and he got caught up creating an outfit for his favourite human Barbie doll.

I wasn't quite sure how I was going to watch the parade until, to my great surprise, Liinda strolled into my office on Friday morning and asked me if I wanted to go with her.

“I thought you didn't like gay men,” I said. “And I thought you never went out at night.”

“I never said that. I said I didn't have gay men as close friends. But I love watching the parade. Gays and lesbians are a repressed minority—as are women everywhere—and I find the parade really inspiring. Just twenty years ago they were arrested for having it, now it's sponsored by major banks and goes out on national TV. It shows what you can do if you fight consistently for your rights.” She grinned. “And I like seeing the Dykes on Bikes. I still have a thing for big throbbing motorbikes left over from my previous life.”

“Well, I'd love to watch it with you. What's the plan and pack drill?”

“I go in the afternoon and bag our pozzie at Taylor Square,” Liinda explained. “I have milk crates. I have my Walkman. I have cigarettes. I'll be quite happy. Then you come along and meet me at about seven. It's worth coming a bit earlier for the people watching. Zoe's going to come with us.”

“That's great. How is she?”

“OK. She's seeing a shrink and she's coming to Al Anon meetings with me. It's early days, but I think she'll make it.”

“Do you really think she'll feel like going out?”

The bird's nest nodded vigorously. “Yeah, she lives at home, you know—and needless to say her family is the reason she's in this state—so it will do her good to have a break from them.”

“Not another messed-up family. I don't think I can stand it. Don't tell me any more.”

“OK, I won't. I gather you've got yourself rather involved in Debbie's psychodramas, which seem to involve three dysfunctional families, so I can see you don't need to hear about another one.”

How did Liinda know about all that? Had Debbie told her about the disastrous weekend as well?

“I can hear all Debbie's phone calls,” she said, reading my mind. “You were getting a hell of a serve for a time there. Anyway, you and Zoe should go out after the parade. I'll go home with my knitting, of course, but you two could go out and have some fun.” She shook her head. “Ah, fun—I remember fun . . . Want Zoe's number?”

“Sure.”

I'd spent the weekend with a nymphomaniac alcoholic drug fuck, so why not a big night out with a neurotic bulimic?

Chapter Twelve

The parade was hilarious. I'd never seen anything like it—and I'd never experienced an atmosphere like it either. The crowd was really mixed, young and old, trendy and suburban (thank you, Antony) and everyone was friendly and excited. The police arrested some young thugs who were shouting homophobic remarks, but most people were just grinning at each other.

Antony had rung me in the morning to wish me “Happy Mardi Gras.”

“It's our Christmas, you know,” he said. I'd never heard him so excited. He was babbling on about his outfit—black leather pants and a black singlet. Totally simple, very comfortable, but all
ultima qualita,
he insisted.

“Won't you be a bit hot in leather?” I asked.

“That's the whole point, darling.”

“Well, have a wonderful time. Call me when you surface. And another thing, Antony—be bad.”

“Oh, I will, Pussy, I will. Love you. Goodbye.”

Liinda had found the perfect spot on a corner near Taylor Square and we were right at the front, so I had a great view even without standing on my milk crate. First to come along were the Dykes on Bikes, hundreds of them and as magnificent as Liinda had said they would be. After them came a huge band of marching boys in tiny shorts, marching in perfect time.

Then came a big group of leathermen in all manner of outrageous ensembles. Betty was marching along, his hairy bum hanging out of a pair of leather chaps.

“Betty! Betty!” I shouted. “You look gorgeous.” He turned and saw me and gave me a big wave.

“Thank you, Pussy darling! Happy Mardi Gras!” Then he darted over and gave me a big hug and a kiss. Which made me feel very special, before running back to join his gang.

The intense spectacle whipped me up into a high emotional state. One minute I was laughing hysterically as a float in the shape of a giant penis went by, with ten men in sparkly shorts and cowboy hats riding it like it was a bucking bronco. The next I was choking back tears when the Proud Parents of HIV Positive Children walked past with their heads up high, holding hands with their sick sons. One or two were pushing them in wheelchairs. I thought of friends I had lost in London and said a little prayer for Henry, Malcolm and Les. Never forgotten, I told them. Never forgotten.

Some of the floats were works of art and some were sweet and homemade. Some represented tiny little community groups from Tasmania and rural New South Wales, and others were sponsored by enormous corporations. A troupe of about a hundred Monica Lewinskys walked past—all men, in blue dresses, holding big cigars. A clan of bear men marched by in their jeans, check shirts and Tuff boots, looking like something out of
Little House on the Prairie.
On acid. Drag queens were strolling along in the most amazing outfits and beautiful lesbians paraded by wearing no tops and great big boots. Everybody was grinning. I hoped they could all feel the love from the crowd.

“Happy Mardi Gras!” I was shouting. “Happy Mardi Gras!” I said to Liinda and Zoe, hugging them both. It was great. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The Mardi Gras revellers had disappeared up to their party at the old Showground and Liinda was right, I certainly didn't feel like going home to some cocoa and a good book. I was in the mood to parteee. Fortunately, so was Zoe. I wanted to go dancing, but where could two straight girls go on Mardi Gras night?

“Don't ask me,” said Liinda. “I only ever went to clubs where I knew I could score drugs. I'm going home. Bye, you two. Have fun.” And she disappeared.

Zoe and I looked at each other. I was determined to have a good time, because I was wearing a fabulous new dress in a wild tropical print and my party high heels—Linda had kindly taken my trainers home with her.

“What time is it?” said Zoe, who was looking very fetching in a turquoise lace shift, trimmed with red. “OK, it's only just after nine—why don't we go on a bit of a bar crawl and see where we end up?”

We started in the champagne bar of a groovy boutique hotel and then moved on to a very stylish place with a great cocktail list and views over the city. There were lots of people up there and quite a few nice-looking guys, although after my recent Pollocking and the business with Billy, meeting new men was not such an attractive prospect. But Zoe knew lots of people in there, so we teamed up with a gang of them and it all seemed quite jolly. They weren't as much fun as Antony's friends but the music was excellent and the place was cool. I thought I was going to have a good night.

After a while I noticed Zoe was looking round the room with a slightly puzzled expression on her face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It's been bugging me ever since we walked in here—you know, What is Wrong With this Picture? I knew something was different and I was trying to figure it out. Have they changed the lighting? Is it different carpet? I've just worked out what it is . . .”

“What?”

“There are no gay men in here.”

I looked around. It was true.

“This is the one night of the year you can go out in Sydney and not see a single homosexual,” said Zoe.

“Weird, isn't it?” I said, having another look round the room. “I wondered why everyone was so badly dressed.”

We had a good laugh. But now she had pointed it out I felt a bit uncomfortable. This was probably the best night in the whole year to meet a man in Sydney and I couldn't have felt less like it. The truth was I missed Dolores and Betty and Trudy. I missed their humour and their excessive behaviour. I missed the sense of security I felt with them. With these men I felt judged entirely on my attractiveness. I could see them looking at my legs.

I wondered what Antony was doing at the party. I missed his eyebrows and his honking laugh, although I dreaded to think what he and Debbie were getting up to together. And then thinking about Debbie made me think about Rory Stewart. Had he watched the parade on TV up at the farm and felt totally left out of everything? Poor Rory . . .

“This is earth calling Georgie, earth calling Georgie, come in please,” said Zoe.

I blinked and glanced around me. The crowd we'd joined up with had split up into men and women. The men were talking about football and the women were talking about men. I stifled a yawn.

Zoe rolled her eyes and laughed. “You really are on sparkling form.”

“Looks like you need a little jump,” said one of the girls we were with. “We were just going to take a walk to the ‘powder' room, if you wanted to come.”

“Oh, no, it's OK thanks,” I said. She gave me a funny look and she and two other women minced off in their tight dresses.

“I think she just offered me Class A drugs,” I said to Zoe.

“That would be right.”

“Do you take them?”

“Only slimming pills and laxatives. Just kidding. I used to take the lot,” she said. “Except pot, of course, because it gives you the munchies. I've been hanging around with this crowd since we were teenagers and we've always done drugs. Cocaine and ecstasy, mainly. We're sort of part-time weekend party people, not like Debbie, who takes them all the time. But I'm not allowed to do them at all now. It's one of the conditions of my therapy. I had to make a deal not to ‘act out' ”—she made inverted commas with her fingers—“in any of my ‘addictions.' Do I sound like Liinda?”

“Only in a good way,” I said.

“I'm not really supposed to be drinking either, to tell you the truth. Cheers!”

We clinked glasses.

The girls were coming back. Fresh lipstick all round. I saw the one I'd talked to pass something to one of the men, and then the four of them went off to the loo. It was like watching a Swiss clock. The girls were even more inane now, but faster. They were talking about men again, and then one of them mentioned some great shoes she'd seen in a shop in Double Bay, which somehow led to a discussion about their favourite episodes of
Friends,
and that brought them right back to men—the men who had just gone to the loo, in fact.

Now I love shoes as much as the next girl and I'm pretty keen on men and even
Friends
can be fun on a dull night, so it wasn't the subjects they were talking about that were getting to me, it was the
way
they were talking about them. There was no debate or discussion, they just went round and round in circles, making flat statements, with everything relating back to them.