Pants on Fire (40 page)

“Thanks, Jasper.” I kissed him back. “I'll never forget our Blue Lagoon. It was very special. And you weren't that horrible to me—I deserved it. By the way, I'm sorry about Caledonia, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw it.”

“Bastards, aren't they? But that's OK, we're living in a boat shed on Scotland Island. It's pretty cool. See you later in the Persian room, Pinkus.”

And off he went, while I wondered who the “we” was.

I looked around the room again. Maxine was there, wearing a man's fedora with a card saying “PRESS” tucked into the band, and at last I was able to meet the man who was making her so gooey at work. He turned out to be one of the therapists from Debbie's rehab clinic—which explained Maxine's expertise on the subject.

Zoe was there in a nurse's hat, holding hands with Dr. Ben, who was wearing a green theatre cap on his head. And there was Liinda, with her Jazzpa in tow—he'd moved to Sydney and they were living together in numerological, astrological, NA bliss. No need for him to put on a hat specially for the party. He was a Rastafarian and always wore an enormous knitted red, green and gold tea cosy affair to contain his dreadlocks. Liinda had put a red gerbera, a marigold and a big green leaf in her stack of hair to match.

Looking round the crowded studio, at all these people I adored, I knew I should have been having a fabulous time, but it was actually a bit of a blur. What do you say to people you've seen every other night for a year and suddenly may never see again? I felt like I was mouthing the same thing over and over again to everybody: “Yes, I'm really sad to be leaving. Yes, I'll come back and see you. Please come and stay with me in London. Yes, here's my address. Yes, I have email. Love you too.”

I was starting to feel like a walking, talking Georgia doll. Pull the string and hear her talk. My face was aching from smiling and I was beginning to remember how much I'd hated my London leaving party. I was very glad when Liinda rushed over and grabbed me.

“Quick, come over here, I've got to tell you something before you see it and have a heart attack and die.”

“What?”

“Sera's here, right?”

“Yes . . .”

“With her new boyfriend.”

“Poor little pussy-whipped Nigel, or Norman, or whoever it is.”

“It's Nick Pollock.”

“Plonker Pants On Fire Pushead Priapic Pollock?”

“Yes, the very one.”

“If he hurts that little girl I will personally have him killed . . .” I began.

“Georgia—it's not like that, he's ga-ga over her. He's her slave. She met him at a party and he tried the handwriting analysis bullshit on her and she told him to get lost. She said she'd heard all about what a fuckwit he was and she wanted nothing to do with him. He's had to pursue her relentlessly and she still only returns half of his phone calls.”

“Well, I'll be buggered.”

And there they were. Seraphima was wearing a very small white dress with a large pair of white feather wings and a gold halo. She looked completely angelic—until you noticed the fierce Gucci stilettos on her feet. Plonker was wearing devil's horns and was looking at her “like a monkey looks at a banana,” as Liinda put it.

Grinning, I turned to see Jasper walk over to the bar with Tania on his arm, wearing a smaller version of his toadstool. She was holding on to him very tightly. Guess that explained who the “we” was. Suddenly I realised that everyone was in neat little pairs. Well, good on them, but I didn't even have Antony to play with. Where was he? I looked round the room again and saw another happy new couple: Billy Ryan, wearing exactly what he'd been wearing when I met him a year before, except that this time he had a new accessory—Lizzy Stewart, in a matching hat.

“Georgie, there you are,” said Billy. “We can't believe you're going back to London before we've even had a chance to have you over for supper. When are you leaving? You will come back and see us, won't you? Can we have your address, in case we need somewhere free to stay in London? Just kidding. Have you got email?”

I answered all the standard questions and then Lizzy asked me one which surprised me.

“Is Rory here yet?”

“I haven't seen him,” I said. “I . . . er . . . I didn't know he was coming.”

“Oh, he's definitely coming,” said Billy. “He's driving down with your brother and Deb—ow, why did you kick me, Lizzy?”

“Really? Hamish never told me. He said it was just him and Debs . . .”

“I think they just got here,” said Lizzy, glaring at Billy as three more Akubras in various states of repair walked in.

“Porgie Pie!” said Hamish, rushing over, and then it all deteriorated into a mess of hellos and kisses and how-gorgeous-to-see-yous. When we'd all calmed down again Rory went off to get everyone drinks and Hamish was stolen by Trudy and Betty who wanted to hear all about his adventures on the farm. I had a good look at Debbie. She looked wonderful, and even more golden than before now that the strain had gone from her eyes.

“Debs, you look great,” I said.

“Thank you, I feel great. No drink, no drugs, no men, no free facials—I haven't felt this good in years. It's fun at the farm with Hamish around. He's a great guy; Dad loves him. It's like having a brother of my own. Oh, by the way—he told me it's Georgia, not Georgie. Sorry about that.”

“Doesn't matter, I'm used to it . . .” I started to say, until I realised that she wasn't listening to me. She was watching Hamish, his arms flailing around as he entertained Trudy and Betty with bogus bush adventures.

Rory returned with the drinks, but before he could hand them round Hamish had come back to grab Debbie to dance with him. It was “Disco Inferno”—one of his favourites.

“Would you like three glasses of champagne and a mineral water?” Rory asked me, as we watched them disappear.

“Thank you. Although I'm being a little bit more careful about my alcohol consumption than I was at this party last year . . .” We looked at each other.

I felt self-conscious, remembering Jenny's words and the night on the hilltop.

“Your brother's a good bloke, Georgia,” he said. “The Brents love having him and he's been over to our place a few times too. My folks like him a lot too. He really fits in up there.”

We turned from each other to see Hamish and Debbie on the dance floor. Interesting, I thought.

“I can't believe it's only a year since this party,” I said.

“It's a year since we met, Georgia,” said Rory.

“And look,” I said, hurriedly, “there's Billy and Lizzy together. Who would have thought it, a year ago?”

“You're telling me!” He laughed and shook his head, fondly.

“And now you're going back home to London, so who knows where you'll be in a year's time, eh Georgia? When do you actually leave?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good old QF1, eh?” he said, raising his glass and clinking mine.

“Yes—how did you guess?”

“Afternoon flight to London, had to be QF1. All packed and ready?”

“Everything except this hat.”

“What have you done with all your drawings?” he said, leaning against the wall. “Are you taking them home?”

“How did you know about them?”

“Lizzy gave me your cow sketch. It's really good. I draw cows too, you know.”

“She told me. I can't believe she gave it to you—it was just for fun. I'm not a proper artist like you.”

“Well, I like it. I've got it on the fridge door.”

Suddenly I felt really shy again and was quite relieved when a big pack of Antony's friends arrived and swamped me with the usual hugs and questions. By the time I'd finished answering them, Rory had disappeared. Typical, I thought.

I stayed at the party until about one and then slipped away without telling anyone. I couldn't say goodbye to everyone again and I've never worked out how to do it so it has any meaning anyway. I did one last fruitless check around the rooms looking for Antony—and, if I was honest, for Rory—then I took off my hat to avoid notice and melted away.

I felt numb as I walked down the stairs. I'd done all my crying about leaving Sydney already, now I was just charged up to go. And it wasn't until I got out on to the street that I realised Rory Stewart was just about the only person at the party who hadn't asked for my new address in London. So much for him.

When I got home, I set about doing my last little bits of packing, but I was still too keyed up to go to sleep. I was also really furious with Antony for not coming to the party. It was after two a.m., but I was so cross I rang him anyway. I was surprised when he answered the phone. His voice was very slurred.

“Oh, Pussy darling, sorry I couldn't come to your little party. Ring me tomorrow,” he said and put the phone down.

 

 

I did ring him the next morning. I rang his doorbell repeatedly for a very long time. Eventually a very croaky voice announced: “Whoever you are, fuck off.”

“Antony—it's me. Let me in. I am not leaving without saying goodbye to you.”

He pushed the buzzer and when I got up to his floor the front door was open but he was back in bed. With his eye mask on. The place was a mess—something I'd never seen before. There was a pizza box on the kitchen counter, full ashtrays, and empty wine and beer bottles everywhere. I jumped onto the bed as hard as I could and bounced up and down until I elicited some kind of reaction—sort of an
uueeueeerrgh
noise.

“Dolores. What's wrong with you? Why didn't you come to my party? Looks like you had a party of your own here . . . Don't you want to hear about it? There's lots of excellent gossip . . .”

He snorted.

“I'm going to tell you anyway. Guess who Plonker Pollock is madly, deeply, passionately in love with?”

“A mirror?”

“No.
Glow
's editorial assistant, nineteen-year-old Seraphima. He follows her round like a lost puppy. It's pathetic.”

He harrumphed in an unimpressed way.

“And Jasper O'Connor is back with Tania. And Liinda Vidovic's new man is a gorgeous Rasta. And Maxine's having a wild affair with one of the shrinks from Debbie's clinic.”

He yawned theatrically.

“And there's another passionate love affair. My brother Hamish . . .”

A black eyebrow shot up above the mask.

“Is engaged to . . .”

Up went the other one.

“Debbie Brent!”

I know that would get his attention. He sat up in bed and ripped off the eye mask.

“What? How terrible. How fabulous. Oh my God—when did that happen? Oh, imagine their children . . . Imagine them in bed together, aaaaaaaah . . .” He fell back onto the pillows. His eyes were all red. He looked terrible.

“Well, it hasn't actually happened yet, but it might, you never know. They look fabulous together.” I laid it on with a trowel. “What happened to your eyes, Dolly?”

“Nothing. Tell me more about your brother and the future Mrs. Hamish Abbott. Lucky bitch.”

“It's just wishful thinking at this stage, but when you see them together, it just looks right.”

“I bet it does—and I suppose Johnny adores him.”

“Yep.”

“Imagine all of them together . . . It's too much. How divine. How completely sick-making.”

“You look pretty sick right now, I must say. What did you get up to last night? Why did you have a party here instead of coming to mine?”

“I didn't have a party here. I spent the evening alone. I can't bear leaving parties. I hope you had a nice time . . .”

I glanced back at all the empty bottles. He'd wasted himself.

“Well, I did have an OK time,” I said, slightly mollified. “But it would have been much better if you'd been there. So, are you at least going to come to the airport with me?”

“No. You must go to the airport on your own. Saying goodbye is always unsatisfactory and you'll find it much easier to be brave if you're by yourself. Trust me.”

Now I was really pissed off with him and I think it showed. He paused and then continued down even more briskly.

“What you don't understand, Pussy, is that I have a pathological hatred of saying goodbye. I've said it too many times to people I love who will never come back. I can't bear it. It never works. That's why I didn't come last night—and I'm not going to say goodbye to you now either. I'm going to get up and go to the loo and when I come back you will be gone. OK?”

I could see he was serious. I knew there was no point in arguing with Antony once he'd made one of his proclamations, but I still couldn't believe he was behaving like this. Did a year of friendship mean nothing to him?

“OK,” I said, with a big sigh. “But before I do my Captain Oates act—I may be gone some time, etc—I want to ask you to do one favour for me.”

He raised one of those eloquent eyebrows.

“Rory Stewart came to the party, but he didn't ask for my number in London. Everybody else did. I know he could ask Billy, or Debbie, for it but I want him to know that I want him to have it. Would you ring him and give it to him? Here's his number.”

I thrust a piece of paper at him. He ignored it.

“No,” said Antony firmly, and then he got up and walked out the French window, across the roof garden and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

And that was the last I saw of Antony Maybury. But as I turned to take one final look at his apartment before closing the door, I noticed a photograph in a silver frame on the bedside table that hadn't been there before. It was of him and me, at the Cointreau Ball.