Roadside Sisters (21 page)

‘We’ll be in the middle of Sydney in an hour, but we still haven’t decided where we’ll stay tonight.’ Meredith was getting antsy now. There was a deeply troubling blank in her travel diary.

‘In Corinne’s backyard in Double Bay,’ Annie mentioned casually. She’d already told Nina, but had been avoiding giving Meredith the bad tidings.

Meredith took the news more calmly than they might have expected. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll be close to the shops in the morning,’ was her only comment. She was prepared to countenance that Annie and Nina might be right, and that it was time to let go of the past with Corinne; but then, when she thought back to that night at the Athenaeum Theatre twenty years ago, the embers of humiliation glowed red hot.

It was to have been Sanctified Soul’s ‘big break’. Roscoe Fortune from Fortune and Associates—the most prestigious talent agency in the country—was coming to check out their act with a view to signing them. The gals were all excited about the possibilities. They hugged themselves and each other as they dreamed of tours to international arts festivals and a recording contract.

It might all have been a mirage, but Meredith sometimes checked the gig guides and saw that at least a couple of the
a cappella
choirs from those days were still together and had exactly the kind of career Sanctified Soul could have expected. While their little group may never have become world-famous, Meredith had spent years imagining how it might have been. She could have kept on performing—playing the odd gig here and there. She would not have sunk so much of her creative energy into interior design; she might have spent more time with
the children. And if she’d done that, she would not be in this passenger seat right now, travelling north to a denouement she was dreading more and more with each passing traffic light.

Meredith’s clients never really understood that she possessed the soul of an artist. Even as they admired the way she expertly coordinated their living spaces—creating a perfect stage on which they might perform—she knew they were thinking that they’d paid too much for something they could have done themselves. If only they’d had the time and energy.

Was it fair for Meredith to blame Corinne for the direction her life had taken? Probably not. But it had been a tipping point, and the tide of human history was often turned by one vain or stupid act. Corinne’s behaviour was driven by a self-serving obsession Meredith still had trouble understanding.

Without Corinne, Sanctified Soul had lacked that one voice—that glorious, angelic, soaring top note—that raised them from the ranks of the mortal to a choir of heavenly angels. The most galling thing was that Corinne had known it and had campaigned to be given most of the solos. They had sung at Carols by Candlelight in the Domain one Christmas and Sanctified Soul, led by the tiny ethereal figure in the white satin pantsuit, complete with feathery halo, had been the stellar attraction.

‘There’s a star in the East on Christmas morn
,’ Corinne had sung, her voice ringing like a church bell across frozen fields.

‘Rise up, shepherd, and follow
,’ they had replied in stirring, harmonious unison.

On that night at the Athenaeum when Corinne didn’t show, Meredith had given herself the solo in ‘Rain On Me’. One tiny
uncivilised corner of her soul had hoped that she might eclipse Corinne and be noticed by Roscoe Fortune as the star on the top of the tree. They had taken their places on stage, without Corinne, and sung two numbers beautifully, until Meredith stepped forward for her solo in the light of the follow-spot:

‘Showers of sadness cloud my soul.

When the sun comes out,

I look for the rainbow.

When night turns to day,

I long for—’

What? Meredith remembered the stark, horrifying moment as if it were yesterday. Was
yesterday
the word she was searching for? Or was it
today
,
another day
,
bygone days
or—Jesus help her—
hip, hip hooray
? She had faltered in that instant. Slowed, then stopped until the auditorium was silent and all she could hear was the rustling of scorched-almond packaging, and her heart, fluttering like one of the pigeons under the eaves. The performance had been a fiasco. The only thing that made it bearable was that Roscoe Fortune hadn’t turned up either. Meredith had stopped to stuff her appalling purple gospel robe into a bin in Collins Street as she ran out of the theatre.

When she heard, barely a month later, that Corinne had moved to Sydney and was being represented by the very same Mr Fortune, she saw the whole scenario for what it was—professional sabotage. Corinne hadn’t been in a life-threatening coma, nor was she actually dead, so she had no excuse that
would mollify Meredith. And Meredith had never, ever, in all the years since, asked for an explanation from her. She didn’t want to hear one, and it would be the same tonight.

The likes of the RoadMaster Royale roadshow had rarely been seen in Double Bay. It wasn’t so much the size of the unit that affronted the well-heeled inhabitants of postcode 2028—they were used to seeing giant cement mixers, cranes and pile-drivers in their winding, hilly streets. Anonymous Hong Kong bankers and home-loan moguls regularly hired massive mechanical hitmen to muscle in on a view of Sydney Harbour.

It wasn’t that the tackiness of the paint job on the van particularly offended them either—Double Bay was Tacky Paint Job Central. If you ordered a coffee at a café in Cross Street, it would only be a matter of time before you spied a matron in a headscarf who was delusional enough to believe that, if she applied her Chanel make-up with a trowel, no-one would notice the three-day-old facelift scars weeping into the collar of her Valentino jacket.

However, what did give passers-by pause for thought was the sheer audacity of the driver who crawled around up and down Bay Street in the massive rig while a procession of luxury European cars stuck behind it honked their disapproval. After some time two women were observed jumping on board toting bags from Cosmopolitan Shoes, a glossy white cake box and a bunch of creamy tea-roses. By the time the interloper (the Victorian numberplates were the subject of much scathing
comment) had moved off, there were at least three locals who were now running late to pick up their daughters from Piano, Ballet and Mandarin.

Bang on 6 pm, after casing the front of the house—a massive three-storey cream rendered pile surrounded by a high fence and screened by fig trees—Nina squeezed the vehicle up a skinny back lane. Annie was reminded of how she used to pull her stretch jeans over her hips with a coat hanger in the zipper. On either side of the lane faces appeared at sash windows. Some of them were the ladies of Double Bay—in towelling robes and hydrating face-packs, clutching the second or third gin and tonic of the evening and looking out for errant husbands—and some were nannies in peanut-butter-smeared tracksuits, clutching the fourth vodka of the evening and looking out for errant mothers. Then there was Corinne Jacobsen. She was in a black bra and panties, clutching a flute of champagne and training a pair of high-powered binoculars on the bougainvillea.

Annie jumped into the laneway and, as instructed, rang the bell on the back gate of Number Five. The intercom crackled with a voice that was suspiciously cheery.

‘Annie, darling! You’re here! Hang on—I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘She’s coming down,’ Annie announced through the driver’s side window.

‘I hope she’s bringing a jar of Vaseline. We’ll never make it through this gate.’ Nina found herself, ridiculously, breathing in, as if that would help them squeeze through the gap.

‘There’s still time to go to a hotel. You can drop me off and come back here by yourselves,’ huffed Meredith.

Ten minutes later and the RoadMaster was successfully manoeuvred between two stone gargoyles on either side of a wrought-iron gate. In another ten minutes an extension cord from the RoadMaster was running the length of a sandstone-paved courtyard and plugged into a socket in the pool cabana. Annie—juggling cake and roses—followed Corinne and was instantly swallowed by the vast glass-fronted entertaining area, which glowed like a human aquarium at the end of the garden.

Nina and Meredith had begged off to change shoes, tidy hair and apply lipstick. As Meredith exited the tiny bathroom in the van, Nina reached for her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. ‘Please, Meredith, I am begging you. Can we just get through this without any drama?’

Meredith gave a tight, dry laugh. ‘I can assure you I feel the same way you do. The sooner we’re back in here, tucked up in our beds, the better.’

As they stepped from the van onto the mosaic patio, ragged black shadows swooped through the garden emitting high-pitched shrieks. Nina jumped in fright: ‘My God! What was that?’

‘Bats! Looking for the Queen of Darkness probably.’ Meredith marched past the massive Balinese water feature towards the conflagration of dozens of blazing vanilla candles, and Nina hurried after her.

‘I can’t believe you’re here!’ Corinne lunged at Nina, clutched her upper arms with bony fingers and kissed the air beside both her ears. ‘How are you?’ She cocked her head like a bright-eyed, blinking Indian mynah bird.

Before Nina could answer, Corinne rushed at Meredith and threw her tanned, sinewy arms around her midsection. ‘And you too, Meredith. You look amazing! How long has it been?’ The immediate response that came to Meredith’s mind was
not long enough
, but Corinne had already moved on.

‘And Annie . . . so that’s four of us! We’ll have to have a singalong later—
Jesus on the main line, tell
’
im whachu wantttt—’
Corinne trilled as she turned to the travertine marble counter and splashed Perrier-Jouët champagne into two more flutes. She held them out to Nina and Meredith.

‘Oh, this is amazing! And that thing you’re travelling in on your hilarious expedition . . .’ Corinne’s mouth had formed a perfect puffed ‘O’, like a sugar-frosted Froot Loop. Meredith noted that her forehead was unmoved by the joyous occasion.

‘It’s a RoadMaster Royale,’ said Annie.

‘Five berth,’ added Meredith.

‘Four-cylinder, 2.2 litre Mercedes engine,’ Nina stated.

‘Well, here’s to you and Mr Elvis Presley—
uh-huh
!’ Corinne held up her glass and they all tinkled their hellos.

‘So how’s it been?’ she asked and, again, before they could answer Corinne was on to her next thought: ‘It must be
such
fun. Away from home, leaving all your troubles behind.’ She grimaced and downed her drink in one gulp.

Meredith saw Corinne’s hands shaking and raised her eyebrows at Annie.
Is this woman on something?
was the silent question.

Corinne poured herself another glass and turned to Nina, who was busy appraising the tiny size-8 figure that had been squeezed into a skimpy black-sequinned mini-dress. ‘I see in the paper that Brad’s still with the football club. How’s he coping with all this latest crazy business?’

‘Pardon?’ said Nina. ‘What “crazy business”?’

‘You haven’t heard? You really have been in the wilds, my darling! Haven’t you been reading the papers?’ Corinne rummaged through the pile of newsprint on the counter.

Nina was flustered and looked at Meredith and Annie, who both shrugged. They had no idea what Corinne was on about either.

‘Here!’ Corinne held up the back page of the previous day’s
Daily Telegraph
—the very same paper that had featured her on the front. When they were sitting around the table at Foxglove Spires, none of them had thought to turn to the sports section.

‘TABBY IN REHAB HIDEAWAY’ screamed the headline. Nina snatched up the paper and scanned the story:

The Richmond Football Club is in damage control over the latest AFL drugs scandal. Team manager Brad Brown told the
Daily Telegraph
last night that Kyle ‘Tabby’ Hutchinson has entered a secret drug rehabilitation centre on the Gold Coast and is determined to work through his ‘personal issues’.

On Monday Melbourne police formally charged the star Richmond midfielder with possession of a prohibited drug. He will appear in the Melbourne City Magistrates Court next week.

The Richmond Tigers issued a formal statement last night: ‘The club is not in a position to make any comment regarding Kyle Hutchinson being questioned by police,’ the statement said.

‘The police have advised the club that they will detail the circumstances of the interviews at the appropriate time and until then no club official will be available to the media.’

However the
Tele
tracked down Brad ‘Kingie’ Brown and he confirmed that Hutchinson has checked into a drug rehabilitation facility ‘on the Goldie’. Brown also said that both he and Tabby’s fiancée, aspiring model Emma Pang, are with him at this secret location and that they were all united as he ‘reviews some personal issues’. He declined to give any more details. The Tigers have now lowered the ‘cone of silence’ over the troubled star. All calls to team management have since gone unanswered.