Pants on Fire Page 5

  Friends? What was that supposed to mean? I found a business card and gave it to him. If he wanted to be “friends” he could ring me at work. He looked at it and looked back at me, with a winning half smile.

  “Can I have your home number as well? I’ll call you tomorrow. We can go and have brunch or something.”

  Yeah right, I thought, but I wrote my home number on the back anyway. He gave me a warm kiss on the cheek and left. I pulled horrible faces at the closed door for a while and then, after five more glasses of water, I got into bed and screamed into the pillow.

  Chapter Three

  I don’t want to dwell on how I was feeling physically when the phone woke me up the next morning. It was not good. It took a while for the far-away bell in my dream to register as the phone. My voice must have sounded even huskier than Liinda’s.

  “Hurro?”

  “Georgie! I was just about to give up on you. Thought you’d gone out for a jog. How are you?”

  “Uh?”

  “It’s Billy. You know, Dog-shit Billy.”

  “Oh Billy, hi, how are you.” That’s romantic, I thought. Dog-shit Billy. Lovely.

  “How am I?” he replied, in a disgustingly perky voice. “I’m bloody starving and I thought you might like to come and have some brekkie. I presume you don’t have to go to work today? Too bad if you do, because it’s nearly eleven-thirty. Why don’t you come and have breakfast with me at Bondi? Get some sea air into your lungs, that’ll wake you up.”

  I felt a bit better already at the thought of seeing Billy’s face again. And Billy’s shoulders.

  “That would be lovely. Where shall I see you?”

  “I’ll come and pick you up. Can you be ready in fifteen?”

  Years, maybe, I thought as my mouth said, “Sure, sure. Great. See you in er . . . fifteen, then?”

  “Beauty,” he said and hung up.

  I flopped back onto the pillow. I was feeling so sick—just moving my head was torture. But I was grinning. Beautiful Billy, the farming broker, the disco king, the perfect man with perfect manners (apart from the odd unannounced tonguer), had rung me less than twelve hours after I’d last seen him. Rock and roll. I now had twelve minutes to get ready.

  I spent six of them in the shower, hoping that the therapeutic effect of water on the head would make me feel better. After forcing down a banana as a pill cushion, I swallowed two painkillers and six glasses of water, while fantasising about Antony’s bottle of Coca Cola. The phone rang. It was Antony.

  “Hello. How are you this fine and glorious morning?”

  “I are terrible, how is you?”

  “Oh, I’m marvellous. Just walked in the door. Starving. Want some breakfast?”

  I couldn’t believe it. “You just walked in the door? From last night?”

  “Ye-es,” he said, as if I’d asked a peculiar question. “And I don’t feel ready to sleep yet, so I thought you might like to have some bloody marys and a steak sandwich with me at the Bourbon and Beefsteak.”

  “That would have been lovely, Antony, but I’m already doing something. I’m just rushing out the door, actually. Perhaps we could do it some other time?”

  “Whatever. Have a nice time. Goodbye,” he said, completely unperturbed.

  A quick look out of the window revealed a perfect summer day, so I threw on a very short, striped T-shirt dress, a pair of slides and my old Panama hat, with the lack of care that comes only from feeling extremely ill and having one minute to get ready. The doorbell rang at exactly 11:45. And it wasn’t until I was riding down in the lift that I remembered I hadn’t given Antony my phone number.

  Billy was waiting for me on the pavement, looking just as attractive in daylight as he had by the light of the Milky Way. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt and his hair was wet again. I wondered idly what kind of car a farmer broker would drive and was secretly thrilled when he walked up to a really beaten-up old “ute.” He opened the passenger door for me and I was met by a hot wet tongue.

  “Scoobs, stop it!” came Rory’s voice from inside. “Don’t worry, she’s just being friendly. Scoobs, stop it. Come here.”

  “Hello Rory,” I said, surprised. “Hello Scooby. How lovely to meet you. I see even Australian dogs like to tongue-kiss people they haven’t been introduced to. Did you dare her as well, Rory?”

  He laughed heartily and Billy went red, which made me feel vindicated. Then, with Scooby sitting on Billy’s knee, both front legs and her entire upper body hanging out the window, and me sandwiched between the two men, we set off for Bondi.

  The three of us made jokey chit-chat about the party and the outrageous hats, while I tried not to let the throbbing diesel engine and the smell of Scooby make me feel even sicker. Behind the talk, my head was racing. Was I abnormal for thinking that it was a little strange of Billy to bring Rory along?

  It was Billy I had snogged. It was Billy who had lain naked in my bed (not for long, admittedly). Rory seemed nice enough, but I thought I was having a let’s-get-to-know-each-other-better breakfast with Billy, not Rabbit’s friend, relations and pets as well. Perhaps they were gay, I thought for a moment, but then I stopped caring.

  The sun was shining and Crowded House came on the radio singing “Weather with You.” The happiest guitar break in history always makes me smile and when Rory turned it up, saying “I love this song,” we all sang along. Scooby howled. OK, I thought, my hot date is a foursome, including a dog, and my mouth feels like the inside of a junk-shop handbag, but my life could be worse. And as Billy’s leg pressed into me on one side and Rory’s hand touched my knee every time he changed gear, I thought, yes, it could be much worse.

  All too soon we pulled up at a café with outside tables and views right over the surf. It was only the second time I’d been to Bondi and it still amazed me. Such incredibly ugly buildings and then that jaw-dropping beach. But even covered with people as it was on this bank holiday morning, once you turned your back on the awful cheap brick apartment buildings and burger shops, it had such a powerful vibe.

  “You should go for a swim after brekkie,” said Billy. “Get your head under the surf. Guaranteed to cure a hangover.”

  “What makes you think I’ve got a hangover?” I asked him, crossing my eyes.

  “Just an informed guess.” That smile again.

  Scooby came with us, carrying her own bone, which Rory had thrown to her from the back of the ute. She sat quietly under the table and was given a bowl of water by a waiter who knew her name. Rory poured some milky coffee into it.

  “Love your coffee, don’t you Scoobs?” he said.

  She certainly lapped it up eagerly. When she seemed settled I slipped off my slides, and put my feet on her warm, furry back and scrungled my toes in her smooth fur. Dog therapy. She turned her head and licked them a bit and then went back to her bone.

  The boys had the full hangover breakfast, but I was still feeling sick so I ordered plain toast. This was unusual. I’m normally the one who has two fry-ups, a brace of cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels and then heads to Burger King to fill up after a big night out. This morning, though, the thought of crispy bacon was repellent. I didn’t want to own up to myself that this might have something to do with Antony’s dinner plate and the magic white powder. Not good, I thought, wondering if there were any public loos in the vicinity. They could come and film some up-to-date anti-drug propaganda for schools starring Georgiana Abbott as the Class A desperado.

  Rory was speaking to me.

  “Sorry? What?” I said.

  “How long have you been in Sydney?”

  “Oh, um, two weeks yesterday.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “It’s great. I’ve found a really good place to live in Elizabeth Bay—I can see water, which is thrilling—and the job seems OK. It’s all very new still, but everyone’s been so friendly.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I work on Glow—”

  “Oh that’s right, w
ith Debs. How is she?”

  “She’s great. Really great,” I said, wondering if we always had to talk about Debbie, who seemed to have quite enough male attention as it was, judging by the amount of flowers that arrived at the office for her every day.

  Billy was rather quiet. In fact, he was reading the paper. Great. And it was the real estate section, not even the times of movies or something interesting like that. Rory leaned down to give Scooby some bacon scraps and smiled up at me when he saw my feet on her back.

  “I hope you don’t mind me er . . . borrowing your dog,” I said, feeling as if I’d taken a liberty.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you like her. Do you have a dog back in England?”

  “Yes.” My eyes immediately filled with tears. “He lives with my parents, but he’s my dog. Gaston. He’s a French bulldog.”

  “What’s the difference between a French bulldog and a British one?”

  “Well, the main thing is he’s not nearly as ugly as a British bulldog and he’s as black as a liquorice allsort and he has a white bib on his chest and his ears stick straight up and when he runs his front legs go from side to side, it’s the sweetest thing . . .”

  A sob escaped. How embarrassing. “I’m so sorry, but I really miss him. Scooby’s fur feels similar.”

  “Well, you can borrow Scooby as a footrest any time you’re missing Gaston. You’d be happy to help, wouldn’t you Scoobs?”

  We both put our heads under the table to look at her at the same time. She glanced from one to the other and gave a big doggy yawn. Rory really did have a sweet smile.

  Billy was now absorbed in the business news, eating with one hand and holding the paper with the other. Rory clearly felt it was his responsibility to make conversation with me. I was glad somebody did.

  “So why did you move here?” he asked.

  I still didn’t have a pat answer for this question worked out.

  “Oh you know, I just felt like a new challenge and I’ve always liked Glow and I was sick of London—terrible traffic jams, too hard to do anything, so expensive, and it seemed like an exciting time to come out here.”

  And my fiancé was shagging PROSTITUTES and all the men were wacko and hated me . . . I changed the subject.

  “So, Billy tells me you’re a farmer.”

  “Yes. So they tell me.”

  “My brother is a sort of farmer. He went to agricultural college, to do something called ‘estate management,’ which just seemed to involve going to lots of parties at big houses and shooting a lot of innocent creatures. Did you do anything like that?”

  Rory’s expression changed. His shoulders went a bit slumpy and I had the feeling I’d said the wrong thing. Oh no—the brothers. The father. The farm. I’d forgotten the full horror of the story. What had Billy told me?

  “No. I went to art college,” he said. “Not very useful for cattle farming, I know, but then I never expected to be a farmer.”

  I decided to go by my grandmother’s principle and seize a difficult subject rather than tiptoe around it. “Billy told me about your brothers, Rory. I’m so sorry, it must have been awful for you. Such a terrible shock.”

  He looked surprised, but also relieved that he didn’t have to explain the tragic story to me himself.

  “Thank you,” he said, quietly. “It has been pretty tough.”

  “What were you doing at art college?”

  “Painting. I had an MA already and I was hoping to get a part-time teaching job and carry on doing my own work, but I had to go and help Dad with the farm. I couldn’t let him sell it—not on top of everything else; that would have been the last straw. The property’s been in the family for over a hundred years—that’s a long time in Australia.”

  “Sometimes doing the right thing is so hard,” I said. “You’re very brave to stick to your principles like that. Do you still paint?”

  “No. I just closed that part of my brain down. I couldn’t bear to be a weekend painter. It was never a hobby for me.”

  It didn’t seem like the right moment to tell him it was very much a hobby for me and that I was actually searching for a good life-drawing class to go to in Sydney. Rory looked very sad. I turned to Billy for help—he was studying the stock prices. This was the strangest date I’d ever been on, I thought. First he brings his friend and then he ignores both of us. Rory seemed to feel the awkwardness of the situation too.

  “Hey, Bills,” he said, winking at me. “I think I made thirty cents profit last week, at the sheep sale. Seen any can’t-miss shares I should buy with it?”

  Billy looked up. “No, just hold on to the land, mate. Most valuable asset you have. So, Georgie, how are you feeling? You haven’t eaten your toast.” Oh, so he had remembered I was alive. “Maybe you should have another coffee. Rory? Another latte?”

  Rory nodded and Billy went inside to find a waiter. When he came back he was pushing his wallet into his back pocket and looking at his watch.

  “Well, I’ve got an appointment at one, so I’d better be off. Good to see you, Georgie. Let’s catch up again soon. I’ve got your numbers; I’ll call you. See you at the Four in Hand later, Roar? I’ve fixed this up. OK, bye you two.”

  And that was it. He hailed a taxi that was just coming round the corner and left. I was glad I was hung-over. In my stunned state I couldn’t process the full weirdness of Billy’s behaviour. We met. We danced. We snogged. He called me. We went out. He left me. This cycle normally takes more than twelve hours. Rory didn’t seem too perturbed by it. Was I missing something here?

  “Have you got something to rush off to, Georgia, or do you fancy a walk when we finish these coffees? Scoobs would love to take you for a walk, wouldn’t you Scooby?”

  Great. Perhaps Rory was planning to leave too, so it would just be me and the dog.

  “I’d love a walk,” I said, all the same.

  So we finished our coffee and strolled down the hill to the promenade. It was very hot and the beach was packed with people enjoying the public holiday. There were families, with big fat grannies in black dresses and cardigans, but most people seemed to have improbably good bodies. Girls in tiny bikinis and guys in brief Speedos Rollerbladed along the concrete walkway. There were buskers playing pan pipes and a circle of drummers in front of the pavilion.

  “Those drums remind me of the crazy jungle drum pedestrian crossings here,” I told Rory. “I think they’re hilarious. They always make me feel I should limbo dance across the street.”

  “What else have you noticed since you arrived here?” he asked and I felt that, unlike Billy last night, he was genuinely interested in hearing my answer.

  “Well, everyone is really friendly. Even the people on the phone when you ring the gas board. In England they hate you, on principle. And taxi drivers here are amazing. They don’t always know the way, but sometimes they round the fare down when they give you the change. That would never happen in London.”

  Rory was a good listener and one I get started I can really go on. But he didn’t seem to mind. He listened and laughed and smiled and nodded and Scoobs padded along by our side, sniffing everything keenly.

  I wanted to ask him more questions, about his life on the farm and his life before it, but it seemed too intrusive and I felt it was better to keep prattling. And of course, this was an ideal opportunity for me to probe him subtly about Billy. About how long they had known each other and all the things they’d done together—the tattoos, the first youthful drinking binges, the sporting achievements—until I managed to drag the subject round to what I really cared about: girlfriends.

  It’s useful being a journalist sometimes. It trains you to be able to get things out of people without them realising. We did first girlfriends and important girlfriends, girlfriends fought over and girlfriends still pined over, and then I directed him to the subject of current girlfriends—as in girlfriends, current, did Billy have one? No. No, he didn’t have a girlfriend and neither did Rory. He was very firm about it. And then
I masterfully changed the subject. Oh wow, look at those skateboarders . . . Shall we stop and watch?

  We sat on a park bench and watched them do their impossible leaps and flips until Scooby decided it was really boring and we walked back to the ute. By now I was feeling ready for my afternoon nap and as Rory drove me home I fell asleep, with Scooby draped across me, her head out of the window, ears blowing in the breeze.

  I woke up with a start when we stopped outside my building. With manners as impeccable as Billy’s, Rory jumped out and came round to open the passenger door. No man under the age of sixty had ever done this for me in London. I was about to kiss Scooby goodbye when I remembered something.

  “Rory—Billy told me that Scooby is a champion jumper. Will you show me?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning. He put his head back into the ute and came back holding a dog biscuit. “Scoobs!” he said, holding it above his head. “Biscuit!”

  Scooby leapt straight up in the air. It was amazing how high she went. I clapped and Rory gave her the biscuit.

  “You should be in the Olympics, you clever old high jumper,” I said to Scooby, giving her a big kiss. She gave my face a good licking in response. Rory was beaming as he walked me to the door. Then there was a slightly awkward moment.

  “Well, that was really fun,” I said shyly. “Thanks for driving me home and thanks for the dog-replacement therapy.”

  “It was our pleasure. Wasn’t it, Scoobs? Well, I’ll be off then. It was great to meet you, Georgia. Hope to see you again next time I’m up in Sydney.”

  “Yeah, that would be great. As long as you bring Scooby.”

  I kissed him on the cheek and he stayed still for one extra beat. There was something hanging in the air at that moment. I didn’t know what to do, so I just went inside.

  I was cream crackered. What a weird twenty-four hours. I put on my comfiest nightie and lay on the sofa with a packet of Kettle Chips (the grease craving had just kicked in) and pondered all the events since I’d arrived at Danny Green’s party the day before.

  Jasper O’Connor’s dickhead hat and jungle joints. Antony Maybury and his dancing eyebrows. Billy Ryan’s unannounced tongue kiss and unerect penis. About twenty-five new best friends whose names I couldn’t remember. The wicked plate. The heavenly dancing. The heavenly snogging. The unheavenly dog poo. The stupidity of the bed incident and subsequent embarrassment. The surprising morning phone call followed by the incredible disappearing date. Rory Stewart’s kind smile. Scooby dooby doo.