The cat squirmed in Vera’s arms as she led Judy across the yard. ‘I wait on Miss Katie hand-and-foot, but she prefers Paulina. Every time she hears her come in — whoosh.’
‘Cats love Paulina,’ Judy played along.
‘Cleopatra reincarnated,’ Vera quipped. A border collie lazing on the verandah grumbled as she side-stepped it. ‘Don’t mind Jake. He’s just lovesick.’
The house was busy with weekend clutter: a leaning mop, draped rags, splayed newspapers, and, on the kitchen table, a bowl of fish-guts. Vera dumped the cat, moved the bowl to the floor. ‘Rocky!’ she called. In response, a beetle-browed older man shuffled into the kitchen and shook Judy’s hand, shuffled out again.
‘Pacific Games re-runs.’ Vera rolled her eyes. ‘Coffee, tea, Milo? Or you can have a beer with Rocky.’
‘Milo. Thanks.’
Vera nodded toward the lounge. Obediently, Judy went and sat on the weathered navy-blue couch across from Rocky’s armchair.
Weightlifters grunted in a grainy gymnasium. Vera returned with a mug and a plate of Scotch fingers, nudged Rocky’s ankle with her boot. He lowered the volume. Sitting beside Judy, Vera reached behind the couch for a directory and an off-white corded phone.
‘Yorana, Kymba.’ Vera listened for a moment, brow furrowed — then started speaking rapidly in a funny, old-timey almost-English.
‘Sorry,’ she told Judy, after she hung up. ‘It’s just easier speaking Fayrf’k, if you want to get to the point.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me.’ Judy waved her hand. ‘You can speak Klingon for all I care.’
It was disconcerting, though, as more conversations rushed by, seemingly varied in detail and nuance, yet all with the same result — no Paulina.
‘Camel?’ Rocky suggested after his wife hung up again.
Vera dialled a new number. Judy nibbled a Scotch finger. Stale. Dipped it in her Milo. Why had she asked for Milo?
‘He’s nay home,’ Vera muttered, hanging up.
‘Eddy?’ Rocky suggested.
Vera scowled. ‘Nay, Rocky!’
Rocky shrugged, chuckled. Vera dialled. ‘Yorana, Eddy …’
Miss Katie leapt onto the couch, kneaded Judy’s thigh. Vera’s face was red when she finished her call. She muttered something vicious at Rocky in Fayrf’k, didn’t translate. Rocky chuckled again, drained his tinnie, and shuffled out.
Judy finished her Milo. Vera dialled. ‘Merlinda … ?’ Jake loped into the room, followed by Rocky, who offered a cold-beaded can to Judy.
‘No. Thank you.’
Vera thrust out her hand. After finishing up the call, she cracked it open and swigged. ‘Merlinda saw Paulina driving.’
‘Oh?’ Judy perked up.
‘Around eleven am.’
Judy’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’
Jake whimpered and lay on the rug. Miss Katie’s tail lashed. ‘Toa?’ Rocky suggested, and it was suddenly horribly clear to Judy that he was no longer interested in the faded footage.
Judy stood up. ‘Excuse me. Mind if I—’
‘Right down the hall,’ Vera pointed, already dialling.
The bathroom was done up in peaches-and-cream tiles, daisy decals on the walls. Judy ran the taps. Washed her hands; washed her face; wept. Washed her face again. ‘You’re fine,’ she reassured her reflection. ‘We’re both fine.’
Lifting the fuzzy peach toilet lid, Judy unbuttoned her shorts, tugged aside her swimsuit, and peed a stinging trickle. UTI? Wonderful. On the wall above the toilet was a picture of a dreamy-faced fairy squatting on a toadstool, bloomers around her ankles, thought-bubble at her head:
Sometimes I sits and thinks
And sometimes I just sits.
‘Gawd!’ Judy despaired. ‘Get me out of here!’
When Judy returned to the lounge, she found Vera and Rocky huddled and talking quietly in Fayrf’k. Across the room, the mantel clock struck seven.
‘Shame on me! It’s your dinnertime.’ Judy sucked in a lungful of stuffy air. ‘Thanks for your help, but I really should get back to Mutineers’ Lodge. Maybe she’s left a message.’
‘I tried Mutes’.’ Vera said. ‘Tried everyone we could think of; it’s strange …’
A splitting pain shot through Judy’s chest. She closed her eyes, leaned against the mantle. When she opened them, Vera was standing before her, lips pursed white.
‘It’s real strange, I have to tell you. The sort of place Fairfolk is …’ Vera gestured. ‘You sneeze in your backyard, five people shout “bless you”. You buy a bunch of flowers, ten people ask who you’re trying to impress. Everyone’s always looking over each other’s shoulders.’
Nodding, Judy tried not to think of the main street, deserted in the rain.
‘And Paulina: she’s eye-catching. I guess you know that. It’s strange, no one seeing her in so long.’ Vera glanced at Rocky. ‘I hate to say it, but …’
Don’t say it! Don’t.
‘I think we should call the police.’
Like a slap: this thought Judy had been avoiding, so clearly articulated.
‘Oh! No. She’s just …’ But Judy had no justifications. ‘Please. Do you really think—’
‘I do,’ Vera cut in. ‘Mother to mother? I think it’s for the best.’
As Vera dialled, Judy’s throat tightened. To hide her hot, broken face, she examined a little clay jar on the mantle, a line-up of framed photographs.
‘Jake as a puppy.’ Rocky came up behind her, pointed. ‘Katie as a kitten.’
Judy nodded politely. He pointed at another picture: a beautiful girl with waist-length black hair. ‘Vera as a puppy, kitten?’
‘Gorgeous,’ Judy mumbled. ‘Are those your kids?’
‘Vera’s kids.’ Rocky grinned. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘He said to come to the station.’ Vera stood, dusting cat-hair from her jeans.
‘The station?’ Judy cried, affronted.
‘It’s close. Five minutes.’ Vera avoided her eye. ‘I’ll drive.’
Rocky went to the coat rack for windbreakers, whistled at Jake, who ran ahead to the door.
Outside, the sea breeze licked Judy’s cheeks. They hopped into Vera’s jeep: Rocky in the back with Jake, Judy shotgun.
‘Some tourists aren’t prepared for how cold it gets at night.’ Vera started up the jeep. ‘Of course, that’s how it goes when you’ve got the sea on all sides. Big temp drops.’
You bitch, don’t you dare talk to me about the weather. ‘I know. I spent my honeymoon here. Did they say why they want us at the station?’
‘Didn’t say much.’ Vera rolled onto Tenderloin Road. ‘Your honeymoon? Really.’
‘1969,’ Judy said, her willpower like a punctured tyre. ‘I wanted to go to the Central Coast. But Marko wanted to take me somewhere exotic.’
Only when they got to the station did Judy realise that she didn’t mind the small talk; didn’t want it to end, actually. As if reading her mind, Rocky fished a flask from his pocket.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Vera said, then waited until Judy drank.
It was cold inside the station, despite the liquor, despite the windbreaker. A pimple-faced young cop stood to attention.
‘Hank!’ he called into the office behind him.
An older man appeared: square black crew cut, square florid face, watery eyes the same light-green that so many of the Islanders had.
‘Mrs Novak, thanks for coming down. I’m Detective Sergeant Hank Turner.’ The man offered a meaty handshake. ‘I believe your daughter’s been missing since midday. Can you describe her?’
‘Pretty,’ Judy blurted out.
‘Can you be more specific? Height, weight, hair colour, things like that?’
Did it mean anything that he wasn’t wearing a hat?
‘Dark brown h
air, with a fringe; probably in a ponytail, if she was exercising,’ Judy chose her words as carefully as birthday gifts. ‘Dark eyes. Medium height — 167 centimetres, I think.’ Don’t look at him. Keep talking. ‘Slim, very slim … I always tell her, she doesn’t need to diet so much, but she never listens.’
The man opened his mouth. Don’t look! Keep talking.
‘Thirty years old. She’s thirty this Sunday. Hates it. I’ve been telling her, though, she shouldn’t worry; thirty is still young. It’s still so young …’
Don’t look! He wants me to look, the bastard, but I won’t—
‘Mrs Novak. I’m sorry to tell you—’
Don’t! Bastard. Don’t you dare!
‘Mrs Novak. A body has been found.’
Y2 KILL ME NOW
Paulina started drinking at midday, but so did all the bridesmaids. Mimosas, gulped between mud wraps, facials, bikini waxes, and mani-pedis at the Nirvana Spa in Mosman. After that was the Dom Pérignon while they were in their movie-star chairs for hair and make-up. Another bottle of champers was chilling in the limo. ‘Shame to waste it!’ Paulina popped it, and three of the other chicks cheered. But Carli and her boring cousins said no thanks, they didn’t want to smudge their lippie.
By the time they boarded the Stella Maris an hour before sunset, Paulina was buzzed enough to trip a little in her kitten heels, to wolf-whistle in the general direction of the prime minister’s residence as they pushed off from Kirribilli Wharf.
‘Missed ya chance, Johnny-boy! Carli’s taken!’
Later, milling around on the deck, waiting for the sun to go down, she nicked a glass from the tray one of the cute boys in white was carrying. ‘Wait till you see Carli,’ she told Kyle, the groom-to-be. ‘She looks just like Rose DeWitt!’
Someone took Paulina’s drink away for the photos. Bridesmaids and groomsmen, all posed against the prow of the yacht.
‘Geez.’ Paulina smiled up at the guy she was paired with. ‘You’re tall.’
A little while later, she stood on the guy’s foot and said, ‘Oops!’, patted his pocket square. A little after that, she touched his shirt. ‘Love these black shirts! So dashing!’
Kyle’s sister Adrianna poked Paulina in the ribs. ‘He’s seventeen.’
‘Oops!’ Paulina winked a glittery eyelid. ‘Gotcha!’
She couldn’t see any more boys in white, after the photos. Anyway, it was time to get in position. Her dress itched. She scratched the flatness between her tits, right below where the cowl-neck cowled.
‘Paulina!’ Kirsty hissed. ‘You’re like a bloke with his balls!’
Then there was a sudden hush that made her giggle, then the three-piece band started up, and sure as Paulina’s ballooning bladder, there was Carli on her dad’s arm, and even if Paulina did someday find another bloke willing to say I do, she’d never have that moment. Thinking this, she got all teary, started sniffling almost as much as Carli’s mum.
‘Shhh.’ Kirsty reached and stroked Paulina’s arm. ‘Shh, Pauls. S’alright.’
Paulina gave a big, ugly sob — big and ugly enough to attract death stares — then turned off the waterworks. She was giggly again once Carli and Kyle were at the altar.
‘Psst!’ She brushed a fleck of sea spray from Carli’s veil. ‘Carli!’
Carli swivelled her neck minutely. Cut her eyes at Paulina.
‘All good!’ Paulina mouthed, thumbs up.
But really, she was dying for a drink.
Paulina wasn’t that drunk. It was the lighting!
So dim and flashy, blue-and-red, and strobes wandering like floaters in and out of her field of vision. How was she to know who was age-appropriate and who wasn’t?
‘Life isn’t fair!’ she moaned, as yet another bloke flitted in and out of the men’s, wiping his hands on his suit pants. ‘Why’s life so unfair?’
‘You can try your luck in there.’ He nodded. ‘Wouldn’t recommend it, though.’
He made as if to go. But Paulina saw him throw a glance at her neckline.
‘Hey.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘For real, I’m busting. Can you guard the door for me? Please?’
The guy looked at her French-tipped manicure. ‘Wouldn’t recommend it, love.’
‘Yeah?’ Paulina took a step back into the line. ‘Who are you? What would you know?’
‘Who are you?’ The guy rejoined. ‘I know — you’re one of the bridesmaids. I saw you up there. You girls looked beautiful, in your beautiful dresses.’
‘Yeah?’ Paulina swished her skirt, stumbled on some chick’s foot. ‘This dress?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘Yeah, nah. The material’s kinda itchy.’
‘Itchy?’ He ogled her as she scratched herself. ‘Looks nice and silky to me.’
‘Ha-ha!’ Paulina threw her head back, felt her undies dampen. ‘Oh! Shit.’
She crossed her legs, lost her balance a bit. The guy steadied her; took the opportunity to caress the silver satin at her hip. Paulina giggled. ‘That tickles.’
‘Bride coming through! Bride needs the loo!’
It was Kirsty yelling, jumping the queue with Carli. The guy made himself scarce.
‘Pauls! No.’ Kirsty grabbed her hand. ‘That was Carli’s godfather.’
‘Godfather?’ Paulina fanned herself. ‘Mio dio!’
Carli’s face looked profoundly unhappy, pores starting to show through her makeup. Paulina changed tack. ‘How’re you gonna piss in that dress? Need help?’
Carli nodded.
‘Bride coming through!’ Paulina shouted. ‘Bride needs the loo!’
‘You looked so beautiful up there,’ some old lady at the sinks told Carli. ‘Such a beautiful couple. Congratulations to you and Kyle. I hope—’
Paulina started banging on cubicles. ‘What, are you drowning?’
A girl with smudgy makeup and a velvet dress emerged, abashed. The three of them stuffed themselves inside the cubicle. Paulina got to the toilet first.
‘Ohhhh!’ Her eyelashes fluttered. ‘It’s better than sex!’
Carli and Kirsty both gave her the stink-eye.
‘Your turn, babe.’ Wiping, Paulina scooched aside. ‘Let me get your skirts.’
Carli settled on the loo with a frown. ‘Did you eat, Paulina? Please tell me you ate.’
‘Yeah-hh.’ Rolling her eyes, Paulina handed Carli a wad of paper. ‘Course!’
The bride clearly didn’t trust her though, since she personally fetched a tall glass of water and a plate of croquembouche.
‘Thank you, Mrs Portelli!’ Paulina gulped the water, took a bite of profiterole. ‘Mmm! Sure you don’t want some? Hey, wanna come for a smoke?’
Carli had quit months ago, of course.
Paulina tripped up to the deck, spitting into her napkin as she went. She chucked her profiterole in the ocean and laughed. A boy in white looked at her.
‘Hey.’ Paulina smiled. ‘Got a light?’
He was cute. ‘Caterers are always cuter than the guys in the wedding. Why is that?’ she asked, lighting up. ‘I’ve been to shitloads of weddings this year. Guess you must too? Gawd, I hate them! Did you see the banner? Y2 Kyle and Carli? Y2 kill me now! Ha-ha.’
He smiled. Cute! Stubbed out his ciggie. ‘Better get back to work.’
‘Hey!’ she called as he made for the stairs, but the look he gave her, like she was a bit of gum on his shoe. ‘… Is there a phone around here?’
‘That way.’
Paulina found the payphone, in a nook full of ropes and lifesavers.
‘Vinnie. I know you said not to call anymore, but since it’s New Year’s I just wanna tell you I’m a new person now; that person who screwed up isn’t me; I’ve changed; I’ve tried so hard to change — please, just, I don’t think you really understand how sorry I am? I’ll be sorry
till I’m dead. Till you forgive me and love me again, I feel like I could die; I’m so sorry …’
She wept into the machine’s beep. Hung up and banged her head on the glass.
A bunch of smokers appeared on the deck.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked the nearest one. ‘When’s this millennium gonna end?’
Paulina wasn’t looking for a fight. She just wanted to dance!
Dance her troubles away — to music that wasn’t completely crap.
‘You again,’ said the DJ.
‘Yeah, listen, I know you said Nirvana’s like the most alternative thing you got, but I think maybe you’re just thinking about grunge when there’s so much we haven’t talked about. Like obviously you’ve never heard of post-punk but howabout some classic punk? “Rock the Casbah”? “Blitzkrieg Bop”? I can compromise! Bloody hell, play some Britpop. Bowie. Everyone likes Bowie! Work with me, mate. C’mon.’
‘What are you, a muso?’
‘I’m a financial advisor.’ She squinted, leaned over the turntables and arched her back. ‘Look, babe. Maybe it’s easier if I just come over there and—’
‘Pauls!’ Kirsty said. ‘Come here.’
‘What? Gawd, this guy’s shit. I know he’s a second cousin or something, but bloody hell. Where’s my drink?’
‘Let me fix your hair.’ Kirsty fixed her hair. ‘Let me take your photo.’
Obligingly, Paulina posed for the disposable camera. As soon as they were done, she made for the DJ again, but Carli had taken her place. Like it wasn’t enough she was married.
Paulina veered toward the bar. To her surprise, though, Carli turned around and looked at her; a smile spread across her face like jam on bread. A new song started.
‘Gunners?’ Paulina cried. ‘He had Guns N’Roses this whole time?’
Carli grabbed her hand, pulled her into a slow dance. ‘That horrible concert at Eastern Creek, remember? It was so hot.’
‘It was brilliant.’
‘Remember how they charged $2 for those tiny cups of water?’
‘Remember that bogan you hooked up with? Oi, why aren’t you hooking up with Kyle now? Don’t tell me you’re waiting till you get to Fiji!’
‘Fiji?’ Carli looked confused. ‘Our honeymoon’s on Fairfolk Island.’
The Newcomer Page 2