by Lisa Walker
Jessica puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. ‘You going to offer me a drink or something?’
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but here she was, she had driven from the Gold Coast … ‘I’ve only got water.’
‘Water’s fine.’ Jessica stepped aside and followed me into the kitchen.
I pulled two grimy glasses out of the cupboard, filled them from the tap and slid one towards her. We sat down across the table. I sipped mine, tilting my head from side to side to try to get the stiffness out.
‘Rough night?’ said Jessica.
Was it that obvious? I glanced down at my crumpled uniform. Some of the tomato sauce from last night’s mixed grill had adhered to my chest. I looked across the table at Jessica. It was hard to know what she was thinking. Seeing her there in her pink linen at my peeling lino table was disconcerting. It was hard to present my current lifestyle as a step up in the world. I sighed. ‘Had a few drinks at the pub.’
Jessica drummed her perfectly rounded pink nails on the table. ‘Our last conversation …’ She drummed again. ‘Didn’t go all that well.’
I shrugged. It was funny to think that Jessica’s perfume launch had seemed important at the time. I gazed out the window at the place in the forest where Mac had appeared that night …
Jessica coughed, took a sip of her drink and mumbled something.
‘Pardon?’ I looked at her. Was she blushing?
‘Sorry.’
I waited for her to repeat what she’d said.
‘Sorry,’ she said again.
‘That’s okay, Jessica, just say it more clearly.’
‘No, sorry is what I said the first time. I’m sorry I dumped you after that potoree thing.’
‘Potoroo. Long-footed potoroo.’
‘Potoree, potoroo, whatever.’
I flapped my hand. ‘Makes no difference now.’
‘No — I feel bad about it. Let me make it up to you.’
I leaned my elbows on the table, gazed at her, waited with faint interest for her to speak again.
‘You’re like a sister to me, Cassandra.’
I laughed.
‘What?’ said Jessica.
I opened my mouth, shut it again. I didn’t know what to say. Do sisters dump each other at the first sniff of trouble? Maybe they do.
‘I’m worried about you,’ said Jessica. ‘Why don’t you come home?’
‘Home?’
‘Sydney. Cosmonauts is looking for someone to head up their international PR division.’
‘Oh.’ So that was why she was here. Her company had sent her on a head-hunting mission.
Jessica pushed her glass aside and leaned forward. ‘You’d be managing Sydney, Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, London. The job’s made for you. You’d be a shoo-in with your profile the way it is now.’
My profile. I laughed again, gazed out the window. My small brown bird was there again.
‘What?’ said Jessica.
‘I don’t know — my profile. I find it hard to grasp what that means anymore. It doesn’t seem to belong to me.’
Jessica looked confused. ‘But your profile’s fantastic at the moment, Cassandra. You’re on the side of the buses.’
‘Yeah, Wazza said.’ I met Jessica’s eyes; maybe she would understand. ‘It’s not me, Jessica. It’s just a figment of the media’s imagination. There’s nothing real about it.’
Jessica frowned. ‘Yes, I know that.’ She sounded like this was beside the point. ‘But you’re gold at the moment, Cassandra. You have no idea. Everyone’s talking about you.’
The little bird tapped on the glass. I winked at it.
Jessica swung around and looked at the window.
‘See, I’ve got lots of friends,’ I said.
Jessica puffed on her cigarette. ‘You’re not turning into one of those hemp-robe-and-sandal types, are you?’
Maybe I was. I leaned my chin on my hand, imagined myself strolling through a grassy meadow, my naturally brown hair blowing out behind me in the breeze …
‘This Cosmonauts job.’
I jumped. Jessica had interrupted my daydream.
‘We’d be working together. It would be fun. We’d be a team again, like in Blacktown. We had some laughs, didn’t we?’
I looked at her blankly. What laughs?
Jessica was unperturbed. ‘Best years of my life.’
‘Why don’t you go back there then?’
Jessica hesitated, then laughed. ‘God, you’re funny, Cassandra. Like I’d go back to Blacktown. Would you?’
‘No. Never. But I didn’t like it in the first place.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Jessica gestured around the kitchen. ‘This is a dump, Cassandra.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s a dump.’ As if to prove Jessica’s point, a cockroach scuttled across the bench.
‘I’m used to it.’ Jessica was making me anxious. While I’d had no trouble hanging up on Wazza, having Jessica here in front of me was a different story.
‘This job — it’s what you’re good at. You were so good, Cassandra. You’re wasted up here.’
I nodded. Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, London. ‘Yes, I was good, wasn’t I?’
‘The best. And think of Paris in the spring. Oh my god, the fashions, Cassandra.’
The fashions. I glanced down at my uniform.
‘I can’t believe you’d pass up a job like this.’ Jessica’s pert nose wrinkled. ‘Tokyo — don’t you love Tokyo?’
I nodded. ‘Tokyo’s cool.’
‘Harajuku, Ginza, the nightclubs, the shopping …’
I nibbled one of my hangnails, noticed the grime under my cuticles. Tokyo. I’d have to get my hair done, my nails, return to the gym … ‘I don’t know, Jessica. I’m not sure if I can do it anymore.’
‘Cassandra, you don’t look well. You look tired.’
‘I am tired.’ I sipped my water, wondered if I had anything in the fridge for breakfast.
‘Brainwashing.’ Jessica snapped her fingers.
‘Huh?’
‘They’ve been brainwashing you.’
‘No, they haven’t.’ Now that she mentioned it, though, my brain did feel kind of rubbery.
‘I studied brainwashing as part of my marketing degree. It’s the only explanation. You never used to be like this.’
I considered that statement. I wasn’t sure if it was true. ‘Like what?’
‘You’re so slow, and placid.’
‘You make me sound like a cow.’ I yawned, chewed my lip.
‘It’s classic brainwashing — sleep deprivation, harsh conditions.’ She glanced around the room. ‘Do you have a sense of powerlessness, a feeling you can only gain acceptance by complying with the norms? Are you eating unusual foods?’ She ticked the points off on her fingers.
I thought of the mixed grill in the pub last night. That hadn’t been the kind of thing I’d normally eat at all. I nodded.
‘Is there an in-group language you’re not party to?’
LOVA. I nodded again.
‘I knew it. Open and shut case,’ said Jessica. ‘They’re trying to grab you for some weird country town cult thing. Happens all the time.’ She gave me a serious look. ‘Friend of mine went to the Tamworth Country Music Festival once.’ She shook her head. ‘Great girl — worked in advertising. Slick as they come. Never came back. Heard she buys all her clothes from RM Williams now.’ Jessica cast her eyes over my ranger outfit. ‘It starts with the clothes, Cassandra. Before you know it you’ll be dancing around the street singing country and western songs and playing a ukulele.’
A ukulele. I remembered Mac. ‘I like the uk—’
‘Sooner I get you out of here, the better. That ranger, he’s probably the cult leader.’ She half stood. ‘I’ll help you pack your bag.’
‘No, I —’ I gazed out the window at the rainforest. ‘I can’t leave yet, Jessica. I don’t know why. I just can’t.’
I knew I should say yes, Re
né, but something was stopping me. What was it? Was it just Mac?
Crawk.
Assume there exists an evil demon capable of deceiving us? That’s not a very nice thing to say about Jessica, René. Or are you talking about Mac?
Jessica stood up and sauntered to the sink. She ground her cigarette out on the draining board. The sun caught her hair, making it blaze. ‘I’m taking a room at the Amble Inn for tonight. I’ve got a flight back to Sydney from the Gold Coast early in the morning. You should come with me.’
‘You can stay here.’
Jessica laughed, brushing off some dust that had adhered to her linen shirt. ‘I don’t think so, Cassandra.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Is that a PR job?
After Jessica left I noticed a blinking light on my home phone. I picked it up and listened to the message.
‘Hi, Cassandra — it’s Anthony. I saw you on the cover of Woman’s Daily.’ He paused.
I already knew what was coming next.
‘Your hair — I wondered if you’d mind telling people that I’m not doing it anymore … if they ask. It’s just — my reputation. I know you’ll understand. Um … I’m still seeing Damien. Thanks for being so …’ The message bank beeped. He’d run out of space.
I wondered why he hadn’t called me on my mobile, then figured it out. He didn’t really want to talk to me. I glanced in the hallway mirror. Like I’d give you credit for this hairdo, Ant. This one’s all mine. I smoothed down the sticky-up bits. Although … I do owe him one.
After a shower, a coffee and a fresh uniform, I felt capable of facing the office again. I fiddled with my hair in the mirror, getting the right AC/DC look.
I found myself singing along to ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ on the radio as I drove back to work. I stopped suddenly. Was Jessica right? Had I been brainwashed? Paris, London, Tokyo. It was tempting. And she was right, my talents were wasted here. I glanced over at the Amble Inn Motel and tapped my fingers on the wheel. Maybe I’d pay a call on her later.
The media contingent was still there outside the office. I strode towards them. ‘Press conference, guys.’
They pulled out their notebooks eagerly. The photographers raised their lenses.
‘I just wanted you to know …’ The shutters clicked excitedly. ‘My hair is, like, totally done by Anthony Karras of Anthony’s in Surry Hills.’ I twirled on the spot, model-like. ‘That’s all, folks.’
They were already on their mobiles, delivering the news as I strode off. It was a cheap shot, but I couldn’t resist. It’s not true what they say about revenge; it’s much more fun than turning the other cheek.
Rodney started typing furiously as I came in. His freckles were standing out like pebbles in off-white snow today.
I stopped in front of his desk. ‘Hi, Rodney.’
He looked up, turned even paler and smiled weakly. ‘Hi, Cassandra. Sorry about last night.’ Placing his hands on the battery terminals, he jerked backwards, moaning.
I cocked my head. ‘Which part?’ I wasn’t really being smart, I was interested to know.
‘Leaving like that. I should have taken you home or something.’ A red tide washed across the snow. ‘I don’t mean to my home …’
‘It’s okay. I know what you mean. So, what was going on — why did we get the bum’s rush?’ I stepped forward and leaned on his desk, peering around the side of his computer.
Rodney flinched as if he thought I was going to hit him. ‘C-c-closing time?’
‘Closing time.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Seems to me there was more going on than that. I thought Maureen was going to punch you out for a moment there.’
Rodney shook his head rapidly. ‘I think they just wanted to go to bed. The pub always shuts at that time.’
‘Really?’
Rodney nodded, like one of those dogs with a head on a spring.
‘Good morning again.’ Sam strolled up to the desk. She turned from me to Rodney. ‘What’s going on? Looking a bit peaky there, mate. Had a big night?’ She swivelled back to me, putting two and two together. ‘You both had a big night?’
‘No, I …’ Rodney began.
She waved her hand to stop him. ‘I don’t need to know. Cassandra — Trev Benson just rang. Said you were coming out to look at those feral chickens?’
Shit. I made a lot of promises yesterday — now I needed to deliver. I nodded: another head on a spring.
‘Good,’ said Sam. ‘Those chickens need to go. You should get out there tonight when they’re roosting and catch a few.’
My mouth dropped open. Was that a PR job?
‘Take a few photos for the paper while you’re out there.’ Sam made the tenuous link.
The amazing versatility of my job description was just sinking in. Was there anything that couldn’t be classified as public relations? My phone rang and I jogged over to my desk.
‘Are you going to come out here today and look at these flying foxes?’ said a woman’s irritated voice. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink last night with the racket.’ Her voice sounded familiar, but I was too frazzled to work it out.
I glanced around the office. Sam had disappeared. ‘Okay, sure, I’ll be right there.’
There was just one thing I needed to do before I left.
Rodney’s eyes burnt into my back as I walked towards the storeroom. I pulled at the handle but it was locked again. ‘Have you got the key there, Rodney?’ I sang out, trying to maintain the right tone of naivety.
‘What do you want in the storeroom?’
Was I imagining it, or was there an aggressive note to his voice? I met his eyes, but he didn’t look away or blush — interesting.
I thought quickly. ‘I need the stuffed pig for a news release about feral pigs. I want a photo to send out with it.’
Rodney leaned down and took the key from his cupboard. ‘I’ll get it for you. Sam likes me to keep an eye on what goes in and out.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘What, are they stuffed with diamonds or something?’
‘It’s just good administration procedure,’ said Rodney stiffly.
I was seeing a whole new side to him today. He wasn’t as much of a pushover as I’d thought. Peering over his shoulder as he opened the door, I ground my teeth. Sam had been busy — the shelves were empty. ‘What happened to all the posters?’ I said.
‘What posters?’ Rodney’s reply was a little too quick. He handed me the stuffed pig.
I tucked it under my arm. ‘Weren’t there some posters there? I thought if no-one needed them I could use them for a kids’ activity or something. Get the kids drawing pigs on the back.’
‘Guess they’ve all been used up.’ Rodney didn’t meet my eyes.
I took a deep breath. ‘Rodney. Look at me.’
He turned his head, but his eyes were on my nose.
‘Look at me,’ I repeated.
He met my eyes, his mouth setting in an obstinate line.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Noth—’
‘Don’t give me that shit, Rodney. You couldn’t lie your way out of a paper bag.’
Rodney’s eyes widened, then slid from side to side.
I lowered my voice and stepped towards him. ‘Sam’s not here to save you now. Last night, you were going to tell me something about Mac.’ I reached out and grasped his wrist with both hands. ‘Tell me or I’ll give you a Chinese burn.’ He probably thought I was joking. I wasn’t — ask any of my primary school compatriots. We fat girls have strong hands.
Rodney blinked. He looked like he might be about to cry. ‘There’s nothing, Cassandra. I was just trying to say …’ He gulped. ‘He’s no good for you, that’s all.’
I twisted and he yelped. ‘Why,’ twist, ‘isn’t he,’ twist, ‘any good?’ I did feel a bit mean, but he had it coming.
He pulled his arm away. ‘Look, you’ve left a mark.’ He rubbed at his wrist.
A bell tinkled on the front counter. ‘Helloo.’ A sunburnt farmer peered over and s
aw us.
Rodney scampered away like a frightened hare.
As I drove away from the office, I saw Jessica lying on a sun lounge next to the tiny blue motel swimming pool. She was wearing huge sunglasses and a red bikini and sipping an orange juice. A pair of high-heeled slip-ons lay on the ground next to her. She looked as incongruous as a flamingo in a suburban street. I recognised the magazine in her hand — French Vogue.
Paris in the spring …
The man in the garage opposite leaned on his pump, watching Jessica sip her drink. He looked hypnotised. He didn’t even notice me. I’d obviously lost it.
Half an hour later I was standing in a gutter. An odour like month-old dirty socks assailed my nostrils. A flying fox colony had recently taken up residence in the rainforest at the western edge of town. On arrival, I’d discovered that the woman who’d called me down here was Maureen from the supermarket. Why I hadn’t made the connection on the phone I’m not sure. It unsettled me; it was like I was missing things. Yesterday Christine Bowles had taken me by surprise, today Maureen … Was it them or was it me?
Maureen didn’t seem surprised to see me, though. ‘My morning off from the shop,’ she said flatly. ‘Got the assistant in.’ A milky-eyed old dog with moth-eaten bristly hair pushed itself between her legs as she spoke. The black and brown bodies of the bats dangled like smelly washing from the trees above. Chattering and screeching, they jostled for position, their leathery wings flapping. Maureen pointed triumphantly at a pile of sloppy brown poo. ‘Look at that — dirty things. What are you going to do about them?’ Strangely, she sounded like she had complete faith in my ability to solve her bat problem.
I peered up at the bats with a suitably intelligent expression, then turned back to her. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’
She laughed, her plump face crinkling up under her frizzy hair. ‘Do I have any suggestions? You’re the ranger.’
I waggled my head from side to side in a way I hoped implied that I could be the ranger, but then again I might not be.
‘You are a ranger, aren’t you?’ She eyed my badges. ‘You look like a ranger.’
‘Actually, I’m a PR officer.’