by Lisa Walker
So, one week ago, Jacq and I moved into my grandmother’s two-bedroom unit south of Surfers. Our neighbours include a constantly stoned white-haired surfie and a quiet woman who is on the mend from a face-lift. I wouldn’t say it’s my spiritual home, but Nan does have over two hundred Nancy Drew books, so it’s not all bad.
I swallow the last of my nori roll and flick through the Gold Coast Times. The editorial bleats its dismay at the way a Sydney football event portrayed the Gold Coast. It was a closing ceremony where the baton passes on to the next host; in this case, the Gold Coast. Bikini-clad dancers featured prominently.
It’s a mixed message from the editor. Firstly, doesn’t Sydney realise the Gold Coast has two universities and leads the nation in biotechnology? Secondly, the dancers were supposed to represent the Gold Coast but they weren’t suntanned and their bikinis didn’t fit.
In front of me, a meter maid in a snug gold bikini, high heels and cowboy hat poses for a photo with a hairy, barrel-chested man. It seems like feminism has passed the Gold Coast by. No one questions the idea that paying bikini girls to roam the streets is a good thing.
As I sip my orange juice, I imagine how the meter maid concept might have started.
Surfers Paradise, 1965. Surfies cruise the streets in EH Holdens whistling at girls in that great new look—the mini skirt. The sun shines, the Gold Coast booms. But a cloud looms on the horizon. A lone stranger gallops into town. ‘Parking meters are coming! Parking meters are coming!’ Panic hits the streets. Men in suits huddle around a table. ‘It’s a disaster.’ ‘We’re ruined.’ ‘No one will shop here anymore.’ A light bulb comes on. ‘I’m thinking, girls in bikinis.’ ‘Girls in bikinis?’ ‘Bikini girls who put money in meters.’ ‘Brilliant—great concept.’ Back slapping all around.
Girls in bikinis can solve any marketing problem. They are like fairy dust—sprinkle them around and poof, problem solved. Even when I used to wear bikinis, I still found it strange. Bringing in pay-and-display machines instead of coin meters a few years ago hasn’t changed things. The bikini girls just buy the tickets and place them on cars now.
The editorial concludes with what sounds like a threat from Doctor Evil. There will come a time, in the not-too-distant future, when the capital cities will recognise the Gold Coast for what it is. I imagine a bikini-clad takeover of Sydney. That’ll teach ’em.
I pick up Rosco’s salad roll and trot back to the office.
3
A blonde ponytail is flowing down the back of the chair opposite Rosco when I get back in. Two client visits in one day—our social media marketing must be paying off.
Rosco has instructed me to tweet and ’gram as much as possible #privateinvestigator #privateeye. Promoting yourself on social media while protecting client confidentiality is tricky. My work-related Instagrams feature blurry shots of windows with bushes in front of them. Despite my conscientious hash-tagging they haven’t been a big hit.
Rosco waves me over. ‘Olivia, this is Rochelle Randall.’
The ponytail-woman swivels and I put out my hand. Hers is warm and damp in mine. I spot a wedding ring. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Randall.’ Straight down the line. I’m not taking any chances this time.
‘Rochelle.’ A tight smile pulls up her suntanned cheeks. She’s a Gold Coast girl all right. She must only be in her twenties, but her forehead is already less mobile than nature intended. Getting botox is like brushing your teeth around here. Her look is hippie chic, but a diamond ring and heavy gold necklace hint at serious money.
‘Take a seat, Olivia,’ Rosco says.
Yes! I might have been cut out of the American operation, but it looks like I’m in on this one.
‘It’s all right, Rochelle. You can rely on us,’ he says.
‘I hope so.’ Her suntanned bosom almost bursts out of her off-the-shoulder gypsy top as she leans forward to push a flyer across the table. ‘Felicity Knight spoke highly of the way you handled her divorce case.’
My stomach sinks. Damn. It’s another #matrimonial. Rosco’s been doing a brisk trade in rich but lonely Gold Coast wives whose hubbies cheat.
Meeting concluded, Rochelle stands and minces to the door in her high-heeled sandals.
I eye the thin gold chain around her ankle. Ankle chains are big on the Gold Coast. I’d consider getting one, but it would clash with the second-hand store look I’m currently rocking. My style is best described as utilitarian. But what I lack in grooming, I make up for in personality.
Rosco shows her out. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says. As her footsteps recede down the stairs, he sits again. ‘She thinks her husband’s cheating on her. She found this in his pocket.’
I glance at the flyer he’s given me. Allure Speed Dating: Meet thousands of local singles. ‘Not looking good.’
‘I want you on it straight away.’
‘Me?’ I moan. ‘I’m still pulling prickles out of my bum from my last stint in the shrubbery.’
‘That’s your job. Besides, I’m pretty tied up.’
With the exciting American operation, no doubt. Typical.
He pushes a file across the desk towards me. ‘Have a look through this. Go undercover. Join his yoga class. I want a progress report on Friday.’
‘Yoga?’
‘Didn’t I say? Her husband’s that yoga guy. You know, the one who trains Georgia Hansen?’ He pulls a poster out of the file.
It’s him, the hotpants-wearing bikini-yoga-boot-camp sushi-eater. I sigh, but I suppose I’m in no position to take a stand. All I can do is prove my ability to undertake more demanding assignments. Nancy Drew is constantly faced with sceptics, but she always proves them wrong.
‘You’ll need to go down to Byron Bay. You can claim back your petrol. No need to stay the night. It’s only about forty minutes drive.’
‘Byron Bay?’ My heart beats faster.
Rosco’s phone rings. ‘Hi, Kenny. Yes, sorry. Didn’t realise it was that time of the month already.’ He pulls at his hair.
‘Right, better get on with it,’ I mutter, retreating to my desk. Byron Bay. I tap my fingers on the table. It’s been two years since I was last there and I hadn’t planned to go back anytime soon. But … open to negotiation on this one, I don’t think Rosco is.
Spreading the file out on the desk, I flick through it. Ajay, or Guruji as his pupils know him, has a distinguished career as a yoga guru. He’s practised yoga practically since birth and spent many years in India studying under the yoga masters. The unique and profitable form of bikini speed yoga boot camp he now teaches was bestowed on him by some cave-dwelling hermit.
Inspired by his Gold Coast-born wife, Rochelle, he recently arrived from the States. His all-star devotees followed him all the way from LA to his new retreat in Byron Bay. The couple now divide their time between a multi-million-dollar ‘beach shack’ at Wategos Beach in Byron Bay and a luxury condo at Kirra on the Gold Coast. Tough life.
I pull a brochure out of the file. Lighthouse Bliss: The newest place to replenish your bikini body and your soul. On the front cover a woman with long, sun-bleached hair imitates a piece of spaghetti, leaning over backwards on the sand.
I flip the brochure over. The back cover is a shot of Ajay standing one-legged, the other leg held beside his head. His body is a testament to the power of yoga. His stern expression suggests a man with no room for slackers in his life. I don’t think we’re going to get along. Right now, though, that’s not my main issue.
Byron Bay.
It was Abbey who first introduced me to the Bay.
My parents aren’t into beach holidays. It’s bad enough to live on the beach, they figure we don’t need to holiday there as well. Our holidays have always revolved around forests and bushwalks. So, by the age of sixteen I’d been to a vast variety of national parks, but never over the border to Byron Bay.
At the end of Year Ten, with unbearable excitement, I set out with Abbey’s family for a two-week holiday in Byron Bay. I had no idea
what to expect. People said it was originally a hippie town, now filled with backpackers. It sounded exciting. It wasn’t far, but it was uncharted territory. They could have scrawled here be dragons on the map south of Coolangatta as far as I was concerned.
We took the scenic route. As we wound down the leafy horseshoe bends of the Burringbar Range, Abbey and I stuck our heads out the window and smelt the rainforest. It seemed like we were in another world already.
Byron Bay, I soon discovered, was a place to conjure dreams. The sweep of the bay to the base of the mountains; the dolphins leaping from water so clear it was barely there. For us, it was nirvana.
At my desk, I pull out my phone and find the photo from two years ago.
Two tousle-haired girls peer into the camera. Abbey took it one morning after we surfed at Wategos Beach. She held the phone out in front of us as we leaned our heads together, arms around each other.
I put my fingers to the screen and enlarge myself. Out of the phone smiles a girl with tanned skin and a white singlet top over her bikini. My hair is a tangled mess and even back then I didn’t have a traditional bikini beach body. I look radiantly happy though. As if nothing could touch me. I’m holding a surfboard under one arm.
I still have that board, but it’s gathering dust in the garage at home. Byron. Maybe it’s time to brush the cobwebs off that surfboard.
If nothing else, a board on the roof will help with my undercover disguise.
4
South-American panpipes warble through a speaker on the ceiling. A whip bird calls outside. I peer through the middle of an autographed ‘Ajay’ organic yoga mat, observing the studio. Today Ajay’s hot pants are green. His muscular and almost hairless body shines under the studio downlights. His voice drifts through the door, the American twang giving it extra carrying power. The microphone clipped to his head ensures his disciples don’t miss a word of his teachings. At forty dollars a class, they wouldn’t want to. Still, the students are jammed in tighter than a yogi’s abs.
‘Bring your feet inside your hands, cross them and lift off the ground.’ Ajay pauses, his body dangling between his hands, then swings forward into a headstand. The whole class, bar one, follows his moves. I sympathise with the man in the sweat-soaked shorts who topples forward onto his nose. I’ve been there.
This is my second day following Ajay. Yesterday he led five yoga classes, jogged on the beach and paddled his surf ski out to Julian Rocks. It was like trying to keep track of a kangaroo on speed.
As well as the public classes, Ajay also took a private session in a room out the back. I was thrilled to see Hollywood superstar, Georgia Hansen, sashay up the corridor. Huge sunglasses covered her face but you couldn’t mistake those lips, that wiggle, and the thick blonde hair peeking out from her billowing scarf. Who magazine is calling Georgia the new Marilyn Monroe and it’s not hard to see why. An hour later she emerged, dishevelled, and jumped into a chauffeured sports car.
I would have liked to stay in the juice bar, rather than face Ajay’s classes, but the cost of wheatgrass juice was ridiculous. The only way I could justify hanging around Lighthouse Bliss was to join in.
As a result, yesterday I learned more about yoga than I ever wanted to. For a start, I soon caught on that there’s no excuse for anything less than one hundred per cent effort in Ajay’s classes. In one class he slapped a girl on the leg when she failed to execute a perfect handstand. I was shocked, but no one else reacted. From the corner of my eye I saw a red flush spread over her face.
Ajay’s Bikini Beach Body Boot Camp Speed Yoga is powerful stuff. Each two-hour class covers all the moves other yoga teachers would take two weeks to fit in. As the brochure said, he learnt this form of yoga from an Indian guru, who granted him sole worldwide rights. I guess gurus aren’t what they used to be back in the day.
For that matter, yoga isn’t what it used to be, either. I did yoga for school sport in Year Ten. It was a popular option for those who didn’t care to exert themselves. We lay around stretching as chimes tinkled. It was relaxing.
Ajay’s classes are nothing like that. They’re a kick-butt workout with a dollop of ‘oms’ thrown in. After almost two hours of gymnastics you lie down for a few seconds, sit up and stagger out. It’s like a hardcore version of Twister.
I wasn’t the star of the class. Obviously. Ajay blew a gasket as I attempted triangle pose. ‘Stop; stop right there.’ Stalking over, he circled me, barking commands while the whole class watched. ‘Point your back foot forwards, rotate your right thigh, shoulders back, buttocks forward.’ At last I forced my body into a painful state that was as close as I could get to his expectations. He snorted and returned to the front of the class.
When I rolled out of bed this morning, I felt like I’d survived a plane crash. Muscles I’d never noticed before were screaming in protest. My stomach is the worst, but even my chin is sore, which I can’t explain at all.
Most of what Ajay does is so far beyond me it may as well be a circus show. Fling your legs to the side while holding your weight on your hands? Bend your feet over to touch your head while resting on your forearms? I don’t think so. There is one move, though, that calls to me and, what’s more, it may be within my grasp—the headstand.
Headstands are big on Instagram. People do the craziest things. I have no wish to breastfeed a baby while doing a headstand, though I totally support women who want to do that. Nor do I want to smoke a joint in a headstand like Miley Cyrus. But, all power to Miley. I would, however, enjoy posing in a headstand in exotic locations as so many seem to do. Visiting the Eiffel Tower? Why not do a headstand while you’re there? The Taj Mahal? Likewise. The Sydney Opera House? Naturally. The headstand, like bikini shots, turbocharges your Insta posts. I’ve ruled out bikinis, so if I want to be an Insta star I’m left with headstands.
To be honest, I couldn’t care less about being an Insta star, but still … I’d like to do a headstand. I’ve only tried the practice version so far—head off the ground with the weight on my elbows—but I’m on a mission.
Today though, despite the lure of more headstand practice, my body demands I give yoga a miss. So, I’m browsing in the Lighthouse Bliss shop. The cheapest thing here is a sixty-dollar Om singlet. I pass.
‘Lift the perineum.’ Ajay’s command echoes through the shop.
I’m not completely sure what the perineum is, or how to lift it. Pass. As I return my eye to the mat roll, I see Ajay’s class lie down for their token few seconds of relaxation. Soon after, he lopes out of the building, a pair of loose trousers over his hotpants.
I straighten my white cowboy hat and follow him to his car. Disguises are one of Rosco’s pet private eye techniques. Keep a range of outfits handy to change your appearance. You need to be able to go from beach to disco without losing your target. It’s one of the more fun aspects of the job. In the first few days at work, I’d organised myself a collection of plastic bags labelled surf chick, bikie, Norwegian backpacker and femme fatale. Right now, I am modelling Norwegian backpacker. My white cowboy hat comes with long blonde plaits attached. I’ve teamed this with fetching pastel shorts and singlet and applied fake tan to complete the effect.
‘Beach, beach, beach,’ I mutter as Ajay zooms off in his sporty red car. I have a craving for the sea.
5
‘Budgie, you are a soul surfer and wave wizard extraordinaire—tell us about your spiritual quest for the ultimate wave …’
If the radio announcer spoke any slower you’d be able to fit a quick news break between each word. I hit the brakes as a guy in a mohair boob tube skateboards across the road in front of me. Byron fashions are so whatever. I like that. My fashion style is pretty much whatever as well.
I’ve been too busy to reflect on how I feel about being back in the Bay. And I guess I haven’t wanted to. I need to focus on my work. Winding down my window, I sniff the air as I follow Ajay’s car down the main drag. A light south-easterly is blowing—I bet there’ll be a perfect off-sho
re wave.
I found my old board in the garage at Southport before I left for Byron. It looked desolate there, among the abandoned golf clubs and bicycles. ‘There you are, old bluey,’ I said. ‘Waiting patiently for my return.’ The fibreglass felt smooth under my fingertips and a faint memory of happiness ran through me as I pulled it out.
Yesterday, when Ajay paddled his surf ski out to Julian Rocks, I sat on the beach watching glassy little waves that looked perfect for an out-of-practice surfer like me. ‘Ride me, ride me,’ they screamed. It was painful. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Maybe today will be different.
As I wind past the cabbage tree palms to Wategos, Abbey’s voice is in my head. How good is this place, Ol? Surf and rainforest. It’s paradise. Abbey was right. Byron Bay is still paradise. Seems like the whole world thinks so too, though.
Outside Ajay’s beach house, I park my car where I can keep an eye on both his entrance and the surf. His house reeks of money. A steep driveway winds up to a grey, two-storey mansion with wrap-around glass windows. He must have awesome views. In front, a waterfall washes down a stone wall from an infinity pool. I suppose I’d live there if you twisted my arm.
Wategos is exactly as I remember it; a sheltered half-moon facing the jagged pinnacle of Julian Rocks. A dive boat bobs, toy-like, in the deep water off the rocks. At the end of the beach near the rocky point, a woman in a red bikini is doing yoga. As I watch, she bends over, places her palms on the sand and flicks her legs into an effortless handstand. As if that isn’t enough, she lowers her legs over her head, dropping into a back-bend. She must be made of rubber.
As I suspected, the surf is perfect; a two- to three-foot wave pushing all the way from the point to the beach. The waves are peeling in like cars on a highway, not one without a surfer gliding across its face. A mass of bodies waits in the water. Was it always this crowded?