The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  ‘I’ve seen it, Rosco. No, I don’t know how they got those photos. No, I can’t do surveillance today; I’m at a soccer match. I’m looking after Jacq.’ I lower the phone as he protests. Something’s caught my eye: Jacq has the ball. She’s running down the field; steering around the opposition. She’s opposite the goal. ‘Go, Jacq,’ I hear someone yell. It’s me. What’s happening? I’m turning into a soccer fan.

  She kicks—she misses—it doesn’t matter. I jump up and down. ‘Way to go!’ She turns, looking sheepish. I wave.

  The whistle blows for the end of the game and, defeated but cheerful, Jacq’s team races off and scoff their lamingtons. It’s only when every last shred of coconut is gone I remember the phone hanging in my hand.

  I put it to my ear. ‘Hello?’ The line is dead, of course, and my phone is almost flat. I put it in aeroplane mode and toss it back in my bag. Surely I deserve a weekend off. Besides, I have Jacq to think about. Rosco can do some surveillance himself if he’s so keen.

  Jacq and I have a relaxed afternoon at the beach; lots of tunnel digging and squealing among the waves. I left my board behind after the Anzac Incident, so it’s lucky the surf is bad. A couple of surfers are mucking around on choppy little waves, but the swell’s far from enticing.

  A surfer in the car park shakes his head at his mate. ‘Blown-out anklesnappers—can’t believe I got out of bed for this.’

  I take out my phone and, opening a new note, start a surfing vocabulary. Those Inuits need to watch their backs.

  Back at the flat, it’s time for homemade hamburgers and a Hollywood blockbuster. I do like to theme my fabulous dinner parties. By eight thirty Jacq is ready for bed.

  I tuck her in. ‘Good game today; pretty exciting.’

  Jacq nods. ‘Yeah; I might be a Matilda when I grow up.’

  I believe it’s an older sister’s job to encourage their sibling, no matter how unlikely their aspirations. ‘You might. Anything’s possible if you try hard.’ I stroke the thick, brown hair off her forehead and kiss her freckled nose. ‘I’m sorry about your biscuits.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jacq murmurs. ‘We can make more next week.’

  She’s a good kid. Turning off her light, I go out to the kitchen. My mobile phone lies on the bench, accusing me with its blank screen. I switch off aeroplane mode—three missed calls from Rosco. He’s not going to be happy. I should return his calls but it’s probably too late now anyway. How can I make this up to him?

  I ponder. If someone has it in for Ajay some research won’t go astray. It will show Rosco I’m on top of the game mentally, if not physically. I type Ajay’s name into Google and scan the results. The official Ajay website is unlikely to be interesting. The fan site is a possibility. I’m looking for dirt.

  The fan site is packed with reports of amazing transformations after Ajay’s classes but there is one lone voice of dissent. I felt a bit weird about the way Ajay humiliated some of his teachers at the demonstration, says Vanessa from Beverley Hills. She is howled down by a dozen others who insist this is an essential part of his strict yoga teachings. How else can you strive for perfection? says Bass from San Francisco. It’s an interesting world, that of the yoga guru.

  As I close the site I have a great idea. I’ll take Jacq to Byron Bay tomorrow. I can talk to a few people; establish the feeling in the community about Ajay. Be ready to wow Rosco on Monday morning with my insights. Show him what a dedicated team player I am. Go surfing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

  I check my emails. There are two new messages. Mr Bouncy and the American Bloke are both keen to set up a date with me. I use the term ‘me’ in the loosest possible sense. They want a date with the blue-eyed blonde who laughed at their jokes. Is it worth continuing any relationship begun on such fraudulent grounds?

  Probably not, but I’m not beating off any other offers and I need dating practice, so I fire off two replies. If things ever progress beyond first date stage, I’ll tackle the problem of how to reveal the not-so-fatale femme within.

  Before I go to bed I practise my signature move against the wall. I manage a proper headstand, with the wall for support. It’s pretty cool. I position myself opposite the body-length mirror, do another headstand and take a photo. Feeling powerful and empowered #headstand, I caption it and post to Instagram. This headstand thing has become a quest. I guess my logic is: if I can get this one simple thing under control everything else will follow.

  10

  A magpie bursts into a long, warbling song as Jacq and I drag ourselves into the Lighthouse Café. The place is bustling with famished beach goers. Toned bodies sporting suntans and little else laze at every table. I’m wearing faded Speedos paired with a threadbare towel around my waist. I’ve heard it’s what all the beautiful people are wearing this season. Ha. I hope I’m not bringing down the tone too much.

  A bush turkey roams around underfoot while the magpie cocks its greedy eye at a muffin. In Byron, the rainforest, with all its wildlife, comes right to the beach. Jacq and I claim a table with a view of that show-off, the sea. The lapping waves are the perfect accompaniment to our meal. Byron really is beautiful, I’m glad Rosco forced me to come back.

  ‘Cool idea coming here,’ says Jacq.

  We’ve been having so much fun I’ve almost forgotten I’m supposed to be gathering gossip to impress Rosco in the morning. Jacq and I have surfed until we dropped. The conditions are perfect; waves so tiny the proper surfers have gone elsewhere, leaving us gumbies to have fun. Jacq’s only been surfing a few times—she got a beginner’s foam board for Christmas—but already she’s showing some of that unique Grace style.

  ‘Two hamburgers with the lot and two chocolate milkshakes, please,’ I say to the waitress. Surfing sure makes you hungry. Jacq runs over to climb on a nearby pandanus tree while we wait. I snatch up a copy of the local paper someone’s left on the table and turn straight to the classifieds.

  I love the Lighthouse News classifieds; they give me such a sense of possibility. Someday I’m going to try the goddess dance or undertake a quest for the Holy Grail.

  After the classies, I flick through the rest of the paper. Halfway through I stop at a picture of a brown-skinned girl wearing a floaty beige dress. A gold ring dangles from one nostril and her thick brown hair is tucked behind her ears. She’s holding a sign—No McSushi for Byron Bay. I read the headline.

  McSushi Moves in on Byron Bay

  Skimming the article, I discover McSushi has applied to open a new outlet here. This is not a popular move. Spokeswoman for WAM (Women Against McSushi), Luna Nakamura says; ‘I love sushi, but we don’t need big faceless franchises in Byron Bay. We need to support our small, local sushi-makers.’

  Interesting. This must be the same Luna I heard discussing yoga on the radio. She certainly has all sorts of reasons not to like Ajay. Could Luna have taken the Georgia Hansen yoga photos?

  My eyes travel back to the photo. Luna looks feisty and ready for anything. And it seems she has Japanese heritage. Maybe she is a local sushi-maker herself. The plot thickens. I turn the page.

  In the sports section, I see a familiar face; the girl I’d chatted to in the surf. Is Maya Our Next World Champ? reads the headline. It turns out she’s already the Australian women’s longboarding champion and tipped to win the world titles in Waikiki this year. How about that? I’ve had a brush with fame.

  Satisfied with my research, I fold the paper and, waving Jacq over, tuck into my hamburger and milkshake. At least I’ll have something to tell Rosco tomorrow.

  ‘Did they have hamburgers when you were a girl?’ Jacq wipes sauce off her face with the back of her hand.

  ‘I like to think I’m still a girl, but maybe I’m kidding myself.’

  She giggles. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, when I was a girl we used to eat raw meat and leaves torn off trees.’

  ‘Did you wear animal furs?’

  ‘Only in the winter, in summer we went naked.’

 
‘Oo.’ Jacq’s horror makes her forget her food. ‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s no tricking you. We went naked all year round.’ I take a big slurp of my milkshake. ‘Those were the days.’

  With bellies full it’s time to think about getting home but the beach is too perfect to leave. A sun-speckled sea beckons beyond the trees. The tide is low and transparent tongues of water lick at the sand. Some surfers are carving up waves off the rocky point. Out past the rocks, a few dolphins cruise northward.

  ‘How about we check out the rockpools before we go?’

  Jacq doesn’t need persuading; she’s already rushing towards the rocky platform at the end of the beach. Climbing up the rock, we put our toes in a pool and bend to stroke some tightly clenched anemones.

  ‘They feel like the inside of my mouth.’ Jacq pokes the inside of her cheek with a finger.

  We follow a narrow walking track through the pandanus onto the top of the headland. The banksias are in bloom and a powerful honey smell wafts from their yellow flowers.

  As we round the headland, Jacq drops my hand. ‘There’s Rosco,’ she yells.

  Jacq hero-worships Rosco. They used to shoot hoops together in the local park before he moved out of home. I think she just accosted him on the court one day and joined in. ‘He looks like Prince Phillip from Sleeping Beauty,’ she said to me once.

  To be honest, put him in a pair of tights and it would be hard to pick between them.

  I follow her pointing finger. At the other end of the beach a blond-haired guy is crossing the road, away from us. His broad shoulders push against a faded surf T-shirt. It could be Rosco, but it’s hard to be certain. ‘Did you see his face?’ I ask Jacq.

  ‘Yeah, it was Rosco.’

  Cupping my hands to my face I call across the road. ‘Hey, Rosco.’

  The guy doesn’t respond. If anything, he walks faster. ‘Maybe it isn’t Rosco,’ I say to Jacq.

  ‘It’s Rosco. He’s barring you out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jacq shrugs. ‘It happens at school.’

  I search her eyes. ‘To you?’

  ‘To everyone.’ Jacq’s voice is matter-of-fact.

  I pick up her hand again. Jacq’s just finished Year Two. I don’t like to think of her alone in the playground jungle. ‘I’ll ask him tomorrow.’

  On our way out of town I see a new McSushi billboard on the side of the road. Under the image of Ajay and his nori roll is written, ‘Coming soon to Byron Bay.’

  11

  I wake early to the roar of surf. Jacq and Nan are still asleep. Turning on my radio, I catch the surf report. ‘It’s pumping—double-overhead at Snapper.’ Two more words—watch out Inuits. I add them to my notes file.

  As it turns out, the seas are rough and stormy in the office as well. Rosco is on the phone when I get in and he doesn’t look up.

  I write up a report on Ajay, inserting some photos—Georgia Hansen wrapped in her scarf; the speed dating bar. Happy times.

  I’d managed to get both my potential dates—Mr Bouncy and the American Bloke—in the background of the speed dating photos. I appraise them in the cold light of day. Yes, they’re still cute. It’s a little weird that they think I’m a slinky-dress-wearing, cleavage-baring blonde, when I’m a cargo-pants-and-crew-neck-T-shirt-wearing brunette, but whatever. I’ll sort that out on an ‘as needs’ basis. When I finish the report, I look up. Rosco is still on the phone.

  He contrives to stay out of my way until midday—quite a feat considering the size of the office. Finally, I send him an email; ‘Did I see you in Byron Bay yesterday?’

  He looks up a few seconds later, shakes his head, and picks up the phone again.

  That’s strange. Jacq was sure it was him.

  Pulling a piece of paper off my pad I write on it in big letters, ‘I might have a lead on the Georgia Hansen photographs.’

  I walk over to Rosco’s office and hold my note against the glass. He’s still on the phone, but his eyes scan it. I press my nose to the window and breathe heavily on it. In mirror writing, I trace ‘Sorry’ into the mist.

  At last he puts the phone down. Pushing his chair back, he comes out and leans against the door, arms folded. There’s a long silence.

  Taking a tissue out of my pocket, I wipe the smudge off his window.

  ‘What are you sorry about, Olivia?’ Rosco’s voice is neutral.

  This could be a trick question. I’d better be careful I don’t confess to all sorts of things. Like stealing his lightsaber ten years ago. I don’t think he knows about that. It pays to remember Rosco is trained to get information out of guilty offenders.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see anyone taking shots of Georgia Hansen.’

  Rosco nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m also sorry I missed your calls on the weekend. My phone goes flat really quickly so I keep it in aeroplane mode most of the time to save the battery. Then by the time I got the calls I figured it was too late.’ That silent treatment works.

  I rack my brain. Is there anything else I should apologise for while I’m at it? ‘I’m sorry we lost Ajay on Friday night, but it wasn’t totally my fault and it was me who ate that Mars Bar you left in the fridge, but I thought you’d had enough.’ It’s good to come clean. Mostly clean. There’s still the lightsaber.

  Rosco runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. ‘We’ve lost a lot of ground with Rochelle Randall because of those photos, but I’ve talked her into keeping us on. Bottom line is, I need you back there. Double objective now—find out if Ajay’s cheating and who’s got it in for him. So, what’s your lead?’

  I fill him in on the proposed McSushi franchise in Byron Bay. ‘Luna, this yoga instructor, who may also be a local sushi-maker, is leading the opposition. She’s also being sued by Ajay for teaching speed yoga. So she has plenty of motive.’

  Rosco isn’t as impressed as I thought he’d be. ‘We need hard evidence.’ He snaps his fingers and points a finger at me. ‘Line yourself up a job at Lighthouse Bliss so you can get among it. Keep an eye on this Luna girl, but remember, it could be anyone. Work on the speed dating angle too; find out what’s going on there.’

  I don’t like his bossy tone. ‘And while I’m doing all that, you’ll be …?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty on.’

  This isn’t how I thought it would be when I applied for this job. I’d imagined Rosco and I studying footprints. He has a limp and a clubfoot, I’d murmur, and he’d be impressed with my sagacity. ‘I was hoping to move on to a different assignment,’ I say.

  Rosco cracks one of his knuckles. He always used to do that as a kid when we argued. It’s quite irritating. ‘Olivia, I could fill this position tomorrow if you don’t want it. What’s more, I could fill it with someone who doesn’t eat my Mars Bars.’

  That’s a low blow. ‘I want the job.’ I turn to go.

  ‘And Olivia.’

  I swivel.

  ‘Sort out your phone issues. If you turn it off on me again …’ he pauses.

  I wait for the ultimatum.

  ‘Just don’t, that’s all.’

  I stare at him. Is he threatening me? I’d challenge him to a Jedi fight to the death, but clearly inappropriate that would be.

  12

  So Rosco, AKA Darth Vader, has made himself clear—I need to get myself a job at Lighthouse Bliss, pronto. It’s a big ask, but I can only try. Maybe they need a cleaner or a shop assistant. I’m pretty sure I could make wheatgrass juice if I had to. It can’t be that hard.

  Sitting at my desk, I glare at Rosco while I dial the number on the brochure. Things were so much simpler back in the day. I imagine myself bursting into his office, lightsaber in hand. Vader, I challenge you to a duel—

  ‘Lighthouse Bliss, this is Madeleine.’ A breathy voice startles me. ‘How can I assist you today?’

  ‘Yes, hello.’ I try for a mellow tone, but probably sound
constipated. ‘I was interested to know if you had any job openings?’

  ‘Are you a yoga instructor?’

  My mind goes blank. Yes? No? ‘Yes. Definitely.’

  ‘We’re desperate for instructors. Can you start tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure, tomorrow, yes,’ I blurt. I can’t believe this is happening. Yoga instructor?

  ‘Okay. I’ll put you down tentatively for the midday class. Can you come in tomorrow morning for an interview?’

  ‘Ah, yes, no problem.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Olivia Gr—’ Damn. I should have used an alias. I cough. ‘Excuse me. Olivia Granolo,’

  ‘Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow, Olivia. Bring a copy of your qualifications please,’ she adds.

  I put down the phone and panic. How am I going to turn myself into a yoga instructor before tomorrow, let alone have the qualifications to prove it?

  As always, when faced with a question I can’t answer, I call on my good friend Google. I type in ‘yoga instructor quick’, press ‘go’ and hit the jackpot. The site isn’t titled ‘get your dodgy yoga certification here’, but it might as well be. A picture of a most unlikely looking yoga guru fills the screen. With chubby cheeks, a collared polo shirt and a tuft of red hair, he looks more like a used-car salesman, but he’s good enough for me. It costs a hundred dollars, but I figure I’ll claim it on expenses. I just need to do a brief online exam. They don’t make it too hard—all the answers are on the site.

  I find out the word yoga means unity, asanas are the poses, pranayama is the practice of breath control and alignment is important. I also match a few Sanskrit words with their meanings. It’s like primary school homework.

  One hour later I proudly print out my ‘School of Harmonic Bliss, Accredited Yoga Instructor’ certificate, in the name of Olivia Granolo. I prop it on my snow-dome surfer. Yeah, I’m kicking goals. Elite dater and now yoga instructor.

  Before I go home, I download Yoga for Beginners onto my laptop, ready for a hard night of study.