The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  Comedy. It’s not much of a lead, but it’s better than nothing. ‘Anything big happening comedy-wise?’

  ‘There’s the Brisbane Comedy Festival next week.’ James’s voice is brighter now. ‘They have, like, heats you can go in and if you’re a finalist you get to go to the Melbourne Comedy Festival. We were talking about it, Maya and I, before …’ He touches his eye. ‘We’ve heard Melbourne’s pretty cool.’

  The Brisbane Comedy Festival. It’s not much of a lead. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ It’s almost dark now. I shiver. ‘D’you reckon we could catch a wave in?’ It’s a long paddle to shore and I don’t want to do it on my own.

  ‘Sure.’ James glances over his shoulder, gives two strokes and is on a wave and out of sight before I can say, ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘We,’ I mutter. ‘I said we.’ I breathe deeply to ease the rising panic. It’s getting dark. I need to get into shore before James leaves me on the beach alone. I paddle for a wave and miss it; paddle for another one and miss that too. I’m so busy not thinking about what’s lurking in the dark sea beneath me, I have no room in my head for wave selection. I see another wave coming and paddle. It’s only when I’m at the point of no return, staring down the face, that I realise it’s a set wave—the one in a series that is extra large.

  It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever ridden before but it’s too late to pull out now. You need to commit more. I give two strong strokes and leap to my feet. My board shoots vertically down the face. I know I have to turn before the bottom or I’ll nose-dive and crash. Into the sharky water. Taking a step backwards, I drive the right-hand edge in hard. Miraculously, the board turns before the bottom and I skim along the face—riding it for what seems like hours, all the way into the beach. James stands on the sand, his board under his arm, watching. My heart racing from the adrenaline, I step off my board.

  ‘Nice wave,’ he says, as if it’s an everyday event rather than a record-breaking personal best.

  I feel like punching the air, but that would be uncool. ‘Do you reckon,’ I pant, ‘that I will ever in my life be able to do that again?’

  All week I search for Maya. I talk to her friends and check her Facebook page. It’s full of inspirational surfing quotes—‘The best day working is not as good as the worst day surfing’—and photos from her life—Maya on waves in Fiji, Indonesia, Samoa. But there is no indication of a darker side, and no clues.

  I hang out at the surf breaks from sunup to sundown—long hours, but light work—striking up conversations with all the surfers. There’s a general consensus that Maya’s father was driving her crazy, but not much else to go on.

  They’re all full of talk on the Ajay disappearance, though. I keep my ears pricked for news of Luna. The McSushi wrapper plays on my mind but no course of action presents itself.

  Everyone has a rumour to pass on.

  ‘I heard his body washed in at Coffs Harbour, but they’re keeping it secret.’

  ‘Luna? Yeah, she did it. Good on her.’

  ‘I reckon Georgia Hansen hired a hitman after that photo. I would’ve if I was her.’

  ‘He was a sex addict; there wasn’t a single woman in his classes he hadn’t hit on.’

  ‘They say he’s the father of Georgia Hansen’s baby.’

  ‘I reckon that Himalayan guru came after him ’cos he was, like, cheapening yoga.’

  ‘How were those rats in the studio, hey? Dude had some enemies all right.’

  ‘The fake arm? Reckon he might have slapped one too many people.’

  The Lighthouse News weighs in with a two-page investigation into the yoga scene.

  Speed Yoga or Fast Prophets?

  After 5000 years on the outer, yoga is now mainstream. Target sells yoga videos; K-mart sells yoga wear. In the Bay, every second person is a yoga teacher. One of the figures at the heart of this boom is Ajay, who made Bikini Beach Body Boot Camp Speed Yoga into a multi-million-dollar franchise. Ajay never pulled any punches when asked about his business empire. ‘I know my techniques might offend some people, but if more people are getting into yoga because of me that’s a good thing, right?’ Ajay said in an interview with the Lighthouse News a month ago.

  As the investigation into his disappearance drags on speculation is rife. Could a yoga purist be the culprit?

  ‘Yoga is a spiritual practice,’ said a source who wishes to remain anonymous. ‘Many people in the yoga movement are angry about the way Ajay bent it to his own ends. I’m not saying it’s right, but some of that anger might have gone too far.’

  I keep the article to add to my collection. I don’t envy the police the job of untangling all these stories. For that matter, I don’t envy my own job—finding Maya. Even after a week I have nothing to go on.

  I’ve come to a dead end.

  26

  On Thursday afternoon I get in my car to head back to the Gold Coast no wiser than when I left. All my hopes now rest on the Brisbane Comedy Festival. James is convinced she’s run off to escape her father. I like this theory. It’s better than the alternative.

  I call James before I leave the Bay. ‘So, this comedy festival—can you get us tickets? I figure we should go up there, hang out, talk to some people at least.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘What, is there a problem?’

  ‘Turns out tickets sold out weeks ago. Don’t worry; I’ll fix it. We’ve got to be there. I’ve got a feeling about it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’ I’m sure he’ll sort something out.

  On my way home I stop off at Big W and pick up the prints from Jacq’s birthday at Ocean World. Jacq’s old fashioned when it comes to photography. She doesn’t believe it’s a real photo unless it’s in print. I know how she feels. I like the anticipation of waiting for prints, too.

  I flick through the photos, close-ups of stranger’s knees feature prominently. Jacq’s excited to see them though. She pores over them while I get dinner ready. Nan’s out at the movies with Reggie.

  ‘Hey look, Livvy. It’s that guy who came around here the other night—the stupid American one, not the stupid one with the cap on backwards.’

  ‘Huh?’ I glance up from the saucepan.

  Jacq brings the photo over to me. ‘Here, see? See how dumb he looks?’

  It’s one of the photos Jacq took of the waterski show, while I was off having a coffee break. It seems to have a Grease theme. In the foreground, an out-of-focus female waterskier in a tight black singlet and black stretch pants flies over a ski jump.

  The background is in focus. There’s a line of female dancers in flared skirts and headbands and behind them a line of men with swept-back hair in white T-shirts. Any one of them could be Brandon.

  ‘Yeah, they look like him, don’t they?’ I turn back to my stirring.

  ‘No.’ Jacq is insistent. She pulls at my arm. ‘There.’ Her finger points to one of the faces.

  I pull the pot off the hotplate and peer closer. ‘How can you tell it’s him? They all look the same.’

  Jacq gives me the ‘you are so dumb’ look she’s been perfecting lately. ‘Get yourself some better glasses.’ She picks up Nan’s glasses and hands them to me.

  Maybe I do need to update my glasses. I hold Nan’s glasses in front of the photo. It does look like Brandon, but surely he’d have said something. I told him I was going to Ocean World. We even talked about the roller-coaster. ‘I don’t think it’s him.’

  ‘I was right about Rosco, wasn’t I?’ says Jacq. ‘At Byron Bay. It was him wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  Jacq stabs her finger at the photo. She isn’t taking any more lip from me. ‘It’s him. You can tell by that dumb dimple in the middle of his chin.’

  I keep thinking about it during dinner. After Jacq’s gone to bed I pick up the photo and study it again. Nan comes home and I hand the photo to her. ‘See anyone you recognise in that photo?’

  She peers at it closely. ‘That isn’t you going over th
e jump, is it?’

  ‘No, that isn’t me going over the jump. Anyone else?’

  Nan purses her lips. ‘Those men in the background …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They all look like that fellow who came around here the other night—the American one. How did things go with him?’

  ‘Fine. I can’t tell you much—confidentiality clause.’

  Nan sniffs. ‘I always know when you’re lying, Olivia.’ She puts on the kettle. ‘What’s happening with you and Rosco?’

  ‘What? What do you mean what’s happening? He’s my boss.’

  ‘Do most bosses break down their employee’s doors late at night?’

  ‘That was a misunderstanding. He thought I’d been tied up.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Nan is inscrutable.

  ‘What do you mean, maybe? He did.’

  ‘I think if a man breaks down your door it shows he has feelings for you.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s strictly an employer–employee relationship.’

  Nan raises one eyebrow.

  I wait for one of her pronouncements.

  ‘You could do worse. It’s impressive how he’s started his own business so young. Maybe if you put more effort into your appearance …’

  I grit my teeth. This is Nan’s hobbyhorse. I’m used to it, but it still gets my back up.

  Nan picks up her magazine and flicks through it. ‘I saw something here. Yes, why don’t you get your hair done like Taylor Swift? A nice fringe. You haven’t changed your hairstyle since you were fifteen.’ She holds up a picture of Taylor Swift looking sultry in a clinging silver dress.

  ‘I don’t want a new haircut.’ I finger the strands of my straight shoulder-length hair. ‘I wouldn’t look like Taylor Swift, anyway. I’d look like, I don’t know.’ I take the mag off her and flick through it, coming to the makeover page. ‘I’d look like one of these women in the “after” shots—too try-hard. It’s stupid how in the “before” photographs they always look like they just got out of bed. It’s not exactly hard to improve on that.’

  Nan snorts. ‘You take after your mother. She never made the best of herself either.’

  Mum lectures in outdoor pursuits at TAFE and her idea of dressing up is a clean T-shirt and quick-dry pants. I’m a big disappointment to Nan, I know, but if I give in on the haircut it’ll be open slather. Before I know it, she’ll have me wearing pink lipstick and red nail polish and flower-patterned dresses. Despite my dating success with my femme fatale outfit, it’s not a look I can carry off on a regular basis. It’s too much effort. Besides, I don’t like drawing attention to myself.

  Nan goes to bed and I pick up the Ocean World photo again. There’s no way of telling if it’s Brandon or not. But if it is, he has a connection with Ocean World he hasn’t told me about.

  A memory comes back to me. At his apartment, he took a phone call that disrupted our evening. That had been the night before the fake arm appeared in the shark pool. And he had been at speed dating. Could he have a connection with Ajay? If it wasn’t for the McSushi wrapper I’d say it’s none of my business, but I feel like I owe it to Luna to find out more.

  It’s not much to go on, but it’s worth following up. Besides. My mind drifts back to Saturday Night Fever. I don’t think he’s my type, but we did have fun. I switch on my computer.

  My fingers move over the keyboard. ‘Hi there. Feel like getting back together for a bit more Saturday Night Fever?’

  27

  ‘You won’t be a bystander on the Gold Coast; this city will inspire you to get involved and discover fun again …’

  On Friday night I park my car on the corner opposite Brandon’s apartment and peer up at his window. I slip my hand into my handbag to check the contents—pepper spray, whistle, phone, purse. It’s best to be prepared. I’m not sure what I’m getting into. Dirty dancing or a date with death? Turning the radio off, I climb out of the car.

  Basically I want to suss him out, have a snoop around, put my misgivings to rest. And maybe do some more dancing.

  Getting dressed for this occasion was a major dilemma. I’d done the slinky dress and the Olivia Newton John number. I was out of options. There was nothing in my wardrobe that fitted the Anna Smith personality—even without the wig. In the end, I threw myself on Nan’s mercy. She was delighted.

  ‘I have some clothes I bought before my last diet,’ she said. ‘They should fit.’ Out of her closet came aquamarine pedal pushers, a yellow halter-neck top and sparkly high-heeled sandals. She even opened her jewel box for me and hung some droopy peacock feathers in my ears.

  ‘You should dress like this more often,’ she said as I tottered out of her bedroom.

  I would have had a smart answer, but her pants were cutting off the blood supply to my brain. I smacked her hand away as she came at me with the hair-spray—enough was enough.

  Brandon buzzes me in and I squint at myself in the lift mirror on the way up to his flat. I look like one of those people in the Sunday paper style section. Captured on the streets of Surfers—Anna wears pants by Paris Hilton, top by Wonderbra and earrings by Andrew Peacock.

  Brandon answers the door as soon as I knock. His chest is bare and a pair of loose pants hang off his hips. ‘Hey there.’ He flashes his eyebrows at me. ‘You look nice. I was just getting dressed. Come in.’ He heads straight for the record player. ‘You ready to boogie?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘Any requests?’ He flicks through his vinyl collection. ‘I’ve got lots of musicals.’

  Something complicated requiring numerous costume changes would be good. It might get him out of the room long enough for me to have a look around. Jesus Christ Superstar? Too religious. Oklahoma? Too farmy. Mary Poppins? Not enough costume changes. ‘Can you do Rocky Horror Picture Show?’

  ‘You’re kidding. It’s my all-time fave.’ Brandon pulls out a record, lifts the lid of the turntable and slips it on. ‘This is going to be good.’ He bounds from the room.

  The first song is a slow number, ‘Science Fiction, Double Feature’. I’m pretty sure he won’t make an appearance for this, so I go for it, phone ready to photograph any evidence. His apartment is strangely uncluttered, more like a holiday house than a home. I don’t like my chances of finding anything interesting. The only decorations in the lounge room are photographs of whales and dolphins. There are whales breaching, dolphins back-lit by rainbows, dolphins riding waves. I guess he likes dolphins.

  I slip into the kitchen. Unlike at home, there’s nothing stuck to the fridge, no useless junk in the cutlery drawer and no stash of loose change, business cards and unwanted safety pins in a bowl. Opening the pantry door, I inspect the rows of perfectly aligned vitamins, spices and sauces.

  As the song winds up, I walk back to the couch, take a sip of mineral water and wait for Brandon to appear.

  Brandon’s bedroom door opens to the opening bars of ‘Time Warp’. Rocky Horror was a good choice. He’s worked hard on his outfit—black tail-coat, tight black pants, black shoes and white socks pulled over the pants. The stage make-up has come out. His face is white, eyes outlined in black and red lipstick glistens on his lips. ‘Ta da. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.’ He spreads his arms.

  ‘It’s astounding,’ I say.

  ‘Time is fleeting.’ Brandon takes my hand and pulls me up to dance.

  It’s fun. It reminds me of my Year Ten school disco. A whole bunch of us had lined up—it’s just a jump to the left …

  At the end of the song Brandon bends me over backwards in a dip. ‘You’re a sucker for this stuff, aren’t you?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘Do another outfit. I love it.’

  He smiles. ‘Okay, just for you. It’ll be a good one.’ He disappears into the bedroom.

  I walk down the corridor. If Brandon appears I can always say I’m going to the loo.

  The door next to the bathroom is closed. I open it carefully, glancing back at Brandon’s bedroom. The record is playing ‘Sweet
Transvestite’. Checking that his door remains shut, I step inside.

  The room is set up as an office—a tidy one. A laptop sits on the desk near the window. I’d like to check it out, but I don’t have time. A compact filing cabinet stands next to the desk. I pull it open. Bank statements, Contracts, Expenses, Holidays, Income, Media, Tax … For a young guy, he’s very organised. His whole life is in alphabetical order. It would take too long to go through it all. I go straight to the drop file marked bank statements.

  My throat tightens as I see the line item. Ocean World, salary. So he does work at Ocean World. I take a photo and I’m about to thrust it back when I notice an envelope sitting at the bottom of the file. I pull it out and open it. It’s stuffed with fifty-dollar notes. There must be thousands of dollars in there. I don’t have time to think about what that might mean now. Placing the envelope back and sliding the cabinet door shut, I come out into the corridor—and almost collide with Brandon.

  ‘Hi there,’ he drawls. ‘Looking for the bathroom?’

  I lick my lips and nod. Brandon is wearing skin-tight gold hot pants and nothing else except a short blonde wig. ‘Rocky?’ I croak.

  The record is now playing ‘Toucha Toucha Touch Me’. Brandon has clearly timed his entrance for this.

  ‘You wanna get dirty?’ he sings, flashing his eyebrows at me.

  I don’t. I so don’t. Maybe he’d just forgotten to mention he worked at Ocean World, but on the other hand … My heart thumps loudly. What were those payments? And how does a guy his age afford an apartment like this?

  Brandon dances towards me in his gold hotpants.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ I squeak.