The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  He dances closer, singing along to the song.

  ‘No, really. Can we call it a day?’

  In answer, Brandon dances even closer. We are practically chest to chest.

  He’s not listening. My fists clench and something snaps inside me. I kick his shin as hard as I can, shove him backwards and run for the door.

  ‘Ow, what was that for?’ he says, but I don’t stop. All I can think about is getting out of there.

  It’s not until I’m looking at my car in the street that I remember I’ve left my handbag with my pepper spray, whistle, purse and car keys in his flat.

  There’s no way I’m going back up there and I don’t want to hang around here either—what if he comes looking for me? It’s too late to call Nan; she’d have to wake up Jacq to come out. And I don’t have any money for a taxi or bus. There’s only one thing for it.

  I put in a call to Rosco.

  28

  ‘The sun doesn’t set on Australia’s Gold Coast. The end of the day just means the start of a new …’

  Rosco plonks two cups of coffee on the table and slides one across to me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I place my hands around the cup to warm them. It’s not a cold night, but a sea breeze blows into the café, making me shiver.

  I see Rosco take in my outfit—the tight pants and halter top. ‘Here.’ He unzips his sweatshirt and passes it across the table. ‘Femme fatale?’

  ‘Yes.’ His body warmth still hugs the fleece as I slide my arms in. ‘They’re not my clothes. They’re Nan’s.’

  Rosco whistles. ‘Your nan’s a foxy dresser.’

  ‘I know. It’s like we’ve traded places, right?’ It’s close to midnight and the streets are busy with clubbers, drunk teenagers and beefy-looking men. I feel vulnerable.

  Rosco hadn’t said much when I’d asked him to come and pick me up. He must be biding his time.

  I sip on my coffee. ‘What have you been up to tonight?’

  Rosco drains his coffee before replying. ‘Just catching up with a mate for a drink.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘No, no problem. And you?’

  ‘Not such a quiet one.’

  ‘I figured that. Going to tell me about it?’

  I shiver again. I’d wanted excitement in my life but wrestling with a guy in gold hotpants didn’t fit the bill.

  ‘You okay?’ Rosco asks.

  ‘Yeah.’ I suppose I’m going to have to tell him. ‘I’ve been investigating.’

  ‘Right. Any leads on Maya?’

  ‘Um, it’s actually something else.’

  ‘I haven’t asked you to do anything else.’

  ‘No, well …’ I take a deep breath and it all comes out—Rocky Horror, the cash-filled envelope, the bit at the end which, now that I’m out of there, doesn’t seem quite so scary anymore. It’s possible I overreacted. I try to make it sound like a purely professional occasion, but I’m not sure if Rosco buys it.

  He looks over my shoulder, not meeting my eyes. ‘You met this guy at speed dating?’

  I nod. ‘I left my handbag there. It had my purse in it, and my car keys.’

  ‘So, he works at Ocean World but he didn’t mention it when you said you were going there, and he was at speed dating the same night as Ajay.’ Rosco taps the side of his cup with a teaspoon.

  ‘And someone’s been paying him large amounts of cash. You should see his apartment.’

  Rosco brings his eyes back to mine. ‘You shouldn’t have been there tonight. It’s not safe.’

  I don’t like his bossy tone. ‘I thought it was important.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have got you to do that. Besides, we’re not being paid to investigate this case. Talk to the police. Maybe they’ll want to follow it up if there’s a link to Ajay. They’re still looking for Luna as far as I know.’

  Luna. She must be scared—out there on the run. I’ve let her down. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Rosco about the McSushi wrapper, but he’s already standing to pay the bill and he’d just say to tell the police.

  What was Luna trying to tell me? She hates McSushi, so it couldn’t have been her wrapper. Someone else must have put it there. Did someone else leave the rat hairs in her car too?

  The waitress smiles as she hands over Rosco’s change at the counter. A couple of long, dark tendrils have escaped from her bun and she pushes them back behind her ears. She reminds me of Brooklyn.

  Brooklyn. I remember her on the street of Byron Bay in her power suit. She’d been there right before my ill-fated yoga class. What if she released the rats? But why would she do that? Ajay was the face of McSushi. They’re supposed to be on the same team. But on the other hand, getting Luna out of the way is in her interests. McSushi stands a better chance of opening in Byron Bay without her around running the protest campaign. Could the McSushi wrapper point to Brooklyn? Was Luna saying she’d been framed?

  By the time Rosco comes back to the table I have a plan.

  Rosco drives me to my door. ‘You’ll be all right getting your car?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll get it in the morning.’ I slide off his jacket and hand it to him.

  He looks into my eyes. ‘So, I’ll see you Monday?’ There’s something about his voice that makes me think there’s more he wants to say.

  ‘Yeah, I’m in Brisbane on Sunday; following up on this comedy lead for Maya.’

  ‘That’s right. Hope it goes well.’

  There is an awkward silence. Will the Spark strike again? I both want it and dread it.

  ‘Take care, Olivia,’ says Rosco. ‘Do things by the book, okay? And talk to the police about Brandon.’

  It seems the Spark is missing in action. I give him a guilty thumbs up and open the door. Doing things by the book, no intention I have.

  29

  The question I ponder as I catch the bus back to Brandon’s apartment early the next morning, is where to find Brooklyn. Was there an address on her file? I pull out my phone and flick through the photos. Yes, here it is. The Blue Dolphin Motel.

  My car’s right where I left it and I let myself in with my spare key. I slide into the seat and feel something under my feet. It’s my handbag. I check inside; everything’s there. Brandon must have let himself in and left it for me. That was helpful of him. But I still think he’s up to no good.

  Back home, I consider what gear I need for a hard day of tailing Brooklyn. My wardrobe offers little inspiration. ‘Do you mind if I borrow some of your clothes again, Nan? I’ve got a big job on today,’ I call down the corridor.

  Nan stalks out from the laundry holding her yellow halter-neck top. ‘How on earth did you manage to get lipstick all over this Oliva?’

  I gaze at the top. There is no part of last night that would make an acceptable excuse. ‘Sorry Nan.’ High-level negotiations ensue. In the end I promise to do the vacuuming this week in exchange for access to Nan’s treasure trove.

  I dive into Nan’s walk-in wardrobe and flick the hangers. There’s the violet pant suit she wore to pick up Jacq from holiday program. The khaki safari suit she put on to get milk from the store. And for special occasions, there’s the … gold bikini. Gold bikini?

  ‘What’s this for?’ I wander into the lounge room holding the bikini out like a dead rat.

  Nan lifts her head from her Vogue magazine. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? It was on special at that little boutique on the corner.’

  ‘Have you worn it yet?’

  ‘No, but Reggie’s taking me to Noosa in November. It’ll be perfect for that.’

  I think Nan’s been on the Gold Coast too long. ‘Right.’ I wander back to her bedroom.

  Fifteen minutes later I strut out wearing a thigh-length red dress with a peter pan collar, red platforms, enormous red sunglasses and, of course, my blonde wig. I’ve stashed a few extra outfits in my sports bag.

  Nan looks up, puts down her magazine, and sighs. ‘If only you’d dress like that more often, Olivia. You look just like Nancy Drew.’ She
leans over to her bookshelf, pulls out a tattered paperback copy of The Secret in the Old Attic, and holds it out to me.

  Nancy Drew is holding a candle in a shadowy room. Her dress looks more demure than mine, but there is certainly a resemblance. Hopefully this is a good omen for the day ahead.

  I haven’t forgotten Rosco’s instruction to pass on my information about Brandon to the police. I can’t put it off any longer. I find the cop’s card and call the station. I’m not looking forward to it. I know he doesn’t like me. Whatever. I don’t like him either. A female cop answers the phone.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Dan Ferris.’

  ‘He’s out right now. Can I take a message, or do you want to talk to someone else?’

  Yes! ‘Just tell him Olivia Grace called.’ I leave my number. Duty discharged, I’m ready to hit the road.

  I park my car opposite Brooklyn’s motel at nine am and wait. PI work is a lot like fishing—long periods of boredom interspersed with short bursts of excitement. And there’s no guarantee she’s in there, of course. But at ten am Brooklyn comes out. She is wearing a tie-dyed dress in psychedelic colours and her long hair is divided into multiple plaits decorated with beads. What is going on? She’s nothing like the corporate powerbroker who first rocked into our office. It looks like she’s gone feral. She turns left, heading towards Broadbeach.

  I let her get ahead, before driving after her, pausing if I get too close. After about ten minutes she turns down a side-street. My pulse beats faster. I think I know where she’s going.

  Rosco’s units are more down-market than Nan’s—fibro instead of red brick. Very 1950s. I pull over to the side of the road and watch her walk up the stairs to Rosco’s unit block, knock, and go in.

  All is quiet for some time. What’s she doing in there? Rosco said he’d dropped the McSushi contract, so it’s not business, which only leaves … None of my business, I tell myself. But a hot-wasabi-green aura of jealousy seeps out of my skin. I think of the Spark. Have I been imagining it? After all, why would he be interested in me after the way I blew him off two years ago?

  At eleven o’clock I get out of the car, stretch my legs and get back in again. By twelve o’clock they’re still inside and I’m desperate for a pee. Rosco’s mantra—a good PI does not desert her target—repeats in my head. He hadn’t had to be too specific. I’d worked out the pee thing by myself—it required a wide-mouthed bottle and was only slightly messy.

  Today, however, I’ve forgotten the wide-mouthed bottle.

  At twelve thirty a woman with leathery skin wearing a tight yellow tracksuit knocks on the window. I wind it down. ‘You’ve been sitting here for two hours. Why?’

  I peer over the top of my sunglasses. ‘Can’t say too much—security reasons.’

  The woman puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Is it the man on the second floor?’

  ‘Like I say—can’t say too much.’ I don’t want to get some innocent bystander into trouble.

  ‘I’ve seen him reading foreign newspapers.’ She’s keen to do her bit for national security.

  I nod sharply, trying to imply I am well on top of the game and she’d better leave me to it.

  ‘Have you got a number I can call in case I see something suspicious?’

  ‘Just the usual hotline—you’ve got the fridge magnet, haven’t you?’

  She nods, her henna-orange curls bobbing. ‘You’re very brave, dear.’

  ‘Just doing my job, ma’am.’ This line should by rights be delivered in an American accent, but I resist the temptation.

  The woman walks off with an extra spring in her stride.

  By one thirty I’m in danger of leaving a puddle on the car seat.

  Just as I’m thinking I’ll have to desert my target, the door to Rosco’s unit opens and he and Brooklyn come out. I slump in my seat as they walk past. I should tail them but all I can think about is my bladder.

  I look over at the unit. I know where Rosco keeps his key—we’d called in there once to pick up some documents. I get out of the car and waddle across the road trying to keep my legs pressed together. The key is tucked in on top of the garage door. I run upstairs to the toilet and sigh with relief as I deflate. Flushing, I wander out.

  Rosco’s tiny lounge room is lined with old sixties surfing photos, taken on the Gold Coast. A surfboard with a big ding in it leans against the wall on the miniature veranda—it looks like he’s doing some repair work. A wetsuit hangs over the railing.

  What’s he been up to with Brooklyn? The obvious, I suppose. Don’t they say the simplest solution is usually right? I grind my teeth. An empty beer bottle sits on a low table near the TV. I nudge it onto the floor with my foot. Take that, Rosco. Dusty vertical blinds complete the bachelor pad decor. It’s interesting, but I can’t afford to linger.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs. Oh no. This is bad. Very bad.

  Turning around, I scan my options. Rosco’s lounge room doesn’t offer much in the way of shelter. I consider the verandah, but I don’t think the surfboard will cover me. The bedroom. I run into his bedroom and dive into the cupboard.

  The door opens and shuts. Rosco puts on some music.

  I try to compose myself. Hopefully he’ll leave soon, and I can escape.

  But after about ten minutes Rosco comes into the bedroom. He sits at the desk in the corner of his room. I hear the distinctive bing, bong of the computer coming on.

  Great.

  I might have stood in the cupboard all afternoon listening to him type if it hadn’t been for my watch. I thought I’d fixed it, but at three o’clock it goes off with a loud beep, beep, beep. I try to bring my arm up to turn it off, but there’s no room to manoeuvre in the cupboard. Beep, beep, beep it trills, on and on and on.

  Rosco walks towards the cupboard and I close my eyes like an ostrich putting its head in the sand. This isn’t going to be pretty.

  30

  Light floods the cupboard. I keep my eyes tightly shut, trying to pretend this isn’t happening.

  ‘Olivia? What the hell?’

  I wince. My eyes open and I blink in the glare from the window. He looks angry. I’ve never seen him look so angry. I wriggle out from among his clothes, trying to think of an excuse for being in his cupboard. One that doesn’t make me sound like a crazy, obsessed lunatic. A crazy, obsessed lunatic with an imaginary Spark.

  Rosco takes in my red mini-dress, platforms and the huge sunglasses on top of my wig. ‘You’re following me.’ It’s not a question.

  I shake my head, my blonde hair flying in front of my face. ‘No, not you.’

  ‘You’re following Brooklyn?’

  I nod.

  He folds his arms. ‘Did I ask you to follow Brooklyn?’

  I shake my head. ‘You said you’d dropped the McSushi contract.’

  ‘I have dropped the McSushi contract,’ he says.

  ‘So why was Brooklyn here?’

  ‘That’s not your problem.’

  It feels like he’s slapped me. Clearly she was here for the obvious reason. ‘What is my problem, then?’

  ‘Your problem is that you are hiding in my cupboard. It’s unprofessional.’

  ‘Unprofessional? I’m not the one who’s … who’s …’ Who’s got something going on with Brooklyn, when I thought he had a Spark with me. My eyes prickle. I think I’m going to cry. I don’t want Rosco to see this, so I run for the door, my red platforms clopping on the floorboards.

  ‘Olivia,’ Rosco calls after me. ‘Come back. Come back here right now.’

  ‘No. I won’t,’ I yell. ‘You can’t make me.’ I slam his front door behind me and race down the stairs. I know I’m overreacting again, but I have to get out of there before I do something worse. A shin kick isn’t out of the question.

  The door opens again and I hear Rosco’s feet run down the stairs after me.

  I speed up, almost bumping into the woman in the yellow tracksuit as she comes out of the downstairs unit. ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

&
nbsp; She looks from me to Rosco, eyes wide. With an intake of breath, she retreats into her unit, not taking her eyes off Rosco.

  I jump into the car and slam the door, taking off up the street. Rosco runs across the road, his hand reaching out as if to stop the car. I accelerate. He slaps his hand on the boot as I drive off.

  Glancing in the rear-view mirror I see him standing in the middle of the street, his hands on his hips staring after me. A curtain twitches in the downstairs unit.

  I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and sniff. Successful operation that was not.

  I drive around aimlessly for some time, trying to calm down. I drive past the bungee jump tower, swanky six-star hotels, games parlours, clubbies in their clubhouse, nightclubs, meter maids, seagulls, and a mahogany-coloured man in tiny red Speedos.

  I hate Surfers Paradise with a vengeance but I hate Rosco even more. The worst part is, I have no reason to feel like this. If Rosco has something going on with Brooklyn it’s none of my business. I suppose, deep down, as strange as it is, I must have felt like we had something.

  Finally, I turn into Cavill Avenue singing along to ‘You’re Not Sorry’ by Taylor Swift on the radio. I need chocolate and I need it now. Pulling over, I get out of the car and walk down the mall. Seiji is out the front of his souvenir shop and outback bar. We nod as usual.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. His accent is pure Australian.

  I stop in my tracks. ‘You speak English?’

  He smiles. ‘I was born on the Gold Coast.’

  Seiji has spoken English all along. What kind of a PI am I, if I didn’t even know that? ‘But you’ve never spoken English to me before.’

  ‘I save it for special occasions. I need to practise my Japanese, so I pretend I can’t speak English. Here,’ he reaches behind him, picks up a koala keyring and hands it to me. ‘Present. You look like you need cheering up.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘I do.’ A flash of colour in the distance catches my eye. It’s Brooklyn. A surge of adrenaline races through me. ‘Got to go. Thanks for the koala.’

  ‘No worries.’

  I clop towards Brooklyn and see her seat herself at a table outside a café. She glances at her phone, and gestures the waiter away. She’s waiting for someone.