The Girl with the Gold Bikini

by Lisa Walker

  I pull open the door, but the stairwell is empty. When I turn around the words are still there.

  YOU’RE NEXT.

  33

  I double-bolt the doors, close the windows and put Kevin on full alert.

  ‘If anyone gets in that door you gnaw their ankles, Kevin, okay?’ Kevin sticks out the tip of his tongue in a terrifying demonstration of fierceness.

  I call the police again. This time Dan Ferris is in. He sounds bored, but says he’ll come around to look at the poster. I tell him my suspicions about Brandon, but this fails to impress. I slam the phone down. My impulse to call Rosco is firmly quashed. No one’s going to rescue me except myself.

  I eye the poster on the mat. YOU’RE NEXT. There are several interpretations: I’m next after Ajay, or next after Maya, or next after both of them. I don’t like any of these options. My stomach clenches. I hope Maya’s alright.

  For lack of anything else to do I pull all my newspaper articles out of the kitchen drawer where I’d stashed them and lay them out on the counter. There’s Ajay slapping Georgia Hansen, the Lighthouse News yoga exposé, Rochelle in the café with an unknown man … I put on my glasses and inspect the photo more closely. It looks like Brandon’s shoulders. It looks like his hair. It looks like his white T-shirt. But why would Brandon be in a café with Rochelle?

  I pace up and down, tread on Kevin’s tail and, finally, turn on the computer to distract myself.

  There’s a message from James Goldsworth, sent yesterday. With everything else going on, I’d missed it. ‘Better start working on an act for the comedy festival.’

  I email him back. ‘Ha, ha, funny one. See you at my place at three o’clock.’

  There’s a sharp knock at the door. I peer through the peephole. My friend the cop has arrived. Opening the door, I gesture at the doormat where the poster lies. As instructed, I haven’t touched it.

  He snorts, pulls some rubber gloves out of his black case and picks it up. His face sets in crinkled lines of suspicion; he turns his puffy-rimmed eyes on me. ‘People do this kind of thing all the time when someone in the public eye goes missing.’ His voice is flat, gravelly. ‘You’ve been in Byron Bay asking questions, haven’t you?’

  I nod. He makes it sound like a criminal offence.

  ‘That sort of thing attracts attention. There are a lot of nuts out there.’

  He places the poster in a plastic bag. ‘Keep the door locked.’

  And that’s it—he’s gone. Right, thanks for your support.

  My computer beeps—another message from James. ‘I’m serious. You know how there weren’t any tickets left? I’ve wangled you a wild-card entry into the semis. The only way to get into the finals is by getting through the semis. There’s no other way!’ There’s an attachment. I open it. Get your stomach muscles toned—these newcomers will have you laughing—either at them or with them—in the sacrificial blood sport segment of the festival. I scan the list of names. Hooley dooley, he isn’t joking. Directly underneath James Goldsworth is Olivia Grace. I scan the rest of the list. Maya’s name isn’t there, but I hadn’t expected it to be.

  What was he thinking? I can’t do that—I’m not a comedian. I freeze in front of a crowd. I was scarred for life by an incident at the school concert in Year Five. Unknown to me, my Star Wars undies were on show for an entire rendition of ‘Thriller’ with dance moves. The words ‘school’ and ‘concert’, when put together, still make me feel sick.

  James is one step ahead of me though. My computer tings with another incoming email. ‘Don’t try to get out of it. You need to get your act ready now or you won’t get into the finals! We’ll fit into the scene better as performers anyway.’

  Oh, crap. I can’t resist his appeal to my most sensitive area—my professional pride. Okay, I have to prepare a routine—just what I need on a day when I’ve received a death threat and my brain is like a limp dishrag.

  I type ‘learn comedy fast’ into Google. One hour later I’ve learnt there are many types of comedians—so many I instantly forget them all. To be successful, you have to deliver four to six laughs per minute. Timing is essential, and you need to know how to deal with hecklers. It’s too hard. Isn’t there a ready-made routine I can download somewhere? Apparently not.

  I turn off the computer and lie on the couch. I’ve never felt less funny.

  I’m woken by the sound of knocking on my door.

  ‘Olivia.’

  Damn. It’s James and I still don’t have a routine ready. ‘Won’t be a sec,’ I call out. ‘I’ll see you down the car.’ I run into Nan’s room and riffle through her wardrobe. What do comedians wear? The only comedians I can think of are men and Nan’s wardrobe is lacking in the men’s suit department.

  A horn beeps on the street. Hold your horses. Panicking, I go for the safest option, black, and hastily apply some make-up.

  I look out the window. James is sitting behind the wheel of his VW bug with the music turned up so loud I can hear it from inside the apartment. It’s not any band I’m familiar with. The words ‘gangsta’ and ‘homeboy’ feature prominently.

  I go downstairs. ‘Can you turn that down?’ I yell, climbing in. As I get in his car, I have a flashback to parking my car in Cavill Avenue yesterday. It’s still there. I hope the meter maids are feeding the meter.

  James hits the power button and the music dies. His eyes flicker up and down, taking in my black stockings, black mini skirt and black polo-neck top. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got a Liza Minelli routine happening. Am I right?’

  I lift my sunglasses and give him a killer stare.

  James shrugs. ‘Nice eyeliner.’ We drive the first half-hour in silence. I eye the tatts on his suntanned forearms as he taps the wheel. A dragon curls around one arm and some Celtic symbols around the other.

  ‘This is a long shot, isn’t it?’ I say finally. ‘Do you really think Maya’s going to be up there doing stand-up if she’s run away from home?’

  James’s hands clench the wheel. ‘You got any better suggestions, private investigator?’ I don’t. I don’t tell James about the poster. I don’t want to worry him. This is our last shot and we both know it.

  Half an hour out of Brisbane CBD James breaks the silence. ‘I think it was my fault.’

  My depleted brain has been absorbed in the passing scene of cut-price furniture shops, car yards and fast food joints so I don’t catch his meaning at first. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Maya disappearing. I think it was my fault.’

  He’s got my attention now. ‘What do you mean? How is it your fault?’

  He stares straight ahead. ‘You know how we were talking about Romeo and Juliet?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘D’you reckon Romeo would have given up if Juliet’s father punched him out and told him Juliet was too busy getting ready for the world titles to see him?’

  ‘I guess not, but you know, it’s just a story. I don’t think Juliet surfed anyway.’ I’m trying to lighten things up.

  James bangs his hand on the steering wheel. ‘I gave up too easily. I should have kicked their door down.’

  I stare at him. Kick the door down … ‘Is that what you do when you care for someone? Kick their door down?’

  He gives me a strange look. ‘Maybe. If necessary. She must have thought I was piss-weak, disappearing because her daddy told me to.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I thought she’d still be there when I came back for her. I was so stupid.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be enough to make her run away, would it?’

  ‘You don’t know Maya. She can’t stand half-measures. She’s a bridge burner from way back.’

  ‘I’ve seen that side of her in the surf.’ Ask yourself: what’s the worst that can happen?

  ‘It would have seemed like a total betrayal to her, slinking off after he hit me.’

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘Hey, you can play it differently next time you see her.’

  James accelerates through a gap in the traffic. ‘I keep lo
oking for her everywhere. Every time I see a girl surfing I think it’s her. It’s stupid—no one else surfs like her.’ Five minutes pass before he speaks again. ‘She’s the One. And I’ve lost her.’

  The Kangaroo Point cliffs go past and I clear my throat. ‘Have you got any tips on how to develop a comedy routine in about fifteen minutes?’

  James lifts his sunglasses and gives me a look that makes me sink in my seat. ‘You haven’t got your routine ready? I told you, you won’t be able to get into the finals unless you qualify.’

  I waggle my head to imply it had been top of my list but events had overtaken me.

  ‘Right.’ James changes lanes sharply, making me press my foot to the ground where my brake pedal should have been. ‘We need to do some quick thinking.’

  I think quickly but it’s like wheels spinning in mud. ‘Um …’

  ‘What’s funny about you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There must be something.’

  ‘I have an unfunny life. I’m eighteen. I’ve just left school. I’m enrolled to study law, but I don’t want to do it. I’m a private investigator. I live with my grandmother; these are her clothes. I have no boyfriend.’

  James sniggers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re an eighteen-year-old private investigator who lives with her grandmother. And you’re wearing her clothes on the job. How funny is that? It’s comedy gold. I wish I was an eighteen-year-old private investigator who lived with my grandmother.’ He’s laughing uncontrollably now. ‘It’s like—God, I don’t know. It’s like Nancy Drew on steroids.’

  I maintain an offended silence.

  ‘Does she make you polish your gun before you go out on a job? Does she iron your disguises for you? Or knit you a camouflage suit? Does she invite the bad guys in for tea and cake when they come around to threaten you?’ James is laughing so hard I’m worried he’s going to drift into the next lane.

  ‘We turn right here,’ I say frostily. The heats of the festival are being held at the Paddo Tavern and the finals, if we make it that far, at the Queensland Cultural Centre in South Bank. The street lights are coming on as we find a park.

  James is still laughing. ‘Can you imagine James Bond living with his grandmother?’

  ‘I’m a PI, not a spy. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Not enough to matter.’

  We make our way through the gathering crowd, looking everywhere for Maya, and finally take a seat near the front. Loud groups gather around tables, drinks in their hands, ready to be entertained. ‘I can’t do this,’ I hiss. My heart is already pounding. ‘I’ll sneak into the finals or something.’

  James looks at me like I’ve destroyed his chances of ever seeing Maya again.

  ‘Fine. I’ll die of fright and humiliation, but I’ll try.’ I glance at the program. James is third and I’m fourth.

  The MC takes to the stage and my mind goes blank. I remember nothing of the first and second performers. They are poodles in tutus for all I know.

  My attention comes back onto low beam for James’s performance. He is funny in a self-deprecating nerdy way that plays well with the audience. ‘I’m from Byron Bay.’ Pause for laughs. ‘Those of you who think that’s funny, karma will get you in the end.’

  I tune out. I’m on next. I glance down the aisle. It’s not too late to make a run for it. I’m half-way to my feet when James’s act finishes. He leaps down and grasps my arm, pushing me towards the stage.

  The MC, a raggedy-looking bloke with long curly hair, calls my name. ‘Our next sacrificial lamb is Olivia Grace.’

  34

  Time stops, then starts again. The MC’s voice echoes in my head. Olivia Grace, Olivia Grace, Olivia Grace. For a wonderful moment, it seems like a dream. But my armpits are wet and I smell cigarette smoke. It must be real.

  ‘Olivia,’ James hisses. He jerks his head towards the stage. I plead with my eyes, but there’s no pity there. He pushes the small of my back.

  Et tu, Brute?

  I totter onto the stage in my high heels and clear my throat, shielding my eyes from the glare. ‘Umm …’ My voice screeches in the microphone. I jump back. I should have hidden under my seat while I had the chance. My hands shaking, I search out James in the audience. I don’t know what I’m hoping for—cue cards?

  His arms are folded and he is frowning. There’s no help in that quarter.

  ‘Umm … I’m a private investigator.’ Someone in the crowd laughs.

  I pull my skirt down to check my undies aren’t showing. ‘No, really. I’m a private investigator.’ I clear my throat and the microphone blares again. I open my mouth, not sure what’s going to come out next.

  ‘Some people think it’s a glamorous job. It’s not. It’s weirder than you’d expect. Right now I’m here in Brisbane trying to be funny and I’m not.’ Another nervous laugh comes from the corner of the room. ‘No, I’m not.’ There are a few more titters. I check my skirt again. No undies on display. ‘Uh, do you want to hear about what it’s like to be a private investigator?’ The crowd roars assent.

  I blink. They do? I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth. It’s as dry as a Gold Coast winter. In contrast, my hands are practically dripping onto the floorboards. I can’t wait to find out what I’m going to say next.

  ‘I’ve had a difficult few days. There aren’t many jobs where you get to dress as a meter maid.’ It’s like a ventriloquist is using my mouth. It’s an out-of-body experience. I almost forget the crowd in front of me until a loud guffaw startles me as I relate the ice-cream cabinet story.

  ‘It puts a whole new spin on the story of the spy who came in from the cold,’ says someone who sounds like me.

  The events of the past few weeks pour out. I change names and places to protect the innocent. Eventually I register the MC signalling time. ‘So, being a PI is a good job for people who like dress-ups and don’t mind making a fool of themselves.’

  The crowd applauds and the stairs come closer. I have no memory of climbing from the stage.

  James gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder as I sit. ‘You did work on your routine.’

  I gaze at him. My brain has been replaced with fairy floss.

  ‘That was great. How’d you think of that stuff about the meter maid?’

  I open and shut my mouth like a goldfish. ‘It’s a long story.’

  One hour later they announce the results—James and I have both progressed to the finals. We slap our hands together. ‘Alright!’ We’ve got one hour to get over to South Bank.

  South Bank is Brisbane’s answer to the Parisian Left Bank, only not as trendy and bohemian. Obviously.

  We park in the underground car park, our tyres squealing on the shiny black surface, and catch the lift up. The South Bank theatre is less intimate than the Paddo. Row after row of seats stretch from the stage. James and I give the doorman our competitors’ passes and do the rounds, looking for Maya. There’s no sign of her. I’m beginning to feel this is a dead end.

  ‘I can’t go on again,’ I say to James. ‘Once was enough. I’ll watch the crowd. I’m here—that’s all I wanted.’

  As the lights go down it’s hard to see anything. James has gone quiet. Pulling his notes out of his pocket, he scans them, then crumples them up. They fall to the ground as he makes his way backstage.

  ‘Our first finalist is James Goldsworth, from Byron Bay,’ says the announcer and James walks on stage.

  He stands silently for a few moments, spotlit, clenching and unclenching his hands. When he speaks, it’s in a quiet voice. ‘I know a girl who can surf better than me. Not only can she surf better than me, she’s much funnier than me. I know that won’t surprise you.’

  One or two people cough.

  James wraps his hands around the microphone. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the lack of response. ‘I’m here because I didn’t fight hard enough to keep her and now she’s gone. Maya,’ he shades his eyes. ‘Maya, if you’re out there, can
you come home? I was stupid to let you go, forgive me.’ He looks at the front of the stage. A few people murmur.

  ‘Maya—you’re the One. If you don’t come home, I don’t know what I’ll do.’ The crowd is silent now. James stares out into the darkness. ‘Yeah, so, sorry to have cast a dampener on things.’ He starts to walks off. One or two people clap half-heartedly.

  ‘James.’

  I crane my neck to see who’s spoken. A long way behind me, near the back of the theatre, stands a girl with black hair, wearing black lipstick and a loose black dress. I can’t distinguish her face in the darkness.

  James turns.

  ‘What do you mean when you say I’m the One?’

  ‘Maya?’ James squints into the light. ‘Can you ask me something easier?’

  The girl is silent.

  ‘Okay.’ James leans into the microphone. ‘You make me laugh. You finish my sentences. You cut me back to size when I’m full of myself. You know me. You’re the only one who knows me. Is that enough?’

  ‘Will you make friends with my father?’ the girl calls out.

  ‘I’ll make friends with your father if that’s what you want. I’ll do better than that—I’ll tell my father to make friends with your father. I’ll make them both take out a full-page ad in the paper telling everyone they’ve kissed and made up. I’ll send them on a Men Who Run with Wolves course together so they’ll bond for life.’

  My eyes are getting used to the darkness now and I see Maya smile, revealing the gap between her teeth. ‘Will you stand up to Brad if he tells you I’m too busy training to see you?’

  ‘I’ll be through the door so fast he won’t know what’s hit him.’ James has found Maya in the crowd now. A slow smile spreads across his face.

  ‘Do you think it’ll work?’

  I look from her back to James. It’s like the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

  ‘It’ll work. I love you, Maya.’ James jumps from the stage and wends his way through the seats to where Maya stands, unmoving. People curl their legs back to let him pass. One or two pat his back. Murmurs of encouragement rise here and there.