by Lisa Walker
‘If everything’s in order, I have to go,’ says Ajay. ‘I have a business meeting.’
Dan nods and he stalks out.
After Ajay leaves, Dan pockets his notebook. ‘I’ve got my eye on you. All of you.’
There is silence as the cops leave. We lower ourselves into a couple of couches next to a large emu model. It feels like we four have unfinished business.
The door bangs again and Zander comes in. He eyes us from under his long fringe. ‘The party’s starting early today, huh? Nancy Drews all round?’
‘Better make it mocktails,’ says Luna. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet. You haven’t got any wheatgrass juice, have you?’
Zander snorts. ‘As if.’ He ambles over to the bar and comes back with four glasses of pink and yellow liquid with a slice of lime on the side.
Brooklyn places her lips to the glass. ‘Mm, grouse.’
We all stare at her.
She looks up. ‘What? Did I say it wrong?’
‘No, that was fine,’ says Luna. ‘Just …’
‘Surprising,’ I supply.
Zander turns on the radio and starts to wipe down the camel next to the bar.
‘It’s a beautiful morning here in Paradise, offshore winds, three to four foot waves, five on the sets, the points are cranking …’
So here we all are. There’s just one thing I still don’t understand. Apart from Madeleine kidnapping Ajay, that is. ‘What was with the fake arm in the shark pool? That was pretty random. Who did that?’
Luna and Brooklyn shrug and look at Madeleine.
‘That was me. I got one of those fake arms off the internet and drew Ajay’s tattoo on it,’ says Madeleine. ‘Then I threw it in the shark pool.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
Madeleine looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘It was a message to people like him, of course. I was hoping it would catch on … you know, go viral or something. I Instagrammed it but it didn’t take off. I don’t know why.’
‘You’re sharkgirl?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I saw the hashtag. Fake arms against harassment, right?’
‘Right. I didn’t mean for the shark to eat it, but whatever.’
‘I’m not sure I get it,’ I say.
Madeleine and Brooklyn exchange a glance.
Luna eyes them. ‘I get it. He tried it on with me too.’
‘Did I miss something?’ I say.
‘He’s a creep. He’s got roaming hands,’ says Luna.
‘That’s why I had him dumped as the face of McSushi,’ says Brooklyn.
‘Good job,’ says Luna.
Brooklyn and Luna smile at each other and their eyes linger.
‘He only promotes instructors who sleep with him,’ says Madeleine. ‘I’d had a gutful. I guess I snapped. I figured with him out of the way, I’d be chief instructor.’
‘Right, but kidnapping him? That was kind of extreme,’ I say. Batshit crazy is what I mean.
Guilt flashes across Madeleine’s face for a moment. ‘I just wanted a chance. I knew I was the best. What else could I do?’
It sounds almost logical, the way she says it.
‘Looks like I’m out of a job now though,’ says Madeleine.
‘They need someone at the Pink House,’ says Luna.
‘Cool,’ says Madeleine. ‘I’ll chase that up.’
‘Shouldn’t you report him?’ I say.
Madeleine, Luna and Brooklyn roll their eyes in unison.
‘He makes sure there are no witnesses,’ says Luna. ‘When I complained, all that happened was I lost my job.’ She laughs. ‘I never thought of kidnapping him. That’s out-of-the-box thinking. Bizarre but effective. High five to that.’ She puts up her hand and Madeleine slaps it.
‘Yoga teaches us to cure what need not be endured.’ Madeleine smiles. ‘Being chief instructor was my dream. He had it coming. Brooklyn was in on it too.’
Luna and I turn to her. ‘Really?’
‘Fair dinkum,’ says Brooklyn.
Luna taps her glass against Brooklyn’s. ‘Cheers to that.’
Brooklyn consults her phone. ‘The bloke is lower than a snake’s belly,’ she enunciates in her American drawl, as if speaking a foreign language.
I glance at her phone.
Brooklyn smiles. ‘I keep notes on Australian slang. It’s good public relations to master the native dialect.’
I sip my mocktail. Ajay certainly has a lot to answer for. I’m not sure that kidnapping was an appropriate response, but no-one else seems to have a problem with it.
‘So, Brooklyn.’ Luna tilts her head. ‘Are you still trying to open a McSushi in Byron Bay?’
Brooklyn taps her glass. Her fingernails are decorated with stick-on unicorns. ‘My father … He really wants to open up the market, get the company in there.’
‘You don’t?’ asks Luna.
Brooklyn’s mouth twists. ‘I’ve always been, like, totally on board with the whole expansion thing, but now …’ She twists her dark hair with a finger and gazes at Luna. ‘The afternoon after I let the rats out, I did one of those goddess dances on Wategos Beach. I read about it in the Lighthouse News and thought I’d go along. Just for a laugh.’ She gazes at the stuffed camel with a faraway look. ‘Something happened. It was really transformational. And now, I feel like I’m metamorphosing into something new.’
We all stare at her.
‘My father wants me to be like my sister—she’s rising up the McSushi ranks—but I just want to find my inner goddess, you know?’
‘Totally,’ says Luna. Her face has gone a little pink.
‘I’m going back to America soon,’ says Brooklyn. ‘They’re not happy with my progress. Or with my methods.’
‘The rats?’ says Luna.
‘I knew you would be the logical suspect,’ says Brooklyn. ‘With you out of the way it would have been easy to move in.’
‘You put the rat hairs in Luna’s car?’ I ask.
Brooklyn nods.
‘You left a McSushi wrapper behind.’
‘Oh.’ Brooklyn puts her hand to her mouth. ‘I must have been one sausage short of a barbie that day.’
Zander perches on a seat at the bar and opens the Gold Coast Times.
I sort through everything that’s happened in my mind. Fake arm. Tick. Georgia Hansen photos. Tick. Rats. Tick. Ajay’s disappearance. Tick. ‘What about the McSushi poster in Byron Bay? Who painted stop the whale killers on that?’ I ask.
‘Oh, that was me,’ says Brooklyn. ‘I was on my way out of town after the goddess dance when I saw the poster and, this feeling came over me, it was like an explosion. I felt compelled …’
‘The whales called to you,’ says Luna.
‘Exactly,’ says Brooklyn.
‘This is making my head hurt,’ I say.
Luna cocks her head. ‘I don’t know why. It’s all perfectly clear. The whales told her they didn’t want a McSushi in Byron Bay.’
‘That’s right.’ Brooklyn nods. ‘Are you heading back to the office soon, Olivia?’
I cross my legs and sip my drink. ‘I’ve finished at the agency.’
‘You’ve finished?’ says Luna. ‘Why?’
‘Rosco and I … We don’t get along.’
‘That’s strange,’ says Brooklyn. ‘He seems like a pretty cool guy.’
I stare at her. Well, she would think that, wouldn’t she? ‘I didn’t feel like he was being honest with me. Or valuing my skills.’
Brooklyn tilts her head, then touches my arm. ‘Just so you know, my relationship with Rosco is purely professional. After he dropped the McSushi contract Madeleine and I persuaded him to come back on, for a private project.’
I wait.
‘We were trying to dig up dirt on Ajay,’ she sips from her drink. ‘To see if it was worth taking things further legally. We didn’t get very far. He covers his tracks.’
So that’s what she was doing at Rosco’s that day. Well, it’s too late now …
<
br /> ‘What will you do now?’ she asks.
‘I’m thinking of becoming a yoga teacher.’
Madeleine’s eyes widen. ‘You’ll need to work on your dropbacks.’
‘I’m joking.’ I swivel towards the bar. ‘Pass me the “positions vacant”, will you Zander?’
Zander pulls off the back of the paper, rolls it up and throws it to me. I flick through the jobs. My finger pauses on the ad, before moving on. But something makes me come back to it. Change from within, says a voice in my head. Normally I’d ignore it, but my options are limited. Maybe I should take guidance in whatever form it’s offered. I slide my phone out of my back pocket. ‘Here’s one.’
Luna, Madeleine and Brooklyn lean across the table, trying to read the ad.
‘What’s it for?’ says Luna.
I hold up one finger and, scanning the ad, punch the number into my phone. Looking for girls to join the iconic Surfers Paradise meter maid team. Must be enthusiastic, well-groomed, have a happy personality and a nice bikini body. Ages between 18 and 30. ‘Hello? I’m interested in the meter maid position.’
42
‘A Queensland meter maid is a beautiful young lady dressed in an eye-catching gold bikini. She projects confidence, sophistication and independence, yet still represents the ultimate in femininity. She is sleek, classy, carefree, sassy, cheeky, but still professionally serious …’
Charlene at the meter maid agency isn’t happy to see me. She sizes up my figure, my glasses and my lack of tan.
Her leathery face puckers. ‘I don’t think you’re suited to this job, dear.’
‘My appearance doesn’t affect my ability to do the job. I can still feed money into meters.’
‘We don’t have your size.’ She gestures triumphantly at the rack of size six to eight gold bikinis.
‘I’ve got my own.’ I pull it out of my bag and brandish it at her.
She sighs. ‘Why do you want to be a meter maid, anyway?’
It’s a good question. Some mad whim has sent me here. Some crazy idea about changing the system from within. Clearly I’m not going to tell Charlene this. ‘I need a job.’ This is also true. ‘It looks like it could be fun.’
She still looks dubious.
I wrack my brain for something I can offer as a counterpoint to my physical unsuitability. ‘I can do a headstand. I think it would go down well with the customers.’
‘A headstand, ay? Let’s see it then.’
I kneel down, put my head on the carpet and raise my legs. I hardly wobble at all. Lowering my feet to the ground, I jump up, throwing my arms out. ‘Ta da. What do you think?’
She shrugs. ‘Got to hand it to you, you’ve got a bit of get-up-and-go.’ She puts her hands on her hips and seems to come to a decision. ‘I’m pretty short-staffed right now.’ She opens a drawer and hands me a gold sash reading Gold Coast Meter Maid and a cowboy hat. ‘You can start tomorrow. Don’t suppose you’ll last long, anyway.’
It’s weird out on the street my first day. No one seems to know what to make of me. A chubby bloke in stubbies that display his bum cleavage elbows his mate and snickers as I pass.
‘What’s your problem, buddy? I’m putting money in your meter, aren’t I?’ I say. I saunter down the street, coming to a halt outside the newsagent.
Ajay to Launch New Yoga Centre on Gold Coast
I grind my teeth, pick up a copy of the newspaper and read the story.
Ajay is launching his latest Bikini Body Boot Camp Speed Yoga centre, Gold Coast Bliss. The opening will feature the famous Gold Coast meter maids …
Well, that’s interesting. I ponder the story as I continue my beat. Madeleine and Luna have lost their jobs and here’s Ajay, launching a new yoga centre. It doesn’t seem fair. Minor case of kidnapping aside …
‘Hey, hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ A man bounds out of Paradise Real Estate and scampers after me, his white shoes flashing like twin rabbits. He has a razor-sharp line down the front of his lime-green slacks. His face is the colour of polished cedar and thick white hair sweeps off it like a wave running out to sea.
I eyeball him over the top of my glasses, sliding a one-dollar coin into the pay-and-display as I do so. ‘Just doing my job, sir.’
Something flashes across his face—recognition that I might be a force to be reckoned with. ‘You, you can’t be a meter maid. I pay my money to have meter maids who are going to attract tourists.’
‘Your point, exactly?’
‘Well …’ He isn’t sure how to break it to me. ‘You don’t look like a meter maid.’
‘I don’t?’ I feign amazement. ‘But all I’ve ever wanted was to be a meter maid. This job is a dream come true for me.’
‘Where are you from?’ he asks.
‘Northcliff. You know, just down the highway.’
‘I know Northcliff,’ he snaps. ‘What I want to know is why you’ve been employed as a meter maid when you are clearly unsuitable.’
‘Well, sir, it’s morally wrong to discriminate against generously proportioned girls with glasses. Haven’t you heard of equal opportunity?’
This is clearly news to him. ‘Ridiculous—why can’t we have good-looking girls on the street?’
He must see the look I shoot him as his chivalrous side comes to the fore. ‘Not that you’re not a good-looking girl, but you don’t look the part.’
I lean against a car and read the name on his badge. ‘Well, Kenny, the way I see it is …’ I don’t know where it all comes from—maybe it’s been bottled up for too long—but words erupt like a volcanic explosion. The cultural desert of the Gold Coast, the way women’s bodies are used to sell junk, the demeaning nature of some souvenirs—with these topics and more I earbash poor Kenny.
To his credit he listens. Not only does he listen, he nods at appropriate moments. ‘I haven’t considered that before. You could have a point there,’ he says when I finish.
I’m flabbergasted. I didn’t expect him to listen; I was only venting.
Kenny’s face is thoughtful. ‘You know, you remind me of my late wife. She used to go on like that. I never listened though—wish I had.’
We chat for an hour, Kenny and I, leaning against the meters, moving on every now and then to pop tickets on windscreens ahead of us. We should have nothing in common, except … I remind him of his wife. He’d been too busy buying real estate while she was alive to listen to her crackpot theories.
At the end of the hour he shakes my hand. ‘Nice meeting you, Olivia. If you ever need anything, just ask for Kenny the King.’ As my coins slide into the meter, a penny drops in my head—this is Rosco’s landlord.
Over the next few days, Kenny is my staunchest ally in a battle for the hearts and minds of the Gold Coast. Whenever he sees me getting a hard time he pops out, white shoes blazing. ‘Listen, mate,’ he says. ‘Don’t you know all women are beautiful just the way they are?’
Those clients who still want to dispute my viability as a meter maid mostly back down after a lecture on the politics of body image. If things get tricky, I put my cowboy hat on the ground and do a headstand on top of it. What’s the point in having a signature move if you don’t use it?
The other meter maids aren’t sure how to take me at first. Conversations stop as I come into the change room. I catch them eyeing my stomach. They gradually come around though. At the end of the week they invite me out for Friday night drinks.
I end up delivering my manifesto to a circle of blow-dried beauties. ‘It’s not you girls that are the problem, it’s the system. The system that says bikini girls on the streets are good for business.’ Some of them nod like they take my point.
‘Right on, sister,’ says Lena, a dark-haired girl with an English accent, reaching for the peanuts on the bar. A couple of others follow her lead. I’m pleased to see them developing an appetite.
‘Hey,’ says Lena, coming in on Monday morning and patting her flat-as-a-pancake stomach. ‘I put on half a kilo, but I gu
ess if Olivia can do it, so can I.’
Word gets around about my unusual approach to the craft of meter-maiding. Some tourists come to have their photo taken with me. The cameras go crazy when I do a headstand. Bizarrely, I become something of a cause célèbre. On Tuesday, someone from the women’s studies section of the university comes to interview me.
‘Did you deliberately set out to subvert the dominant paradigm?’ an earnest short-haired woman asks me.
I blink. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
Back at home, Nan’s silence on my new occupation is hard to interpret. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to get myself a new bikini,’ is her only comment.
Jacq is so used to me going out the door in peculiar outfits it takes her a while to register that anything has changed. ‘Why don’t we see Rosco anymore?’ she says eventually as I’m heading out the door in my bikini.
‘I’ve changed jobs. I don’t work for Rosco anymore.’
‘That’s stupid. Why not?’
‘I needed a change.’
‘What do you need a change for? You just had a change.’
There isn’t much I can say—not without making her worry that her sister is unstable. I kiss her, fluff her hair and duck out the door.
If my beat ever takes me near Gold Star Investigations I walk quickly and don’t look up at the windows. Once, I get an upside-down view of Rosco driving past while I’m posing for a photo in my headstand. His head turns, but he is past before I can register the expression on his face.
It’s painful to think about the way I’ve stuffed things up. I’d dreamed of being a PI for so long—catching villains, hiding in dark alleyways with my collar turned up. Sure, the reality was vastly different. I’d still loved it though—the thrill of the chase, the puzzle of it all.
And it isn’t only the job I’ve stuffed up. There’s also Rosco. Sometimes I have to control an urge to burst back into Gold Star Investigations and demand to know what went wrong. But … he knows where to find me.
On Thursday, as I feed a meter near McSushi, I notice the posters of Maya have come down. Hopefully it’s a sign she’s taking control of her sponsorship deals. In her place is a glamour shot of Georgia Hansen. ‘Is that a nori roll in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’ reads the caption. Classy.