Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  I made fresh tea for Rafe—Orange Pekoe, as I didn’t think it likely I would find two people in one day who liked Old Socks—and cut two strawberry tartlets in half and offered the plate to Marcia and Rafe.

  Chairman Meow pranced onto the verandah and looked around. He sniffed the chair legs and hopped onto Rafe’s lap. Rafe fondled the cat’s head and ears and made slow sensuous strokes along Chairman Meow’s back. Somehow, I refrained from drooling.

  ‘Are you off to Dave’s tonight?’ Rafe enquired.

  ‘Yes, Marcia and I are having dinner with them. Ben’s home.’

  ‘Well, be careful, there’s a photo shoot on the way out of town.’

  Marcia looked confused.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ I told her.

  Rafe looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ve got to go, I didn’t realise it was so late.’ He gently put Chairman Meow on the floor, stood up and shook Marcia’s hand. Then he placed both hands on my shoulders and softly kissed my cheek.

  ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  Marcia and I didn’t speak until Rafe had left, then we both sighed in unison.

  ‘Wow,’ Marcia said. ‘Holy wow!’

  Later, in the kitchen, Marcia was washing up the tea things and I was drying, as I didn’t want Marcia to see the dreadful state of my tea towels. I was putting cups back in the cupboard when Harper called.

  ‘Hi Harps,’ I greeted her.

  ‘Fergus wants a tattoo. See what you’ve started?’ Harper accused me without preamble. ‘Fancy telling him he’s too grown-up for those pillowcases?’

  My sister’s ability to maintain her pique over the Sesame Street bedding was impressive. Resentment was the usual response whenever Harper felt her parenting skills were called into question and she could make the blue funk last for days. I didn’t need this right now.

  ‘Have you found any tourniquets in his bedroom?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Harper snapped. ‘He’s seven.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘Moving on,’ Harper said. ‘I would have looked at the security tapes if the damn cameras had tapes in them. Honestly, Scout, you must think I’m a moron not to have considered that.’

  Oh dear, it looked like I was going to have to be the grown-up. From experience I knew the best way to handle this was to ignore Harper’s snipes and act as though she was being perfectly pleasant. Sometimes this approach works against itself and cheeses her off even more. It was at times like this that I wished I smoked.

  ‘Are you telling me that the security system doesn’t work?’ I said, unable to hide my disbelief.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. The cameras, according to the school board, who wouldn’t have ten brain cells between them, are deterrent enough. Apparently it’s as effective as having a Beware of the Dog sign, whether you have a dog or not.’

  ‘You mean you could have bought a cheap sign instead of spending hundreds on Angus?’ I teased, and as soon as the flippant words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

  ‘Screw you,’ Harper said crossly.

  ‘I wish someone would,’ I told her. ‘It’s been a while.’

  There was a long silence during which I assumed she was debating whether to slam down the phone.

  ‘Well?’ Harper said finally.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘How did the undies get ripped? Isn’t that why you called?’

  ‘That, and to say that I hope you have a good time at the party tonight,’ I quipped.

  ‘Thank you, Scout, I have to leave in two minutes. Andrew’s backing the car out as we speak.’

  Restating my belief that it was one of the female students in the class, I outlined the experiment I’d conducted.

  ‘I told you,’ Harper said, ‘and I’ll tell you again, not a single student left the class. It couldn’t have been one of them.’

  ‘They didn’t have to leave the class. All they had to do was be late for class.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘All the girl had to do, after she and everyone else had changed into their swimsuits, was go to the toilet and pretend to have a pee. It’s a perfectly normal routine prior to a swim. The others going to the pool wouldn’t notice it as unusual. When she was certain that everyone had gone, she cut the clothes and then arrived at the pool only a few minutes after the others. I timed it. It doesn’t take long at all and you would never have registered a student being a couple of minutes late.’

  Andrew was frantically honking the car horn in the background.

  I waited for Harper to say how clever I was, how brilliant.

  ‘That’s crap,’ she said. ‘And anyway, Robert Arnold’s already been suspended.’

  Chapter 23

  It was Sunday morning and Marcia and I were in the process of altering my appearance. If Marcia was correct and Tildy was still with the cult, I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t easily recognised if, by chance, Tildy turned up at the rendezvous point with Cinnamon Toast. Whilst Tildy had grown up and changed, I’d essentially remained the same, and my trademark blonde side plait had to go.

  Alone in the kitchen, I was listening to Sting while kneeling on a stool with my head bent over the sink, waiting for Marcia to return from the chemist with another box of reddish-brown hair dye. Halfway through the process, on considering the length and thickness of my hair, she had decided that one box of dye wasn’t enough and had nipped out for more.

  My intention had been to ask Harper to colour my hair, but it’s never prudent to allow a person who is annoyed with you to touch your precious tresses. Anyway, Marcia seemed to know what she was doing, and it was a very bonding exercise.

  From my upside-down position I could see the kitchen table laden with produce from Dave and Daisy’s farm. As I’d anticipated, dinner had been a late affair, but we’d been so busy chatting we’d hardly noticed. This morning Marcia had told me she had slept all night for the first time in months. And apparently it was because of the great company—nothing at all to do with the Jim Beam.

  At one point during the evening Dave had mentioned the possibility of my infiltrating the cult, a comment that drew one or two gasps from around the table. Ben, with the enthusiasm of youth, had thought this a marvellous idea and had expressed interest in joining me. Whilst acknowledging his support I’d firmly declined his offer, much to his mother’s relief.

  Marcia and Daisy had both voiced the usual concerns regarding safety.

  ‘Scout’s an investigative journalist,’ Dave had said. ‘It’s what they do.’

  I’d nodded my agreement, brave, intrepid Scout. ‘Don’t worry,’ I’d told them, ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Which was a complete crock, but it had seemed to satisfy Marcia and Daisy.

  We’d left the dinner party soon after midnight, and on the way home had come across the photo shoot, aka the police hand-held speed camera, on the outskirts of town.

  ‘Nice of Rafe to tell you,’ Marcia had commented.

  ‘It’s a small town. We look after each other.’

  ‘No,’ Marcia had said knowingly, ‘Rafe has the hots for you, Scout. I sensed his disappointment when he came round yesterday and saw me sitting there.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  Marcia had guffawed mischievously. ‘I know,’ she’d assured me.

  Actually, where was Marcia? She’d been gone a while and my neck was starting to hurt.

  Two minutes later I heard the front door open and Marcia called gaily, ‘I’m back!’ She’d stopped at the bookshop and purchased an ABC cloth book for Christopher and Where’s Wally? for Tommy. Then she’d popped into the hairdressers to ask about dying my eyebrows, and a helpful gentleman called Dante had kindly explained the process.

  ‘If we’re going to do this, we may as well do it properly,’ Marcia said firmly.

  Chairman Meow sprinted into the kitchen and stopped suddenly under the table. He surveyed the activity at the sink and hopped o
nto a chair for a closer look. Not impressed, he took off like a jackrabbit in case he was next.

  One hour and four towels later Marcia was brushing my hair into a thick ponytail at the nape of my neck. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Where once I’d been the owner of blonde hair and very discreet eyebrows, I now had dark hair and two clearly defined eyebrows. In fact, I looked like my mother. It was an astonishing transformation.

  A couple of hours later Marcia and I were in Cavill Mall, Surfers Paradise, looking for women in long blue dresses and people handing out flyers depicting a man who looked like Jesus.

  We weren’t having any success and I had a headache. Not really a headache exactly, but my scalp hurt from having my hair pulled back into a ponytail. On top of that it was hot and bright and noisy with wind whistling between tall buildings and the constant crash of surf.

  Both Marcia and I had dressed in plain ordinary shorts and T-shirts to render us as inconspicuous as possible. Ha! Neither of us had considered the fact that simply being over thirty made us invisible in Surfers Paradise.

  Cavill Mall, which runs perpendicular to the famous Surfers Paradise beach, was packed with shoppers and holidaymakers, and every seat at every café and restaurant was taken. It was the zenith of rampant consumerism and I couldn’t help wondering aloud how all this greed would clash with the spiritualism offered by Bacchus Rising.

  ‘Ah,’ Marcia said, ‘I think the cult comes here because this is where young people congregate, especially those who have run away from home. That’s what the cult leaders are looking for—young idealistic recruits. It’s also a hotbed of lonely divorcees and widows with oodles of money.’

  ‘And we know this how?’ I asked.

  ‘Ben told me last night. Cults seek two types of people—those with money who can be indoctrinated into the cult’s beliefs and coerced into surrendering their wealth, and young impressionable souls who will act as “tools” of the cult and go out and recruit more followers.’

  ‘Well, that explains their interest in Tildy,’ I said. ‘I wondered why she was recruited when she didn’t have any money.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Marcia agreed, ‘though I hate to think of her as a tool. It sounds awful.’

  Leaving Cavill Mall we headed north along the Esplanade and, after a while, turned into swanky Elkhorn Avenue where we tarried in front of the Louis Vuitton window. Marcia spotted a young woman handing out leaflets on the other side of the road and raced over to her, but they turned out to be advertising flyers for a restaurant.

  Turning south along Surfers Paradise Boulevard we looked at all the flyers on noticeboards, walls, lampposts and in shop windows. For a brief respite from the heat we went into a shop with airconditioning. Ten minutes later we emerged with two stretch ochre-coloured T-shirts in Aboriginal designs that I’d bought for Tasha and Niska.

  We continued south until we reached the iconic towering apartment block, Q1, where we turned left, dodged some cyclists who were hogging the path, and then headed back along the Esplanade. Obviously the blue dresses were having a day off.

  We bought coffee and salad sandwiches and sat in the mall and listened to the jazz singer, John Nicol, while we ate lunch. Then, having found no evidence of cult-like people handing out flyers, we agreed to call it a day.

  ‘Have you decided how you’re going to handle this meeting with Cinnamon Toast on Wednesday?’ Marcia asked me.

  ‘I thought I’d see how it was on the day. Play it by ear,’ I said. ‘She might not turn up. She might even hide somewhere to see if I turn up.’

  Marcia nodded. ‘I suppose that’s always a possibility. Do you want me to come along?’

  ‘Yes, I think we should watch and see and then decide what to do together.’

  ‘So, we don’t have a plan?’

  ‘We do,’ I said. ‘That’s the plan: watch, see and decide.’

  Chapter 24

  Sometimes you have to follow the headlights on a case, which was how I found myself, having said goodbye to Marcia, parking the Lexus in the undercover parking station at Robina Town Shopping Centre.

  I headed straight to the department store where Harper had said that Mrs Berkelow worked and spoke to five sales assistants before I found one who knew of her.

  ‘She’s in ladies underwear,’ a heavily madeup girl told me, ‘but I don’t know if she’s working today.’

  A potential clue, I thought. Mrs Berkelow, mother of Brianna Berkelow, student owner of expensive undies and friend of students with expensive undies, worked in the ladies underwear department of a store that sold expensive undies. Staff discount, perhaps? Or the five-finger kind?

  Hmmm.

  I found the ladies underwear department and collected three bras in my size, two purple and one black. My colour choices were born of practicality rather than personal preference. Sorting laundry was a nightmare when the twins were teenagers, so we each chose two colours for underwear. Niska picked pink and white, Tasha cream and blue. I cheated, because I’m the mother, and had three colours; purple, black and neutral for under white shirts.

  An assistant, who was too young to be Mrs Berkelow, directed me to a change room and asked if I needed the fitter, which I said would be very nice, thank you. With any luck it would be Brianna’s mother.

  Unfortunately, the fitter turned out to be a Mrs Darlington, who said it was most unusual for her to work on a Sunday and I was lucky to catch her. She had gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose and a tape measure around her neck. All business.

  After measuring me Mrs Darlington picked up the three bras I’d chosen and looked at the size labels. She shook her head and made disapproving sounds at the hopelessness of a world where yet another woman had worn the wrong-sized bra for twenty years.

  ‘Wait here,’ she ordered, and left me standing in front of the mirror, naked to the waist under the harsh fluorescent lights. Between you and me there really should be body-image counselling offered in some of these change rooms.

  It wasn’t long before Mrs Darlington returned with two black bras and two purple bras.

  ‘These,’ she pointed out, ‘are your correct size and you should be wearing bras that are more straight across the front than plunging. You have a fine bosom and you should be showing it off, not pushing it into your armpits.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and waited for her to leave so I could try on the bras, but Mrs Darlington wasn’t going anywhere. It was her mission in life to show me how to properly put on a bra, and how to correctly adjust the straps. I so wished Harper was here. She’d be laughing so hard that she would have wet her knickers by now.

  Looking in the mirror, I was stunned by the difference the first bra made to my shape.

  ‘Amazing,’ I muttered, turning from side to side, trying not to preen.

  Mrs Darlington looked pleased. ‘I’ll leave you to try on the others.’

  ‘Before you go,’ I said quickly, ‘could you tell me if Mrs Berkelow works in this department?’

  ‘Oh, oh, well, not now, no.’ Mrs Darlington appeared flustered by my question.

  ‘I’m sorry, have I said something to distress you?’

  ‘No, well, not really. Is she a friend of yours?’ she asked nervously.

  I took a gamble.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said flatly, and then asked, ‘Were there problems with her work?’

  ‘No, no, it’s . . . well . . . yes, there were some problems with Mrs Berkelow and the store had to let her go.’

  ‘She was probably pinching the stock?’ I nodded as if I was familiar with this sort of retail matter.

  Mrs Darlington looked forlorn. ‘I’m not sure, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but there were definitely stock issues on the days she was here.’

  ‘It’s so hard to get good staff these days,’ I said, shaking my head knowingly at the hopelessness of the workforce.

  I purchased two bras—one purple and one black—and left Mrs Darlington to fix the world, o
ne bra at a time.

  Later Sunday afternoon I was floating on my back in the ocean under a cloudless Byron sky. I’d covered my hair with a black rubber swim cap and I was hoping not to be seen by anyone I knew. In case anyone did see me, and by anyone I meant Rafe, I’d practised quickly removing the swim cap and tossing my head so my hair fell splendorously about my face. For backup I wore a racy poinsettia-coloured swimsuit and waterproof mascara.

  There was no one on the beach that I knew, but I tore off the swim cap and tossed my head anyway. Sadly, no one shouted, ‘Phwooar!’

  Wrapping my sarong around my hips, I washed my feet under the tap near the surf club, put on my beach shoes and went home.

  I was sitting on the back steps playing with Chairman Meow when Miles popped his head out of the restaurant kitchen and called out, ‘Hey, darls, love the hair.’

  Leaning over the railing, I looked at him and smiled. ‘Thanks, it’s growing on me.’

  ‘Boom boom,’ Miles laughed.

  I had to think for a moment.‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘For this evening, madam,’ Miles continued, ‘Fandango’s offers a choice of vegetable terrine with spicy tomato sauce, paupiettes of sole, spring lamb with fennel or quail wrapped in vine leaves. For the vegetables we have potato and leek gratin, fresh French beans, artichokes vinaigrette, chargrilled vegetable salad or caponata.’

  ‘Nothing decent then,’ I said.

  ‘We’re very new.’ Miles hung his head and pouted, and I laughed.

  ‘I’d love the lamb and chargrilled salad, please.’

  ‘Ready in ten,’ he told me and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  I raced upstairs, showered and dressed in shorts, a new bra and a fitted black tank top, and only returned to the mirror three times to admire my fabulous new bustline. After testing my blood sugar level I had a shot of insulin and went down the back stairs to fetch dinner.

  The lamb looked wonderful and I thanked Miles and asked whether I was correct in thinking that his daughter taught at Heathlands House Academy in Sydney. He told me she did, that her name was Susie Cameron, and then he wrote her number on a piece of paper in case I needed to call her. Hopefully Susie could tell me why Brianna Berkelow had left Heathlands.