by Carla Caruso
Standing in the middle of the room, Natalia smiled, a liberal dose of fake tan making her seem even browner than ever. ‘Wow, things are looking great already in here. So organised. Well done, guys.’
‘Well, there are still quite a few things to do and some storage systems to buy. Much of today was actually spent sorting items—’ Celeste began.
Natalia put up her hand. ‘As I said before, don’t worry me too much with the details, just bill me. Please. I just wanted to check you were going all right and didn’t have any questions.’
‘Well, okay, sure. And, of course, I’ll walk you through everything when it’s finished. Um, one thing we made real headway with was organising the paperwork, but there were a few items I wasn’t sure where to file.’ Celeste shuffled through some sheets on the whitewashed desk, which was looking a tonne sparser. ‘Uh, like this quinoa, cacao and vanilla bean pudding recipe. I was uncertain where that fit exactly.’
A dent formed between Natalia’s eyebrows, then just as quickly vanished. ‘Oh, you mean “keen-wah”, “kuh-kow” and vanilla bean?’
‘I do?’
‘Yeah.’ Natalia reached for the bit of paper. ‘You don’t pronounce those ingredients phonetically. And the recipe’s for a healthy food product range I’m working on.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I’ll put it with “new products” then.’ Natalia handed her the sheet back. Celeste reached for a fluoro orange paperbag next. ‘There was this also gift bag from an Arlene Minson speaking event in Kalgoorlie several years back in a random box.’ Arlene Minson was like the godmother of the health and wellness movement, so Celeste gathered it was worth travelling to an outback mining town to see her in Natalia’s eyes. ‘I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to keep it,’ she pushed on.
With suddenness, Natalia reached forward, snatching the bag from Celeste’s hand faster than Celeste could attempt saying ‘quinoa’ and ‘cacao’ again. ‘I can get rid of that one. No problems.’
‘Okay … sure.’ Hmm. Maybe Natalia and Arlene had some sort of interesting history? Unfortunately, as Natalia’s client, it wasn’t Celeste’s place to ask. ‘Well, there was just one more thing for the moment …’ Celeste moved around to the other side of the desk and rattled the handle on the bottom drawer. ‘Uh, I couldn’t find the key for this one.’
Eyes widening, the fitness guru suddenly sprinted forwards, launching herself across the desk. Half a stack of paper fluttered onto the carpet. ‘Don’t. Open. That!’
‘Oh, that’s cool.’ Celeste backed away, hands up in the air. ‘I can leave it locked.’ Flip, in a far corner, could be heard attempting to disguise a giggle with a cough.
Natalia peeled herself off the desk, straightening her clothes again. A grin was refixed on her face. As though the Swan Lake-worthy dive hadn’t even happened. Celeste could barely believe it. ‘Well, looks like you’ve made a good start on things,’ Natalia chirruped. ‘See you back here same time tomorrow?’
Amazing.
‘Uh, yep, same time,’ Celeste mumbled as Natalia spun from the room.
What a head-spinner. Celebrities! Still, it was a good lesson in client relationships. To go easy, be discreet, when dealing with their personal possessions. Naturally, there would be some things they preferred to stay hidden, even if they’d invited her to paw through their stuff. As anyone would have things they’d rather conceal. At least the fitness guru had seemed pleased with Celeste’s work overall. Even so, Celeste was still shaking her head to herself as she headed down the drive moments later.
A flutter of something ran through her stomach when she noticed that Lenny’s ute wasn’t parked at the end. Not disappointment surely? Relief, more like it. He must have had an early one. Flip had high-tailed it ASAP, too, citing a nail emergency or some such. Typical.
Celeste cut across the grassy verge, decorated with fallen jacaranda flowers like purple-blue confetti, and stepped out onto the quiet, narrow strip of road. Palatial homes built like fortresses peered down at her from behind neatly clipped hedges. That was bar the row of red-brick retirement village units across the way, which were more like gatehouses in comparison. As distinct as the night-clubbers from Kings Cross and the yuppies from Potts Point. Thinking of night-spots, Celeste briefly wondered how someone like Lenny might spend an evening. What kind of company might he entertain? Female undoubtedly. And she could imagine the type—
The squeal of brakes to her left made her heart jolt in her chest and her whole body tense up. Somehow finding her breath again, she turned to discover a white Audi convertible mere millimetres from her, its daytime running lights glaring menacingly in her eyes. She hadn’t even heard the car coming. Punishment perhaps for letting her mind meander to all things Lenny.
‘Celeste Pretty! Trust you not to be looking where you’re going,’ an affected inner-southern suburbs voice rang out from behind the windscreen. Its owner was the type who came out of the womb speaking in such a tone.
Celeste felt her innards shrivel. She should have recognised the convertible straightaway. Known her luck. Peering over black cat-eye sunglasses at Celeste was her former interior design boss, Imogen Karmel. Although the same age as Celeste — twenty-nine — she always managed to make Celeste feel like an A-grade klutz. And a total imbecile, worthy only of being one of her minions.
Before working for Imogen, Celeste had worked as a colour consultant for a home builder company, and before that, managing a kikki.K store. Which she’d loved. Being under Imogen’s tutelage — and thumb — had been another push for Celeste to branch out on her own. One good thing about working for Imogen, though, had been being introduced to Astonvale and the type of premium clients who might be willing one day to pay for Celeste’s services.
‘Oh, Imogen, hi,’ Celeste stuttered. ‘What are the chances?’
‘My thoughts exactly. What are you doing in this part of the neighbourhood?’ As though, just by being there, Celeste was tainting one of Astonvale’s ritziest streets.
‘Er, I was just out doing some work for a client.’
Imogen’s hazel eyes flicked to the right, her dark blonde hair and golden tan shimmering in the late afternoon sun. The interior designer epitomised all the elite-educated schoolgirls Celeste used to see at the bus each morning as a kid — and desperately envied.
‘Is that Natalia Samphire’s new place you just came from? I read about her move in the paper! You’re working for her?’ As though Imogen couldn’t quite believe it.
Celeste held her head high, feeling strangely smug in her old boss’s presence for once. ‘Yes … yes, I am, in fact.’
‘Wow.’ Imogen sat back in her leather-upholstered seat, as though winded. ‘What a score. Especially when you’ve just started out in the biz. Well done, you.’ Celeste felt like punching the air. It was a moment to savour. Suddenly, Imogen leant forwards, tapping her chin. ‘You know, if Natalia’s tidying up her new abode, she might also need some interior design work done.’ Her voice was pure syrup now. ‘Maybe you could even ask her for me? Oh gosh, it’d be almost like we were working together again. Wouldn’t that be a blast?’
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why the heck had she said anything about coming from work with a client? Why oh why had she shown off? Celeste knew Imogen only acted as sweet as stevia when she needed information, while always being super-cagey about her own work. Imogen’s other claim to fame was once being a contestant on The Bachelor, and she didn’t get to the top three by playing nice.
‘Uh, I guess I could ask her …’ Celeste responded weakly, though there was no way she was asking Natalia any such thing. She’d have to lie to Imogen the next time she ran into her at the local provedore and try not to go red in the face.
Another scary thought hit Celeste: maybe she should have had Natalia sign a contract before she started work. Because if anything was going to jinx things, it was blabbing all and sundry to her former boss. Quadruple stupid.
Imogen revved her Audi’s engine. ‘Well, I’
d better fly.’ Obviously Celeste was no longer useful now that Imogen had gotten the dirt she needed. The interior designer waved a hand encased in a white, gold-studded, fingerless glove — Imogen always considered herself to be on the cutting-edge of fashion. ‘I’ll see you around. Soon, I hope. Later.’
Imogen barely waited for Celeste to get out of the way before stepping on the accelerator, almost flattening Celeste again. An old man, reading a paper on his porch across from Natalia’s, nodded at Celeste as she headed to her Astra. She’d parked her fun-sized car a little way down the street, so no one would realise it was hers. There was nothing wrong with Astras per se, just she’d picked a lemon — which explained the bargain price she’d got it for secondhand. Tentatively, she called out hello to the man. Maybe it was her generation, but she was always a bit shy about greeting strangers in the street.
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ the man called back in heavily accented English. He sounded Italian possibly, and was a good decade or two older than her dad, with silvery hair contrasting with thick, black eyebrows.
Celeste, who didn’t have any living grandparents, suddenly felt compelled to stop, even though she had some household chores to tick off before she left for Betty-Lou’s that night. Cautiously, she rested a hand on the front gate. ‘It sure is.’
The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘In the village where I am from, I could see the sea from my bedroom window as a boy, and it was the same sort of blue as-a the sky today. The very same.’
‘How lovely. And it is very blue.’
The old man bent forwards on his bench, revealing reddened eyelid rims. From age or booze, she couldn’t tell. In a second, his expression had changed from nostalgic to serious. ‘You know-a the lady over there? The one who’s-a new to the street?’
Celeste turned towards the mansion before refocusing on the old man. ‘Natalia Samphire? Uh, yes. I know her. I’m doing some work for her. I’m a professional organiser.’
There she went again, telling the world what she was up to. Maybe she should just hand over whatever money she made, too. Not that the old man looked the type to steal her clients.
He lowered his voice to such a level she almost didn’t hear him. ‘She’s crook.’
‘Sorry?’
She must have misheard him.
‘She’s crook,’ he repeated, his eyes suddenly hard. A flapping noise sounded to the left, fanning Celeste’s face, and they both turned towards his lime-green square of lawn. Like Melbourne’s four-seasons-in-one-day, the old man’s expression had changed again. His eyes had crinkled at the sides and his tone was soft.
‘Ah, my pigeons are back. I feed-a them every day. I must go and get-a them some bread.’ He heaved himself from the bench, almost as though he’d forgotten Celeste was there.
‘Sure … nice meeting you,’ Celeste mumbled, hurrying back along the footpath, her head down.
What did the old man mean Natalia was ‘crook’? Did he mean ‘sick’ crook, or … or ‘criminal’ crook? If he’d even gotten the translation right.
Hang on a second, why was she even pondering it? It was obvious the old guy’s brain wasn’t what it used to be. She was just rattled because she’d almost been mowed down by her former boss. She was reading into things, that was all.
4.
‘Do you always have to be so annoyingly on time?’ Betty-Lou teased, holding open her turquoise-painted front door for Celeste. ‘The cheesecake hasn’t even set yet.’ Her friend had a yellow flower from the rose arbour over her gate clipped to one side of her dark tresses.
‘I nearly wasn’t on time,’ Celeste bemoaned, following Betty-Lou inside her cottage, which purely coincidental was on the artsy outskirts of Astonvale. Betty-Lou had been taken by the cottage’s quaintness and bargain price rather than the postcode, unlike Celeste.
She pushed on. ‘Somehow I traipsed jacaranda flowers all over my cream carpet and had to vacuum, along with other housework I still had to do. Then the automatic cat repellent spray I set up to keep Custard from climbing onto my bed went off when I walked in the room, scaring me half to death, and I had to have a quick lie-down to get my heart-rate back to normal.’
‘Serves you right for trying to do the dirty on the poor thing!’
Celeste rolled her eyes, shadowing her friend down the narrow hallway. ‘Custard isn’t a poor anything. He rules the roost. And I hate having fur stuck to my doona more than anything.’ Betty-Lou swung into the kitchen. ‘Cute cardi, by the way.’
It was red with white spots, and Betty-Lou had teamed it with a pleated, over-the-knee, floral skirt. Naturally. Her friend turned back with a grin. ‘I rediscovered it at the back of my wardrobe. That’s what happens when you don’t do clean-outs every season! Much more fun than actually shopping. Hey, if we chucked everything away, there’d be no antiques.’
‘Well, my motto really is: don’t buy it in the first place if you don’t love it,’ Celeste replied smoothly. ‘But I’m glad you bought that cardi.’
Heading for the rustic wood kitchen island, Betty-Lou extended a cocktail glass containing a milky liquid, with a lemon slice and sugar granules decorating its rim. ‘Well, we may as well get stuck into the cocktails. Unlike you, it’s a given Araminta will be late.’
‘I’ll just have one,’ Celeste warned, accepting the glass and settling on a cushioned leather barstool. Looking up, she admired the rainbow of paper lanterns Betty-Lou had strung above the kitchen cabinetry.
Sometimes Celeste wished she could be as girly and fun with her décor as Betty-Lou, but minimalism just came more naturally. Hence why it had been her signature look in interior design and why beige featured so prominently in her modern, rendered, semi-detached abode. Whenever she tried to be eclectic, cute, it just looked forced.
Suddenly, her ears pricked up. The assured voice of a fitness instructor, offset against hip-hop music, could be heard on the TV in the background. Spinning around on her stool, Celeste’s gaze fixed on the screen through the archway in the lounge. Natalia Samphire, looking larger than life, occupied the screen, bending and stretching in a retro-cool leotard-over-leggings ensemble.
Celeste pulled a face at Betty-Lou. ‘Very funny putting that on. Like I don’t get enough Ballet-Tastic at work!’ She took a slug of her cocktail, which really did taste like lemon cheesecake. And could prove quite lethal as the night wore on, if she were the type to let herself get carried away.
Betty-Lou leant her elbows on the other side of the kitchen island and smiled. ‘I borrowed it from the library when I was doing some browsing there. It’s meant to be some new workout video of Natalia’s. I thought it suited the occasion. Although surely her kind of flexibility is unnecessary … Hey, I’ve got an idea! We should film a parody YouTube version of the DVD later on, once we’ve got a few more cocktails under our belt.’
‘Not on your life,’ Celeste shot back. She dared another look into the lounge, her forehead suddenly crinkling. ‘Why have you only got one pink curtain up, by the way?’
Betty-Lou unleashed a loaded sigh. ‘Because I didn’t realise there’d only be one in the packet when I went curtain shopping at a certain discount department store I won’t name. It’s like having to pay for a bikini top and the briefs separately. Ridiculous. When everything else in the world is bloody built around pairs. Such a scam.’ It was Betty-Lou’s turn to slug her cocktail. It seemed to help soften her expression. ‘But enough about curtains, how’s it really going at work on your first day? You surviving? Must be quite stressful, answering to such a big client. Is young Flip being much help?’
Celeste pulled another face. ‘Barely. Well, I guess she improved a little over the course of the day. And Natalia herself is nice enough — when she’s there. She tends to flit in and out, being as busy and important as she is—’ In that moment, she decided not to tell Betty-Lou about the nudity and the neighbour calling Natalia a crook. Even if Betty-Lou was her very best friend. Client confidentiality was a principle she aimed to adhere to. Fo
r the most part.
Celeste continued on: ‘To be honest, I’ve seen more of Natalia’s gloomy assistant, Minka, the cleaners, and … and the builder currently renovating the place.’
Betty-Lou’s gaze narrowed over the rim of her cocktail glass. ‘Hang on a second. Something funny happened with your eyes when you mentioned the builder.’ She peered closer at Celeste, as though inspecting a bug under a magnifying glass. ‘I get the feeling this builder’s not old and crusty. Have you got a crush?’
‘No,’ Celeste retorted, the tips of her ears defying her by turning pink. ‘I’m seeing Mitchell. Don’t be ridiculous.’
A snort of exasperation erupted from Betty-Lou, causing droplets of cocktail to splatter on the bench. ‘I wish you weren’t. You can tell a mile off when a male was breastfed too long. Mitchell is more committed to his stupid tennis racquet than any kind of relationship. Please — I’d rather hear about the builder. His name, bicep size, Twitter user-name. No holding back.’
Celeste tipped her head to one side warningly. ‘Don’t be cruel about Mitchell.’
‘Why not? He deserves it.’
‘You’re cruel.’
Of course, Betty-Lou had never been too kind about Mitchell. Considered him dull, conceited. Just because he had tennis trophies on a shelf above his bed — which Celeste should never have told Betty-Lou about — and the only dates he suggested involved staying in, watching tennis movies. Okay, some things about Mitchell did irritate. But Celeste figured that was normal. It wasn’t possible to like every single thing about the person you dated, was it?
And, despite his flaws, she couldn’t help finding Mitchell’s preppy vibe appealing. A shrink might say it was because his type hadn’t been attracted to her as a girl, so she was making up for it now. His family were behind the famous Craven biscuit brand and wanted for nothing. In contrast, her family unit had had to tighten its belt — almost until they couldn’t breathe — once her mum’s health bills soared and both parents had had to have time off work.