by Carla Caruso
‘You were relying on me?’ he lobbed back. ‘I fall asleep at the drop of a hat — I do physical labour for a living.’
‘And I don’t?’
She had him there. He unclipped his seatbelt. ‘I guess we’d better go check on things.’
Celeste sat back, furiously wheeling her seat upright again. ‘I’m not going out there. This was your stupid idea.’
‘You keep finding suspicious notes, so you’re just as much to blame,’ Lenny countered, but reached for the door handle anyway. He wouldn’t have sent her out there; it hadn’t been what he’d meant.
‘Wait, take this! I have a torch app on my phone.’
He took the sleek phone she handed him, although there was some dim park lighting near the gym equipment anyway. Outside, the air was cool and moist. The chain-link gate creaked in protest when he pushed on it and the grass squelched under his leather shoes. Wisps of clouds clung to the waning moon and a not-so-obedient dog howled in the distance. He headed for the outdoor fitness station, which included rowing machines and the like.
A few feet away, he stopped. He didn’t need to direct the phone’s beam of light ahead to see a red rubber tile from the mat had been lifted. Either the culprit had been arrogantly careless or in a hurry. Edging closer, he knelt down and shone the torchlight at the soil beneath. There was a small hollow and scratch marks in the dirt as though something had been removed from its hiding place — like a wad of money, encased in plastic. Who knew what the stakes were up to now? It was a long walk back to his Commodore. He had to get Celeste, ever paranoid, to unlock the doors before he could slide back in.
‘Was there anything there still?’ she pressed, her eyes huge.
Lenny shook his head solemnly, his hands on the steering wheel and his gaze ahead. ‘Nope, a tile was lifted and any cash was gone.’
‘So what do we now?’
Lenny started the engine. ‘Go home.’
‘What if … what if someone was watching you check the hiding spot? Watching us?’
‘I doubt it. By the way the tile had been thrown aside, it looked as though whoever it was grabbed the money and ran. They weren’t sticking around.’
Celeste bit her lip. ‘And what about work tomorrow?’
He shrugged. ‘We just act as normal. What else can we do? There’s no reason not to turn up.’
Celeste nodded, slouching down in her seat. ‘I guess you’re right.’
21.
‘I hope you don’t mind me wearing this,’ Betty-Lou exclaimed at Celeste, twirling on the spot in her retro top. ‘I promise I did hand over all the other things you gave me for the playgroup quilt project. I just fell in love with this one and thought it might suit the theme, even if it’s not exactly ’seventies!’
They were on the footpath about to go into a launch party at a furniture store that Celeste had been invited to, party noise and colourful light spilling outside. The inspiration for the shop’s décor, according to the invite, was ’seventies-style New York.
Betty-Lou, as Celeste’s plus-one, had been patiently waiting outside as she rushed from work. It had been a late one for Celeste, as she’d put the final touches to Natalia’s home gym that day, sending Flip home a little earlier — she didn’t have the funds to pay her for overtime, too. Still, as a pair they were getting quicker. Next they’d be moving on to organising Natalia’s office at her new studio. After that, Celeste wasn’t sure if she would be needed back at the mansion. She hadn’t been able to pin Natalia down long enough to find out. But there was a sense that things were coming to an end with the project. Which was an odd thought after everything.
That day, everything had seemed normal at the mansion, apart from Natalia having faint shadows under her eyes when Celeste had seen her. Then again, Celeste had a matching pair of her own after the night she’d had — tossing and turning at home after her and Lenny’s little car escapade. The blackmail issue aside, she was also stressed about her uncertain future. Aside from the booking for the client with the dance-fitness room, no other quotes had come to anything as yet. And there was also the little matter of no longer working within proximity to Lenny, which she wasn’t sure how she felt about.
Celeste directed her gaze back up to her friend’s face. ‘It looks perfect on you. I don’t mind at all.’
Betty-Lou was wearing Celeste’s mum’s old silk scarf poncho top in olive-green with a tan belt and black dress. She was glad the trunk’s contents had been put to good use, but she had kept back a bunch of her mum’s lace doilies which she would mount on canvas as wall art, and she planned to slide the vintage trunk itself into the hallway. Hey, there was no harm in a few eclectic pieces livening up the minimalism — her home wasn’t a mausoleum, after all.
Betty-Lou eyed Celeste’s usual uniform of shirt and jeans. ‘Unfortunately, I think you got the wrong era for the party theme tonight. Melanie Griffith’s Working Girl is strictly ’eighties.’
Celeste looked down, tugging at her shirt’s hem. ‘I was in a hurry. Besides, I didn’t think anyone would really wear the dress code unless they were, you know, part of the shop-owner’s inner circle.’
From what she could see the dress code that night had turned out more ‘Studio 54 sizzle’. But, hey, she’d put on some lip-gloss and heels and changed into a spare shirt she’d had hanging up in her Astra. What more did people want?
Betty-Lou shrugged. ‘Well, I just thought it would be fun to. I don’t get invited to as many posh shin-digs as you, you know. Scratch that: I don’t get invited to any. In my line of work, it’s all under-five parties and Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’
‘Your soirées are probably more entertaining.’
Celeste had the feeling she’d only been invited this time because her name had been linked with Natalia’s in the local press recently. Making her a Z-list celebrity for all of five minutes. Flip, as her assistant, had also scored an invite, though who knew if she would actually turn up or get side-tracked by some totally ironic internet show.
They headed indoors, which was decked out like a Manhattan discothèque and crammed with people, furniture and pop art. Many of the guests resembled the cast from The Real Housewives of Melbourne — rich, over-the-top and possibly a little plastic. And, unlike Celeste, they were all dressed up in ’seventies garb, with fluffy hair, overdone makeup and sparkly accessories. Celeste felt a bit like the reverse of Bridget Jones wearing a bunny costume to the ‘tarts and vicars’ party which had had its theme cancelled.
She swiped a drink from a passing waiter’s tray and took a swig. Almost spitting it out again, she turned to Betty-Lou. ‘Gosh, what do you reckon this is? It tastes like vinegar!’
Unfortunately, the wafer-thin waiter with said tray was still hovering near Celeste’s elbow. ‘It’s kombucha, a fermented tea,’ he snipped. ‘Great for digesting and detoxing.’
‘Oh … thanks,’ Celeste murmured, although she’d had about as much health and wellness gear as she could stomach lately.
Another waitress offered a tray of what she described as raw salted caramel almond cake, and Betty-Lou helped herself to a slice.
‘The music’s good,’ Betty-Lou told Celeste once the waitress had moved on. The Bee Gees’ ‘You Should Be Dancing’ was playing in the background. ‘I’ve had a song from a musical drum-kit at the toy library stuck in my head for days. At least tonight should fix it.’ She swallowed a mouthful of cake. ‘Oh, gosh, not the best. I wonder who’s behind the catering? Maybe they think everyone around here will be too busy swiping their credit cards and watching their figures to eat.’
‘Maybe,’ Celeste murmured. The fare seemed more modern-day LA than ’seventies New York. Still, after discarding the kombucha, she gave into an avocado chocolate mousse. It was that or the Lean Cuisine waiting at home.
Turning to the right, Celeste found herself locking gazes with a dead-ringer for Foxxy Cleopatra from Austin Powers: Goldmember. The lookalike sported a gargantuan Afro, tan leather vest and gold micro
shorts — dressed to kill in other words — making Celeste feel decidedly plain in comparison. The woman’s arm candy looked more familiar: the store’s camp, pixie-like furniture designer who went only by his first name, Caspian. Hang on a sec. Foxxy was waving at Celeste, for some reason, and heading her way.
‘Celeste, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.’
The voice beneath the dark blonde Afro was unmistakably that of Imogen Karmel. Darn, the dim lighting had put her off the scent. Could Celeste not go to a design-related party without running into her old boss? Knowing her luck, Lenny would be next. Not that that would be as bad.
‘Yes … yes, we really must stop,’ Celeste mumbled, meaning it.
‘Have you met my friend, Caspian?’ Imogen pushed on. ‘Of course, his PR agency put together the invite list, so he can’t know everyone here personally.’ Meaning Celeste. ‘But he and I go way back. I’ve used his furniture for many a high-profile client before.’
Celeste extended her free hand to Caspian, who actually looked a lot like Rod Stewart — and not seemingly on purpose. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Celeste Pretty. I run a professional organising business called POPink.’
Caspian’s handshake was soft, matching his voice. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you. You’re doing some work for Natalia Samphire, correct?’
Celeste nodded. ‘Yes, that’d be me.’ Hey, the cat was out of the bag now.
Caspian arched an eyebrow. ‘Very impressive.’
Take that, Ms Karmel.
Celeste was about to introduce Betty-Lou when Imogen suddenly shrieked, pointing at a psychedelic-print lounge chair nearby. ‘Oh my gosh, that chair is to die for, Caspian. To die for!’ She turned to Celeste. ‘Doesn’t that design just blow your hair right back? It’s unbelievable.’
‘Yeah, it’s … amazing,’ Celeste offered feebly. She’d never been good at being descriptive in such areas — another sign she probably wasn’t cut out for the design world. Then again, she also thought the pink-and-orange chair was rather ugly.
Caspian didn’t seem to notice Celeste’s excuse for a reaction, lost at staring at the chair as fondly as one might a child. ‘You know, I’ve often thought how similar design is to being a detective. Detectives follow evidence and designers follow ideas. That’s how we both come to satisfying conclusions.’
Actually, working for Natalia, Celeste felt like she was attempting both jobs right then, but she kept her mouth firmly shut on the matter, instead saying, ‘It’s similar with professional organising. It’s like a game of connect-the-dots, ensuring everything is laid out well, easy to access and yet still aesthetic.’
‘Indeed.’ Caspian’s hazel eyes flicked Betty-Lou’s way next. ‘And you are?’ he asked rather rudely, as though noticing her for the first time.
‘Nobody,’ Betty-Lou mumbled, looking at the toes of her red suede heels.
Celeste nudged Betty-Lou in the ribs, standing tall. ‘Now, don’t be shy, Betty-Lou. She’s actually a cake-making extraordinaire. Her desserts are works of art. They have to be seen to be believed.’
Maybe she wasn’t so bad at pulling words out of her derrière on occasion.
‘Really?’ Caspian actually looked impressed. ‘A food designer. So whimsical.’
Celeste wasn’t sure if she’d describe it like that, but who was she to argue?
‘Speaking of food,’ Imogen cut in, ‘I’ve been wanting to try that mousse, but didn’t want to take a whole one for myself.’ Naturally, insinuating Celeste was a pig. ‘Mind if I try some of yours?’
Celeste wasn’t sure why Imogen bothered to even ask as she always took what she wanted anyway. And that evening was no different. Not waiting for a response from Celeste, she swiped the spoon from her little glass bowl, took a mouthful, and dumped the utensil back with a clink. Like Celeste could eat the rest of it now. Hello, germs.
‘Fabulous — worth the wait,’ Imogen commented, dabbing the side of her mouth. ‘Any-hoo, I’d better keep the star of the party mingling. Can’t just stand here chatting all night.’ She moved to trot away with Caspian in tow, but then stopped. Darn. ‘Oh, but before I forget, Celeste, can I sign you up to the new fun run for charity this Saturday? It’s after tennis and called the Pink Run. It’s just a short course of five kilometres and it’s going to be an annual thing. I’m on the founding committee. The who’s who of the property world will be there.’
‘Um …’
‘C’mon, Celeste, it’s for charity,’ Imogen urged, as though she had any sense of such a thing.
Well, Celeste supposed she would have to do some kind of fitness now she’d taken a break from tennis — the latter of which Imogen didn’t need to know about yet. And she should really network more if she wanted to attract new business, much as she hated doing it. Even if the person asking her to participate was the dreadful Imogen.
‘Okay, I guess you can put my name down.’
Surely running couldn’t be that much different from power-walking?
‘Excellent,’ Imogen trilled. ‘I’ll email you the details.’ Celeste almost expected Imogen to click her fingers like Foxxy Cleopatra as she made her exit, but sadly she didn’t.
Betty-Lou shot Celeste a look. ‘I’m not going to be your plus-one at that event. That woman’s horrible.’
‘Don’t worry. I don’t really know how I got talked into it either. Should we go find ourselves a ridiculous drink to wash the bad taste out of our mouths?’
‘Let’s.’
At the temporary bar, Celeste lined up behind a tall brunette in a tight red tee and purple leather pants, whose snugly-encased rear end seemed to be attracting the stares of the few males in the place. Finally, the brunette turned around, wielding a Manhattan cocktail, garnished with an orange peel and cherry. Celeste’s mouth fell open as her gaze lifted beyond the brunette’s pushed-up breasts to her face. Leaning forward, she grabbed the guest by the wrist.
‘Flip, we really need to talk about your work attire. This is still a business function. What would Dolores say?’
Celeste didn’t care what the likes of Imogen Karmel might wear — Flip was too young and Celeste was responsible for her even being there.
Flip just laughed, shaking off Celeste’s hand. ‘Dolores lent me the pants!’ Which figured, really. ‘Besides, it’s a party and I’m in costume, like they asked — unlike you.’ The brunette shook out her hair. ‘Plus, I know my figure won’t be like this forever, so I don’t want any regrets later about not flaunting it while I’ve got it.’
The girl certainly had confidence. Celeste narrowed her gaze. ‘And which ’seventies starlet are you exactly meant to be?’
‘Mila Kunis in That ’70s Show.’
Flip’s sense of history obviously didn’t extend back very far. The brunette said a quick hello to Betty-Lou, then zeroed in on Celeste again, darting pretend looks over her shoulder. ‘So where’s Lenny, huh? I’ve noticed you two have a bit of a vibe going on.’
‘We do not,’ Celeste shot back. She didn’t want to admit she’d kind of been looking for him herself. Oh dear. Betty-Lou was hovering closer, her ears seeming to have pricked up. Diversion was Celeste’s best tactic. ‘You’re just paranoid, Flip, because you have a thing for Lenny yourself.’
Flip sniffed. ‘It’s true I don’t mind older men, but I’ve decided he and I wouldn’t be a match. I’d feel too much like Jennifer Lopez in Out of Sight being alongside him all the time. You’re welcome to him.’
The twenty-something clearly wasn’t used to men not melting at her feet the instant they met her.
‘I’m happy being single at the moment,’ Celeste replied, and as she uttered the words realised she actually was. Like uncluttering a room, it had freed up her brain space for sorting out her own … stuff. Lenny’s biceps and cleft chin were just a diversion from facing up to her own life. Betty-Lou went to order their drinks while Celeste hung back with Flip.
‘So …’ Flip fiddled with her maraschino cherry. ‘I gather you know w
ho’s no longer single.’
So she did know, too.
Celeste’s mouth twisted. ‘My dad and your grandma.’
Flip nodded before popping the cherry in her mouth and chewing. ‘Weird, huh? It means we’re almost like sisters. Maybe we’ll even be bridesmaids together one day.’
Perish the thought.
‘I don’t know about that …’
‘Well, they make a cute couple. Anyway, I’d better keep circulating while I’m still on the clock.’
‘On the—?’ Celeste began to choke, but Flip was already moving forward, slipping something small and cardboard-like from her pocket into Celeste’s hand.
She winked. ‘I should have a few more of these by the end of the night.’
Celeste unfolded her fingers, looking down at her palm, painted red in the dim disco lighting. Business cards. For a brief moment, Celeste couldn’t help feeling a little proud.
Across town, Lenny downed another well-earned cider at his local watering hole, just down the hill. The pub, which barely had room to swing a cat, still had a sense of history about it, which Lenny liked. There were no pokie machines or iPad menus. The place looked like it had the same exposed stone walls and timber bar-top as it had one-hundred-and-seventy-odd years ago.
Occasionally Lenny went there alone to unwind after a hard day, whenever he’d tired of his front deck, just to have a few quiet moments to himself. And he’d certainly had a rough time of it lately, what with things being up in the air with his major client and things going to seed with Celeste, whom he should never have tango-ed with in the first place. Usually he lived by the adage ‘don’t get your honey where you get your money’. But he’d slipped up. Badly.
‘Another cider?’
It was the new barmaid with the green eyes and generously-sized chest, who had her fiery red hair pulled back into a ponytail. Terina she’d said her name was. She’d been trying to flirt with him for the past half-hour. As flattering as it was, though, he wasn’t really in the mood.