by Tara Moss
‘Darling, would you like something to eat?’ Suzie persisted.
He didn’t respond. She served him some soup anyway, and sat across from him at the table. She noticed that he had some tourist maps in front of him. There were areas circled in red felt pen. Ed picked up his spoon and ate his soup quietly. Not even a thank you! Not even a sorry for being gone all day!
Be reasonable, Suzie. Be patient.
Although Suzie knew that she had to make allowances for Ed, disappointment was seeping into her bones like acid. Her head was filling slowly with dark thoughts until she felt she could barely breathe. Ed was not giving her the love and attention she deserved. Suzie had freed him. She had taken leave from work, just as he’d suggested. She had taken almost all of her money out of her savings, just like he asked, and then charged two flights to her credit card that she couldn’t afford. And what about the house she had made for them, and what she had done to get it? She deserved something in return, dammit! She deserved his devotion.
I won’t let him leave me for this stupid girl, she thought. I’ve done all the work. She’s not going to have him.
‘Sweetheart, let’s do some sightseeing tomorrow,’ Suzie said. ‘Please?’ She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘There is so much I want to do with you.’
And if I have to get rid of her myself, so be it.
CHAPTER 51
The vast warehouse smelled of smoke and expensive perfume.
Damn this corset is tight…
Hong Kong socialites, film stars and fashionistas were crammed in side by side, their perfumes, personas and personal assistants fighting for dominance. The din of excited gossip was rivalled by a loud smoke machine to the side of the stage that sent pale clouds tumbling across the T-shaped runway, spilling into rows of media and VIPs waiting to view Ely Garner’s latest collection, EG.
It was Ely’s first major show since she’d severed the partnership of Nobelius Garner, and the PR machine had been in overdrive to secure her status as the winner in the fashion fight. The front row was armed with the necessary arsenal for media success—Leonardo DiCaprio sat next to Chloë Sevigny, with Lucy Liu nearby, a wisp of couture falling open to reveal an expanse of toned thigh. There was a slew of local starlets Mak did not recognise, but it was clearly a paparazzo’s wet dream. Flash bulbs and bleached teeth got a workout. The international names were no doubt wooed by personal friendship, if not the promise of clothing and front-row status. The locals were just lucky to be there.
Anyone not deemed important enough for the front row was bitching about who had been chosen over them. There was the usual sneering, leering and whispering. The models backstage jostled for a quick peek of anyone famous, their heavily made-up faces peering out from behind the curtains—all except Makedde’s. She’d already glanced at the celebrity royalty and was now busy begging one of the backstage hands to loosen the corset on her dress.
‘Pssst.’
This thing is killing me…
‘Psssssst!’
‘What is it?’ The woman finally turned around. She wore head-to-toe black, and a heavy belt weighed down with a crackling walkie-talkie. A neon-pink streak of hair fell over harsh, squinting eyes.
‘You speak English?’ Mak said, surprised.
‘What was your first clue?’ Attitude. Fair enough.
‘Could you do me a favour please and just loosen this corset a fraction?’ She spun around to reveal the tight lacing up the back of her leather dress. ‘It’s absolutely killing me. I feel faint.’
The woman looked at the dress. ‘Oh, I don’t think I should do that.’
‘Come on. I don’t want to pass out.’
‘Ely doesn’t let us touch anything. I really should call her over.’ She raised her hand and was about to shout.
‘No, don’t!’ Mak pulled the woman’s hand down, horrified. The last thing she wanted was to offend the designer who had seen fit to fly her all the way over. She probably wouldn’t have too many more of these jobs as it was. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s busy, so don’t bother. I guess it’s only for a few more minutes.’
But Makedde had already been waiting too many minutes. Her ribs had begun to ache, and she felt dangerously dizzy. This can’t be healthy. Sitting was always banned once models were dressed, and there were never any chairs backstage at fashion shows. Anyway, sitting down would probably make the boning in the corset buckle and pierce a rib, or at the very least cause some further repositioning of vital organs. Mak was stuck standing and panting.
‘If I pass out and die, can you make sure my body is sent back to Canada?’
‘What?’ The model behind her gave her a frown. Or perhaps the frown was permanent.
‘Never mind.’
Why is it against the rules to ever start a fashion show on time? Why?
The show was already thirty minutes late, now forty minutes, forty-five, fifty…Mak could feel the restlessness of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. She scanned the waiting line of models for the girls who were staying at the apartment with her. She didn’t see either of them, or maybe she didn’t recognise them under the make-up and hairpieces. Mak was up front, standing a not-so-close second in line behind the magnificent Brazilian supermodel Gisele—the star of the show and probably the main reason Leo DiCaprio was in the crowd. Her appearance would be costing Ely at least a cool $20 000 over Makedde’s humble fee. In modelling terms, Mak was eating Gisele’s dust.
‘I’m dying for a fag,’ someone said.
A petite man wearing artfully ripped jeans and a black T-shirt brushed past Mak to reach Gisele. He sprayed oil on her bare, bronzed flesh without saying a word. For her part she turned when he had finished her stomach and chest, so he could spray down her back and buttocks. Then he disappeared. Not a word was exchanged. Mak stayed well out of the way of the nozzle.
Finally, after what had seemed an eternity of shallow breathing, the grumpy woman with the walkie-talkie made her signal. Gisele, newly oiled, slinked gracefully into position, as ‘Get Me Off’ pumped through the powerful speaker system, drowning the din of the smoke machine, the chatter, the clicking of Manolo Blahniks on impatient feet. The lights came up on the stage, sending shafts of red through the smoke, and revealing Gisele positioned with her hands on her hips, clothed in a black leather bikini and impossibly high stilettos with straps that snaked all the way up to her knees. She waited for her cue, her lithe body firm and voluptuous, and when the first raw beats had come and gone and the chorus began, she strutted down the runway to the raunchy rhythm, every ounce of her considerable sex appeal aimed at the audience and cameras.
It was almost Makedde’s cue.
‘Go!’
Mak was shoved forward, barely recovering herself, striking a practised pose just before the spotlights found her. As a second act to Gisele, Mak felt that she would hardly be noticed, but the audience dutifully turned to watch her. Cameras flashed. She set her features in the mandatory mask of mild disdain, and made her way down the catwalk. On automatic pilot after years of shows, she placed her feet perfectly, jutting her hips forward, head held high. The corset was still too tight, but under the glare of the spotlight she didn’t feel a thing.
Then, at the end of the runway, a pale, ginger-haired man with a camera around his neck lunged forward, catching her eye, and Makedde’s organs fairly seized up.
Oh my God…Ed Brown!
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her legs went rubbery with terror, she felt like she couldn’t take another step…
On second glance it wasn’t Ed Brown at all. The man was merely a member of the overseas media contingent sent to cover the fashion show. He barely bore any resemblance to Ed, in fact. But it was too late, Ed had invaded her thoughts and she was rapidly spinning towards panic.
This is Hong Kong. Ed is not here. You are safe. Ed is not here, Mak repeated like a mantra in an effort to calm herself.
Ed Brown was still able to po
ison her thoughts, even now, so many miles away in a new and exotic country. Even on the job, he was there in her mind. It was as if she had never really escaped his clutches at all.
Makedde’s stilettoed feet continued to do their job with precision despite the inner demons that tormented her, threatening to overwhelm her. She glided back along the catwalk under an impenetrable veneer of poise, and the hundreds of eyes and camera lenses that studied and captured her every move were ignorant of the fear pulsing fiercely within.
CHAPTER 52
Thirteen…
As many in Wan Chai slept, and others partied with strangers and friends in discos and bars, Ed Brown was wide-awake and focused on his future in his solitary bedroom.
Neon signage glowed through the open window from the strip outside, filling the space with a feverish pink hue. The door was pulled shut, the Prison Lady asleep in the next bedroom. Ed was confident that she would not be able to hear his movements above the incessant street noise. He was confident that she would not attempt to bother him tonight. He had time to think, to plan.
Ed had his nose to the wooden floor. His feet were propped up on the bed, elevated half a metre above his head. His whole body strained with the effort of keeping braced and steady. His obliques twitched. His shoulders ached with lactic burn. Blood began to rush to his head. With a steady, slow effort, he pushed up with his arms and back down again.
Fourteen…
With a slightly strained exhalation, he executed another push-up. Up and down.
Fifteen…
It was good to have space to think. The Prison Lady agreed that it wasn’t proper for them to sleep in the same bed until they were married, but he knew she was growing impatient. She would expect a proper proposal soon. It mattered little. Soon he would have no further need of her.
Tomorrow Ed would stake out the model agency for Makedde again. He hoped for more success this time, but even if his prize did not appear, he probably had a few more days to find her before there was a risk that she would leave the country. And if she went to Canada he could follow her there too, with the help of the Prison Lady again under the guise of a happily married couple. He would follow her wherever she went until he had her. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He did not want to risk travelling through customs and immigration again, and he did not want the Prison Lady around for much longer, if he could avoid it. But most of all, Ed had waited so long—a whole year and a half since his moment with Makedde had been so rudely disrupted by Andy Flynn—and he didn’t want to wait any longer.
If by tomorrow afternoon he had still not found her, he would have to take further measures.
Eighteen…
Ed’s triceps began to shake, his shoulders tiring. A line of sweat ran from his forehead to his eyebrow.
Nineteen…
Once he knew his time frame for having Makedde, he would be much happier. The time frame dictated the amount of risk that would be involved in kidnapping her, and how long he had to suss out some good, quiet areas for his purpose in Hong Kong.
Twenty…
Much was still up in the air, but it had been an important day for Ed. He had successfully entered Hong Kong without interference or detection. He was out of the clutches of the idiot Australian police force. He had located Makedde’s model agency—it hadn’t been hard, he’d just phoned her Sydney agent, and familiarised himself with some of the areas she might frequent. Things were going well. If only he could think of some way to find out where she was staying. Who would be willing to tell him? What story would convince them?
Twenty-one…
Having finished his fifth set of twenty-one push-ups, Ed let himself down and turned over onto his back. Some things still bothered him, things he was still mulling over, searching for satisfactory conclusions. He knew it would be risky for him to return to Australia. That was unfortunate. In choosing a reunion with Makedde above all else, he had forsaken his homeland. And it would be close to impossible to get Makedde to travel back with him, no matter what means he used. He’d dreamed for so long of spending time with her there, in those familiar surroundings he had grown up with. He’d envisaged tying her up in his garage and keeping her for weeks. There he could do what he wanted—indulge in simple pleasures like walking around the block while she waited for him, bound and gagged; speaking to her, telling her his every secret and wish; closing the door and leaving her in the dark if he so pleased; feeding her by hand; touching her. And when the time was right, he would perform the final act of possession, and take from her the souvenirs he’d been robbed of before. Destiny demanded it. He had a set-up for her room planned out in his head, and in Sydney he knew where to get the things he needed—binds, metal trays, tools, equipment, sterile gauze, anaesthetic, formaldehyde. But those dreams could not come true now, not exactly the way he had imagined them. He was busy forming other ideas. He would adapt, now that everything had changed. He would spend time with her, just as he wanted, taking as long as he wished until he was satisfied. That part was certain. If that had to be in Hong Kong, then so be it. He would find a way.
And there was the issue of how it would be afterwards. It was hard to see beyond such a goal. Would he stay in Asia indefinitely? Take on a new life? He might never see his mother, or Australia, again. He had mixed feelings about that. And without Mother, what would he do for money?
Troubled, Ed scrambled to his feet, slipped his shoes on and collected his jacket. He cleaned his hands with some Clean Wipe tissues and pocketed a small packet of them for later. He slid twenty Hong Kong dollars into his pocket. The Prison Lady’s cash was fast running out.
It was time to trawl the bars on the strip, he decided. Perhaps he would find a way to get some money, or even better, perhaps tonight was the night he would find Makedde.
He opened his bedroom door cautiously, and finding the living room empty, ventured to the bathroom to splash water on his face and wash his hands—twice, three times—before going out.
Can you feel me, Mak? Can you feel me coming?
Put your stilettos on for me.
It is our destiny.
CHAPTER 53
‘Hey, what’s your name? Ummm, Macayly right?’
Makedde looked up from her menu at Gabby, the abrasive English model from her apartment. Sitting hunched in her chair in a silk singlet with her bony shoulders jutting out and dark make-up smudged around her feline eyes, she looked even more rail thin than she had the night before. When Gabby stood she looked as if her body had been stretched.
‘It’s pronounced Mak-kay-dee, actually,’ Mak told her. ‘But you can call me Mak.’
After the Ely Garner show, the American girl, Jen, had invited Mak to join her and some other models for a late dinner at a restaurant called Che’s. There were eight models in all, dressed in the usual uniform of fashionably sloppy jeans and skimpy tops.
‘Mak. Right,’ Gabby huffed in response, as if she didn’t care what the name was and would no doubt mispronounce it again.
Jen, seated to the left of Gabby, beamed at Mak. She and Gabby were chalk and cheese. Jen was fresh-faced with a cheerful Midwest accent, as wholesome as freshly cut hay and apple pie. She hadn’t been around the apartment much since Mak arrived, but Mak already liked her. Gabby, on the other hand, was a pouting drama queen for whom a smouldering cigarette and unwelcoming attitude seemed permanent attachments.
‘Red or white,’ Gabby asked—or snarled. It was hard to tell.
‘Red thanks.’
‘Everyone else? Red, yes?’ She called the waiter over. ‘We’d like two bottles of your Canonbah Bridge shiraz.’
The waiter nodded and scurried away.
‘So is this a regular hang-out for you guys?’ Mak asked Jen. She felt it was better to address the friendlier of the two models she knew. She’d hardly caught the names of the others. ‘I have to admit that I thought immediately of Cuban food when you said “Che’s”.’
Jen looked blank.
‘Because
of Che Guevara,’ Mak explained.
‘No, this is a Chinese restaurant,’ Jen replied, still not registering. ‘It’s owned by one of the local movie stars! We hope he’ll come in later,’ she gushed excitedly.
The fact that the restaurant was traditional Cantonese had not escaped Mak’s attention. It was hard to miss the tanks of fish and the opulent gilded décor. There were even jars of mysterious dried substances in cases along one wall.
‘That would be so great if he shows up!’ Jen blurted, evidently still thinking of her movie star.
Gabby nodded vaguely, not interested enough to speak on the matter of Hong Kong movie stars or the Cuban revolution. Mak wondered just how old—or young—Jen was. She went back to studying her menu. She quickly realised that deciphering the items on offer would be a challenge. This was not exactly Ming’s on Quadra Street.
‘Um, can anyone tell me what Double-boiled Sweet Superior Bird’s Nest is?’ she asked. There was laughter from those on her side of the table.
‘It’s bird spit,’ the model beside her said in a disturbingly familiar Australian accent. He leaned forward and grinned at her mischievously. He was a deeply tanned bloke with unkempt hair, a ripped $300 T-shirt and Tsubi jeans—the advertising industry’s version of a Bondi surfer. His name was Shawn.
‘Bird spit,’ Mak replied flatly. She raised an eyebrow and waited for the joke.
‘I’m not shitting you. It’s bird spit. A delicacy.’