by Claire McNab
"Like, I have my career to think about. Larry-my-agent says it's essential to be seen with the right people in the right places, and most vital of all—"
I never found out what this most vital thing was, because at this point the front door was flung open and a skeletal woman, accompanied by two unleashed standard poodles, one black and one white, strode in. She gestured with a hand weighed down by many rings, and the poodles obediently sat, one on either side of her.
The woman was, to say the least, an arresting figure. Her face was dead white, her lipstick brilliant red, her short hair midnight black. She had on a tight purple Spandex top and what I took to be a version of a brightly colored gypsy skirt, with many ruffles. On her feet were strappy purple sandals. Most notable of all, around her neck was a jeweled collar which exactly matched the jeweled collars her poodles wore.
"My man, Lonnie," she said in a surprisingly soft, sweet voice, "where is he?"
Melodie didn't miss a beat. "Lonnie stepped out for a moment. He'll be back soon." Flashing a dazzling smile with her perfect dental equipment, she added, "You must be Pauline Feeney of Glowing Bodies."
She nodded, then fixed Melodie with an intent gaze. "I never forget a face. I've seen you on the small screen. Refulgent Toothpaste, wasn't it?"
This was Melodie's great success story, and so far the only commercial in which she'd appeared. Melodie's smile grew even wider, exposing another couple of tooth veneers to the air. "Yes, that's right! I'm the Refulgent Girl in the Laundry."
"Your name?"
"Melodie Davenport," Melodie breathed. I happened to know her last name was Schultz, but as Melodie had pointed out, that was not the name of a star-to-be.
I came around the other side of the desk to check out the poodles. Much as I liked dogs, I did have Julia Roberts's welfare to consider. For all I knew, these two were inveterate cat chasers, and Jules could come around the corner any moment and create a nasty scene.
The white poodle was nearest to me. "G'day," I said. "How are you with superior felines?"
"That's Upton and this is Unity," Pauline Feeney said, indicating the black poodle. She added with a hint of asperity, "Both are highly trained, and are totally under my control. If they weren't, then I'd have them on leashes, wouldn't I?"
"Fair enough." I put out my hand. "Kylie Kendall," I volunteered helpfully. "You wouldn't know me from a bar of soap."
She shook my hand briefly, her very red lips curved in a faint smile. "You're too modest. You're Ariana's business partner. Brought up in some little outback town in Australia. You inherited a controlling interest in Kendall & Creeling when your father died."
Blimey, this sheila knew a lot more about me than was comfortable. Lonnie had obviously been gasbagging.
Almost as though my thoughts had materialized him, Lonnie came rushing through the door. Red and perspiring, he exclaimed, "Pauline! I saw your car, and realized you'd arrived early. So sorry I wasn't here."
"Well, you're here now," she said, taking his arm.
"Hold my calls, Melodie," said Lonnie in an authoritative tone as he and Pauline set off in the direction of his office, with Upton and Unity trotting along behind .
"Watch out for Julia Roberts," I called after them.
'"Hold my calls,' he says," muttered Melodie to herself. She gave a snort worthy of Aunt Millie. "Lonnie's just trying to impress her."
"I reckon she's going to be impressed by the state of Lonnie's office."
This thought cheered Melodie. But then her expression grew speculative. "Is it true what Pauline Feeney said—that you own more of Kendall & Creeling than Ariana does?"
"Forty-nine to fifty-one percent. Didn't you know that?"
"I never liked math," Melodie said with an airy gesture. She frowned. "No offense, but it's hard to believe you have more say than Ariana."
I knew exactly what she meant. Ariana radiated cool, controlled authority. I wasn't altogether sure what I radiated, but it wasn't that.
"What do you see when you look at me?" I asked.
Melodie frowned. "It's obvious, isn't it? I see you, Kylie."
"Imagine you were auditioning me. What would you see then?"
Melodie's expression cleared. "I get what you mean." She cocked her head, considering me. "Nice hair, much better styled than when you came, but you should consider color. I mean, dark brown is boring, don't you think? Good skin, but you've got no clue about makeup. And you have to drop some pounds. That's a definite. As for your clothes—"
Pandemonium broke out down the hallway. Shouts, barking, and then a series of frantic yelps were followed by the sight of Upton speeding towards us, Julia Roberts, her claws hooked into his curly white coat, grimly riding him like a jockey.
Four
"Just how many people are we planning to save?" asked Lonnie, staggering under the weight of a large carton.
Fran, who was superintending the removal of the office supplies to a shed just erected in the backyard and the re-stocking of the storage room with disaster supplies, snapped, "The Department of Homeland Security has made it very clear that citizens cannot be too prepared. Terrorists could strike at any time."
"You're not answering the question," Lonnie pointed out, depositing the carton where Fran indicated. "You must have enough stuff here for scores of people, and last time I looked, there were only seven of us in the building. You, me, Kylie, Ariana, Bob, Melodie, and Harriet. And Harriet will be on maternity leave any day now."
"Don't forget Julia Roberts," I said.
Lonnie glared at me. "Forget Julia Roberts? Would that I could!"
I felt duty bound to speak up for her. "She was just defending her territory yesterday."
"Defending her territory by lacerating the back of an innocent poodle who was peacefully minding his own business?"
"Jules obviously felt threatened. After all, there were two standard poodles, and they're large dogs."
Lonnie put his hands on his pudgy hips. "Since Julia Roberts is yours, I'm expecting you to cover the vet bills."
By all accounts it seemed that Jules had started the whole debacle, so I said, "Fair enough."
"It'll cost you," Fran observed. "The Feeney woman goes to Dr. Stanley Evers, veterinary surgeon to the stars."
"How do you know that?" Lonnie demanded. "You haven't even got a pet."
"It's none of your business, Lonnie, but if you must know, Quip happened to mention it."
Bob Verritt came around the corner hefting two large cartons, one under each arm. His extremely tall, skinny frame didn't seem substantial enough to handle anything really weighty, but from the thud when he set the cartons down, they were really heavy.
"What in the hell is in these?" he asked.
"Disaster supplies," snarled Fran. "How many times do I have to tell you people?"
"We're stocking up enough to rescue the whole neighborhood?" Bob inquired.
"Of course not," Fran said. "I've taken into account there may be clients in the building when the catastrophe occurs. Besides that, some of us have dear ones we would want to save."
In Fran's case that would be Quip, her husband. The person most dear to me was Ariana. Harriet had Beth. As far as I knew, Bob had no one special, nor did Melodie.
"Would that include poodles?" Lonnie asked. "Pauline won't go anywhere without her poodles."
Fran's pale face was suddenly suffused with red. "No poodles," she ground out, "and certainly no Pauline Feeney. That's final."
I looked at her with surprise. Yesterday in the kitchen, when the star wrangler's name had first come up, Fran hadn't shown any reaction. Now she was positively hostile.
Lonnie glowered at Fran. "Right," he said, throwing up his hands. "If that's your attitude, I've moved my last disaster supply."
Fran shrugged as he marched off with injured dignity in every step. "Touchy, touchy," she said.
"Fair dinkum, Fran, you can't expect Lonnie to be pleased when you refuse to offer aid to his girlfriend."
/> Fran responded with a contemptuous grunt.
"What have you got against this woman, anyway?" Bob asked.
"She dissed Quip."
"How?"
"I don't want to talk about it." Fran surveyed the storage room, which was already almost half full. "I'm hoping we can fit everything in, otherwise I'll be forced to continue using a corner of your office, Bob."
"That's not an option, Fran!"
Bob was usually so mild-mannered, it was startling to hear him so emphatic. Fran knew when to concede. "OK," she said, "so we'll have to fit it all in here."
"All right, then," said Bob, semi-mollified, "but don't try and pull a fast one on me, Fran."
Fran looked injured. "As if I would."
Bob tossed off one of his braying laughs. "Give you an inch, you take a mile."
"Someone has to take responsibility for safety in these dangerous times," said Fran, affronted. "As the Office Manager, I see it as my duty."
This got another laugh from Bob, but wisely, he didn't comment. Everyone knew that Fran had bestowed the title Office Manager upon herself, but given her volatile nature, no one was foolish enough to call her on it, even Ariana.
"I'll get the rest of the stuff you have cluttering up my room," Bob announced.
Before collecting my next load of supplies, at present jammed in the janitor's broom cupboard, I gave a sad glance into the storage room. It was next to my bedroom, and I'd had my eye on the space for my own little living room. It would've been simple, I thought, to knock down a couple of walls—provided they weren't load-bearing—and create a much more comfortable area for myself.
A withering look from Fran sent me on my way. I returned with an armful of small boxes, each labeled Caution: Medical Supplies in red. "What sort of medical supplies?" I asked, putting the boxes on the shelf Fran's imperious forefinger indicated.
"Various antibiotics for smallpox, anthrax, cholera, and typhoid," said Fran, "and antivirals for bird flu. And of course pre-loaded syringes with morphine for those sustaining major injuries in a quake or explosion."
"Crikey," I said, "is that legal? Having morphine hanging about the place, I mean."
Fran's eyebrows did a dive in an annoyed V. "So you'd prefer to writhe in dreadful pain, would you, Kylie?"
"Well, no, but I wouldn't want to run foul of the authorities either."
"In the middle of a cataclysm, no one's going to be checking the fine print."
Bob suddenly appeared, without cartons, his pleasantly homely face transformed by a dark scowl. "Who ordered a faux Spanish desk for my office?" he demanded. "There are guys at the front from some place called Maximum Spanish trying to deliver it to me. The blasted thing's as big as an aircraft carrier."
"As Office Manager, I ordered the desk," said Fran. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, there's a problem. I like my furniture just the way it is."
"We need continuity of decor," Fran declared. "The building itself is Spanish-influenced, and thanks to me the reception desk is now a genuine reproduction Spanish antique. Ariana's office is already Spanish inspired. Over time, I intend to carry this look through to each room."
"Not mine!" exclaimed Bob and I in unison.
Fran never took opposition well. "Neither of you has an ounce of interior decorator vision," she snapped.
"I presume Kendall & Creeling is paying for this furniture?"
"Of course, since it's an office expense."
I didn't lose my temper often, but right now I felt like I was about to blow a gasket. Making an effort to sound icy calm, I said, "Since this grand plan of yours is total news to me, I presume you've cleared it with Ariana. Yes?"
"Not exactly."
That meant no. I glanced at Bob. It wouldn't be good management to haul Fran over the coals in front of him. "Let's talk later," I said to her, "after we finish moving the disaster supplies."
"What about the desk that's already been delivered?" Bob asked. "Those guys were getting mighty impatient."
"Lonnie could take it while Bob gets used to the idea," Fran said.
"Lonnie!" exclaimed Bob and I, again in unison.
The thought of Lonnie coping in the chaos of his room with a gigantic Spanish desk, artificially antiqued, was irresistibly funny. Bob and I dissolved in laughter. Fran didn't smile.
I wiped my eyes, still giggling. "Bob, while you finish moving the stuff for Fran, I'll cancel the order and say there's been a mistake at our end."
Fran opened her mouth, but clearly thought better of it, as she closed it again without a word.
At the front desk, Melodie was charming two stocky delivery men, who were neatly dressed in khaki shorts and shirts. "Kylie, it's real interesting," she said. "Charlie and Pete say they've delivered furniture to tons of stars."
"Scads," said Charlie—I knew which was which because of the names on their shirt pockets—"most are nice, but some are real prima donnas."
"Madonna was a challenge," Pete chimed in. "And Keanu Reeves? Don't ask!"
"I don't doubt it," I said. "Now, about this desk you're delivering..."
"It's out in the courtyard at the moment. Where do you want it?"
"The fact is, we don't want it. There's been a mix up with the order. Sorry, but you'll have to take the desk back."
Astonished, Melodie exclaimed, "Take it back! Does Fran know?"
Charlie looked aggrieved. "You mean we've been cooling our heels here all this time, and you don't even want the Grenada?"
"The Grenada?"
"Every desk is named after a Spanish city," said Melodie. "Like, I'm sitting at a Madrid. And I think Fran has a Cordova in mind for you."
Hell's bells! I had to nip this Spanish furniture thing in the bud as soon as poss. "I'm really very sorry," I said to Charlie and Pete, "but we can't accept delivery."
"Throws the sked right out," said Pete lugubriously, "but I don't suppose you care."
"Do I have to sign anything?" I asked.
Charlie handed me an invoice. "Write that you refuse the delivery and give a reason." He added with stern emphasis, "A good reason."
When, grumbling, they had gone, Melodie said to me, "Fran's got her heart set on a Spanish furniture makeover. She's going to be real upset you sent the Grenada back. How's she going to explain it to Isabel?"
"And Isabel is...?"
"She and her husband own Maximum Spanish. Like, Fran and Quip are real good friends with Isabel and Spike."
A suspicion began to form in my mind. "Fran isn't getting commission for furniture ordered, is she?"
"Well..."
"So she is?"
Alarm filling her face, Melodie said, "Fran'll kill me. You didn't hear it from me. Please, Kylie."
"I'll try not to blurt it out."
Apparently content with this undertaking, Melodie said cheerfully, "Did I tell you? Larry-my-agent's got me lined up to audition for Darken Come Home. I'm just waiting for him to confirm where and when. I'll be playing Olive, Timmy's long-lost elder sister, come from Australia to visit."
"Bonzer."
Melodie clasped her hands and looked to the ceiling. Starry-eyed, she exclaimed, "Something up there is telling me this is my big chance to break into series television."
I glanced at the ceiling too, but it remained blank. "Some psychic connection has given you the news?"
"Fate, Kylie. You do believe in fate, don't you?"
A vision of Cousin Brucie danced in front of my mind. Fate had had a bit of a snigger, making him my rello. "I reckon I do," I said gloomily. "I reckon I do."
****
I went off to see Ariana to set her straight on Fran's Spanish phase, but she was just leaving her office as I got there. "Sorry, Kylie, something urgent has come up. I've got to go."
Her face was ashen. Concerned, I said, "Ariana?"
"I can't talk now."
This clearly wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. "No worries," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
I looked afte
r Ariana as she left. She had a lovely graceful stride, even when she was rushing, as she was now. I wanted to hurry after her and ask what was it that had upset her. A lover could do that. I felt my shoulders droop. I wasn't even a poor excuse for a lover. As far as Ariana was concerned, I wasn't a lover at all.
Before I could sink further in gloom, I went back to my office and tried Dingo's number again. I left a second voicemail message, a little more urgent than the first.
Soon Mum would be on the phone again asking what steps I'd taken to establish what the problem was with Harry and Gert's son. Merely leaving telephone messages for him wouldn't impress her. Obviously I had to do something more.
No way could I pick a blue with Fran before I told Ariana about the furniture situation, so that particular confrontation was on hold. I got out my Thomas Guide and looked up Dingo O'Rourke's address. It wasn't too far away, and driving there would give me something to concentrate on, other than the dire circumstances of my romantic life. Dingo almost certainly was at work on the set of Darken, but maybe I could find someone to give me some idea of when he might be home.
Dad's red Mustang was a challenge to drive, seeing as it wasn't an automatic, therefore I had to change gears while trying to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. In Australia, we drove on the left, like Britain, so I had to say "Keep right!" to myself, especially when making left turns at intersections.
I located Dingo's apartment building on Orange Grove Avenue—a misnamed thoroughfare if ever I saw one—and only had to circle the block a couple of times before I could snaffle a parking spot when someone pulled out.
Dingo's building looked tired, as though it was sick of enduring the summer sun all day while breathing exhaust fumes from the relentless traffic. Sitting on the steps leading to the front entrance was an old lady, her thin silver hair in fat blue rollers. She was wearing a voluminous housecoat and worn pink slippers. She watched my approach with the keenest interest.
"G'day," I said.
"I'm waiting for the mail." She clicked her tongue with irritation. "Postal service they call it, but there's no service to speak off." Squinting up at me, she went on, "They don't care, you see. It's the benefits. Get the benefits whether the mail is delivered or not. Do you know how much a mail carrier makes, with the benefits and all?"