The Wrong Girl

by Foster, Zoe

  Originally Lily had unfairly picked Mackenzie to be a Nikkii clone due to her pretentious name and passion for very tight leather-look jeans and dizzying heels; she was, in fact, an incredibly hardworking, clever and intuitive intern. Lily wished she could swap her for Dale. And Nikkii.

  ‘I think all we have in the van are bumper stickers, will they do?’

  ‘Great. Grab them. Bumper stickers and photos it is. Whoever said The Daily was cheap?’

  Lily took a quick call from Sasha, who had called to wish them luck for the final show and reiterate how fantastic the tour had been. She also gave Lily and the team tomorrow off, which Lily had been hoping for with aggressively pre-emptive resentment, since they had worked all weekend. She noted with chagrin that Sasha shouldn’t be calling to check up on and congratulate them, Nikkii should. Both Lily and Sasha knew it, but Nikkii was in LA doing a film junket and wouldn’t have a clue what Lily was up to, save for the fact it involved food, a truck and Jack, the guy who had rebuffed her advances, wasn’t on Facebook and was therefore dead to her.

  Lily wondered if she could really quit. Whether it was exhaustion, or the Nikkii factor, or the lack of Alice, or just the clarity that came from being away from the studio, she felt she very much could. Sasha would be disappointed. Would Jack? Was she leaving him high and dry? Jack was inside the truck, leaning with his back against the counter, gulping down a bottle of water. The eventing crew had finally roped off the area to give the guy a rest, but that didn’t stop the teenage girls milling around, yelling at Jack, taking photos, and giggling when he looked over and smiled.

  ‘Boy oh boy, Bacon Billy, that was some show you put on today.’ Lily peered up at him from the ground.

  He immediately turned to face her, a happy grin on his face. He was so happy to be back on home turf, she could tell. He fit in here, she noted. The sky, the mountains and grass, the many, many utes and men in checked shirts; it all made so much sense now.

  ‘You just missed Mum. She was here but had to go because my sister needed an urgent babysitter, but I wanted you to meet her.’

  ‘Well, heck, I didn’t know you brought the whole dang clan down. Do they live on the next farm?’

  He smiled wanly. Behind him one of the runners, Felicity, a complete luxury since the budget for Lily’s runners had been cut last year, was lazily cleaning his cooking bench and stove, stopping to read from her phone every few minutes. Jack didn’t seem to notice or even be irritated by it. He was always so calm, Lily realised. It was very soothing. Maybe that’s why she’d been a better producer this year – because her talent was consistent, and talented and fun, and kept a lid on her usual manic panic.

  ‘Funny. No, they’re a good half an hour from here. But we came every year. Oh, and that big scone bake-off Nan used to win? It’s in a couple of hours, and I’m about to start on my first-prize scones.’

  Lily laughed. ‘Don’t you think scones are a bit . . . old-fashioned for a hunky young TV chef?’

  He folded his arms and pulled a stern face.

  ‘This is a family legacy I’m trying to restore here, Lily. Important stuff. Important scone stuff.’

  ‘Right, yes, of course.’

  ‘I have to win. I’ve entered the competition the last three years and lost each time to Marg Milton, who must be bribing the committee, because I’m certain mine are better.’

  ‘You need to practise more. Get Simone to help.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, she’d really go for all that white flour, milk and jam.’

  ‘Maybe you should add some chia seeds and flaxseed oil, or at the least some of that lavender or rosewater stuff. She’s putting it in everything these days, have you noticed?’

  Lily was proud of herself, and the way she talked jovially, normally about Simone with Jack, even though she recognised the flip-flops in her stomach in his presence as the kind generally reserved for Men She Quite Fancied. So what! Over the tour she had made a deal with herself that there was no harm in having an innocent, private crush on Jack. God, everyone did, from Mackenzie through to Sasha. Even Grimmo seemed especially fond of him. Nothing would come of it, no harm done, and it made work fun. Whatever.

  Jack nodded slowly; his brow was creased, deep in thought.

  ‘Jack?’

  He bent down to switch on the oven, then stood up slowly turning back to look at Lily.

  ‘You might have just given me an idea.’ He started pulling things out of the small bar fridge bolted to the back wall: eggs, milk, butter.

  ‘Flaxseed oil?’ she asked, squinting up at him.

  ‘Can you drive a manual?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Do you remember passing through that town about ten minutes back from here?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘How would you feel about driving there in my ute, going to the deli across the road from the post office, and getting some rose-water? Love some apple cider vinegar too, if you can. I’ve run out.’

  ‘Um, Jack, I can’t drive that thing.’

  ‘Course you can! I would do it but I need to start the mix’ – he looked at his watch – ‘to have the scones on the judges’ table by three.’

  ‘I could do that bit?’ Lily offered vaguely.

  He gave her an affectionate are-you-kidding look.

  ‘It’s near the van. It’s a touchy clutch, go easy. And go slow on the dirt, it’s a magnet for accidents.’ He took a single black car key from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  ‘Gee, sounds fun,’ Lily said sarcastically. But he was back facing the bench, pulling still-drying mixing bowls off the drying rack – this was not a dishwasher zone – and yanking open drawers looking for the perfect scone-making utensils.

  Lily didn’t have a choice. She was going to have to drive that beast along a dodgy dirt road and get this fucking flower water. Great idea, dickhead, she chided herself. Key in her hand, she began walking in the direction of his ute, feigning confidence in the same way she might approach a large mare who could sense her fear.

  Dale was packing the van when she reached it. He looked up at her. ‘ETD is one p.m, correct?’ Lily pulled her phone from her pocket and looked at the time: 12.17. Shit.

  ‘Yep . . . Hey, Jack needs me to pick up something urgently from town. Mackenzie has done crowd-gifting, and the events team has pretty much cleaned the truck, which Jack actually now needs for a couple more hours. What do we think that might mean in terms of keeping Grimmo back to drive it home a bit later?’

  Dale looked at her with the same blank face she assumed he was born with.

  ‘He will want to leave at one.’

  Lily hadn’t considered that Jack might not have use of the truck for his scones. She called him, hoping he had his phone in his pocket and, more importantly, that it was at least on vibrate. TV types were forever forgetting to take their phones off silent.

  ‘You haven’t crashed her already, surely.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. No, I’ve some bad news. Crew, all of us are meant to be heading off in less than an hour. That means the truck. Your bakery.’

  ‘I’ll drive it back later on. Already cleared it with Grimmo.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Okay then, I’ll just get this poncy water for you, in that case.’

  ‘Two bottles, just to be safe.’

  ‘Yes, Nigella.’

  She hung up the phone, impressed at his pre-emptive strike.

  ‘Jack will drive it back; I assume Grimmo will be taking the ute. All sorted. If I’m not back by smack on one then wait.’

  She was sad to not to be able to spend the afternoon watching Jack get competitive with seventy-year-old CWA dollies, but she had to head back to Sydney in the van, so there was no point even thinking about it.

  Jack was generous in saying the clutch was ‘tricky’. Lily muttered to herself as she bunny-hopped his big, shiny black ute off the ‘good grass’, trying her best not to knock over small children on her way out onto the dirt road that led bac
k into town. Once she’d got more of a handle on it, she allowed herself to feel a tiny bit tough driving a car that made all the men double-take.

  As she drove along the dusty trail in the perfect sunshine, she noted the car smelled like Jack, but squared. The leather, the faint trace of his aftershave; the mints he seemed to exist on for most of the day, lodged in the console between the two deep bucket seats. His iPod was connected to the stereo via the cigarette lighter and, when Lily turned on the ignition of the ridiculous V8, she was delighted to hear Paul Simon’s voice filter through the speakers. How could a man who enjoyed a monstrous, petrol-guzzling chariot like this enjoy folk music, she wondered, secretly thrilled at the fact, and that she had also finally worked out the exact nanofootpressure to use on the clutch.

  She realised suddenly and with shock that Jack saw her as a runner; she was doing errands for him. How did that happen, she wondered angrily; how did she fall into this role of reliable, asexual Producer Joe who’ll do anything for him, just like everyone else in his life always had. She should’ve said no, she cursed at herself. Do you think Simone would’ve done this? Alice? No. No chance. Lily was a fool.

  Lily returned with the loot at five past one, relieved she’d got the car back in one piece, but anxious about the fact her team were meant to be departing this second. She parked hastily on the forbidden grass, got out of the ute with the shopping bag and closed the door, clicking a button on the keys to lock it. A loud wail immediately emitted from the car, and the hazard lights began flashing. People looked over, shocked and horrified at this noise piercing their margarine-ad-perfect country fair.

  ‘Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,’ Lily swore as she clicked and double-clicked every button on the key. She opened the car door and closed it again, with no luck. The sound was horrific; it was cutting right through to her exhausted bones and infiltrating her poor skittish little cells.

  One phone call and two horrible minutes of panic later, Jack was sprinting towards the car, smiling. Lily held the keys out to him, her face etched with humiliation and the unique brand of panic loud, shrill alarms cause.

  He clicked something, and it all stopped. A few smartarses nearby clapped. Fucking country folk, Lily thought, fuck off. Just because I’m not fluent in ute.

  ‘Got her back in one piece! Well done!’

  ‘A MASSIVE and unnecessary stress, that’s what this whole thing has been. For fuck’s sake . . . Anyway, here’s your fancy water.’ She thrust the bag at him, annoyed at his calm, joking manner when she had just been the villain of the fair, thanks to his stupid car. She made to walk off, but Jack ran to walk beside her.

  ‘Hey, hey, Lil, I’m sorry. Happens all the time, the alarm is oversensitive. Thank you so much for doing this, I know the car is a bugger, and you probably have a hundred other things to do . . .’

  She looked up at him with a half-smile, feeling a bit like a daughter getting a ‘hey, you’re a good kid’ speech from her dad.

  ‘Winners! Ay, you fuggin’ idiot, whaddyoudoin’ere?’

  Lily and Jack both turned to see who owned this twangy, aggressive voice. A short man in a shiny sports zip-up stood a few metres away. His balding was exacerbated by thin, shoulder-length hair and he was smoking a cigarette as though his life depended on it. He looked precisely like the kind of gent you did not want walking behind you at night.

  ‘Simmo, how’s it going!’

  To Lily’s shock, Jack went in for a tight hug with this louse, who patted his back in an equally friendly manner.

  ‘Mate, so good to see you . . . You’re living back here then?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, nah, it’s good, ay. Got a small place out the back of Dad’s I’m livin’ in, he don’t bother me, he’s all right. Brooke’s been living with me too, she’s havin’ a baby, ay, spin-out.’

  ‘You’re kidding! You got the girl and the baby. Living the dream.’

  ‘Yeah, nah, it’s all goin’ good, you know, been stayin’ out of trouble and all that, goin’ to the meetings and stuff, yeah, it’s all good.’

  ‘Gleeson still running them?’

  ‘Nah, he left, ay, went up north with his missus. You’d hate the new bird, ay, she’s a real cold bitch, no offence.’ He looked at Lily in apology.

  ‘Oh, none taken,’ she said, trying to figure what on earth the two men a) were talking about and b) possibly had in common. Gender aside.

  ‘Jeez, you’re doing all right, aren’t ya! All a big telly star and in the papers and stuff. Brooke said you were here today so I thought I’d come have a sticky and see if I seen ya.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Simmo. And glad to know you’re doing well. God, it’s been, what, four years?’

  ‘Yeah, easy. Anyway, youse look busy, I just wanted to say g’day, I’m on the Facebook and that now so if you’re indathat send us a message or something. I dunno, I’m new to it, but Brooke made me do it. Be good when the baby comes, she reckons.’

  ‘I’ll do that. So good to see you, mate.’

  Another affectionate hug, and Simmo turned and left. Jack watched him depart, then finally turned to Lily with a soft smile and a shake of the head.

  ‘Your old hairdresser?’

  He smiled.

  ‘No . . . we used to go to the same group here but he, ah, moved away.’

  ‘Drama group? Knitting club?’

  ‘NA, actually,’ he said, casually starting to walk again. Lily followed.

  ‘NA?’

  ‘Narcotics Anonymous.’

  ‘You. You at NA.’

  ‘Yep. Still go in Sydney. Just once a month.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Because I had a drug addiction.’

  ‘You?’ Lily couldn’t disguise her shock. That he knew and was friendly with Simmo was shock enough in itself.

  ‘I was a drug addict. I had a bad car accident and became extremely fond of painkillers. Particularly Oxycontin, consumed with bourbon. It was ruining my life, so I got help. Well, my girlfriend at the time and sisters posed an intervention, to be honest.’

  This was like hearing that the Pope dabbled in MMA.

  Still walking, he pulled up his shirt to show an enormous snake of a scar across his left ribs.

  ‘Whoa. Mr Clean-Cut Country Guy has a dark past . . . Jeez, it’s all very Batman, isn’t it?’ Lily tried to process all of this as she shuffled along quickly beside Jack who was walking at Eliza-on-too-much-coffee speed.

  ‘I wasn’t clean-cut then; believe me. It took three rounds of rehab and two years of hard work training in Paris and London to get me focused again.’

  ‘So this would be why you don’t drink?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Wow. You’ve obviously come a long way since then . . . Does Simone know?’

  ‘I told her, yes. Thought it might help with her . . . similar tendencies. Doesn’t seem to have had any influence, but you know how headstrong she is. I was exactly the same.’

  ‘She’s, yeah . . . Look, she’s certainly not at NA level, but she could ease off.’

  Lily at once felt guilty and relieved. She couldn’t speak to anyone, especially Simone about her habits.

  ‘Well, good luck for this afternoon,’ Lily said sunnily as they reached the van, which was sitting obediently on the ‘parking grass’.

  ‘I won’t be there to watch you win your Scone Queen sash and tiara but I wish you good luck and strong oven temps. God speed.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Lily saw confusion in Jack’s eyes.

  ‘We have to get everything back to the events company and car rental by six or we pay for an extra day. Also, I just kind of need to sleep for about twenty-four hours.’

  He put his hands on his hips. Looking at her, his eyes squinting in the sun, he said, ‘You wouldn’t want to stick around, would you? Help me win?’

  There was no need or time for thinking music. She dialled Dale, who was back at the van.

  ‘Dale? You guys go without me. I’m going to get a r
ide home with Jack.’

  28

  Jack was intensely nervous as he waited to hear how his scones scored, which Lily found hilarious. Two rotund women in dresses and cardigans, the kind that showed no evidence of natural fibres or trend awareness, and a short man wearing a bark-coloured suit were carefully judging and rating the twelve scone entries displayed on the long, gingham-covered table in front of a sixty-odd crowd. Each judge held a clipboard, which Jack informed Lily pertained to scoring the texture, appearance and taste of the scones, and there was a plastic plate and cutlery in front of each entry for them to use. Lily had to hold in her giggles when she saw a small dab of butter, cream and jam already splodged onto each plate, ready to condiment the hell out of those scones.

  Jack was standing at the back of the marquee next to his amateur sous-chef, his right arm crossed over his body, his left arm bending at the elbow so that the thumb could rest gently on his lip and be nibbled at need. The judges gave nothing away when they tasted his rosewater scones, not even so much as a raised eyebrow. Lily took photos on her phone and with Jack’s permission sent them to Siobhan for the The Daily social media, then texted it to Simone.

  Did you know your boyfriend is actually a 74-year-old woman named Shirl?

  She received no response. Huh. Maybe she was still overseas. Lily realised with some sadness that she hadn’t seen or spoken to her friend since the tour had started, just the occasional text. It wasn’t like Simone to be so off the grid. Lily quashed the bad feeling in her gut; Simone was fine, she was just busy.

  On an adjacent long table covered in a cheap blue plastic tablecloth were the vegetable competition entries: bulbous pumpkins, gleaming squash, cartoon-perfect carrots . . . Some had blue ribbons, some gold, some white – none of it made any sense to Lily. She had somehow found herself in a Christopher Guest film and, in her sleep-deprived state, could not stop giggling.

  ‘There she is,’ Jack murmured, nodding his head in the direction of a woman in her sixties, wearing pale-yellow slacks, a white T-shirt with a photograph of two dogs on it and the kind of stiff, starched dark-denim jacket reserved for exactly this type of woman. She’d entered the room with another woman of a similar age, the two of them smiling and cackling congenially, linking arms as they made their way towards the front of the crowd.