I applied for the job straightaway, had a five-minute phone conversation with the editor and took it. The starting date was in one month’s time. My friends thought I’d gone nuts again. But I knew exactly what I was doing—I’d read A Town Like Alice, I knew what happened to English gels who went to Australia. They met marvellous men with strong forearms who tipped their hats, saved your life and then took you off to live in a house surrounded by verandahs on a farm as big as Wales. I could hardly wait.
After two weeks in Sydney I hadn’t met him yet, and I wondered if Danny Green’s Australia Day party might be a good hunting ground. So I got on the phone to ask Liinda’s opinion.
“Danny Green?” she said in her gravelly voice, the product of several daily packets of Marlboro and a fair helping of affectation. “Yes, I know him. He’s a half-witted social photographer—you’ll probably be in the Sun-Herald party pages, how embarrassing for you. Danny Green knows every junkie model, society hooker, ageing hack, corrupt magazine editor, actor-turned-waitress, bitter fashion designer, trust-fund bunny, coke-addicted stockbroker, anorexic hairdresser, closet queen, career bullshitter and bum bandit in town.
“He’s famous for parties which I’m told resemble the last days of the court of Caligula. You’re guaranteed to leave with your IQ three points lower than when you arrived. I’d rather walk naked through the David Jones cosmetics hall than go to one. You’ll love it.”
Looking round at the heaving mass of people, squealing and air-kissing each other under their hats, Liinda’s assessment of the crowd seemed pretty accurate. And she was right, I did love it. These posturing queens and chic, bitter women, all simultaneously smoking, drinking and shouting, clearly intent on embracing oblivion as soon as possible, were exactly my kind of people. Brittle, brilliant, pretentious, original, bitchy, hilarious, worn out, vicious, warm. Where fashion, art and the media collide, I thought. Home.
“What a lovely smile. You must be thinking about something you like.” Standing next to me at the drinks table was a man who looked like something from a 1960s’ Qantas travel poster. Dark blond hair, ridiculously white teeth, a perfectly judged sprinkling of freckles and blue eyes with regulation issue Aussie bloke crinkly edges, the whole package twinkling out from underneath a very battered and bent Akubra hat.
“Actually, I was thinking how much I like parties,” I replied.
“Is that right? So do I. Wanna dance?”
Without waiting for a reply, or even a change of expression, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd to an area where people were throwing themselves around like lunatics. A lot of the men had their shirts off and their hands over their heads, all the better to show off their washboard stomachs and chunky upper arms.
“Billy Ryan,” he shouted into my ear as he spun me into an accomplished rock and roll turn, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were dancing to hardcore techno.
“Georgia . . .”
As he pushed me away into another spin I was able to get my first good look at him. In stark contrast to the rest of the crowd, who were clad in skin-tight T-shirts, lacy slip dresses, or general designer black, Billy Ryan was dressed in what I’d only recently found out were called moleskin pants, with riding boots and a blue and white striped shirt. It should have been dorky, but it suited him so well it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked bloody gorgeous. He didn’t seem the type who’d ask a girl in a pink Pucci catsuit to dance, but he did look like he might have a house with verandahs round it, so I wasn’t arguing.
“It looks like quite a few horses have trodden on that hat,” I said, as he whirled me into his arms and rocked me from side to side.
“They have. And quite a few cows.”
“Are you a farmer?”
“Only at weekends.”
“What do you do during the week?”
“I’m a stockbroker.”
I took advantage of a two-hand double up-and-under to hide my grin. A good-looking broker who liked the country enough to have his own farm. This was the kind of man I’d been searching for. Someone like me, who loved the fast pace of the city but also needed to escape into nature. Someone who liked horses and gardens as well as dancing and parties. This was the man I had come to Australia to meet. A million miles from Mr. Advertising Genius and his taste for jail-bait. A man with solid values, good teeth and a sheepdog. Just perfect for a girl like Georgia.
By the time he pulled me into a waltz hold I was wondering where to get the towels embroidered. B&GR—a very nice monogram, good round letters. Georgiana Ryan, how do you do? I was considering names for our second son and worrying about where to send him to school when Billy stuck his tongue in my mouth. A real oral invasion. Squirmy and slimy, like a conger eel, not at all erotic.
“You’re a great dancer,” he said, while I gaped at him, speechless. “I’ll find you later for another boogie,” he added, kissing me again, this time on the cheek, and then he just left me, alone on the dance floor.
Still too stunned to say anything, I watched him go over to a tall, lean fellow, wearing the same kind of hat, who was standing by the wall. The tall guy shook Billy’s hand enthusiastically and then they did some kind of primitive display of male bonding that involved a lot of back-slapping and grinning and head-shaking. I wished David Attenborough was around to do the commentary. Whatever they were up to, they both seemed to find something very amusing. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t me and began to wonder whether coming to a party full of strangers had been such a good idea.
As they disappeared into the next room, still slapping and grinning, I caught sight of a familiar penis on the other side of the studio and made for it. I was just about to tap Jasper flirtatiously on the shoulder when I realised he was holding court to a group of about ten people crammed on an old sofa. I stood to one side to watch.
“Then Toohey comes into the room, like this . . .” Jasper crossed his eyes and trudged with bended knees, his teeth in the goofy position.
“ ‘I jus’ wanna kiss ya, Raylene,’ ” he said in an exaggerated Australian accent. “ ‘I jus’ wanna kiss ya. I won’t do nothin’ else, I promise, Raylene.”
Then he stood up straight, stuck out his bum and chest and pouted. “So Raylene says, ‘Well, you can kiss me, Toohey, but don’t touch me hair.’ ”
His eyes blazing, arms waving around as he made his points, Jasper held his audience rapt.
“. . . So that’s the whole point,” he continued. “Toohey is all of us. He’s the quintessential Australian. When he can’t tell Raylene he loves her, he is all of Australia—he’s a kangaroo, he’s a jackaroo, he’s an Aboriginal kid playing with a stick, he’s Olivia Newton-John, Kylie Minogue and Natalie Imbruglia on smack, he’s a Mardi Gras queen with a sparkly jock-strap up his arse, he’s a shark, a dingo, a traffic cop in tight pants, a Bondi lifesaver and a bent Kings Cross copper, he’s John bloody Howard in drag, he’s the Harbour Bridge, a Harry’s pie, he’s Ray Martin, John Laws and Molly Meldrum having a threesome . . .”
“But where does the Turkish bread come in?” asked a tiny woman in a severe black dress, wearing a fez.
“What Turkish bread?” said Jasper, annoyed at the interruption.
“The Turkish bread that has to feature in every short film for it to be shown in Tropfest this year.”
“Oh, that. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe Toohey will step on it and fall over . . .”
“Maybe he’ll choke on it and we won’t have to listen to his painful dialogue,” said a voice from behind the sofa which I immediately recognised as Antony Maybury’s.
“And whose camera are you using this year?” asked a man with a thin mouth and a thick moustache, wearing a Key West baseball cap. “Tony Abrovmo told me you didn’t give his camera back for months last year and he wasn’t going to lend it to you ever again.”
“And haven’t you already missed the deadline for this year’s films?” said the fez woman.
As the crowd broke up into sniggering groups Jasper caug
ht sight of me. “Hey Pinkie, there you are!” he cried, clearly glad of a distraction. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
What is it with this party? I wondered, as he took my hand and dragged me off. People were either telling me what to do or physically assaulting me. I looked back to see some familiar eyebrows peeping over the back of the sofa. They did a quick one-two and disappeared again.
“I’m going to show you something you’ll never forget, Pinkie,” said Jasper, grinning broadly as he weaved through the crowd.
“You’ve already done that.” I nodded in the direction of his penis hat.
“Oh, I’d forgotten I was wearing that,” he said, taking it off and dumping it on the floor. “That’s better, my brain’s got some room. Come with me, little girl . . .”
He led me out the front door of the studio and up the main stairs of the building.
“We’re not taking the lift for a reason,” Jasper explained, beginning to puff after the second flight. “I want you to earn this. We’ll just have a ciggie break here first, I think.”
He leaned against the wall and lit up. I don’t really smoke, but sometimes when I’m with someone who clearly adores it I can’t resist trying it again in case it’s nicer than I remember. So I helped myself from his packet and we smoked together in silence. It was horrible as usual. Every now and then Jasper looked at me, smiling and nodding as if we were sharing some great secret. I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mad, but after he’d ground both cigarette ends into the stairs with his boot heel he took my hand and we set off again.
Five more flights up we came to a door with a large padlock on it. Jasper pulled an enormous bunch of keys out of his jeans and opened it.
“I used to have a studio in this building. I kept this key because I always knew I’d need it one day. This is that day.”
He threw the door open and we stepped out onto the roof.
Sydney Harbour was spread out below us, a map of shiny blue in the January sunshine. Curving over our heads was a clear dome the colour of skies I’d only ever seen on postcards. The water in the harbour sparkled like lurex. Yachts darted around like little white hankies and ferries chugged along purposefully. Everything looked choreographed. The view was unbroken right out to what I guessed were the Heads and the Pacific Ocean beyond. You could see all the way over to Taronga Zoo and to Manly in the distance.
“Wow,” I said, for want of a better word. “We just don’t have skies this big in England. Nothing is on this scale. Look at it.”
“It’s a pretty city, isn’t it, Pinkie?” said Jasper. “Come round here.”
From the other side of the roof we could see the entire skyline of the CBD, the Opera House, the Bridge, North Sydney and all the way to the Blue Mountains.
“Thank you, Jasper,” I said. “This is incredible.”
“Hey, Pinkie, how did you know my name? And what’s yours, by the way? Not that I’m going to call you anything else but Pinkie until the day we die in each other’s arms, but you might as well tell me for the record.”
“Georgia. Georgiana Abbott.”
“Georgie Abbott—you’re the chick who’s come over to work on Glow, right?”
I couldn’t be bothered to correct him. Georgie, George, Ringo, whatever.
“So Georgie,” he continued, “how do you like the bunch of tight-arsed neurotics you work with, then? Debbie Brent wouldn’t know a decent photograph if it sprang up and gave her a pap smear, neither would that living skeleton Zoe Siegler, and Maxine Thane is tighter with a dollar than a nun’s twat. Is that how you knew who I was? Did she tell you? Or was it that card-carrying psycho Liinda Vidovic? She boiled many bunnies lately?”
“Do you know everybody who works on Glow?” I asked him, appalled, but also intrigued.
“This is Sydney, Pinkie. Let’s just say I know everybody.”
I didn’t know then quite how true that was.
After Jasper’s outburst we just stood there for a while, gazing at the splendour around us, which I couldn’t help feeling included him. Once he stopped trying to be clever—or basically, once he shut up, which was rarely—Jasper was really quite beautiful. He had dead-straight long black hair, which I’m a total sucker for, and a sensitive face with a delicate, refined mouth. He had a way of cocking his head to one side and looking up at you through narrowed eyes, which was very attractive.
The only thing marring Jasper’s face—he even had nice skin—was that stupid little pubey beard. But with all my years of experience choosing cover shots from photographers’ negs, before the model’s zits had been digitally removed, I just narrowed my eyes and edited it out.
While I was sneaking covert looks at him, Jasper was having a moment of his own, spinning round slowly while gazing up at the sky, his arms spread out like wings. This gave me an excellent chance to observe him. Slim frame, built for speed rather than strength. Very long legs. Very long legs in bright pink trousers. Bright pink trousers and a double-breasted navy blazer with gold buttons. A pale pink button-down shirt. Hair slicked back and licking his collar. Aviator sunglasses with gold rims. Cuban heel boots. It was a kooky look. I liked it a lot.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“I’m trying to connect with the sky.”
“Is it working?”
“I think I need another joint.”
“And by the way, what are those trousers?”
He stopped suddenly and grinned at me, taking hold of the trouser legs and pulling them out to the side as if he was about to do a ballet-class curtsy.
“Golf pants. Like ’em?”
“I love them. They’re nuts. And they go with my hat.”
“Pinkie and Pink, you see? I took one look at that hat and thought, that Pinkie’s for me.”
I didn’t comment. They can talk real pretty, these Aussie men, I thought. And they have quite the sparkliest eyes on earth. But after Billy’s uninvited oral assault I was still feeling a bit wary.
Jasper came over to the parapet, took out his cigarette papers and rolled another reefer, using only his left hand. I hadn’t noticed he was left-handed before. He noticed me noticing.
“Ambidextrous,” he said, twisting the end of the paper with his right hand and putting it between my lips. “Like Leonardo.” With his left hand he flourished a Zippo lighter with an enormous flame and lit the tip. I took a hit and handed it back to him.
“Who are you, Jasper?” I asked. “What do you do? And why are you so horrible about the women I work with? Have you slept with all of them?”
“No, far worse. I’ve worked with all of them. I’m a fashion photographer. But one day I’m going to be a very famous film director and Glow magazine is going to beg me for an interview, which I will of course refuse.”
“Can I be on your table at the Oscars?”
“You can come up and collect it with me.”
After we finished the joint, Jasper insisted I try his routine of spinning round while looking at the sky.
“Whirligig, whirligig, Pinkie darling,” he said, waltzing me in circles until I felt seriously dizzy. Then we went back to gazing at the view and I began to feel uncomfortably like he was looking for the right moment to kiss me. Glorious though the setting was, I really didn’t feel like another mystery tongue sandwich, especially from someone who reminded me a little bit of Rick, so I suggested we should go back down to the party. I may have told some small fib about having abandoned a friend down there. Whatever I said, Jasper suddenly seemed to snap back to consciousness.
“The party, right, the party . . .” he said, resuming his nodding dog impersonation. “Yeah, friends, party, downstairs. We’d better split, Pinkie. Well, it was good to share this with you. Perhaps I can show you some more incredible sights of Sydney before too long. This is my town, you know.”
We caught the lift back down to the fourth floor. Outside the door to the studio, where we could hear the party pounding, Jasper stopped, gave me another o
f his head-on-the-side squinty smiles and ran a finger gently over my cheek.
“It was fun, Pinkie. Catch you later, baby.”
And then he disappeared into the studio, practically shutting the door in my face. I pushed it open and squeezed back into the crowd, which now seemed even bigger and noisier. The monotonous techno beats had been replaced with 70s disco and more people were dancing. Others were piled on the sofas and armchairs lined along the walls, locked in deep conversation.
After Jasper’s brain-spinning dance I had no idea how long we’d been upstairs, but I felt like the party had shifted a couple of gears in that time. A passing waiter offered me a tray of drinks and I took two glasses of water, downed them in quick succession and put the empty glasses back on the tray.
Then I just stood there, realising that I didn’t really know a soul in the place. For the first time since I’d arrived at the party I felt a bit self-conscious. And Jasper’s joint was making me super-aware of snatches of nearby conversation.
“You should have seen his face when she walked into the room!” said a short red-faced man wearing a Madame de Pompadour wig to a tall thin woman wearing a bald wig.
“Well, I never thought he had any talent anyway,” I overheard a middle-aged man in Playboy Bunny ears say to another who was wearing a flowery ladies’ swimming cap. “Just another of Peter’s pretty cocksuckers.”
“But I thought that was his sister? So that’s the mother? My God, the surgery! Who is her surgeon, do you know?”
“I heard he skimmed ten mill off the top and gave it back to them ready for the liquidators to move in . . .”
“No, she worked the flannel shoe back with the bias-cut georgette, it was so ug, we were all puking . . .”
“He paid someone to poison all those trees because they were blocking his view of the harbour . . .”
I stood there telling myself that none of these people were talking about me and trying to breathe deeply because I felt at any moment I could be violently ill. I tried to distract myself by looking at the whirling dancers—bad idea, too much whirling—I looked at the floor—no, too floory—at all the people—oh no, more conversation. Breathe. Breathe. Cigarette smoke, oh yuk. Pot smells, oh no! The music sounded terrifying. What was in that joint?
Pants on Fire Page 2