Pants on Fire

by Maggie Alderson

  Then we were whirled away from each other because it was one of those dances where you keep changing partners. We met up again a few minutes later, red-faced and gasping.

  “You really are having a good time, aren’t you Georgia?” said Rory, as we skipped up and down two lines of clapping people.

  “I’m having a fabulous time. But I’m about to collapse—can we sit the next one out and have a drink?”

  And that’s when they played the Tennessee Waltz, which happens to be one of my favourites.

  “You’re going to have to wait for your rest, Georgia,” said Rory. “I love this one.”

  And he swept me onto the floor. Round and round we went in perfect time. He actually knew how to waltz—no shuffling and definitely in control.

  As we danced I tried to look steadily over his left shoulder, as per Mrs. Emerson’s dance classes, but then something made me pull my head back a little to sneak a look at his face. He was looking straight at me. He didn’t automatically smile or move his eyes away, but kept them locked on mine in a steady gaze. I felt a distinct flutter in my stomach and looked away again as my face started to burn. At the end of the song he dropped me back into a deep dip. People clapped. They were clapping us.

  “Thank you, Ginger,” said Rory, kissing me on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Fred.”

  This time we did go and have a rest, and I suddenly felt breathless and shy. It had been a very intimate dance and I didn’t quite know how to be with Rory after it. It seemed he felt the same say.

  “Well, I’d better get you back to Bundaburra then,” he said briskly, after we’d sat looking at our hands for a while. “I’ve got to be up early.”

  And that was it. We left. He put the radio on quietly in the ute and I watched the night country go by. Sitting in the dark, I felt more at ease with him again.

  “What are your paintings like, Rory?” I aside him.

  He laughed. Not a mad bark like Antony, or a kookaburra’s cackle like Jasper, but a mild, gentle laugh.

  “That’s what I like about you, Georgia. You always get straight to the point.” He turned and smiled at me.

  “What are my paintings like?” He let out a sigh between his teeth. “Of course I haven’t done any for a while, but I suppose you could say that you’re looking at what they’re about right now. They’re about this country. These hills. I was always trying to capture the shapes and colours of this country. Not what it actually looks like, but what it feels like. How I remember it sitting in my studio in the city.”

  “Golden.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Golden.” He turned and gave me a look. “That was a big part of it for me. Are you interested in art, Georgia?”

  “Yes. I love it. A . . . um . . . a friend took me round the Art Gallery of New South Wales a couple of weeks ago. I loved it. All those great artists I’d never heard of before.”

  “What did you like?”

  “I liked the early paintings—I can’t remember the names—the Australian impressionists, I think they were. Pictures of the bush. But I liked Arthur Boyd most of all.”

  I wondered if he thought I was pretentious.

  “Tell me why you liked the Boyds.”

  “Um . . . I liked the way he combined the landscape with mythological things like that dog creature. How is Scooby, by the way?”

  “Scooby’s very well. She’s in disgrace for an incident with the butter dish, but basically she’s a happy puppy. She’s entered for the dog high-jump competition tomorrow. She’s a dead cert . . .” He paused before continuing. “Yes, that’s pretty much why I like Arthur Boyd too. The gallery is one of the things I miss about living up here.”

  He was silent for a while and then we were at the gate to Bundaburra.

  “Nearly home,” said Rory. And all too soon we were.

  “I won’t come in,” he said, pulling up outside and jumping out to open any door. “Give Jenny my love, will you? And tell her that if Debs wants to stay on for a few days, I’d be happy to drive you to the airport tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Rory. You’ve been really kind all day.”

  “It was my pleasure, believe me. I don’t get much of a chance to discuss Arthur Boyd up here.” Then we just stood there smiling at each other and I realised I had to go in.

  “OK, bye then,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. As I stood in the doorway and waved him goodbye, I wondered why he still hadn’t asked me for my phone number.

  Chapter Eleven

  Well, Debbie did not want to stay up at Bundaburra. She wanted to leave as soon as possible. She couldn’t wait to get back to Sydney and she couldn’t wait to get away from me. She was furious about missing the bush dance. She was furious with her parents for getting the doctor to knock her out with a tranquilliser. She was furious with Rory Stewart for stopping her when she was having “a good time.” But most of all she was furious with me.

  “I’m sorry, Debbie,” I said through her bedroom door. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think that cowboy had your best interests at heart. I was just trying to do the right thing.”

  “Fuck off, you bloody dobber,” she shouted back at me. I could hear her throwing things around inside. “I brought you up here to have a good time and the minute I started to enjoy myself you went running off to tell my parents. Jesus! Why does everybody want to stop me having fun? I thought you were cool, but you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

  She opened the door for a minute. She was red in the face.

  “Have a nice time with Rory at the bush dance did you, you little Pommy traitor? That’s probably the only reason you came up here. You’re just another pathetic social climber. Well, fuck you.”

  She slammed the door. I felt like I’d been slapped. After that tirade I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, so I went and packed my things.

  Through the bedroom window I could see Jenny and Johnny talking on the verandah, looking pale with worry. Then Johnny disappeared off somewhere and Jenny came inside. I went to look for her in the kitchen. She was standing at the sink just staring out of the window.

  “I’m so sorry, Jenny,” I said.

  “It’s not your fault, Georgia, please don’t feel bad,” she said, turning to look at me. “Debbie’s being completely irrational. She’s had a terrible shock—she really thought Rory was Drew.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was awful.” And even worse if you knew the full story, I thought.

  “She needs to cry,” said Jenny, hitting her hand against the edge of the sink in frustration. “She needs to feel it and let it out, but she just rages against anyone who’s nearby.”

  She put her face in her hands and shook her head, then looked at me again. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “I really hoped this weekend would help her come to terms with being up here,” she said. “But it’s just made things worse. I don’t know what we’re going to do with her.”

  I went and put my arm around her. She wiped her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Georgia. Debbie won’t hate you for long—it’s not her nature—and it would be a real comfort for me to know that she has a friend like you looking out for her. Does our deal still stand? Do you still promise you’ll let me know if you think she’s getting into trouble?”

  After the tongue lashing I had just received it was a scary thought. My face must have given me away.

  “I know it’s a heavy responsibility,” said Jenny. “And you hardly even know us, but I just feel I can trust you.” Her eyes filled with tears again.

  “I’ll do my best, Jenny,” I said, praying I wouldn’t have to.

  “Thank you.” She smiled weakly. “How was the bush dance? Did Rory look after you?”

  “I had a really good time. I wish you all could have been there, it was great fun.”

  I felt shy talking about Rory. The link with Drew was so strong—how could I have been out having such a good time with him while they struggled with their bereaved daughter?


  “It would have been nice for Rory to have some young female company too,” said Jenny. “Must be very dull and lonely for him up here, poor love.”

  And if I wasn’t mistaken, she gave me a knowing look.

  Debbie didn’t say a word to me all the way to the airport and when we got there she just stormed out of the car, without even saying goodbye to her mother.

  “She’ll get over it soon, Jenny,” I said, nervously.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Well, it was lovely to meet you—I hope you’ll come back and see us again. And if Debbie’s still being a horror, you’re always welcome to come up on your own. Here’s our phone number, so you won’t even need to ask Debbie for it, and don’t be a shy Pom—our offer to Hamish still stands.”

  “Bye Jenny—and thank you,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Try not to worry.”

  Debbie ignored me all the way home on the plane and at the other end she just swept off to her car, leaving me to get a taxi.

  On the way to Elizabeth Bay I wondered how much to tell Antony about what had happened. I didn’t have long to think about it—my phone was already ringing as I opened the front door.

  “Well?”

  “Hello, Antony. How are you? How was your weekend?”

  “Bugger my weekend. How was Johnny Brent?”

  “Well, I must admit he’s not bad looking . . . he looks very nice with his hair wet.”

  Antony was making gurgling noises.

  “Did you see him on a horse? Was he wearing his polo boots?” More gurgling. “What’s the house like? Is it divine?”

  “It’s heaven. The whole thing is heaven. Ralph Lauren would spontaneously combust if he went up there. So would you, probably. But Antony, tell me something—have you ever actually met Jenny Brent?”

  “Good God, no. Ghastly little arriviste.”

  “She’s not ghastly. She’s lovely—the nicest woman you could ever meet. And she’s just as beautiful as he is. I won’t hear you say one more horrible thing about her. And Johnny is clearly still mad about her too.”

  “Oh, you are boring. Debbie says she hates your guts, by the way, and that you only went up there to social climb.”

  “Oh really? When did she tell you that?”

  “She rang me from her car ten minutes ago. That’s how I knew you were back. What happened?”

  I told him everything. Everything except what a good time I’d had at the bush dance with Rory—I didn’t want that getting back to Debbie and making things worse. But Antony Maybury QC didn’t miss anything.

  “So Debbie got sent home to bed like a naughty girl and you went gallivanting off to her bush dance with the last remaining Stewart brother. Pheweee, she wouldn’t have liked that at all. No wonder she’s having a tantie.”

  “Does she really think I had her taken home deliberately?” I said. “She was about to get gang-banged by a bunch of cowboys—I bumped into Rory by sheer chance when I was looking for her father to come and save her. And I’m really glad I did bump into him because it meant Johnny Brent didn’t have to see his precious little princess with her hand down the Lone Ranger’s pants.”

  “Is that what she was doing? Oh, she is a naughty girl. HA HA HA. Was he cute?”

  “Antony, it wasn’t funny. It was horrible. If I hadn’t found Rory I really don’t know what would have happened.”

  “Well, she’s certainly furious with you,” he said. “You stepped into her territory and I warned you, she’s not rational about anything with the name Stewart stenciled on it.”

  “I suppose I can understand that, but she was the one who got drunk. I was looking forward to going to the bush dance with all of them. I wanted to see Johnny Brent dancing so I could torture you about it.”

  “Did you have a good time with Rory then?”

  Nice try, Antony.

  “Yeah, it was OK,” I said casually. “It was a funny little dance in a funny little country town. You can imagine.”

  “Did you have the last waltz with Rory Stewart. Just like the song?” He started singing it in a high falsetto.

  Was he a witch? How did he know? Had someone told Debbie?

  “Oh, I can’t remember, I danced with lots of people. You know what those things are like, you keep changing partner. I danced with a lot of arthritic old men and spotty adolescents and one enthusiastic six-year-old. It was fun. There were dogs running around and babies.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I wish you luck with Debbie at work tomorrow. I’ve been through all this before with her. She nearly took a contract out on Maxine when she had a fling with another brother—Alex Stewart. I’d just give her a wide berth for a day or two—she’ll get over it pretty quickly. Anyway, stuff all that, I wanted to talk to you about something else. We’ve got lots of parties to go to this week. Get your diary.”

  And that was just the way it was. Debbie was vile to me for a couple of days and then gradually thawed, until we were back on our old footing and things settled down at work. But she never mentioned the weekend at all. It was like it had never happened.

  Over the next week, leading up to Mardi Gras, Antony and I went out every single night, sometimes meeting for lunch and breakfast as well, to post-mortem the night before. The parties got more and more charged, as Antony’s crowd became increasingly excited about the big night on Saturday. And it wasn’t just his crowd. The whole city was cranking up into a fever of sexual tension. You could feel it in the air.

  Hordes of gay tourists had arrived from all over the world and were marching around the CBD hand in hand, wearing back-packs, big boots and no shirts. Lesbian couples kissed passionately on street corners. Nobody gave them a second look. Oxford Street was pumping twenty-four hours a day and Seraphima told me she’d seen a man sitting at a pavement table completely nude except for a pair of chaps and a hat. At lunchtime.

  Despite Antony’s gang telling me what a marvellous time I would have, I’d decided not to go to the party itself. I knew that “breeders” did go and I was sure it would be a great night, but I just didn’t think a honky straight chick had any business muscling in on such hard-won fun. But I wasn’t going to miss the parade for anything.

  Antony was really pissed off with me, telling me my attitude was totally “suburban,” until Debbie announced she was going to go with him and he got caught up creating an outfit for his favourite human Barbie doll.

  I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to watch the parade until, to my great surprise, Liinda strolled into my office on Friday morning and asked me if I wanted to go with her.

  “I thought you didn’t like gay men,” I said. “And I thought you never went out at night.”

  “I never said that. I said I didn’t have gay men as close friends. But I love watching the parade. Gays and lesbians are a repressed minority—as are women everywhere—and I find the parade really inspiring. Just twenty years ago they were arrested for having it, now it’s sponsored by major banks and goes out on national TV. It shows what you can do if you fight consistently for your rights.” She grinned. “And I like seeing the Dykes on Bikes. I still have a thing for big throbbing motorbikes left over from my previous life.”

  “Well, I’d love to watch it with you. What’s the plan and pack drill?”

  “I go in the afternoon and bag our pozzie at Taylor Square,” Liinda explained. “I have milk crates. I have my Walkman. I have cigarettes. I’ll be quite happy. Then you come along and meet me at about seven. It’s worth coming a bit earlier for the people watching. Zoe’s going to come with us.”

  “That’s great. How is she?”

  “OK. She’s seeing a shrink and she’s coming to Al Anon meetings with me. It’s early days, but I think she’ll make it.”

  “Do you really think she’ll feel like going out?”

  The bird’s nest nodded vigorously. “Yeah, she lives at home, you know—and needless to say her family is the reason she’s in this state—so it will do her good to have a break from them.”

&nbs
p; “Not another messed-up family. I don’t think I can stand it. Don’t tell me any more.”

  “OK, I won’t. I gather you’ve got yourself rather involved in Debbie’s psychodramas, which seem to involve three dysfunctional families, so I can see you don’t need to hear about another one.”

  How did Liinda know about all that? Had Debbie told her about the disastrous weekend as well?

  “I can hear all Debbie’s phone calls,” she said, reading my mind. “You were getting a hell of a serve for a time there. Anyway, you and Zoe should go out after the parade. I’ll go home with my knitting, of course, but you two could go out and have some fun.” She shook her head. “Ah, fun—I remember fun . . . Want Zoe’s number?”

  “Sure.”

  I’d spent the weekend with a nymphomaniac alcoholic drug fuck, so why not a big night out with a neurotic bulimic?

  Chapter Twelve

  The parade was hilarious. I’d never seen anything like it—and I’d never experienced an atmosphere like it either. The crowd was really mixed, young and old, trendy and suburban (thank you, Antony) and everyone was friendly and excited. The police arrested some young thugs who were shouting homophobic remarks, but most people were just grinning at each other.

  Antony had rung me in the morning to wish me “Happy Mardi Gras.”

  “It’s our Christmas, you know,” he said. I’d never heard him so excited. He was babbling on about his outfit—black leather pants and a black singlet. Totally simple, very comfortable, but all ultima qualita, he insisted.

  “Won’t you be a bit hot in leather?” I asked.

  “That’s the whole point, darling.”

  “Well, have a wonderful time. Call me when you surface. And another thing, Antony—be bad.”

  “Oh, I will, Pussy, I will. Love you. Goodbye.”

  Liinda had found the perfect spot on a corner near Taylor Square and we were right at the front, so I had a great view even without standing on my milk crate. First to come along were the Dykes on Bikes, hundreds of them and as magnificent as Liinda had said they would be. After them came a huge band of marching boys in tiny shorts, marching in perfect time.