Pants on Fire

by Maggie Alderson

  “Someone as Martin Luther King,” said Trudy. “And then . . . Martina Navratilova.”

  “Since when has there been a dyke card?” said Debbie, who was now wearing one of Antony’s enormous hats.

  “Tennis ace, stupid.”

  “Short skirt, Debbie . . .” said Antony.

  “Antony, you could go as Prince Edward,” I said. “Everyone says he’s gay . . . Oh no! Scrap that, I’m not going as that awful Sophie Rhys Jones . . . Is she the Fiona Clarke of England?” I asked Debbie.

  “Got it in one.”

  “Maybe I can borrow one of her polyester suits for my costume . . .”

  “It would be too big in the tits,” said Debbie. “Although come to think of it, she does look like a cheaper version of you.”

  “Oh, thanks a bunch,” I said, realising it was true. Well, I could see there was some physical resemblance. We were both fair-skinned blondes.

  “I suppose I could go as the Duke of Windsor,” said Antony, now busy tying a headscarf under Betty’s chin, “but I don’t really see you as Wallis, darling,” he said to me. “You’re too obviously a woman.”

  Shriek. Shriek. Flicker. Flicker.

  “I’ve got a good idea for you, Betts,” said Debbie. “You can go as Zara Phillips because you’ve already got the pierced tongue.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Antony. “And we’ll get your father to come on a horse and ride around being rude to everyone. He’d be a marvellous Mark Phillips.”

  “Yeah, and you can be Princess Anne,” said Debbie.

  “It would almost be worth it, to be married to your father for a night,” sighed Antony.

  I was trying to think of something horrible enough to suggest for Plonker, but Antony beat me to it.

  “Plonker Pollock could go as King Dong—after the porn star—from what all you girls have told me,” he said gleefully. Then he put the Three Degrees on the stereo because they’re Prince Charles’s favourite singers, and that was the end of any remotely sensible conversation because we all started dancing.

  “Just another quiet night in,” said Antony, sashaying past with his crown on. And as he came back past me he gave me one of his disconcerting kisses right on the lips and whispered in my ear: “We’re going to be the king and queen of the Cointreau Ball. My Pussy and I . . .”

  Chapter Twenty

  At last the big day arrived. The limo was picking us up at seven p.m., but Antony made me go to his place at ten in the morning, because he wanted us to spend the whole day together getting ready. He had his Polaroid camera set up, so that we could take pictures of ourselves to make sure we looked perfect, the way Bianca Jagger used to before going off to Studio 54. We were going to start with a Turkish bath in his steamroom and then he’d arrange for people to come and give us a massage, manicure and pedicure, followed by a light lunch, a nap and then hair and make-up. Trudy, Betty, Debbie and her date were coming over for drinks and we would all go on in our limos together.

  Antony had finished our dresses at three in the morning. Mine was a long bias-cut oyster satin column with a low draped back. His was sleeveless white duchess satin, cut straight across the neck and slightly waisted. We’d decided to go as a tribute to Carolyn Besette Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy. My hair was the right length and colour and just needed to be straightened into perfect sleekness and then put loosely up.

  “We’re going as real royalty,” said Antony, as he showed me the completed gowns. “People so gorgeous they had the status of royalty thrust upon them—so much smarter than just being born into it, don’t you think?” He was purring with excitement.

  I smiled at him. I did adore Antony, but he was so intelligent, so talented, so well-read, I found it hard to believe that this was really the sum of his endeavours. His knowledge of fashion history was encyclopaedic. He could date any garment to within five years—practically to the week, for anything later than 1920. And through his endless research into fashion and women of style, he was better versed in the social history of the twentieth century than anyone I knew. He might present himself as the silliest of fluff bunnies, but really he was an academic.

  “You love all this, don’t you Dolores?”

  “Born to it, darling,” he said. “I’ve been playing dress-ups since I was old enough to stand up by myself in front of a mirror. Nothing is more satisfying for me than the preparations for a grand costume ball.”

  We made ourselves comfortable on the hot rocks in the steamroom. I’d kept my knickers on, but Antony told me not to be such a prude and was marching around stark naked. I kept my eyes resolutely above his waist level and my towel to hand.

  Every now and then he would spring up and turn on the shower—a huge thing the size of a dustbin lid in the middle of the ceiling—on cold. There was no escaping it, so the easiest thing was just to throw yourself underneath its full freezing blast, rather than being caught by chilly spray.

  “Ooh, look at your nipples, Pussy,” said Antony, tweaking them. “You could hang things off them.”

  “Stop it! Get off!” I shrieked, folding my arms across my breasts. “My nipples are private.”

  “Well, they won’t be private for long in that dress I’ve made you. It’s always freezing at the Cointreau Ball. And I don’t suppose they’re private to that hideous Jasper O’Connor either.”

  “They are now,” I said.

  “Really?” Antony’s face lit up. “Have you given him the flick?” He turned the shower off and resumed his impression of a lizard lying on a hot rock.

  “Yes, by mutual agreement.” I really didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to hear the glee in Antony’s voice and I didn’t want to think about Jasper. I still felt uncomfortable about it.

  “That’s excellent news. I told you your association with him was beginning to lower your stock in this town.”

  “Well, maybe my share price will go up again now,” I said sarcastically.

  “Yes, with rumours of a new merger . . .” Antony chuckled wickedly.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of pleasant physical sensations. The first champagne cork was popped at five, when the make-up artist and hairdresser arrived, which I thought showed remarkable restraint on Antony’s part.

  “Pacing is everything tonight,” he said. “There will be unlimited amounts of grog from the moment we arrive, and it’s essential not to peak too soon. First there’s the early cocktails and milling, checking out what everyone’s wearing and making sure the judges get a good look at us, then dinner, which is civilised jokey chat and lots of wine and table-hopping. Then a bit more milling and chatting, and you only want to be peaking when we hit the dance floor, which we will not leave until three a.m. when they throw us out. Then you can go on to an after party—they usually arrange one somewhere—but I warn you, they’re always a let-down after the magical atmosphere of the venue. Much better to come back here with a select group of fashionable people.”

  After a whole day of preparations, suddenly we were ready. Although I’d watched him have his nails and make-up done, I still hadn’t really been able to picture Antony in a dress. He was as camp as they come, but there was something fundamentally masculine about him—maybe it was his Spanish blood. He had very black hair all over his arms, chest and legs and now I’d seen him stark bollock naked, I knew he had a nuggety male body too. Not a gym-pumped overdone pin-up boy body, but a man’s body. Lived-in looking. Nice.

  But when he put that wig on he was Jackie Kennedy.

  “Wow!” was all I could say. “You look amazing.”

  He walked differently. All his movements were more delicate. In fact, he was being almost unbearably gracious. Antony was totally in character. I was still in my bathrobe and a tiny little G-string he’d provided for me (the only underwear he would permit under my House of Maybury gown).

  “Come along, Pussy dear, go and get your dress on. The others will be here soon.”

  I went into his atelier (as he had taken to c
alling it) and stepped into the slippery silk. It felt like mercury next to my skin, so cool and smooth. I looked in the mirror. Even I was impressed. I actually looked quite like her.

  Jackie swished in behind me.

  “You look charming,” he said. “Absolutely charming. Jack would have been so proud.” He wiped a mock tear from the corner of his eye. “So sad, so terribly sad.”

  “Jack would have been hitting on her, Jackie darling, so get over yourself,” said a voice behind us. It was Princess Grace of Monaco. A dazzling young Princess Grace, resplendent in a pale blue strapless satin gown, with long white gloves, rubies and diamonds at her neck and in a tiara.

  “Oh, Your Highness,” said Antony, dropping into a deep curtsey before Debbie. “You look so gorgeous, but oh those awful Grimaldi jewels. Rubies and diamonds, so unlucky. Blood on bandages, you know.”

  I just stared. Debbie was Princess Grace. She looked so like her. The same perfect nose, the blue eyes, the blonde hair.

  “Are the rest of your benighted family, here, Your Highness?” asked Antony.

  Debbie gestured back towards the main room with her head.

  “You look wonderful, Georgie,” she said. “Really beautiful. We’re going to find a fabulous man for you tonight, now that you’ve finally seen the light and dumped that deadbeat . . . Antony rang and told me while you were having your nap,” she added.

  Debbie’s date—some French guy she’d dredged up—made an excellent young Rainier. Trudy was an elegant Princess Caroline in a Chanel-style black evening dress and Betty was a hilarious, if somewhat overweight, Princess Stephanie. He was wearing a badge saying “I’m Stephie, fly me” on the shoulder of his electric blue dress.

  We had champagne and toasted each other, then the buzzer rang to announce the limousines. We were off.

  The journey took about thirty minutes and we got out at an old factory in the middle of some wasteland. Well, that’s what it was on the outside. Inside it resembled Versailles. Or the Winter Palace. Or Marienberg. Or Sleeping Beauty’s castle. There was a swagged ceiling festooned with enormous chandeliers. The walls were covered in huge gold mirrors and periwigged courtiers held candelabras to guide our way.

  We entered on a red carpet where a page in silk stockings, a frock coat and a powdered wig asked our names, so we could be announced.

  “Mrs. John F. Kennedy and Mrs. John Kennedy Junior,” said the Master of Ceremonies.

  “Their Royal Highnesses Prince Rainier and Princess Grace of Monaco.”

  “Her Royal Highness Princess Caroline of Monaco and Princess Stephanie of Potts Point.”

  “Oberon, King of the Fairies and his Queen, Titania.” We were thrilled to see Michael and Cordelia. She was wearing the same outfit she’d worn to her party and looked glorious again.

  “The King, Mr. Elvis Presley.”

  “Thank God I didn’t do that,” said Trudy. I’ve seen about five already.”

  “Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret.” Antony nudged me when a kaftaned Princess walked in with a handsome black guy on her arm.

  “His Majesty King Henry VIII and Queens Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Catherine and Catherine.” The wives were all men and they looked amazing.

  “Her Majesty the Red Queen.” It was Danny Green, taking photographs as he made his entrance.

  “The Duchess of York.”

  “That’s funny,” said Betty. Fergie was a man in a perfect replica of the appalling blue and white check milkmaid outfit the Duchess had worn early in her royal career.

  Antony rolled his eyes. He’d already told me he couldn’t understand people who went to the party looking unattractive.

  “Her Royal Highess the Princess of Wales.”

  “Part of a continuing series,” groaned Antony. “People are so obvious.”

  “His Most Perfect Majesty, the Sun King.”

  Hello Plonker.

  “His ego really is out of control, isn’t it?” said Antony.

  “The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall.”

  Antony roared. It was two of his friends, Joanna and Mary, as a very good post-abdication Charles and Camilla. Charles was in a gardening outfit talking to a trug of flowers, Camilla had her hunting coat on. They were followed by:

  “His Majesty King William.” Who was Ingrid.

  “Hysterical,” said Antony. “They wouldn’t tell me what they were doing. Very good. Very good. Well, we can forget the prize, Pussy darling, the competition is just too tough this year, but at least we know we look beautiful.”

  “Her Majesty Queen Cleopatra of Egypt and Mr. Marc Antony.” It was Maxine, with a rather attractive man.

  “Who’s that with Maxine, Debbie? Do you know?” I asked her.

  “No idea. But she’s been in a really good mood lately, don’t you think? Let’s go and find out.”

  We left our vantage point by the entrance and pushed our way into the crowd. It was like making the jump off the top of a slide—once you were on the ride there was no stopping it. The rest of the evening was a whirl, just as Antony had described it. Mingling and shrieking. Dinner and shrieking. Dancing and shrieking. And at three, as he had said, the music suddenly stopped and our carriages awaited us.

  “We’re all going to the after party at Rages,” said Cordelia, wrapping a green velvet cloak around her shoulders.

  “Forget that,” said Antony. “Come back to my place. It’s going to be an intimate gathering of glamorous crowned heads.” He’d already sent Trudy and Betty off to pass this information on to a few highly select people and to find Debbie, who hadn’t been seen since dinner.

  “Great,” said Cordelia. “See you there.”

  “We’re all going to the after party at Rages,” said Plonker, his arm around a busty young woman dressed as a rather short Princess Diana in a blue one-shoulder dress.

  “Great,” said Antony, nudging me hard in the ribs. “See you there,” he said, followed by an aside of “not” to me.

  Then I realised the girl with Plonker was Fiona Clarke—so much for Phoebe Trill—and I couldn’t stop laughing as Sydney threw another of its hilarious coincidences at me. I wondered for a moment if Rory knew about Fiona and if he would mind if he did, and I was still laughing when Antony pushed me into the limo and said, “Take this,” and popped a pill into my mouth followed by a swig from a champagne bottle.

  “What was that?” I asked, swallowing.

  “Just half an E. Won’t do you any harm.”

  An hour later I knew no pain. I was sitting on the floor of Antony’s apartment with my arms round Trudy telling him how much I really loved him. He felt the same, he said. Betty came and lay down beside me and put his beautiful head in my lap. Such a very beautiful head, why had I never realised that before? I sat and stroked it and told him how very much I loved him too. He stroked my knee in reply. I couldn’t stop smiling. And when Antony came over holding out a silver bowl containing more of his little half pills, which we all took, he burst out laughing.

  “Look at you. You people are pathetic. Are you all in love?”

  We nodded and started giggling.

  “Oh, shift over,” said Antony. “I want to play too.” And he wriggled his way in between so we were all lying, laughing, in a heap. Michael and Cordelia came over and joined us. So did Mary and Joanna and Ingrid and Norma, until we were all lying on top of each other like a litter of puppies in a basket, stroking each other’s hair. Suddenly the lights started flickering madly.

  “Hello Lee!” we all shouted.

  Then Michael kissed Cordelia. Then Cordelia kissed me. Then Cordelia kissed Antony. And Antony kissed Michael. And Michael kissed me. And that was how the four of us ended up in bed together.

  The others seemed to fade away somewhere and the next thing I knew a married couple, a gay man and myself were all naked in Antony’s bed. At the time it seemed the most normal thing in the world. We all loved each other, didn’t we? Why wouldn’t we go to bed together?

  We didn’t actual
ly have sex. As Antony made very clear at breakfast in Crown Street the next day, no actual penetration, orgasms or emissions of any kind had occurred, so you couldn’t call it sex. Although it was everything but. A great deal of kissing and stroking, to be precise. Feeling like innocent creatures of a new dawn, we argued that there was nothing pervy or sordid about it. Was there?

  “Oh no! It doesn’t mean we’re swingers, does it?” said Michael. He was wearing Antony’s clothes—so was I. Cordelia was still in her Titania gown and cloak. Michael buried his head in Cordelia’s shoulder and pretended to cry. “Cords, we’ve only been married two months, we can’t be swingers already, can we?”

  We all giggled. We were still in love. The pills hadn’t worn off yet. Antony and I had held hands all the way to the café. Cordelia was holding my hand as we sat there.

  “Am I a lesbian now?” I asked Antony.

  “Only if you want to be,” he said. “And if you’re a lesbian I think I must be one too.”

  We laughed and laughed and we still couldn’t stop smiling or bear to be apart, so after breakfast we all went back to Antony’s and got back into his bed—all four of us, this time with undies and T-shirts on—and watched old movies on a huge telly that he kept secretly stashed away in a cupboard. I saw all of My Fair Lady, but fell asleep in the middle of Rebecca. When I woke up it was dark and Michael and Cordelia had slipped away, leaving a note written in lipstick on Antony’s kitchen cupboards: “We will love you always.”

  Antony brought over some tea and Vegemite toast and got back into bed with me. We looked at each other and started laughing again.

  “What are we doing?” I asked him. “They should give out those pills at the United Nations. They could solve all the problems in the world.”

  “Wait and see how you feel on Tuesday—you might not think so then. It’s fun though, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “So who cares?” And he pressed the start button on To Catch a Thief. It wasn’t until Grace Kelly’s beautiful face loomed into view that Antony and I looked at each other and realised we didn’t have a clue what had happened to Debbie. We hadn’t seen her since dinner at the Ball, when she’d been in high spirits, but certainly not off her face.