Wombat Strategy

by Claire McNab

  He took this as a criticism. "I've got a handle on it. Don't you worry, missy!"

  It was a relief when we got to the head of the line and my door was opened. "See you later," I said to Fred, thinking no time was too soon.

  "Now, wait a minute-"

  I left him struggling to get his ungainly body out from behind the steering wheel.

  The entrance was crowded with people all talking at the top of their voices. Just inside, the Deers were doing the greeting routine, smiles flashing on and off like dental semaphore. They seemed to have it down to a fine art, exclaiming with delight, warmly shaking hands, hugging, air-kissing, and generally giving incoming guests the big welcome.

  When it was my turn, Elise, looking terrific in red, cried, "Kylie, at last!" before her attention was taken by the next guest.

  Dave Deer took the opportunity to embrace me rather too closely. I smelled expensive aftershave and the Scotch he'd recently consumed. From working in a pub, I knew my liquor. If he kept breathing on me like this, I'd be able to identify the brand.

  Trying not to be too obvious, I wriggled my way free. "My wife's cousin," he announced in a loud, ringing voice to anyone who cared to listen. It sounded so stagy I cringed. Whatever Dave Deer's talents might be, acting wasn't one of them.

  A slight, older woman, with a face and bearing reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Nancy Reagan, said, "You're an Australian too, my dear?"

  "Too right."

  I was about to say more, but a bloke in a dark suit with a hearing-aid thing in his ear shepherded her away. Secret Service? I gazed after the two of them, fascinated. Maybe it was Nancy Reagan.

  Crikey, and over there I'd bet a motza I was seeing Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones chatting with Julie Andrews. Or maybe they were star look-alikes…

  My gaze settled on someone who was doing a good imitation of being Brad Pitt. And was that shortish bloke Tom Cruise?

  No one was listening to the string quartet playing classical music. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and plates of bities. I snaffled a glass of champagne from one passing by, noticing he was smoothly handsome in a tanned, regular-featured sort of way. He flashed a quick electric smile when I thanked him. Now that I looked around, all the waiters, male and female, appeared to be good-looking.

  Positioning myself beside double decorative columns-the architect of this place had column-mania, that much was clear- I settled down to enjoy eye-surfing the guests to see how many I could identify.

  The columns formed a sort of little alcove, which turned out to be the perfect place to inadvertently eavesdrop. Like eddies in an ocean, people constantly moved around, often halting briefly near me. Bart Toller, one of the patients who'd had his disks stolen, was one. I recognized him immediately, as he'd been getting lots of attention recently for his scene-stealing supporting role in a movie based on Sigmund Freud's theories, a comedy called The Id and I.

  Toller was alone, looking handsome but very down in the mouth. I was actually considering going over to him to say g'day and cheer him up when a man and woman approached, both bouncing along like the power couple I supposed they were.

  "Bart!" he exclaimed.

  "Gavin. Judy. Good to see you." I noted his enthusiasm factor was low.

  "And great to see you, Bart," Gavin said warmly, pumping Toller's hand while simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. "It's been too long. How's Kathy and the kids?"

  Bart Toller's forced smile disappeared. "We're separated. Getting a divorce."

  "Oh, man!" Another hearty whack to the shoulder. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that."

  Bart Toller excused himself and moved away. Gavin turned to Judy. "It's a mystery to me why she's stuck with Toller this long. He's such an asshole."

  "At the salon yesterday I heard Kathy's hot and heavy with her personal trainer. Dumb as a post, but quite a performer between the sheets. Can hardly blame her. Bart's supposed to swing both ways…"

  I was relieved when the couple drifted off. I hate that sort of goss, when someone else's genuine misery provides entertainment.

  "Lime-green suits you," said a cool voice. I'd been so busy celebrity-spotting, I hadn't noticed Ariana approach. She saluted me with her champagne glass. Her pants and tunic top were black, of course, but embroidered with an elaborate gold and red design. Her pale blond hair was down. Her blue eyes glowed. She looked sensational.

  "Do you always wear black?"

  She took a sip of her drink, looking at me over the rim of the glass. "Not always. But usually."

  Suddenly I had the thought that Ariana might be in mourning for someone and that was why she dressed in black. Maybe she'd been multicolored in the past, prior to the tragedy. "I shouldn't ask questions like that, Ariana. Sorry."

  There was an awkward silence between us. I searched for some topic to fill it. "All the waiters are good-looking," I said. "Have you noticed that?"

  "Most are actors, hoping to be discovered. Parties like this let them rub shoulders with the movers and shakers."

  "Does anyone strike it lucky?"

  Ariana shrugged. "Probably not the way they hoped."

  A loud shout of laughter billowed from a large group near us. "Who's that?" I said, indicating a bloke who was tubby and toad-faced but wearing a suit that even I could see had to be very expensive. He stabbed the air with a huge cigar as he spoke in a penetrating, nasal voice to a captivated audience.

  "Harvey Colby. A producer. Very big in the film business."

  A skinny blond came gliding up to attach herself to Colby's free arm. She fixed her wide-eyed stare on him with apparent adoration. She looked half his age and a quarter his weight.

  Seeing me watching the woman, Ariana said, "Trophy wife number four, I believe. Or it could be five."

  A perceptible rise in the hum of conversation indicated something was happening. "It's Jarrod Perkins," someone said in a reverent tone.

  The Aussie director was making his way across the room, an entourage following in his wake. He hadn't gone to a lot of trouble dressing for the function. His blue jeans were faded, and he wore a black T-shirt under a shabby tweed jacket.

  "Behold the artist," said Ariana sardonically.

  The crowd parted before Perkins as though he deserved special attention. People called out greetings, flashed smiles, but nothing slowed his progress until he abruptly halted near us. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and snapped his head around, frowning petulantly.

  This was the first time I'd seen him in the flesh, and all those unflattering photos turned out to be true. He was weedy, stoop-shouldered, and pigeon-toed. His thinning dark hair had been carefully combed over his scalp, but the pink showed through. His most notable feature was his nose, an enormous, curved beak that made him look like a ferocious parrot.

  "Where's the fucking bar?" he half-shouted. "I need a fucking drink." A waiter tried to offer him champagne, but Perkins snarled, "A real drink, not lolly water." He jerked his head at the nearest in his support group. "Get me a bourbon on the rocks. Make it a triple. And don't fart around doing it."

  Astonishingly, there was a ripple of appreciative laughter at his rudeness.

  "Jeez," I whispered to Ariana, "if he's that bad-tempered, he must have heard about the disks."

  "This is Jarrod Perkins on a good day," she said with scorn. "You should see him when things go wrong."

  "Beats me why anyone puts up with him."

  "He can get away with anything because he's a successful director. That makes him a god in this town."

  A delicious picture of Jarrod Perkins in therapy popped into my mind. I visualized Dave Deer taking personal pleasure in delivering the blows in Slap! Slap! Get On With It to this particular patient.

  Ariana gave me a gentle shove. "You shouldn't be seen talking to me for more than a few casual minutes. Circulate, Kylie. Get to know some people. That's what Elise's cousin would do."

  Five minutes later, as I was obediently
mingling, Elise herself found me. "Kylie, dear. There are some people you musrmeet!"

  Soon I was dizzy with introductions to individuals whose names I wouldn't remember and who weren't at all interested in me. Then Elise swept me into the larger dining room, which was absolutely huge and filled with people screaming "Darling!" and laughing extravagantly at one another's jokes. Mounds-no, mountains-of food were arranged on tables lining the walls. White-aproned waiters rushed around serving guests too lazy or busy to serve themselves. There was even a meat station, where a bloke with a wicked carving knife cut slices from various roasted meats.

  So I ate, and chatted, and tried to smile like everyone else. I was getting jack of the nonstop noise and endless parade of faces, though, and longed to escape. But how?

  "And when are you moving in with us, Kylie?" said Dave Deer in my ear. "Tomorrow?" He attempted to put an arm around my waist, but I nimbly moved. Plainly he'd been chug-a-lugging the scotch all night.

  "Perhaps next week. I'll let you know."

  He squeezed my arm. "I look forward to it."

  "Lovely party," I said. "Thank you so much."

  "You're not leaving?" He looked quite put-out. "The night is young, as they say."

  Groan. "I'm still a bit jet-lagged," I said. Of course I wasn't, and he probably knew it, but he nodded obligingly. "Would you thank Elise for me?" He wrinkled his brow. "Your wife," I added helpfully.

  At this point someone claimed Dave's attention, so I took the op to get away. Ariana. I had to find her. A horrible thought struck-perhaps she'd already left. If so, I could throw myself on Fred's mercy. Or I could just slash my wrists right now.

  I found her talking with a pleasantly ordinary man whose best characteristic, at least in these surroundings, was his low-key manner. He ducked his head almost shyly as Ariana introduced him.

  "Kylie, this is Dr. Vincent Adams. He's at Deerdoc, and he's aware you'll be working there next week."

  Dr. Adams gave me a moderate smile, a relief after all the teeth I'd seen exposed tonight. "Call me Vince," he said in a quiet, gentle tone.

  We all made light conversation for a few minutes, then he was called away by an imperious command from an old woman wearing enough bright jewelry to decorate a Chrissie tree.

  "I want to go home," I said to Ariana. "Any chance of a lift? I can't face Fred again."

  "Sure. Do you want to go now?"

  "Blood oath, I do."

  "I'll say my farewells and meet you outside. Go down the drive a little way, so I can pick you up without anyone seeing."

  The night was cool and mercifully quiet. I threw my head back to check out the stars but could only see a few of the brighter ones. Back in the 'Gudge, even on moonless nights, if there were no clouds, the Milky Way arching across the sky provided starlight enough to see your way.

  "Ready to go home, little lady?" said a voice close behind me. "I'm at your service."

  Fred Mills. I turned around fast, nearly taking off his nose. "I've got a lift home, thanks."

  Not pleased, Fred said, "Don't you know the good old American custom that says you go home with the boy who brought you?"

  "No worries. Ariana's leaving now, and I asked her to drop me off."

  With relief I saw Ariana emerge from the building. I'd run the chance of someone seeing us together. "Over here," I shrieked.

  She nodded to Fred. "Evening." To me she said, "Ready?"

  "You've no idea how much."

  When Ariana retrieved her car and we were leaving, I looked back. Fred Mills was standing splay-legged, his arms folded over this corpulent chest.

  I'd made an enemy. My first in L.A.

  NINE

  Sunday was a gorgeous day. I had my breakfast with Julia Roberts in dappled sunshine out in the backyard under the citrus trees. I'd wedged the back door so it couldn't spring closed and lock, dragged out a box from the storeroom to use as a table and a spare chair from the nearest office. Perhaps I could persuade Ariana to fund a garden table and chairs. I tut-tutted to myself. Here I was forgetting half the place was mine. I could simply instruct Fran to get the furniture and it would be done. Or not. Fran was still an unknown quantity. I had no idea at what point she would buck an order, but I didn't doubt there was such a point.

  Jules had plunked her tawny self in a large patch of sunshine, opening her green eyes now and then to check if potential prey had materialized. I realized what a poor excuse for a hunter she was when an inquisitive bird hopped onto a low branch to eyeball her. Julia lashed her tail a bit then lost interest, gave a wide pink yawn, and dozed off again.

  I'd never seen a squirrel in real life before but recognized what the little thing was when it leapt from the roof onto one of the trees and ran headfirst down the trunk, where it stopped, fluffy tail vibrating, upside down. I thought Julia Roberts would jump up and clobber the intruder, or at the very least look dangerous, but she regarded it without interest, and shut her eyes again.

  "Call yourself a cat," I hooted. "Any Aussie feline would be up and at that squirrel."

  My heart did a gymnastic leap when a voice said, "Julia Roberts is incurably lazy." It was the beautiful, the spoken-for Harriet Porter.

  "Crikey," I said, "you scared the living daylights out of me."

  "Didn't Ariana call? She said she would."

  "I wouldn't have heard the phone. Jules and I have been out here for ages."

  She grinned at me. "And you're asking yourself what I'm doing here this Sunday morning, when I could be breakfasting in bed with Beth?"

  This was altogether too intimate a picture, especially as I recalled breakfasts with Raylene that began with bacon and eggs and ended with something far more exciting.

  "I'll bite," I said. "Why are you here?"

  "Ariana called me this morning and asked if I cared to be paid double-time to help you rent a car, get a cell phone, and look at some clothes for your stint as Dr. Deer's assistant."

  "Was it the pleasure of my company that persuaded you or the double time?"

  "I won't lie to you," said Harriet. "I can be bought, I'm afraid. Money's tight this month, and it was an offer too good to refuse."

  "Want a cuppa before we get started? I'll make a fresh pot."

  "Tea? That'd be nice."

  After finding another chair for Harriet and checking how she had her tea, I zipped into the kitchen, filled the electric jug, and switched it on. Tea-making was an art, and I followed to the letter the method Mum had taught me when I was a kid. First, half a cup of boiling water in the teapot to warm it for a few moments, then swirl it around and tip it out. Second, add one spoonful of tea for each person, plus one for the pot. Third, pour in boiling-repeat boiling-water that has to be actually bubbling. Finally, let steep for four minutes.

  When I appeared with the mugs, Harriet was sprawled in a chair with her legs extended into direct sunlight. "What have you been doing? I was about to come in to look for you."

  "Making tea."

  "Oh, of course," said Harriet, light dawning. "You don't use tea bags, do you?"

  "Not on your nelly!"

  Harriet laughed. "What's a nelly?"

  "You know, I've got no idea."

  It was a lovely, peaceful morning. A butterfly or two flapped around, birds tweeted, Julie Roberts rolled on her back and waved her feet in the air. Harriet, positively glowing with health, sat with me in companionable silence.

  I broke it by saying, "You look so terrific. Must be clean living."

  "I think it's the fact that I'm pregnant."

  "You are?"

  My surprise made Harriet grin. "In case you're wondering, Kylie, a gay friend's the father, via a syringe. Genetically, Maurice is excellent. Just as important, Beth and I adore both him and his partner, Gary."

  I felt a jab of envy. Harriet was someone who knew pretty well where her life was going and was clearly delighted with the direction it was taking. Plus she had a loving companion by her side for the journey, and dear friends to light the wa
y…

  I gave myself a hard mental slap. If I kept this up I'd soon be snuffling into my tea.

  I asked, "Does Ariana know you're going to have a baby?"

  "She insists on being godmother."

  Cool, enigmatic Ariana as a godmother, cooing over a kicking infant? "You know Ariana well," I said, phrasing it as a statement, not a stickybeak question.

  "As well as she lets anyone know her."

  "A woman of mystery," I said lightly.

  Harriet gave me an amused look. "Before you ask, I'm not altogether sure."

  I felt myself beginning to blush. "Hell's bells, am I that obvious?

  "Uh-huh."

  Now I was definitely red in the face. "I've been wondering since I met her if she's a lesbian. Dad never said one way or the other. With most people, you can pick up clues, but Ariana…" I shrugged.

  "Beth and I have discussed it at length, believe me. Ariana never talks about her personal life. Beth thinks it's because she doesn't have one, that she's essentially sexless, rather like Lonnie. Neither of them seem particularly interested in relationships."

  "I wouldn't compare Ariana to Lonnie," I said, indignant.

  Harriet chuckled. "Only in that one respect are they alike. And who knows? Maybe Ariana has a scorching sex life we know nothing about." She looked at her watch. "We'd better get a move on-things to do and money to spend."

  I collected a protesting Jules-Melodie had made it clear she wasn't allowed outside without supervision-and followed Harriet through the back door. Ariana with a scorching sex life? The idea didn't please me much. I had to admit I'd rather picture Ariana all alone, high up in her Hollywood Hills home, waiting for someone-well, waiting for me-to come bounding in and declare, "Let me take you to places you've never been before."

  No, I'd have to rephrase. That sounded too much like a tourist agent. How about, "Together, we can make wonderful music"? No, that's worse. I should be more direct. I could say, "I lust after you, burn for you…" Nix that. Ariana would flatten me with her cold blue stare, or worse, laugh. Maybe I should let my actions speak louder than words and-