5 Ways to be Famous Now

by Maurilia Meehan

  Still, Lily owed them her first major career success, didn’t she? Her debut newspaper feature had been an exposé about systemic abuse in Araballa Orphanage. It was safe to expose the mysteries of other people’s lives. By throwing that letter in the fire, she had chosen not to further investigate the more dangerous puzzle of her own origins.

  That act of destruction had made her fatalistic. Would her own son visit her in her coming decrepitude? If not, wouldn’t it be poetic justice? But would she want him to see her decline? He always liked to see her smiling. She would refuse the old folks’ home and just disappear from his life. Kinder that way.

  She could emulate that eccentric woman she had once interviewed in a caravan park in tropical Queensland. Happy with her tiny garden of succulents and collection of gnomes behind the miniature picket fence marking out her territory. And on her washing line, strung up between the awning and a scrubby tree, seven bathers, seven sarongs and seven pairs of thongs did their daily round, making up her entire wardrobe. She told Lily about the constant turnover of neighbours, who supplied her with enough gossip to earn cups of tea and bikkies from the next arrivals. Enjoying her status as an expert, she showed newcomers the same old local attractions. Yes, Lily would adopt this woman’s solution. Including the secret exit plan that the lady had whispered to her, smiling blissfully.

  ‘Off the record, love. That’s what you reporters say, isn’t it? One day, if I think they want to move me out of here, or just if the sand gets too hot under me feet, I’ll just swim way out to the horizon. Never come back.’

  To merge with nature like that, the way the woman’s brown gnarled feet were already starting to merge with the earth.

  But here, thank god, was Lily’s third and cheer-making cosmo. This time she did not play with it, admire the droplets, pretend that she could take it or leave it. She downed it swiftly and, as always, her mood lifted immediately. She embraced this familiar, anticipated personality change. The rising optimism. The sudden air of complete sobriety.

  Her luck was surely changing. This cruise brought with it an opportunity for a big story. So, with the last gulp, she lifted her glass in a salute to an invisible providence. She turned her stool from the bar, crossed her knees so that her hemline rose a few centimetres and her new lime-green heels flashed in the light of the faux-gas street lamp. Confident that she appeared if not employed then at least highly employable, she surveyed the crowd, boldly seeking out likely subjects for her comeback story. A feel-good feature for the colour supplement about life on board a cruise ship should find a ready market.

  It had been so long since she had seen her name in print.

  But her attention was caught by a poster on the opposite wall. One of many shipboard celebrities, the face of the woman was somehow familiar. A TV cook? A travel show presenter? Not with that prune face. Lily put on her glasses and peered intently for a moment. She picked up an activities brochure from the bar and efficiently ran her finger along the names of various semi-celebs, ageing golf stars and TV hosts, until it stopped beside the photo of the same woman.

  Bingo. Keynote speaker, Monica Frequen. Of course. Lily remembered her as the laughing party girl of twenty years ago, not as this grimacing professional. No wonder she hadn’t recognised her. Lily had followed Monica’s career enough to know that her books focused on sad, devoted wives in dull marriages, and that each novel was dedicated to her husband Frederico, whose foibles she exposed with coruscating honesty. Lily’s shoulders tightened again at the mere thought of being so analysed, even though, at the height of her own career, such exposés of others had been her bread and butter.

  Who would have thought that Monica, the life of every party, would turn out to be the stable marrying kind? Lily was looking forward to catching a glimpse of the devoted husband, willing to pay the price of being married to a famous author. What a scoop if she could manage the first-ever interview with the reclusive Frederico Frequen. Her old contacts would seek her out once more.

  Lily had been professionally shunned since writing two unrelated articles, years apart. In 1998 she had written an account of how a ‘trusted source’ had allowed her to view exclusive footage of Saddam Hussein romping with teenage boys in golden Roman baths. Her story had caused a sensation. Regular work had followed. Then, a few years later, her ‘trusted source’ had come up with grainy images of Osama bin Laden sitting at a campfire while bejewelled pubescent boys, dressed as dancing girls, filed past him in some kind of selection process. Every so often he would throw a coin at a boy, who would prostrate himself before his master. Again, her story had made the front page, and it was then that they had dubbed her the Queen of Exposé.

  Until the death knell had sounded for her reputation as a freelancer. Both of her star stories had been concocted by a CIA disinformation unit and disseminated to what they termed ‘useful idiots working in media’. No one else had bitten except Lily Zelinski. Now no editor would take her calls.

  But all that was about to change. She would ingratiate herself back into respectable journalistic circles by returning to port not only with a harmless colour feature about cruise-ship life, but also, if she could find him, an interview with the Frederico Frequen, the keynote speaker’s elusive husband.

  3

  PERSONAGE B: ARIADNE JONES

  Although she was settled at a café table, Ariadne Jones had no interest in food. She preferred her stomach to feel pleasantly hollow. She could have lived on bottled water and crusts of bread like the saints but, aware of social niceties, she feigned concern with stirring her black coffee, being careful not to mark her beige mesh gloves.

  Being surrounded on this ship by active seniors, as they were termed at Lone Pines Aged Sanctuary where she worked, was not at all disconcerting for Ariadne Jones. In fact, they made her feel younger than her forty-seven years. But what did upset her was the sight of any women her own age who had failed to have work done, who did not look after herself as she should.

  How could that woman over there at the Grisette bar with her dreadful lime-green scarf, for example, bear to present her baggy face in public? Another woman might have frowned at this thought, but Ariadne Jones could not. Every three months, Ariadne Jones kept rejuvenation appointments with her skin specialist and every day she anointed her entire body with magic potions to ward off fine lines and age spots. A freckle at her age was not cute. She was at war with sun damage, rough or bumpy skin, loss of firmness and elasticity, sagging, stretch marks from weight gain or loss. No childbirth, thank goodness. Dry skin, exposure to sun and environmental irritants were her sworn enemies. She went through a tube of 50-plus sunscreen weekly and abhorred the cruel sun to such an extent that, at Lone Pines, she had volunteered to work a permanent night shift.

  There, returning to her single staff unit at dawn, she would smother her enemy cells with fruity creams and, with a hairnet over her set, she would sleep on her back. To fall asleep, she pretended that she had a husband who worked the day shift and shared her bed for only two hours before he rose to get ready for work — but it didn’t matter as their love was spiritual. Perhaps she would meet such a man on this romantic cruise she had won in the raffle?

  That woman with the green scarf was looking at her. Ariadne Jones flicked back her heavy blonde fringe, pulled down the short skirt of her white frock. It had a tricky little peplum, tailored by her own talented hands with her usual attention to period detail. She straightened the bracelet with the secret mirror on the inside wrist and checked that her precious diamante-encrusted heart pendant was still there. It was perfectly acceptable to wear it with every outfit, as she did. The magazines would call it a signature piece.

  Ariadne Jones had told all her elderly charges at Lone Pines about the miracle of her winning a ticket for this cruise because it gave them reason for hope.

  ‘It could happen to you too,’ she insisted to each one. ‘You never know when the hand of God will reach down …’

  Yes, miracles happened to those wh
o believe. She wished she could shout this truth to the world. Was this trip not the proof of God’s bounty? He had led her into her caring profession, and the closer to dementia her charges were the more she adored the work. For, ever since her time in Volunteers Abroad and that miraculous encounter which had so changed her life, she had sensed warm, pulsating auras around those close to death. Felt the shadows of angels falling across their beds. And wasn’t it a sign that so many of the demented ones believed that Ariadne Jones was actually the charitable princess, come to console them in their last days?

  That rude woman was definitely staring. Was there something wrong with Ariadne Jones’s look? She took hold of her heart-shaped pendant, caressing its diamante surface, as she always did when nervous. She pretended to take a tiny sip from her coffee cup, then, patting her lips with a serviette, picked up the menu for the evening’s banquet. She was optimistic that she would find something she could actually swallow.

  Were people optimists because good things happened to them? Or did good things happen because they were optimists? Ariadne Jones and her staff prayer circle at Lone Pines had conducted clandestine experiments, and whenever they prayed for dying unbelievers the objects of their attention always showed signs of recovery. The prayer circle was inspired by ancient gospels not approved by the official church. They believed that on the night baby Jesus was born, a star had exploded. Its radiation had injected fresh life matter into the universe, new building blocks of life, and freed the world forever from the cruel and vengeful god of the Old Testament. Jesus was a starburst. Jesus was Love. Jesus was …

  Ariadne Jones’s finger, moving over the menu options, hesitated between omelette and risotto, both of which were easy to push around, uneaten, on her plate. But then the angels guided her to the potato gratin. As she ticked it, she felt a spasm in her stomach which could actually have been hunger. The sea air perhaps? All part of this miracle cruise. She thanked God once more for his attention to her particular needs, even unto sending her to Antarctica, rather than to a tropical, burning sun. And she marvelled again because that little man selling raffle tickets at Lone Pines had been God’s angel in disguise.

  The coffee was bitter in her mouth. She craved tonic water. It was already five o’clock and the captain had still not arrived, so Ariadne Jones wondered if she could slip away to her darkened cabin to sip the tonic she had requested there.

  In her cabin, she had already arranged a shrine on the bedside table, just like at home. A simple framed photo, a devotional text and a candle. She would be able to hear the announcement of the Ghost Tour from her cabin, so she could spend the intervening time in its privacy, in quiet devotion.

  4

  PERSONAGE C: SHANTI BOUNTY

  A lanky middle-aged hippie woman in Birkenstocks rushed to secure Ariadne’s vacated table opposite the Grisette. On it was an apparently untouched black coffee but that, of course, held no appeal for Shanti Bounty. She pushed it to one side and busied herself setting up her lidded Ecokup. A solicitous waiter presented a wine glass and, unasked, began pouring.

  ‘On the house for the signorina.’

  She would have said nothing, but then he winked at her. Did he assume that any woman alone would be flattered by such gallantry? Just because he was so handsome.

  ‘Take away that poison. I’ve got my own drink.’

  Even to her own ears, her voice sounded sharp, and in fact a woman at the Grisette turned to look at her. God, why would any woman choose to wear white? So much upkeep. And that hideous matching lime-green scarf and bag and shoes? Why was the woman looking at her? Had she spoken so loudly?

  All this petty social interaction stuff, like talking to waiters, she had once happily left to her ex-husband. In fact, it was what she missed most about being married to him. Teddy had been good at it. He enjoyed talking with strangers and it meant she never developed a knack for it. But she had lived alone for twenty childless years now and it was too late to have a baby.

  It always helped for a woman alone to look busy and she genuinely had a lot to organise. She uncapped her felt-tip pen and pulled out a sheaf of flyers from her shoulder bag. She always travelled with a few and now she seized the opportunity to organise some impromptu sessions. Among the cornucopia of classes and lectures on board, strangely, there was no yoga. As addicted to daily practice as any athlete, Shanti had already selected a suitable spot by the pool. And she could borrow mats from the gym. She busied herself with the flyers, inscribing the location and the time of the first class at midnight tonight — in celebration of the full moon. She intended getting the captain’s permission, if she ever showed up for this so-called Ghost Tour.

  Shanti recapped her pen, then killed a few more moments neatening the updated pile of flyers. To quell her impatience, she was just about to close her eyes, ready for a short meditation, when she had a strong intuition. She was still being observed. She glanced over to the Grisette and saw that it was the lime-green woman. This time, Shanti stared back.

  The shock of recognition made her knock over her Ecokup. Her drink oozed green sludge onto the flyers. Was it really her? A second look at that woman’s face and this cruise ship was transformed into one of the lower levels of hell. What terrible karma was responsible for this punishment? Shanti’s hands trembled as she retrieved the soggy flyers. Desperately she sat straight, hands on her lap, and closed her eyes. She must use this dreadful moment to practise equanimity of mind. Moving her lips in order to improve her focus, she repeated the mantra over and over.

  Brooding on sense objects causes attachment … annihilation follows.

  The guru’s wise words failed to calm her now. How could they or any other words? That showy lime-green woman was the same one who had stolen her husband Teddy, by deliberately becoming pregnant to him. Teddy had always insisted that he was not ready for children whenever Shanti suggested they start a family. So Shanti had remained childless, and all because of this traitorous woman sitting across from her.

  Annihilation follows.

  The teachings were all very well. But what monk in a cave had ever had to face passion like this? It was easy to believe in the theory that brooding gives rise to obsession, but more difficult to extend it to her own case. Brooding on fantasies of revenge leads to … She had battled with these demons for so many lonely years. But now, inflamed by the sight of that woman and despite her years of yogic discipline, Shanti was powerless to resist the suffocating grip of her obsession. She felt the hubbub of the passengers around her growing faint, far away. If she was going to transcend at last, to finally leave her bodily form, she would be overjoyed.

  And why else would the world around her be growing so strangely muted?

  5

  GHOST TOUR

  Captain Kirstin waited at the top of the golden staircase until all eyes were upon her and silence had fallen over the rabble. Then, rather than apologising for her tardiness, she glanced at her watch and conveyed, merely by a lifted brow, that the passengers were, in fact, early. As she slowly descended the steps, they transformed themselves, without instruction, into the neat gaggle that they sensed she required. Ready to follow their leader anywhere.

  Magnificent in her tailored white uniform festooned with braid and medals and ribbons, her exquisitely groomed black coiffure framing her tanned square face, the captain set a military pace ahead of the first of the group.

  Following Captain Kirstin out of the reception salon, the jostling crowd moved through the first set of mirrored doors that divided the ship into small hermetic worlds. Turning a corner, they were delighted to find themselves suddenly trooping across a vast and sunny St Mark’s Square, complete with cloistered cafés and cooing pigeons.

  Ariadne Jones had had to rush up to the salon after hearing the announcement in her cabin. Now she was trailing the crowd, walking close to the shop windows and checking the line of her hem in the reflective glass. Lily was keeping pace with the bulk of the group, practised at taking the short, rapid steps
demanded by her tight skirt and heels. And Shanti, still in shock from discovering that her nemesis was on board, had so far managed to keep well away from her. Striding ahead easily in her health shoes and free-flowing hippie skirts, she tried to focus on catching up with the captain.

  ‘See to the left? A canal in Venezia, and our very own gondolier Sergio, calling to you in his local dialect. Don’t be shy, that’s right, wave back. But move along. Straight ahead, ladies and gentlemen, through those doors, we have … you see? Here we are in a nightscape of the Eiffel Tower and the Grands Boulevards lit up for your pleasure.’

  Although gratified by their gasps of wonder, the captain knew this was nothing compared with the reaction she’d get to the magnificence of the next attraction. Slowly rising from beneath the floor, like a clockwork pop-up book, were replica food stalls from the old Les Halles, traders beckoning with samples of baguettes and cheeses, wine and olives.

  ‘Look, there’s Jimmy Swelter, from Chefs You Wish You Knew.’ The gigantic master chef, in tall starched hat, was picking sullenly at prosciutto while being levered aloft and into view, a little before time. He nodded, lifting his cap in sardonic acknowledgement of the wild applause, before throwing autographed banquet menus into the crowd.

  ‘Tonight I recommend you choose my traditional meats, prepared in the grand Victorian manner.’

  ‘What about coeliacs?’

  Jimmy scowled at this insult that Mrs Beeton could never have imagined. He did not reply.

  The captain was pleased to take back the reins. ‘All your wishes are catered for. Vegan, fructose, coeliac, diabetic. And why not try vegetables in the Middle Eastern style? You can even take a cooking class with our very own little Muslim. Fatima, where are you, my dear?’

  On Lady Luck, Captain Kirstin had included a token black man, but now it was more fashionable to have a salon Muslim. At the interview, Fatima’s long slim arms and what could be glimpsed of her perfect ankles, under her formfitting designer maxi-dress of clinging pink fabric, had been clad in skin-tight flesh-coloured fabric which only enhanced her charm. The complex origami folds and tucks of the sparkling pink headdress had reminded the captain, bizarrely, of the alien beauty of Star Trek’s Seven-of-Nine. Where did cloth leave off and flesh begin?