Roadside Sisters

by Roadside Sisters (epub)

  On Monday Melbourne police formally charged the star Richmond midfielder with possession of a prohibited drug. He will appear in the Melbourne City Magistrates Court next week.

  The Richmond Tigers issued a formal statement last night: ‘The club is not in a position to make any comment regarding Kyle Hutchinson being questioned by police,’ the statement said.

  ‘The police have advised the club that they will detail the circumstances of the interviews at the appropriate time and until then no club official will be available to the media.’

  However the Tele tracked down Brad ‘Kingie’ Brown and he confirmed that Hutchinson has checked into a drug rehabilitation facility ‘on the Goldie’. Brown also said that both he and Tabby’s fiancée, aspiring model Emma Pang, are with him at this secret location and that they were all united as he ‘reviews some personal issues’. He declined to give any more details. The Tigers have now lowered the ‘cone of silence’ over the troubled star. All calls to team management have since gone unanswered.

  Nina dropped the paper on the counter, snatched her champagne glass and fell back onto a stool next to the kitchen counter. Her beaded scuffs dropped to the floor. Annie grabbed the paper, and she and Meredith read the article with their heads together.

  ‘I always told Brad that Tabby was going to be trouble!’ Nina babbled. ‘They’ve pinged him before on drug tests. I knew it was just a matter of time before the police found out.’

  Meredith noticed that Corinne had suddenly engaged her intelligent little bird brain and was staring intently over her champagne as Nina prattled on: ‘Brad’s found coke, ecstasy in his locker. He’s always been an accident waiting to happen.’

  ‘Really?’ Corinne took a casual sip of her drink and reached for an encouraging squeeze of Nina’s hand. ‘How awful! Why didn’t anyone at the club say anything? Why didn’t Brad report him to the police?’ Corinne’s line of questioning was way too forensic for Meredith’s liking. Maybe the seasoned TV interviewer wasn’t as out-of-it as she appeared. Time for a little diversion.

  Meredith waltzed the length of the massive adjoining entertaining area. ‘Corinne, I adore your feature wall!’ She extravagantly praised the lemon granita ‘velour’ textured expanse, which soared a good two storeys to a glass canopy. The paint finish was so three years ago, and she couldn’t miss the giant Warhol-esque portrait of Corinne above the white glass-tiled fireplace. Meredith had always thought that it was acceptable to hang one’s ancestors in pride of place, but a picture of your own self—no matter how fabulous—was pushing the limits of good taste.

  ‘And this portrait of you . . . !’ As Meredith had guessed, her supplication at the shrine of Corinne proved to be irresistible.

  ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’ Corinne was at her side in an instant.

  ‘The whole place is brilliant!’ Meredith surveyed the hand-painted silver orchids on white wallpaper, the mirrored chandelier the size of a Volkswagen, the black sculpted floor rugs . . . and thought that it all looked like an exclusive bordello—appropriate enough for a media whore like Corinne Jacobsen. She ladled on more compliments, and Corinne greedily lapped them up.

  ‘We’ve just had it done. Malcolm brought the decorators over from Switzerland. They did our chalet in Gstaad and we adored it so much that we knew we just wouldn’t find anyone in Australia who could do a better job.’

  Meredith gritted her teeth. That was the first insult from Corinne, and she’d only been in the door ten minutes. No doubt there’d be plenty more to come. Meredith remembered that Corinne had been an expert at the sly put-down. She’d turned it into an art form.

  ‘Meredith, you must go and have a look at the shoe sale in Georges, they’ve got all the big sizes left.’

  ‘Meredith, would you like to borrow my lipstick? I know you have political issues with female frippery, but you look so washed out.’

  The jibes always came in the guise of genuine concern, so there was no way she could reasonably complain.

  ‘And are you still selling your kitchen utensils?’ Insult number two. Meredith thought she might try to drink as much of Corinne’s expensive champagne as was humanly possible.

  Nina bustled between the wooden butcher’s block and the gleaming European appliances, and thought the word ‘kitchen’ was a crude term that didn’t do the room justice. It was vast—as big as the entire downstairs of her house, she estimated. Shafts of light from the ceiling created a theatrical setting in which food was an afterthought. It was the same with the giant American brand-name fridge—as big as a shipping container and complete with rattling ice-maker and water dispenser. Nina had investigated and found precious little inside worth consuming. Luckily the van was groaning with supplies and she had the makings for cannelloni, garlic spinach and asparagus Milanese.

  Wearing an apron had restored Nina’s equilibrium almost as much as reading the story about Brad in the paper. She knew where her boys were now. Brad was on the Gold Coast, Jordy was with her mother, the twins wouldn’t be home until Friday afternoon and . . . this was good champagne, possibly the nicest she’d ever tasted.

  In between chopping onions and garlic and rinsing spinach leaves, Nina poured herself more bubbles. Annie was sitting at the stainless-steel dining table, listening to Corinne rehash the events leading up to her humiliating public sacking. Nina caught the odd filthy oath of revenge and saw Corinne’s head drop on Annie’s shoulder. There were tears. Nina chopped furiously, figuring that once dinner was in the oven she could catch up on the gossip.

  For her part, Annie was smiling, nodding, making all the right sympathetic noises in all the right places, even though Corinne seemed oblivious to the fact that the names of most of the players in the drama were a mystery to her old friend. Annie caught herself wondering what she and Corinne really had in common anymore. They’d formed an alliance as members of Sanctified Soul, sharing a sneaky laugh about Meredith’s sensible shoes. They’d both had rooms in that notorious share house in Collingwood for a while. But those times were long gone. Did Corinne just think of her as a comforting souvenir of the old days, not unlike the moth-eaten Strawberry Shortcake doll Annie had propped on a shelf in her bedroom back at the farm? She noted that Corinne hadn’t asked after her parents, or indeed anything else about her life. The thought of this made Annie shift out of her reach.

  Meredith had fled the kitchen and was pacing the other end of the room—appraising various objets d’art with an expert eye, idly flipping through fashion magazines and helping herself to more champagne. She picked up a silver-framed photograph of Malcolm the billionaire standing on the slopes next to . . . Was that the Duchess of York? What a self-satisfied, puffed-up old fool he looked with his stupid pink aviator glasses perched on his fat head.

  By the time Nina laid the dishes on the table, no-one was particularly hungry. They picked at the food as they talked and drank, then drank some more. Nina unearthed a few nuggets of information from Corinne that would be a hit with her P&C committee—Candice Byrne, Corinne’s younger rival on Daylight, had recently had a nose job and was secretly dating the weather-man; the high-profile host of the quiz show Nina loved was addicted to painkillers; and the late night newsreader was having an affair with the boss of the station. She was thrilled with the quality of the dirt dished at the table.

  Meredith realised that she was well on her way to being ‘tired and emotional’, but she still had enough of her defences intact against Corinne’s dark arts to wonder if all these revelations were designed to prise more information out of Nina.

  Not to be left out of the boozy confessional, Annie owned up to a six-month affair with the married editor of the local newspaper. Corinne and Nina ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’, and there was a round of salacious bedroom talk, during which Corinne revealed that she and her husband, Malcolm Pearson, the billionaire packaging tycoon, hadn’t had sex in six months and she was feeling most neglected in the bedroom. It was all wildly indiscreet, even accounting for the effects of the ch
ampagne. Meredith watched Corinne through her glass.

  And then Nina leaned forward and offered one of her own celebrity tidbits—‘Tabby’ Hutchinson had come to Brad and asked for an advance on his salary because he wanted to buy his girlfriend, the nubile Miss Emma Pang, famous swimsuit model, a new pair of breasts.

  ‘Noooo! So did the club cough up?’ Corinne asked merrily.

  Nina had opened her mouth to reply, when Meredith finally spoke up, intercepting the ball right in front of the goal posts. ‘Why didn’t you turn up to the concert that night, Corinne?’

  The conversation slid on muddy ground and cannoned into the boundary fence. Annie and Nina picked themselves up and groaned in protest: ‘Meredith! Come on, forget it.’

  ‘No. I want to answer that.’ Corinne groped for her glass and stood, holding the edge of the table to steady herself. ‘I didn’t come that night because I knew Donald was going to be there.’

  Annie attempted to head off the confrontation with a lame, ‘What does it matter? Here, have another drink.’ But it was too late—even she, pissed as she was, could see that.

  ‘And what did Donald being there have to do with it?’ Meredith inquired.

  ‘You’re not going to like this, Meredith, and I have tried to shield you from it all these years . . .’

  ‘Go on, we’re both big girls now,’ said Meredith evenly. Annie and Nina shrank back into their seats. This was going to be ugly.

  ‘Donald tried to rape me.’ The word ‘rape’ was airborne. The spectators all breathed in and watched where it would land.

  Meredith took the mark. She cleared her throat, sipped her champagne. ‘Oh yes. And when was this exactly?’

  ‘After rehearsal, the night before that gig. He drove me home and grabbed at me in the front seat of the car. Ripped my dress. So there you are, Meredith. That’s why I didn’t come. Deal with it.’

  ‘That is an utter fabrication.’ Meredith glared at her.

  ‘Oh really? Is it?’ Corinne turned to Annie, who had her elbows on the table and was rubbing her eyes as if she must have been dreaming this entire exchange. ‘Annie? You and I were sharing a house together then. You’d gone home early that night. You remember how I came in the front door. How was I? Tell her.’ Corinne stabbed the air in Meredith’s direction. Her wide diamond-studded platinum bracelet glittered in a column of light.

  ‘Yes, Annie, why don’t you tell me. How was Corinne?’

  ‘I don’t want . . .’ Annie mumbled into her hands.

  ‘TELL ME!’ Meredith was also on her feet now, and leaning halfway across the table.

  ‘She was crying. She said Donald wanted to have sex with her . . .’

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘I . . .’

  Corinne took two steps and stumbled. ‘Are you saying I’m a liar?’

  Nina grabbed at Corinne’s arm and tried to pull her back into her chair.

  ‘I’m saying,’ snarled Meredith, ‘you’re a fake. Everything about you is manufactured—“As seen on TV”—and so is this pathetic fantasy. No wonder you’re married to a man who made his money in cardboard.’

  Corinne slammed her glass down and folded her arms. ‘And you’ve always been jealous! You were the one who wanted to be a star, but you were never fucking good enough.’ She didn’t seem to be drunk now—every word was crystal clear. ‘You thought you’d married a big-time film director. He’s a sleaze merchant. The biggest joke of all is that he makes reality TV. He’s the one who’s a liar. He’s had you fooled for years.’

  Meredith jumped back and sent her chair flying. She smashed her glass on the floor. In a reflex action Nina was immediately on her hands and knees, searching for shards on the marble tiles.

  ‘Did you know, Nina?’ Meredith demanded.

  Nina looked up, appalled that she might be dragged into the fight. ‘Only what Annie said . . .’

  ‘So you ALL believed Corinne’s filthy lie! Well, FUCK ALL OF YOU! There—you must be pleased with my obscenity, Annie.’ And with that Meredith turned and ran into the shadowy courtyard.

  ‘She’s a bitch. She always has been, and you both know it.’ Corinne shredded the foil on another bottle with perfectly tended pearly fingernails.

  ‘No she’s not.’ Nina was leaning forward on the table, her elbows on the stainless steel as the room spun in front of her.

  ‘You don’t even know Meredith anymore.’ Annie rattled ice cubes into a glass from the fridge dispenser and topped it with water. She turned to see Corinne, champagne in hand, still bright-eyed and pacing.

  ‘I know enough to know she put Donald through hell! He could have been in Hollywood now, making movies, if she hadn’t been so selfish. All that effort . . . for fucking what? Selling French spatulas to bored housewives? Don’s missed out on a lot of opportunities over the years.’

  ‘You still see Donald?’

  ‘We’re in the same business. Hard not to. I’ve caught up with him a few times.’ Corinne sniffed and pinched at her nose.

  There was no doubt about it, thought Annie, when it came to drinking Corinne was punching well above her minuscule weight. Perhaps there was an intriguing explanation for her frequent sojourns to her fragrant upstairs bathroom. Nina was face down on the table now, and breathing like a draughthorse with a chaff bag over its head.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve forgiven him for trying to rape you.’ A blast of icy water had defogged Annie’s brain. She was coolly surveying the crime scene. ‘That’s very big of you.’

  ‘All that was twenty years ago. We’ve spoken about it. He’s apologised. We were different people then.’

  ‘But you’re still furious with Meredith? Sorry, I don’t get it.’

  Corinne turned, her pupils two glittering pinpricks in the taut, pale canvas of her face. ‘She’s so high and mighty, as if she thinks she’s better than everyone else. Taking the moral high ground. She was always like that and she hasn’t changed. I saw her tonight pawing my things like some fucking know-all from Antiques Roadshow. I know what she was thinking.’

  ‘What was she thinking?’

  ‘That I don’t deserve all this!’ Corinne flung her arm to the ceiling. ‘That I must have fucked my way to where I am. That I wasted my life on something stupid and inconsequential.’ Corinne downed the contents of her glass. ‘That’s what everyone thinks, apparently.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘You’re in real estate, you’re forty, you’re single. You tell me how our lives get wasted on meaningless shit.’

  ‘You’re pissed, Corinne.’

  ‘Oh, truly! Why don’t you all just piss off.’ Corinne turned her back and swiped the bottle from the table. Annie shook Nina’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on, Nina, sweetie. We’re going.’

  Nina lifted her head. Straw-blonde hair was sticking out like the stuffing from a scarecrow. A string of saliva dangled from the corner of her open mouth to the sleeve of her cotton shirt. ‘Huh?’

  Annie hooked her hands under Nina’s armpits and heaved her to her feet. As she steered Nina towards the door Corinne followed on spindly heels that peck, peck, pecked on the floor tiles. She would have the final word: that was part of her contract with the world.

  ‘You might be content with the way things have turned out for you, but it’s not over for me. Corinne Jacobsen’s got plenty to say yet. You just watch.’

  ‘’Night, Corinne. Lovely to see you,’ Nina slurred and waved a floppy hand. ‘Thanks for having us.’

  Annie, her foot on the bottom step of the RoadMaster, looked back to see stumps of candles flickering. She could make out Corinne, still restlessly pacing, a small black insect flitting among the flames.

  It was just on dawn and the bats were coming home to roost in Corinne’s garden when Nina attempted to back the RoadMaster through the wrought-iron gates. She had an award-winning hangover. The pressure behind her eyes made her head feel like an overinflated basketball.

  Annie was in the laneway,
feebly calling directions in between leaning against the fence to cool her forehead on the sandstone blocks. It was while she was picking grit out of her eyebrows that the corner of the van collected a pillar and sent a carved stone gargoyle crashing to the ground. Nina climbed from the front seat and they both stood surveying the pile of pink sandstone rubble.

  ‘Ah, stuff it!’ said Annie. ‘She won’t be up yet. Let’s just go—I’ll ring her later.’

  ‘Bloody hell, look at the van!’ Nina gasped as she saw one side of the aluminium had folded like tinfoil. Annie shrugged. There was nothing that could be done about it now. Another five minutes of manoeuvring and the van had cleared the lane-way and swung into the quiet street. With the tension of it all, Nina thought she might throw up on the steering wheel.

  ‘Navigate me to Centennial Park and we’ll stop there for the day and head off late this afternoon,’ directed Nina. Annie reached for the street directory and saw that Meredith had organised her corner of the cabin perfectly: the road maps were neatly stacked under her feet; the tourist brochures were tucked into the compartment by her side; the glovebox held sunglasses, sunblock and packets of lollies, all tidily arranged on top of the elegant travel diary. It was Meredith herself who was a mess. She was still passed out, fully dressed, on top of the bed down the back.

  Soon the van was parked under a Port Jackson fig tree at the edge of Centennial Park. From the front seats Nina and Annie watched a parade of early morning joggers, walkers and cyclists with iPods plugged in to their ears. They groaned in unison and headed back to their beds.

  A short taxi ride and Nina was sitting at the open window of a café overlooking Bondi Beach. A low, sodden canopy of cloud hung over the water, threatening to rip and dump rain for the first time since they had left home. She watched a freakish parade saunter past on the footpath in front of her perch—seedy derros swigging from bottles in paper bags; Goths wearing skull pendants and nose-rings; Japanese tourists toting dinky Gucci handbags and photographing everything in sight; half-naked yoga freaks with rolled-up rubber mats tucked under toned arms. It was 11 am on a Thursday, and she was in a foreign land.