by Chris Wheat
‘Angelo, I’ve got this big problem, too.’
‘Bigger than mine?’
There was another pause. ‘No, not really.’
Josh did sound a bit stressed. But he was the Supportive Friend – so he should do his duty.
‘So help me,’ said Angelo. ‘What do I do?’
‘What if she dresses like a guy? You like girls dressed up like guys.’
‘What? Hey!’
‘That’s a bit of a turn-on, you said. I remember.’
That was true. He thought for a bit. ‘Maybe.’
If she said yes, he could handle it like that. Go out with Matilda for show; go out with Zeynep in secret. Cool. Would Zeynep handle that? He’d have to be on his best behaviour – put no pressure on her; be happy in the laundry; get into the cupboard without complaint. But it was the solution!
‘Ah, Josh, you’re the man. I wish I could think like a gay guy.’
‘It’s not exactly…’
‘Josh, man. I owe you big time. Anything.’ He felt good again. This was a great idea. ‘See you.’ He hung up and lay back on the carpet and smiled.
It was crazy, but it might work – if Zeynep would agree. She could wear her brother’s clothes. She could wear his? Too big.
But hey… He punched Josh’s number again.
‘Josh, do you have any clothes she could wear? You’re about the same size.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Listen, how about you—’
‘Cool. Lend her some, will you? See ya.’
He got up. He would go to see good old Zey now. He grabbed a calendar. He looked okay in the photo. Good even. It showed a spotlight shining on him in a darkened room. The fishing tackle was in shadow, thankfully. They’d airbrushed out the little finger. Angelo Tarano displays his immaculate handballing skills. He would take her the calendar to bribe her into dressing up. She’d be rapt to get a picture of her boyfriend handballing. What girl wouldn’t?
RULES
FOR HARMONIOUS LIVING
‘I CAN’T CIVILISE THEM. Who’s got the time?’ Chelsea had moaned to Queen Elizabeth I Barbie, a recent and rather domineering purchase. It was Sunday, the day she’d been dreading: Craig and his father were set to move in that very afternoon.
‘I know thou hast the heart of a weak and feeble schoolgirl, yet thou dost have the stomach of an ox!’ boomed Queen Elizabeth I Barbie. ‘Go forth and draw up a list of rules.’
So that’s what she had done: drawn up her rules for harmonious living. In ten minutes she’d done it. Rules for Harmonious Living, she’d called it. She read it to the Barbies. It received their unanimous support.
Chelsea rolled her rules up like a proclamation and searched for a ribbon. Steppin’ Out Barbie offered hers, but it was too small. No matter. She marched downstairs, clutching the document.
Her mother was reclining on a sofa with one of her work folders propped open on her knees. ‘Mother, if Mr Ryan and his son have to live with us—’
Her mother, looking up over her glasses, interrupted: ‘Why don’t you call him Tony, Chelsea?’ She went back to reading her folder.
Clearly her mother was being deliberately nasty. Chelsea felt like hurling the folder through the plate-glass window – that would get her attention.
‘Mother. I have something to read to you.’
Her mother looked up again.
‘If they have to live with us, I want them to obey these rules.’
Chelsea’s mother closed her folder and cocked her head to one side. Chelsea began:
Rules for Harmonious Living by Chelsea Dean
1 Chelsea Dean's clothes are never to be washed with the clothes of Annette Dean's current de facto or the de facto's son.
2 No expectorating in bathrooms or on the front lawn.
3 Chelsea Dean's personal assistant has permission to drive the Mercedes in a dire emergency.
4 The Nutbush, the Hokey-Pokey, the Time Warp and all Elvis Presley songs are prohibited, as is dancing to any of them.
5 Tradesmen's vans are not to be parked in front of the house. Nor is the garage to be used for panel beating.
6 Chelsea Dean is to take her meals in her bedroom, on the balcony or in the study.
7 The expression 'yabba dabba doo' is banned.
8 No whistling.
After reading her list, Chelsea raised her eyebrows for a response. Her mother’s face showed no emotion, but she asked for the list and read it silently to herself.
‘Remove the words current de facto, please. And no, the pool boy cannot drive the car under any circumstances.’ She handed it back.
Chelsea was silent. In any negotiation it was wise to concede a point or two in order to get the rest. Besides, it was easy to concede the last point because her father had been distracted on the day he left and she had been able to borrow his car keys.
‘All right,’ Chelsea sighed eventually. ‘So long as the rest applies.’
Her mother smiled slyly. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Have you done your homework?’
Chelsea controlled her desire to push over the drinks table and returned to her room.
‘Death can be quick and painless,’ Defence Attorney Barbie reminded her. ‘Allow Ryan Senior to use the spa, then throw in the blow heater.’
‘A dead de facto’s the best de facto,’ Police Officer Barbie announced.
‘Lock him in the sauna and turn it up to forty degrees,’ suggested Titanic Barbie. ‘They never survive.’
‘Chels, the list should be on the fridge door,’ Rapunzel Barbie pointed out.
Absolutely. She wasn’t going to lie down and accept the situation. The Ryans would have to learn to fit in or they’d have to leave. Chelsea grabbed the list and marched back down the stairs. She could hear her mother on the phone in the study.
She crept closer and listened.
‘…I know, he’s been wonderful …very handy…’
It was one of the girlfriends.
‘Yes, his name’s Craig...well they don’t get on she’s become a right little vixen lately … Vistaview …well, it’s given her a chance to lord over a new bunch … no fees to speak of… she’s much cheaper to run now.’ Her mother laughed. ‘Absolutely. She probably should be hogtied … yes, well you’d need to use a tranquillising dart to stop her…’
That was it! Chelsea stormed into the study and pulled the phone jack out of the wall.
‘CHEAP! VIXEN! HOGTIED! TRANQUILLISING DART! ’ she screamed. ‘You hate me! I’m gone. You’ll never see me again! EVER! ’
ON THE
STREETS
THE FIRST DOOR CHIME was followed by an urgent knock. Grasping Juliet’s toothbrush, Zeynep Yarkan hurried to the door. She hoped it was Angelo come to tell her he had resigned from those horrible Hobart Cockatoos. But when she opened the door she found Chelsea Dean, and Chelsea’s eyes were red and brimming.
‘Chelsea! What’s wrong?’
‘I’m on the streets. My mother is going to hogtie me and shoot me with a tranquillising dart.’ She burst into tears. ‘Can I stay here?’
Gripping a Gucci overnight bag with a British Airways sticker and wearing a tracksuit and CK sunglasses, Chelsea looked both tragic and stylish. Zeynep stood back as her friend charged inside. A taxi drew away from the house – fortunately it wasn’t her father’s.
Except for Angelo, very few school friends had ever visited Zeynep, and she had never encouraged it. Her parents didn’t seem to like anyone her own age.
‘Come to the laundry?’ Zeynep said as gently as she could and touched poor Chelsea on the shoulder.
‘May I have a tissue, please? Two tissues if you can spare them.’
Zeynep was embarrassed. Her mother never bought tissues.
‘We only have handkerchiefs, Chels.’
Chelsea rolled her damp eyes. ‘Well, I’ll have one of your handkerchiefs, I suppose. Is there nowhere else to talk?’
‘The laundry belongs to me now,’ said Zeynep. ‘And it’s clean.�
��
Chelsea sighed and Zeynep led the way.
‘Craig and his father’ – Chelsea spat the words his father as if they were poison – ‘are moving in as we speak. I can’t possibly live with them – just imagine the stench of testosterone.’
Zeynep stroked Chelsea’s arm and wondered what testosterone smelt like.
Chelsea moaned. ‘I have nowhere to live.’ She began to cry again. Zeynep handed over her own handkerchief. Chelsea examined it and blew her nose.
‘Where are your parents?’
‘At my cousins’ place.’
Chelsea sat down on Zeynep’s homework chair. ‘Zeynep, you’re my best friend at Vistaview, so I’m turning to you in my evening of need. Could I have one of those strong Turkish coffees – and something sweet, too. Do you have ice-cream?
I’d like a bowl of toffee ice-cream. I need a sugar hit. It’s good for stress.’ She looked down at the toothbrush Zeynep still had in her hand. ‘Did I stop you brushing your teeth?’
‘I was brushing Juliet’s.’
‘Fur or teeth?’
‘Teeth.’
Chelsea looked away and sighed even more loudly. ‘Well, spit spot with the coffee and ice-cream. I’ll be here in your laundry: the perfect place for a guest, I don’t think.’ She dabbed her eyes.
‘Those coffees are actually for men, Chelsea.’
Chelsea looked quite annoyed. ‘Food and beverages are not sex-specific, Zeynep! I’ll have a very strong man’s coffee then.’
Zeynep hurried off to the kitchen, turned on the jug, then dashed out the back to finish Juliet’s teeth. Juliet quite liked getting her teeth cleaned; she wagged her tail. Zeynep wondered how she was going to tell Chelsea it was out of the question that she stay the night.
When she dashed back in, the jug had boiled. She found her father’s coffee and one of her mother’s best cups with minarets and date palms on it and got out the sugar. Poor Chelsea. She was an only child and lived in the most perfect house in the world, but she had never really found true happiness. Her parents had split up, and she’d fought with her mother. What she really needed now was a caseworker.
Spooning some coffee into a saucepan, Zeynep wondered what to do about the toffee ice-cream. They only had ice-cream for birthdays, but there was baklava in the cupboard. Although it was Mehmet’s yet again, and he would go off his head when he found it was missing, a good Muslim family is always hospitable and Chelsea had warned Zeynep many times about being selfish. She got out the cake and put it on one of her mother’s Views of Istanbul guest plates. The smell of coffee was filling the kitchen as the saucepan on the stove gently rumbled.
‘Where are you?’ Chelsea called from the laundry.
‘Coming!’ She poured out a little coffee and carefully made her way to the laundry, where Chelsea was staring miserably out the window.
‘May I have another handkerchief?’
Zeynep put the cake and coffee down on the top of the washing machine and rushed off to her bedroom. Chelsea kept you on your toes.
When she came back, Chelsea took the handkerchief and blew very hard. Zeynep rested her head on Chelsea’s back.
‘I feel so humiliated by my mother,’ Chelsea moaned.
‘Talking about me like that behind my back! I don’t think she likes me, Zeynep.’
‘Of course she likes you. It’s a mother instinct. They like you even when you’re crabby.’
‘Is calling your own child cheap a mother’s instinct, Zeynep?’
‘You’re really expensive, Chelsea,’ said Zeynep. ‘Here’s the coffee. We don’t have ice-cream. Is baklava okay?’
‘Baklava? That’s a type of ammunition in this house.’
Zeynep giggled. Perhaps Chelsea was cheering up. But then she moaned again.
‘Craig Ryan in the spare room! He goes to raves. He throws peanuts in the air and catches them in his mouth!’
‘That’s quite clever. Matilda must have taught him.’
‘Don’t mention her name!’
‘But you really like Craig, underneath,’ Zeynep said, trying to sound caring.
‘I find him typical of his type – eye candy, but ocker eye candy.’
‘If your mother is with his father, it would be illegal to marry him now anyway,’ Zeynep explained confidently.
‘What? Who said anything about marrying Craig Ryan? Are you mad? I never intend to marry.’ Chelsea burst into loud sobs. ‘What put that idea into your head?’
‘Just… well, you’ve always wanted to improve him. I thought you were getting him ready for marriage.’
‘Marriage, maybe. But not to me! Craig Ryan has bad grammar. Craig Ryan bites his nails. Craig Ryan thinks Matilda Grey is attractive! For heaven’s sake, Zey.’ Chelsea took a sip of the coffee. ‘I caught them down by the river doing it!’
Zeynep was confounded. Surely that couldn’t really have happened? And on public property?
‘Zeynep, do you have a spare room?’
She panicked. What should she say?
‘I suppose you’re going to reject me now?’
‘No, of course not. It’s just… well, it’s just that they remember the time I came home from your place drunk. And they don’t like anyone staying.’
‘Well we won’t tell them, will we? Do you want to force me to take a hotel room?’
‘No. But we don’t have a spa or anything.’
‘Humble surroundings don’t worry me.’
‘Well … there isn’t a spare bed.’
‘There’s yours. We will sleep head to toe.’ Chelsea looked at her pleadingly. ‘You’re not afraid Georgia will get jealous?’
‘No!’
‘There’s a long tradition of harems in your parents’ country.
Imagine it’s centuries ago and you’ve been forced into a harem with me.’ Chelsea blew her nose again.
Zeynep thought about that and held back a shudder. Her parents wouldn’t like this at all. She would have to hide Chelsea in the laundry ’til her family had gone to sleep, then sneak her up the hall and into her bedroom.
‘You could sleep in that cupboard,’ she suggested, indicating the one in which she’d hidden Angelo.
‘In a broom cupboard? Me?’
Zeynep took the handkerchief from Chelsea’s hand and dabbed away at Chelsea’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. It must be very hard, but my parents are so strict.’
‘I may as well sleep under a bridge. I’m homeless, and I’ll just have to get used to it. I can sleep in a doorway, risk my life. I’m sure that sleazebags wouldn’t be interested in an attractive girl sleeping in a doorway.’
Zeynep gasped. ‘No! Please stay! We’ll sleep head to toe,’ she said, and immediately regretted it.
EIGHTY-TWO
BEDROOMS
IN THE ARRIVALS lounge of Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi, Georgia Delahunty felt one thing above all: the absence of Tamsin Court-Cookson. Tamsin hadn’t been allowed to come to India with her after all. Her mother had put the kybosh on the idea for security reasons; she was worried about abduction. The daughter of the Deputy Prime Minister had limited freedoms.
‘We’ll text every day, and Facebook,’ Tamsin had promised.
Something magical was happening between Tamsin and Georgia. They always had fun together. Tamsin, in her sarcastic way, turned even the most ordinary things into a joke, and she was a great rowing teacher. Under her guidance, Georgia was already an emergency in the school rowing team – not bad after only two weeks’ attendance.
As a romantic little farewell gift, Georgia had presented Tamsin with a wooden bookmark she’d been working on after school, with Tamsin’s name burnt into the wood. It was a fine piece of pokerwork. Tamsin had kissed it.
The humidity smothered Georgia as she stood in the customs queue. She pulled out her mobile. Fortunately, her father had paid for international roaming. ‘Arrived hot kisses George.’ She pocketed her phone.
Georgia’s parents were waiting for her in
the arrivals hall. They stood at a distance from the crowd, protected by their servants.
The shoving throng parted as her mother approached and placed a garland of scented flowers around Georgia’s neck. Georgia sneezed explosively as she kissed them both and, surrounded by the servants, they made their way to the waiting car.
Her mother and father had come dressed as if they were going to a fancy-dress party: her mother in a turquoise sari, with diamond rings flashing on her fingers and a pearl stud, set in diamonds, in her nose; her father in a bright-red coat, with several strings of pearls around his neck. Some people bowed as they passed. There were even photographers. It was ridiculous.
The chauffeur stood rigidly to attention as Georgia climbed into the back of the car, a shiny Rolls Royce. A pressing crowd and camera flashes disturbed her as the car drew slowly away.
Her parents said little, but they smiled and waved several times.
Attached to the back of the seat in front of her was a medallion of a dancing Indian couple. The man, who must have been a god, had pale blue skin and dreamy eyes. The woman was beautiful, and her extraordinary breasts suggested implants.
Her mother noticed Georgia looking, and explained that the woman was a milkmaid. The bloke was Krishna. She didn’t explain why he’d gone blue.
Georgia’s phone vibrated. She flipped it open. ‘Miss u heaps sizzling kisses too.’ She flipped it closed and smiled.
‘Now Georgia,’ her mother said, taking her hand as the car moved carefully into the cacophony of the city, ‘this isn’t Australia. India will shock you. Close your eyes if anything offends you.’
After the bland orderliness of the plane, India was a threeringed circus. Her parents looked straight ahead, but Georgia had a policy, inaugurated after watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre when she was ten, of never screaming or covering her eyes when she saw anything terrible.
‘How are your Aunty Pam and Uncle Brendon?’ her mother asked.
‘They’re praying for me.’
Her parents laughed.
She remembered the family prayer for her safety in a pagan country. ‘You know they worship cows,’ her aunt had said, shaking her head in despair. If only she could see the blue man and the amazing lady in the little panel in front of Georgia.