by Minnie Darke
Daniel snapped his fingers. “Capricorn! Not Virgo. Capricorn.”
Justine laughed. “Why?”
“Work ethic. You’re always at work early, or late, or both. I notice these things, you know. And a lot of people would have stopped at interviewing Mowbray for a profile piece like this. But you’ve really gone the distance. Sounds like a Capricorn to me.”
“An interesting theory,” Justine said.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
Justine picked up her teacup and made for the door.
“Alas, Mr. Griffin, you will have to think again. But the good news is that you are now halfway through the zodiac. Only six signs to go!”
* * *
The following day was a Saturday, and even before the sun was up, the good people of Alexandria Park were dragging out onto the sidewalks their dead fridges and boxy old television sets, stained sofas and defunct vacuum cleaners. As Justine Carmichael dozed the morning away in her bedroom on the twelfth floor of Evelyn Towers, the neighborhood’s verdant verges were being piled up with frayed and badly rolled floor rugs, boxes of Reader’s Digest magazines, VCR machines, dog beds, enamel fondue sets, broken fan heaters, disgraced bathroom scales, tilting hat stands and ugly standing lamps.
Out in force, too, were barely used appliances and gadgets like doughnut makers and foot spas, cotton candy spinners and cake pop molds. Ordinary families threw out their editions of Twister, Hungry Hungry Hippos and Trivial Pursuit, while more aspirational parents took the opportunity to admit the un-funness of MathMindz, Pizza Fraction Fun and Roll ’n’ Spell. For today was the municipal council rubbish collection free-for-all, a once-in-a-year chance to offload domestic crap without having to hire a trailer, pay the scandalously inflated dump entry fee, or get gull shit on one’s car.
Justine had had a plan for this particular Saturday morning. It was to wake at around eight o’clock but stay in bed until at least ten reading a novel, or leafing through the new IKEA catalogue. After that, she was going to have a bath and get dressed in something springtime-ish and cheerful, then make her way to Rafaello’s, where she would order an almond croissant and a coffee, read the weekend papers, and check that Raf had—as Justine had strenuously recommended—replaced the “half roasted spatchcock” on his lunch menu with a “roasted half spatchcock.” There was nothing in the plan, however, about her phone starting to ring, loudly and insistently, at half past six, from somewhere deep inside the handbag she had the previous night flung carelessly on her bedroom floor.
So, when this happened, Justine squeezed her eyes tight shut, waited for the phone to ring out and clung to the idea that she wasn’t, actually, awake yet. But when the ringing was done at last, the phone paused for barely five seconds before starting to ring all over again.
“Piss off,” muttered Justine.
Brain: Maybe it’s an emergency. Maybe your father’s plane has crashed and he’s calling you with the last of his battery power, to say his final farewell. Maybe your mother is lying stabbed and bleeding, having been attacked on the streets of Edenvale during her early morning power walk. Justine! Maybe this is that call. The one that you’ll rue ignoring for the rest of your days.
Justine: Bastard.
Brain: You’re welcome.
Predictably, and in accordance with a subsection of Murphy’s law, the ringing phone was in the last of the handbag pockets that Justine checked. With half-numb fingers, she swiped at the screen.
Blearily, she said, “Hello?”
“You need to get up and get dressed immediately.”
“What?” said Justine.
“No time to dawdle! No time to dilly dally!”
The voice was ludicrously cheerful.
“Nick?”
“Today’s the day,” he said brightly. “I forgot, too. It’s just lucky that I was up so late that I saw it starting. Come on, Jus. You have to hurry.”
“Why?”
“Municipal council collection day in Alexandria Park. It’s the greatest free garage sale on earth!”
“I’m sleeping.”
“Then stop it. Seriously. You should see the stuff, and, hey, early bird catches the worm.”
“Consider: second mouse gets the cheese.”
“Don’t be grouchy. It’s trash and treasure Nirvana out here! I’ll see you out the front of your place in ten.”
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in floordrobe chic, with a kerchief tied over her bed hair and her eyes still feeling slightly gluey, Justine emerged onto Evelyn Street to find Nick waiting for her. He wore a flannel shirt, workman-style shorts and a pair of battered elastic-sided boots. At his side was a supermarket shopping trolley: quite new, its plastic seat and handle still bright green, and all four of its wheels seemingly functional.
“Pinched from Woolworths?”
“Merely on loan,” Nick said.
“Truly, you are a professional,” Justine observed.
“I’ve also made us a thermos of coffee. I hope you don’t take sugar.”
“I don’t.”
“Excellent. And I’ve sketched out a route.”
A small backpack rode high between Nick’s shoulder blades and from the back pocket of his shorts he took out a marked-up copy of a brochure that Justine recognized as the Alexandria Park Heritage Walking Map.
He gripped the trolley handle like he meant business. “Ready?”
* * *
By two o’clock that afternoon, the rooftop terrace at Evelyn Towers had been transformed. Spread out in a fetching herringbone pattern over a section of the concrete floor was a quarter of a pallet of moss-green ceramic tiles that were left over from a bathroom renovation in Lanux Court. Resting on the tiles, and angled just so, were two matching wickerwork banana lounges from Austinmer Street, only slightly cat-clawed and frayed.
In addition to this haul, Justine and Nick made a few modest purchases at the local garden center. Fresh, peaty potting mix now filled the roof garden’s planter boxes, while inside the earth some tiny seeds—sunflower, basil, parsley, pansy—were just beginning to think about stretching out their little radicles.
Positioned between the planter boxes was Justine and Nick’s most impressive free acquisition: a chiminea from the far reaches of Evelyn Street that had been tossed out complete with its wrought-iron tripod stand. Admittedly, the lip of the chimney was chipped, and there were a couple of cracks zigzagging down the side, but the little fireplace seemed otherwise sound. It was going to be perfect for winter nights.
Between the lounges were two small occasional tables (Nick had asked Justine, “What is an occasional table, anyway? A table that’s only occasionally a table?”) that were topped with star-spangled linoleum and stamped with coffee-colored cup rings. Upon one of the tables now was the mint-condition pewter Battle of Waterloo checkers set that Justine and Nick had scored in the affluent reaches of Kellerman Circle, although not without incident. Nick had been the one to spy the timber box containing Napoleon’s French forces, while Justine had located the board underneath a stack of Healthy Eating magazines. Another pair of scroungers, however, managed to snaffle the box containing the English army. Debate ensued, and although Justine and Nick had successfully argued that possession of two-thirds of the set was equal to nine-tenths of the right to have the whole shebang, they had been forced to hand over an ostentatious brass candelabra by way of compensation.
Nick, playing with the hard-won English pieces, had triumphed over Justine’s Frenchmen in what Nick described as the rooftop’s “inaugural” game of checkers. Actually, the game had been a bloodbath, and—unbeknownst to Nick—it was already categorized in Justine’s mind as the rooftop’s “one and only” game of checkers. About three moves in, while observing the ferociously determined set of her opponent’s jaw, Justine had wondered why she hadn’t remembered that setting out a board game w
as a way of stimulating the most primitive center of Nick’s brain. One day, she thought, she might even admit to him that it had been she who had suggested to his little brother and sister that it would be a good idea to feed all the money from their family’s Monopoly set into Mark Jordan’s illegal backyard incinerator.
“That lunch was awesome,” Nick said, reaching for the last of the dark chocolate Tim Tam biscuits leaving the empty plastic biscuit tray lying amid the greasy paper bags that had been emptied of their potato cakes, fish cakes and dim sims.
“It was positively gourmet,” Justine said.
Reclining in a lounge, she could feel in her arms and shoulders the effects of the day’s lifting and carrying. She was also a little bit sunburned, pleasantly sleepy and decidedly in need of a shower.
“If Laura could see this, she’d make me run a marathon in penance,” Nick said, his mouth half full of Tim Tam.
“Where is Laura today?” Justine asked, glad to finally have an opportunity to ask this question, which had been playing on her mind.
“Texas, actually.”
“Texas?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because?” Justine asked.
“She does this perfume thing, and they’re creating a new campaign.”
“What’s the perfume?”
“Waterlily. And in Texas, there’s this big water garden, full of…waterlilies.”
Justine let out a small burst of laughter, which was complicated by the sip of very fizzy ginger beer she’d just taken. When best-pal Tara wanted to delicately indicate that a person was beautiful on the surface, but didn’t have a lot going on underneath, she’d refer to them as “a bit of a waterlily.”
Nick handed a spluttering Justine a napkin bearing the logo of the greasy spoon at which they had bought their lunch, and said, “What? What’s so funny?”
Justine: Should we tell him?
Brain: You’re the card-carrying member of the sisterhood. Not me.
Justine: Hm. I think we’ll just keep it to ourselves.
“It’s nothing,” Justine said, though she was still smiling.
Nick finished the last of his ginger beer. “Well, as much as I’d like to stay and slaughter you and your Corsican Fiend for a second time, I must hie me hence.”
“Oh?”
“Curtain call in not so very many hours. And I’m a little underslept. Romeo will need his energy, if he is to woo his Juliet tonight.”
“Isn’t tonight closing night?”
“Yep.”
Nick hauled himself out of his banana lounge.
“Oh,” he said, “I meant to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Alison Tarf rang me.”
Justine sat up in a rush. “Alison Tarf? She did?”
“She came to the Gaiety. She saw the play,” Nick said, pulling a mock modest face. “And she dug out my application and rang me to say she was very much looking forward to my audition.”
“Nick, that’s amazing. So you have to audition now. I mean, if Alison Tarf herself has asked for you, it would just be rude not to show up.”
“You know what? I’m thinking that you’re right.”
Justine, feeling a surge of Lleyton Hewitt–esque energy run through her tired body, thought she might be about to leap out of the banana lounge, shape her hand into a duck’s beak and shout, C’mon!
Brain: Remain seated, idiot.
“You might?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m leaning that way. But I’m just going to hang in and see what Leo’s got to say. After all—as you know—Leo Thornbury knows everything.”
* * *
That night, at about the time Nick Jordan’s Romeo was ending the life of a crow-haired, sword-swinging Tybalt, Justine Carmichael was walking softly in sandshoe-clad feet down Rennie Street in the direction of the Star. Shards of streetlight caught on the uneven surface of the yellow peril and bounced off at crazy angles as Justine turned in at the gatepost. Thinking invisible thoughts, she made her way up the front steps and unlocked the door. There was, throughout the whole building, no sound but the humming of the fridge in the kitchen.
Now that the small, white office was Henry’s, it was no longer a haven of minimalist organization. Piles of magazines and loose papers lay on the desktop and on the floor, and there were scribble-covered sticky notes—orange, hot pink, yellow, blue—stuck all higgledy-piggledy around the frame of the computer monitor. Beside the computer was a framed photograph of a very young Henry, standing—awestruck—beside the cricketer Shane Warne. Under the desk lay a whiffy pair of running shoes and a bundle of shiny gym garments.
By this point in the month, Justine well knew, Henry would almost certainly have transcribed Leo’s stars. To be certain of this, she rummaged through his in-box. Finding no fax from Leo Thornbury there, she moved on to searching the document spike. One by one, she drew the skewered pages off the spike and placed them facedown on the desk. Until she found what she was looking for.
“Ah, there you are, Leo,” she murmured, and scanned down the page.
Aquarius: This month sees Venus transitioning from Leo to Virgo, bringing into focus themes of sex, intimacy and trust. Aquarians can expect to be discussing these issues with their romantic partners, but should also anticipate miscommunication in many of their important relationships. When the sun enters your fellow air sign, Libra, you’ll find yourself escaping the mire of complication to emerge into a season of freedom and expansion.
She sat down on Henry’s office chair, read over the copy again, and thought. Would Leo’s words push Nick toward auditioning for Alison Tarf? Or away?
Brain: What Leo’s got to say isn’t bad. “Freedom and expansion” might do the trick.
Justine: Do you think?
Brain: Honestly? No. But even if it isn’t, how are we going to do this, exactly?
Justine drew herself in to Henry’s computer and wriggled the mouse to wake up the monitor. A login screen appeared, asking for a username and password. Justine drew a deep breath and entered Henry’s username, hashbolt. It followed the same formula as her own username, and that of every other staff member at the Star.
Brain: Your pulse is up.
Justine: Thanks for pointing that out.
Brain: I think you’re experiencing guilt and nervousness.
Justine: Shhhh…I bet it’s still here, somewhere.
The sticky note Justine was looking for was an orange one. One orange note said, Eloise’s birthday. Another said, Don’t look back, you aren’t going that way.
“Ha! Got you!” Justine said gleefully, finding at last the small orange square upon which Anwen had written Henry’s password, along with the instruction Learn then destroy. After Justine tapped in the code, a rainbow wheel of doom twirled on the screen for what seemed like a very long time. And then Henry’s desktop screen appeared in full Technicolor.
“Yessss!” hissed Justine. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she clicked open a folder called “Current Edition” and scrolled down to the document named “Horoscope.”
Brain: Hey, what do your stars say?
Sagittarius: “Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes,” urged the poet Walt Whitman, and he might easily have been speaking to you, archers, as you embark upon a period of great uncertainty. Mars’s energy is strong in your astro-chart in the coming weeks, creating a period during which the risks you take may pay off spectacularly. Or, in your excitement, you may fly just a little too close to the sun, and face the scorching consequences.
Brain: And you don’t think, maybe…?
Justine: What? No, I don’t think anything. It’s the horoscope. Get a grip.
Brain: If you’re completely sure…
Justine: I am. Back to Aquarius. What are we going to do here?
&n
bsp; Brain: Well, you want Nick thinking about Shakespeare, believing Shakespeare is his destiny…
Justine: Continue.
Brain: So if Leo were to quote the Bard himself…
Justine: That, actually, is rather clever.
Flicking open an internet browser window, Justine entered a search for Shakespearean quotes on courage, and scanned through the results.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends…
“Nope,” Justine said quietly to herself. Nothing from Henry V; that Henry was too warlike.
Screw your courage to the sticking place…
“Urgh. No thank you, Lady Macbeth.”
Cowards die many times before their deaths…
No. Not that one, either. Far too grim.
But then, there it was. From Cymbeline.
“Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity,” Justine whispered to herself. “Bingo!”
Cusp
In a pink dawn, in a gray inner-city suburb, in a narrow stone terrace house, in a pine-floored bedroom, in an antique brass bed, in a pair of floral flannel pajamas, Fern Emerson hovered somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Today was to be her first day off in nine months.
Back at the beginning of the year, Fern—Libra, florist, habitual wearer of a single gerbera behind one ear, stylish reinventor of vintage dresses, surreptitious smoker of menthol cigarettes and drinker of gin slings, lover of Brat Pack movies and occasional karaoke diva—had taken the risky step of shutting down her mobile flower van and reopening Hello Petal as a static concern in the Alexandria Park Markets, with all of the new and alarming overhead costs that this move entailed.
Seven days a week, Fern had risen at a ridiculous hour to secure the best flowers from her wholesaler. Then, throughout each long day, she had single-handedly filled the buckets and accepted the orders, cut the stems and folded the tissue paper, arranged the blooms, tied the ribbons, smiled with the joyful customers, handed tissues to the weeping ones, enthused with brides and made creative suggestions to wealthy matrons. There were no lunch breaks. Evenings had been taken up by accounts, tax, quotes, emails, advertising and other irritating miscellany. She was lucky if she could manage to find a few minutes to cover her red-raw hands with balm and white gloves before collapsing into bed.