The Year I Went Pear-Shaped (13 page)

Chapter 24: Botox and Lipo

“Darla, when can I get the Ramswell story off you? Is it almost in the bag?” Arabella fixed me with those steely gray eyes. Did the woman ever blink?

“It’s going really well Arabella,” I simpered. “I should have it all to you by Monday. I’m going to a couple more things with Gordon over the weekend and I’m having dinner with him at Sonia Rider’s house tonight. That should give us enough material to fill a glamorous day.” I paused for a moment wondering how to bring up my next question. “The only thing is, ah, that with all the exciting stuff we’re pretending he does in a day, it doesn’t actually leave a lot of time for him to do his, um, job in fact so far our ‘pretend day’ clocks up to about 32 hours, not including sleep, and, ah, we also say he works 12 to 14 hour days sometimes...”

Arabella sighed impatiently and loudly.

“That’s right Darla, ‘sometimes’. He ‘sometimes’ works long hours, but we just didn’t catch him on one of those days! For chrissake, do you really think our bloody readers are going to sit down with a calculator and work out how many hours in his day we’ve accounted for? Like hell, all they want is a glimpse of the glamorous life so that they can forget about their own boring, dull, nothing lives for a moment. Ok?”

“Yep, sure Arabella.”

Christ the woman was a snob!

“Good. Now I want that copy on Monday. By the way, well done on all the press coverage you’ve been getting, I’ve seen you and Gordon in the social pages about three times which is great for the magazine...”

Good Lord! Would wonders never cease? Praise from Arabella.

“...anyway what about you Amanda?” She continued with hardly a pause for breath. “Have you found a pretty blonde dyke happy to dish the dirt on exactly what lesbians do in bed yet?”

“I’ve got a couple of leads but no-one confirmed yet, I’ll get onto it though. I’ve been kinda caught up with trying to find someone for that ‘I was a prostitute now I’m a high court judge’ story you wanted. I’ve called all the female high court judges I can find but they all say they’ve never been prostitutes...”

Arabella let out another one of her sighs that said ‘why am I surrounded by imbeciles?’

“Look, I just don’t believe we can’t find one shitty little high court judge that didn’t sell pussy to pay her uni fees or whatever. Have you tried overseas? Surely there’s one in the US or Britain. I want this story Amanda, ok?”

The steely grey eyes burnt a hole through Mands’ forehead.

“Yep, sure Arabella,” she mumbled.

“Now, Roxy...” Arabella’s onslaught wasn’t finished yet. It seemed no-one was to escape. I checked the date on my watch. Aha, the 22nd. Of course, she was premenstrual, I should’ve known. Thank god it was Friday because Arabella’s PMS fuelled rages lasted three or four days. By Monday she should be almost human again. Well, as human as any egocentric dictator with a fondness for wearing animal skins can be.

“...what have you got for me?”

“Oh my god! I have just the best, most fantastic story! You’re going to love it Arabella,” Roxy purred with excitement, her beautiful eyes flashing. She was always like that; it was like she had three times more serotonin than everybody else.

“I want to do an extreme makeover!” She continued, “not just changing someone’s hair, make-up and clothes, I want to really transform someone! I want to get some dowdy, hairy, plump girl with glasses and send her off for laser eye surgery, liposuction, permanent hair removal, botox, maybe an eye lift or cheekbone implants, a breast enlargement or lift, collagen in the lips of course, plus the usual hair, make-up, lash tints and so on. I want to create a goddess from a pig’s ear! What do you think?” Roxy was breathing hard with excitement, her eyes shining. Anyone would think she’d just had an orgasm. Knowing her, that wasn’t such a stretch.

“I think it’s a fabulous idea Rox,” Arabella smiled. “I think you should do three girls though, not just one. I’m going to give it about eight pages; it’ll be a huge feature, ok? And I’ll tell Sharon in promotions to use it as a big sell for getting radio and print coverage for that issue.”

Roxy beamed back at her. “Great! Ok, I’ll get right onto it. I’ve got a few potential girls already, I’ll show you their photos this afternoon.”

Arabella nodded at Roxy and checked her watch.

“Ok, that’s it, I’ve got a lunch to get to, we’ll have to finish this meeting on Monday at 10am. Thanks girls!” And we were excused.

Murmuring our thanks back to her, we all picked up our pads, pens and coffee cups and filed out of her office back to our desks.

Once back in our seats and out of earshot, Mands collapsed on her desk and wailed.

“Maaaaaaan! How the fucking hell am I going to find a fucking high court judge who used to whore? Oh, and don’t forget the attractive part. She can’t be just any goddamned former-whoring judge; she has to be a bloody good-looking one! Christ! That woman has no fucking idea how hard it is to find these people! Does she think I just pull them out of my arse?”

Angry outbursts like this weren’t uncommon down in the trenches at Lush!. Every day or two someone had a minor breakdown. Last week it had been the fashion editor, a few days before that the picture editor had thrown her mobile phone across the room and ran to the loos crying. Which was particularly unusual because normally we all just cried openly at our desks. That was the beauty of sharing an office with 17 women, someone bursting into tears was a regular part of the working day.

“Mands, you know you can do this,” I said calmly, half believing she could but also knowing that she simply had to, no question. There was only one acceptable outcome for Arabella, i.e., the story filed to her by deadline.

“Look, what have you done so far to find someone? Have you called the Sex Workers’ Collective? Have you emailed every high court judge in the country? Have you asked the library to do an Internet and archival search for you? Have you phoned some of the big brothels on the off-chance they know of anyone?”

Mands lifted her face from her keyboard and looked up at me. I sensed some of her old grit returning. “You’re right Darl,” she sighed. “I haven’t exhausted all avenues yet. I guess there are still a few leads to follow up.”

“That’s my girl! But come on, let’s go to the pub, I need a drink. The prostitute-lawyer can wait till after lunch. I need some advice on what to wear to my dinner with Gordon at Sonya Rider’s tonight.”

But just then my phone rang. I picked it up it in case it was Gordon.

“Hello Darling.”

A man’s voice, familiar but not Gordon.

“Hi,” I said brightly hoping the person’s identity would come to me soon. Then it did.

“Papa! How’s it going?”

“Good. I just thought I’d give you a call since we haven’t spoken for about six months, I was wondering what my little girl had been up to?”

It was nice hearing from him but I could never help thinking that if he really cared what I’d been up to, he’d ring more than once every six months.

“Aw, y’know, same old. Still in the same job, same house. Not too much going on. Hows about you?”

“Well, Rita and I are moving to Queensland at the end of the month. She wants to be nearer her family, so we’re packing up and leaving Perth behind.” Rita was his latest partner. The sixth one since he left Mum.

“Hell, that’s exciting!”

“Yeah, it should be good. So, what about you? Any men on the scene?”

Christ, I hate that fucking question.

“No, no-one special Pop.”

“Jeeze, you’re as bad as your brother! He’s been single forever as well. What’s wrong with the pair of you?” He meant it as joke.

Where do you want me to start Pop? Abandoned by our father as children we seem to have a few issues with trust and commitment.

“Well, we can’t all be like you Pop, never without a queue of admirers!”

“And how’s your weight? You still battling the fat?”

Why didn’t he just cut my heart out, feed it to his parrot and spare me this slow torturous death?

“My weight is the same as ever Papa...oh, look, my editor’s calling me, I’m sorry I’ve gotta go. Look, it’s been great to hear from you, I’ll give you a call back soon I promise. Love you loads!”

“Ok Love, you too, bye then.”

Suddenly I had the very strong urge to go to the pub, buy a packet of cigarettes, and stay there smoking and drinking right through the afternoon and into the evening. And don’t forget the basket of potato wedges with plenty of sour cream and sweet chilli sauce on the side in those little white tubs.

Looking around to see who might be up for a drink or two, I saw Roxy reapplying her lip-gloss. That’s when it hit me.

“Hey Rox, you know that extreme makeover story you’re doing, do you think I could be in that? Could you make me over?”

She pulled her lipgloss wand away from her face and turned to really look at me for a minute. “Well, sure, I guess. I mean you’re not quite as dowdy as the kind of girl I had in mind Darl,” (gee, thanks) “but we could certainly change your look dramatically and, to be honest, it wouldn’t hurt for you to rethink a few things, like that hair...” she frowned at my offensive hair “but it’s gonna involve surgery, liposuction and all sorts. It’s gonna bloody hurt Darl and it’ll take a couple of months or so. You up for that?”

“Totally.” I needed a new me. The one I had wasn’t good enough.

“Ok, well let’s talk about exactly what we’re going to do to you with Arabella on Monday.”

Chapter 25: Who’s Coming to Dinner?

“Darla, would you like any more lasagne?” Sonya asked, melting my eyeballs with the third nuclear smile-head in five minutes. What with her on one side and Gordon on the other, I wanted to ring the UN and tell them I knew where some deadly Smiles of Mass Destruction were being hidden.

“Oh my god Sonya! You’re going to kill me with all this fantastic food! Thanks but I couldn’t eat another bite...although, I might actually be able to force down some of that tiramisu you said you had for dessert.”

Who needed to worry about fat content when an appointment with the amazing, fat-hoovering, liposuction machine was just around the corner?

Gordon had picked me up from Chez Cricklebush at 7pm. I’d been home since 4pm after having slinked off from the pub with a flimsy story about having to interview some new DJ for the music page. Instead, I zoomed home in a cab to try on every single garment I owned then toss them all in a pile on my bedroom floor. Finally, with Anita’s help, I’d ended up wearing a sexy - but not too sexy -- black dress with subtle embroidery across the top, and a neckline that stopped just short of plunging. As Anita said, ‘you gotta let people see them puppies Hon, otherwise what’s the point of having them?’ On my feet I wore ‘stupid girl shoes’, i.e, the kind of shoe that was not designed for actual walking. The spiked heel was a good six inches and the rest of it was just made up of thin, gold straps that wrapped around the feet and ankle in a way that was supposed to whisper ‘slave girl’ and trigger primal urges of lust in any man within 10 metres. I did a story once on men and foot fetishes. Apparently, the sight of a naked toe or two could drive some men into a frenzy of sexual ecstasy. With any luck Gordon leant that way and would be licking champagne off my soles before the night was through. Well, I can dream.

Once my hair and make-up was done, Anita finally declared me a ‘total hottie’ just minutes before Gordon knocked on the door. Twenty minutes later, after whisking through the city and over the Harbour Bridge in Gordon’s convertible Spider (‘I have to have a convertible Darl! The fans expect it.’), we were standing on the plush white carpet in the lounge of Sonya and Tim’s huge home in Neutral Bay, overlooking the harbour and sipping on some fabulous cabernet sauvignon that they’d picked up in the Hunter Valley a couple of weeks earlier.

Like his wife, Tim was warm and friendly. He was a very good-looking, recently retired footballer with a wicked sense of humour who now worked as a commentator on the Sports Channel. Later in the evening his stories of locker room tantrums and wife-swapping scandals of some of the country’s biggest sporting stars had us in hysterics.

With the introductions done, we sat round the table and started getting serious about the damage we planned on doing to Sonya and Tim’s wine collection. And by the time we’d finished the main course, our efforts were paying off. The wine had kicked in long ago and all four of us were very relaxed, our tongues suitably loosened.

“So Son, what did you think of the counsellor Darla sent you off to?” Asked Gordon. “Is she any good?”

“Why is that Gordy?” Sonya teased. “You thinking of getting some therapy yourself? Well it’s long overdue, it’s about time you faced your commitment-phobia, not to mention those delusions of grandeur and megalomania.”

“Well, you might have a point with the ego issues and delusions of grandeur but I’m no commitment-phobe Son, I just haven’t met the right girl!”

“That’s because you go out with such monsters! That evil cow Talia for a start. Why can’t you men see past a good pair of tits?”

Gordon groaned. “God, don't mention the war. Women like that are enough to turn me to the monastery.”

I couldn’t hold my curiosity back any longer.

“Why? What did she do that was so awful?”

You could’ve sliced the silence as Tim and Sonya held their breath and looked at Gordon, waiting to see what he’d say.

“Well Darl, she broke my heart. I was insane about her -- or who I thought she was -- but after a while I realised I didn’t know her at all. Son’s right, I was blinded by her looks because, lets face it, she’s stunning. But you can’t build a good relationship on nice hair and cheekbones -- those things just distract you for a while. Not to far beneath the surface she was totally self-centred and only interested in me while I could help her career...

‘Mmmm’ the rest of us said in unison, nodding sympathetically for him to continue.

“...and, well, one day she found someone who could do more for her career than me. I got home early one day to surprise her -- I’d given her a key to my apartment -- and found them fucking doggy style in my front room on the rug I bought in Morocco. He’d even been wearing my bathrobe!”

Gordon sighed and took a big gulp of wine.

“Jeeze, I’m sorry Gordon. What a complete bitch,” I said. “But she’s a bloody idiot, you know that?”

“Thanks Darl, but it’s ok, I’m pretty much over it. It’s just hard on nights like the party when she sashays up, all drunk and horny, and tries to hit on me like nothing ever happened. I think I hate her to be honest. Still! There’s hope eh, I mean the three of you are sickeningly happy aren’t you?”

What was he talking about? Oh god, yes, my fake boyfriend, Brad Timberlake, the architect.

“Yes Darla, tell us about your man, I’m dying to hear about him,” said Sonya. “What’s he doing tonight?”

Great. Bloody great. Good one Darla, making up a fake boyfriend might be almost ok at 14 but at 34 it’s borderline psychotic, you tragic moron!

“Well, ah, he’s in Melbourne this weekend but like I said, we met at uni, he’s lived in Sydney all his life. His family’s from, um, Epping. And he loves the footy. What else do you want to know?” I asked.

“Well,” said Sonya, “when’s the wedding? You’ve been with him for years but you don’t even live together, why are you holding back? Good men aren’t easy to find Darl, you gotta grab hold when you find a winner...don’t you Honey?” That last bit she directed at Tim, hitting him with a neutron smile bomb. He dissolved and they took a moment to kiss.

Gordon looked at me with a face that said, ‘sheesh, lovebirds eh?’ Then he said, “so, what’s the name of the architectural firm Brad works for? I’m thinking of having some work done on my place.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Um. He’s just changed jobs but I think the new firm is called Harley & Harley, I could be wrong though.”

That’s right Darla, just keep digging, why stop now when you could get yourself in it so much deeper?

“Um, Sonya, where’s the bathroom?” I said.

Sometimes the best battle plan is to retreat, head for the hills, and hope things are safer when you come down again. Sure enough, when I did return about ten minutes, some deep breathing and positive visualisations later, the conversation had moved on to something about fan letters.

“Gordon,” Sonya was saying in a tone of concern, “this woman sounds dangerous and crazy, you can’t just ignore it and hope it goes away. You’ve got to go to the police.”

“Who’s dangerous?” I asked, sitting back down at the table.

“Some psychopathic fan whose been sending Gordo weird letters for ages now. She thinks they’re meant to be together, that they’re soul mates or something but she wants him to write to her and she’s saying she’ll punish him if he doesn’t.”

“Son, she’s just some nutter,” said Gordon. “I really think she’s all bark, no bite. And anyway, I’ve seen enough TV shows about stalkers to know that you’re not to react to anything they do to try and get your attention because they’ll just take it as encouragement.”

“Gordon! You can’t run your life on what you saw on The Bill. You should go to the police! What if she is crazy enough to try and hurt you? And in that last letter she mentioned a cat, how does she know you have a cat?”

“I’ve talked about Chairman Miaow in hundreds of interviews Son, she’s probably just picked it up from some article,” Gordon reasoned.

“No, Sonya’s right Gordo,” said Tim. “You’ve got to take this a bit seriously. Go to the police, if nothing happens, great but there’s no harm in taking the precaution.” Sonya and I nodded in agreement.

“Have you still got all the letters?” Tim asked.

Gordon let out a loud sigh. “Well I can see I’m getting ganged up on here. Yes, I have some but not all of the letters and, yes ok, ok, I’ll have a word with the police about it. Man! The pressure, who needs parents with you guys around! I think I need a cigarette break. Anyone care to join me on the balcony?”

“Yep, I’m coming,” I said. Put a drink in my hand and any thoughts of giving up the fags went up in smoke. Literally.

“You two go then, we’ll sort out dessert,” said Sonya. “Want to, ah, ‘help’ me in the kitchen Timmy?” She said coyly.

Tim cleared his throat and blushed slightly. “I’m right behind you Honey. Um, you two take your time out there, don’t hurry back on our account.”

And the pair of them almost skipped into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them. Gordon looked at me. “C’mon then, I’m dying for a nicotine hit.”

“I’m right behind you Honey!”

Sonya and Tim’s balcony had better furniture than Anita and I had in our living room. There were two designer chairs built for comfort and a marble table complete with crystal ashtray. It was a beautiful warm night with hardly any wind and the view of Sydney at night was stunning, what with that and the cab sav, I was feeling pretty good. Lighting my Alpine Menthol, I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the chair. When I opened them again, Gordon was staring at me in a way I could’ve almost thought was lustful.

“What?”

“I’m just looking at you!” He laughed. “I can admire a pretty girl can’t I?”

My stomach did a flip and my cheeks started burning.

“Gordon Worsley!” I said mocking offence to hide my embarrassment. “You filthy big flirty tease. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He smiled sexily. “Well, I might have used words to that effect in the past but that doesn’t mean I don’t mean them now.”

“Well, you’re still a big spunk too Dr Ramswell. Just like you were back at high school.”

He laughed, “Yeah, well I remember you too Darla Manners.”

“How could you forget me! I made up half the student body all by myself.”

“You have lost a lot of weight since then, sure, but what I remember most about you is how clever you were and how funny. You used to crack me up back then and you still do.”

For a horrible second I thought I was going to cry.

He continued, “you could be a bit intimidating too though Darla. Sometimes it was like you thought the rest of us were just too dumb to be bothered with, like we were beneath you.”

“Well that’s ironic, because most of the time I felt I was nowhere near as good as anyone else. Any aloof act I might have put on was a defence shield.”

Boy, that red wine was talking up a storm now. My mouth was suddenly possessed and I couldn’t stop the things that were coming out of it.

“Hey!” I said suddenly remembering our first conversation in the cafe with Walking Shoulders. “If you remember so much about me, how come you said that you couldn’t even be sure you hadn’t had sex with me back at high school?”

He sniggered. “I know exactly who I did and didn’t root back at high school Darl, I was just seeing how much you remembered...and I was teasing you a bit.”

Chance would be a fine thing.

“Well, did you know that I was the only girl back at high school that you didn’t have sex with? Apart from Bella Jones of course but I guess Jed Stard made that one a bit risky.”

He smirked.

“Jed Shmed! Bella and I did the deed behind the rugby clubrooms one day only metres away from where Jed was playing in a very heated match against our main rivals, Lincoln Boys’ High. I think Jed and I scored a touchdown at almost the same time that day. Just as he was placing the ball behind the white line, I was putting the final big thrust in with the very obliging Bella.” He smiled at the memory. “Last I heard of her she’d left her husband to go and live with a woman she met at some ‘Finding your True Path’ seminar she did up in Byron.”

I picked my jaw up off the floor.

“You rooted Bella too? Jeeze, well, I feel really great now! I was the only girl you never tried to shag, was I really that hideous?”

Good one Darla. Why don’t you just hand him your heart and soul on a platter and say, ‘here stomp on these in heavy boots for a while will you?’

“Darla, I did try it on with you, don’t you remember? I came up to you in cooking class one morning, we must’ve been making biscuits, and in what I thought was a really sexy voice said something along the lines of ‘hmm, well if you need anyone to lick your bowl out Darla, I’m here’. You gave me the most withering look I’d ever seen then said, and I quote, ‘piss right off Dorkon’. I pretty much took that to mean you didn’t want to head off to the bike sheds with me after school.”

My jaw was back on the floor again.

“Oh my God. I do remember that!” I said, as the memory came flooding back. “I thought you were being sarcastic because I’d licked every last trace of biscuit dough off out of my bowl myself. I thought you were calling me a big fat greedy cow.”

“No way? Jeeze, I can’t believe you could’ve thought I was such a bastard! As if I’d ever say anything like that. It wouldn’t have even occurred to me. I was trying to get in your knickers for godssake!”