Samantha knows what she wants from life – and she’s got it!

1 A loving family. OK, her Mum’s plan to marry her off to the world’s most metrosexual man might not be ideal… but it’s only because she cares!

2 A great job. Or at least: a job that leaves plenty of time to update Twitter and shop for designer bargains online.

3 A credit card, with a very generous limit. So generous that she’s just spent over $10,000 on an antique kimono…

But suddenly Samantha’s charmed life starts to fall apart! From a hair-related fire to losing her job, Sam’s facing bad karma – and it all started when she bought that kimono…

Sure, it’s ridiculous. How could a piece of silk ever bring bad luck? But it can! Because, whether Samantha likes it or not, someone wants to teach her a lesson: it’s what’s inside that counts.

But will Samantha slow down long enough to listen?

Also by Billie Jones

Snake Typhoon!

Mexican Kimono

Billie Jones

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Billie Jones 2014

Billie Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9781474007726

Version date: 2018-07-02

BILLIE JONES

is a writer from Australia, who enjoys imagining herself wrestling killer crocodiles and swimming with great white sharks. She thinks she may have to attempt base jumping so she can write about it and bungee-jumping is on the list too. You can find her either in front of her computer writing about her fictional adventures or at the beach searching for the next perfect wave.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The Kimono

I never dreamed I’d spend $10,300 on a whim. It was a lot, even for me: shopper extraordinaire. On reflection, if I had ignored Mum’s pleas, I would still be $10,000 better off. Or MasterCard would be.

Let me take you back to how it all began.

Usually I caught the train home after work, but late in the day, while doing a stapler stocktake for my penny-pinching boss, I received an urgent phone call from my mother. I sighed when I saw her name on the screen. She had become ‘alternative’ in the last few years and it had begun to wear me down. Tarot cards, numerology, runes, crystals, incense, cheesecloth, the whole cliché. I silenced it and let Mum visit voicemail again. I was sure those two were developing an intense relationship. Mum rang and poured her heart out at least thrice daily and voicemail just listened. I reapplied my lipstick in the reflection of my shiny silver holepunch, as I listened back to the message.

‘Darling, it’s Mum. I need to see you urgently! The tea leaves have scattered a caution for you and they’re always right. Heed my warning. I won’t rest until I see you. You must come over after work, Samantha. I insist. I’ll make you some of that vegetarian bolognese you love and I have a bottle of that alcohol-free red wine that will go perfectly, so don’t bring anything. Oh heed my warning, darling, heed…’

I shook my head as I listened to the recording. Voicemail had cut her off. Maybe they weren’t as friendly as I thought. My mother’s message sounded like a desperate cry for help.

Vegetarian bolognese and alcohol-free wine? Heed my warning? Who says that? That woman needed an injection of reality. She was my mother though, so I neatened up my desk, ready to leave the office at five on the dot.

I worked as an assistant to an advertising executive. He was a volatile beast of a man who smelt of garlic. I answered the phone, made coffee and remembered his appointments. On my worst days, I went shopping for him. He didn’t like shopping for clothes so he sent me instead. You’d think spending hours traversing aisles of clothes and getting paid for it would be fun.

No. I’ll never forget the time he made me buy him swimming briefs. Let me just say, brief is not the right word. You’re lucky you don’t have a job like mine.

I stayed because it wasn’t exactly taxing work. I breezed through my duties and still had plenty of time for Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and eBay. Did have to jazz up the Facebook updates though. You know, bend the truth slightly. Instead of saying:

‘I ground down imported coffee beans that I accidentally inhaled like cocaine, giving me a rush of an entirely different sort, for a whole bunch of unappreciative, pompous executives.’ I say something like:

‘The smell of freshly ground coffee awakens my senses and reminds me of the time I visited Colombia and got mixed up with that drug cartel.’

I’ve never been overseas, I’m more of an instant coffee person, and I once snorted some of Columbia’s finest after a small misunderstanding, but keep that to yourself.

One minute to five, my iPhone beeps with a recorded message. ‘Evacuate. Time to get out of jail. I repeat. Evacuate. Time to get out of jail.’ My personalised cue that work is officially over. Before anyone can stop me, I’m out of those automatic double doors in a flash.

Instead of heading for the train, which will take me to my apartment, I walk a few blocks towards leafy suburbia where my mother lives. I just so happen to pass an auction place, that just so happens to be having an auction. The machine-gun voice of the auctioneer hypnotises me and, before I know it, I’m signed up and bidding with one of those cute little paddles.

Unluckily for the deceased, the auction was filled with a lifetime of their belongings. Lucky for me though, the dead can’t argue price. This person had the most eclectic taste. A horse-drawn carriage, minus the horse, decked out with intricately woven wind chimes. A round bed! I’d never seen one of those before. Where you would buy sheets for one of those? A trapeze! I was stuck in fantasyland imagining when and where this person lived. A gypsy who carted their wares from town to town reading palms and juggling. I pictured a gorgeous ebony-haired Indian boy, riding a horse bareback, tanned, taut muscled chest, gleaming with perspiration …

I tried to shake the image of the exotic boy from my mind.

Unfortunately, I was already a little bit in love with him. Kind of depressing since he was a figment of my imagination. With all the daydreaming, I worried that I had a lot of my mother in me. I scanned the room; it was packed like a panic room in an apocalypse.

A hush fell over the crowd as the next lot was introduced. I turned as if in slow motion and saw the reason for the eerie silence. I’d never seen anything so beautiful: a silk antique kimono. It had its own special glow. It was deep ruby red with flashes of emerald, gold, ivory, onyx and sapphire. The colours shone like precious gems and I could almost smell cherry blossoms just by looking at it. I pictured myself at a tea ceremony, getting my geisha on, drinking out of those dainty little ceramic cups. There was a soul inside that kimono.

My left arm seemed to have a life of its own and, without my consent, kept raising that little white paddle with alarming regularity. I kept my eyes on the kimono as the auctioneer roared 9100, 9200, 9300, like he was calling a horse race. I was in a daze imagining what the kimono would feel like wrapped around my body. Coming out of my reverie, I heard, ‘Sold! $10,300 to the girl in the pink suit.’

Oh my God, oh my God. I was the girl in the pink suit. Did he just say $10,300?

***

I arrived at my mother’s house with the kimono delicately wrapped and housed in an unassuming white box, and prepared myself for the inevitable. Lectures on drinking too much A) coffee B) red wine C) San Pellegrino (too much sodium apparently). Then her invariable diatribes on: not eating enough pH-rich foods, the ones designated for my blood type (B Positive, which is also the approach I take to my life, if you must know). Closely followed by a ‘talking to’ about eating too much red meat, because I’m involved in killing an innocent animal, not to mention the carbon emissions it takes to get said animal sufficiently plumped, but also because it’s not good for my digestion.

How could she know all of this? My eyes, of course. She took an iridology course a few years back and can almost see the winning lotto numbers when she holds your head in a vice-like grip and stares at you like she knows the secrets of the universe.

I push open the red door (good feng shui) and walk in. She never locks the door; she says she will ‘see’ intruders entering before they do.

‘Mum, I’m here.’

‘Oh, darling!’ She rushes up to me and grabs my head in that vice-like grip I mentioned. ‘Too much coffee, too much …’

‘Yeah, yeah, too much fun stuff.’

‘Don’t get snooty with me, young lady, you know what they say…’

‘Your body is a temple, I’m just looking out for you.’

‘We can’t all live on coconut serum and birch twigs, Mum.’

‘That serum was very expensive. I still can’t believe you used it as a tanning agent.’ She put on her hurt face and walked over to the rack of faux wine.

‘Wine, darling?’ she asked as she began uncorking the bottle.

‘Grape juice, you mean? Sure, why not?’ I studied her as she bustled around the kitchen. She really did look good. She was nearing sixty but her smooth, unlined face was still made vibrant by her big blue eyes. She ran and did yoga every morning, and I must admit I was a tiny bit jealous her body was in better shape than mine. It’s the genes. I ended up with Dad’s. I was short, raven-haired and, without practically starving myself and living on a red wine diet, prone to chubbiness.

She handed me a glass and sat opposite, clasping her hands.

‘Now, darling, I don’t want to alarm you but, as I said – the tea leaves have issued a dire warning for you. Something has come into your life that is bad luck. It’s a bad spirit. Stuck in the middle of this world, unable to transition to the next place. You must get rid of it.’

‘Get rid of what?’

‘The tea leaves showed a dress of some sort.’

Like a kimono kind of dress? Only the spirits of MasterCard need issue a warning. They’re the ones who’ll suffer the longest.

‘Get rid of it, hey? Why, what’s going to happen if I don’t?’

‘Oh, honey.’ She wiped at her suddenly wet-looking eyes. ‘Bad stuff. Real bad stuff. I consulted the Tarot and the Hermit came up, which means take extreme caution. So, to be safe I also consulted the Runes and Thurisaz came up, which means danger, possibly wildfire and a giant ogre …’

‘Mum, you can’t be serious!’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘A giant ogre? What, like Shrek?’ She took things so seriously it was hard to keep a straight face.

‘This is no laughing matter! I also did your numbers and the outcome was not good. The only way to fix it is to change your name. The numbers don’t lie!’

‘Change my name? Mum, have you been smoking a bit too much incense lately?’

‘I know you think I’m cuckoo, so I took one of your handbags to a medium I know. She holds the item and can see into the future, your future, and she saw,’ she starts to sob, ‘you get hit by a car!’

‘Oh no!’ I cried, enraged. ‘Which handbag?’

‘Never mind which bag, the problem is you’re surrounded by bad karma. It’s written all over your aura.’

‘This has been fun. We should do it more often,’ I said, as I picked up the kimono and headed for the front door.

‘What about dinner?’

‘As tantalising as vegetarian bolognese sounds, I already have some cow defrosting on my sink. And we wouldn’t want to waste those carbon emissions by throwing Daisy in the bin.’

My mum looked at me with her tear-stained face. ‘You’re a bad girl sometimes. Please heed my warning, heed…’

I grabbed her in a bear hug and squashed the heeding out of her. ‘Love you.’

***

I was looking out of my apartment window, swirling a nice big glass of Shiraz and doing a little Japanese-inspired dance. Swathed in the antique kimono, I tried channelling my inner geisha. I definitely felt thinner with it on.

I was having a great time dancing to some random Japanese music I’d downloaded from iTunes, when I made a ‘poor choice’, as my mother would say. Honestly, I don’t smoke any more, it’s for chumps, but I do have a couple hidden around the house for those odd moments when you crave something other than chocolate or wine.

I reached under the lounge cushion and removed a small silver cigarette case I had taped under there. (I did try to hide them from myself: the three D’s. Drink, delay, do something else).

Being a non-smoker, I couldn’t find a lighter anywhere so I resorted to lighting the cigarette off the stove. No sooner had I taken the first puff, I smelled a horrible burning plastic stench. It took me a few seconds to realise my hair was on fire. I dropped the cigarette into the sink and swatted at my head with a tea towel while screaming and jumping like, well, exactly like a person whose hair is on fire. I didn’t actually feel any pain, only separation anxiety; those black lustrous locks and I had been through some tough times together. Now, in an instant, they were gone. Not even a goodbye.

I raced into the bathroom to assess the damage. Oh. My. God. If I looked to the left, nothing had changed. When I turned my head to the right, there was a cropped-haired bogan staring back at me. This was a disaster. I had the kind of oval face that did not suit short hair.

***

‘I’m here, show me this emergency then!’

Out of sheer necessity, I’d called my ex-BFF Kylie. She was a hair psychologist. Usually I didn’t trust her with my hair (hence the ex-BFF status), but I figured the damage was done, and where else could I find a hairdresser this late at night?

She put her bag down and walked into the small kitchenette where I was guzzling wine to cheer myself up. I must admit at that stage I gazed lovingly at her Dita Von Teese curls and colourfast red lips. It wasn’t often Kylie looked more immaculate than me.

‘Argh! Holy moley! What the hell happened?’ she said, as her eyes widened.

‘A small fire happened. Can you fix it?’

‘Oh, so now I’m qualified enough to cut your hair, hey? Fix your F-ups?’

‘F-ups?’

‘Swearing doesn’t become me. I’ve changed since we last saw each other. I’ve grown. Developed as a …’

‘Argh, you sound like my mum!’ I said, breaking off what I knew would turn into a monologue.

‘Your mum is actually an extremely switched-on lady. You should listen to her once in a while. She noticed my chakras were out of whack …’

I interrupted again. ‘You traitor!’

She hoisted her hairdressing bag over her fuchsia-clad shoulder and replied huffily, ‘Do you want me to fix your hair or not?’

Imagine making friends with my mother. Kylie must have been all sorts of desperate. I bit my tongue because, really, what choice did I have? I didn’t like it, though. Not one little bit.

‘OK, fine. Do you think there’s any hope?’ I pointed to the bogan side of myself.

‘It’s not going to be easy. Maybe you should go blonde, you know, create a whole new you.’

I eyed her dubiously. ‘Let’s just fix the style first.’

Kylie set to work, her mouth set in a small smile as she spoke soothingly to my hair. I closed my eyes and wrapped the kimono tightly around my waist. Obviously a beautiful piece of antique silk was not the culprit for the small hair fire. My mother really needed to cut back on those mushrooms she had especially hand-picked and delivered from Balingup. I think they were not so much wild as they were magic, and we all know what that means. She was a walking hallucination. Poor woman.

***

My alarm shrieked like a tsunami detector, startling me awake. I stretched lazily, mentally planning my wardrobe until I remembered the unfortunate hair-on-fire incident. I jumped out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Kylie had cut my hair into a Posh Spice bob and highlighted and lowlighted the hell out of it. It was now a mosaic of blonde and brown. I was quite pleased with the result and I was sure it made my cheekbones more prominent. My face seemed thinner even. I decided to go with my red tailored skort and a fitted white shirt. I knew Posh would approve. Modern, yet stylish.

I arrived at work promptly at 9.20a.m. and was admiring my hair in the reflection of my PC when I smelled garlic. A shadow fell over me, drowning my image in the screen.

‘That is not appropriate work attire. Shorts? What were you thinking?’

I looked over my shoulder to see Mr Boss Man staring at me in condemnation.

‘What? These aren’t shorts. It’s a skort.’

‘A skort?’

‘Yes, shorts at the back, skirt in the front, easier to move in, no embarrassing Sharon Stone moment flash the gash moments, which to me seems highly appropriate for work.’

He shook his head in apoplectic rage (he has some serious issues). ‘If you refer to your employment manual, you are to wear either knee-length skirts or full-length trousers, not skorts. There are no skorts in the manual.’

‘I appreciate your concern, I really do, but as a curvy woman, knee length doesn’t do me any favours. It’s just a personal preference.’

His hands began to quake. His forehead started to bubble with sweat and I feared he was in the early stages of a heart attack.

‘That’s it. You’re fired!’

My heart started to beat like it does in a Zumba class; maybe I was going to have the heart attack. ‘What? Fired? Because of a skort?’

‘You’ve already had two warnings, and this morning the board alerted me to your tweets for the last month.’

Oh no. In the immortal words of my dad, who was a chronic gambler: I’m fucked, and not in a good way.

‘Ah, Twitter? I don’t know what you’re—’

‘Oh, you don’t know?’ He looked down to a thick pile of pages he was holding and read aloud: ‘A plus to having a bald-headed #beast for a boss is doing my lipstick in the reflection of his shiny noggin.’

Oh shit, oh shit. ‘Ah, I meant that as a compliment. It really is very handy and I…’

He looked down at a surprisingly long list of updates. ‘#TGIF. Two hours and counting. May as well shop online until work is over!’

‘Ah, um, you see…’

His evil bloodshot eyes bored into me as his blood pressure clearly sky-rocketed. I think he was trying to scare me or something. Pack your belongings, and consider this your third and final warning. Don’t upset the other staff as you leave. And please note: staplers and the like are company property.’

‘I only took that stapler because I was planning on working from home that weekend!’

‘Yeah, you needed to file all your eBay receipts, I bet!’

With that, he stormed off, leaving me in his garlic wake. I couldn’t believe it. I had only been fired four or five times. It seemed incredible that it was happening now, when I was more mature and executive-like. I always imagined strutting into the office one day, after I’d been discovered as the next Lady Gaga, handing Mr Chrome Dome my resignation letter coupled with a cute but vicious ditty I’d written about him, which would show off my vocal talent and my quick wit. It was such a shame I didn’t actually have any vocal talent. I was one of those rare people who are completely tone deaf.

I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back and a silent pep talk. It would not do to cry in front of these people. Next thing you know, rumours would be flying around town about me, or sneaky footage uploaded to Facebook with a comment like, ‘Sam, the stapler stealer, gets fired again!’ So I pulled myself together and pretended to have a coughing fit, while I surreptitiously dried my eyes with a tissue. Thank God for waterproof mascara.

I told myself these things happen for a reason. Maybe something better was just around the corner. A few niggling doubts cropped up, like who would foot the bill of my online shopping trips, and how the hell was I going to pay my rent, until I remembered my platinum credit card. All I needed to was to plan an escape strategy out of my tenth floor apartment when the MasterCard henchmen came a-knockin’.

I packed my lucky bamboo (thanks, Mum! Lucky my arse!) digital photo frame, cuticle oil, nail files, buffers, fluffy bunny slippers and a few paperclips for good measure, and strode past the other office minions with my head held high. I knew they were probably jealous that I was out of the sinkhole and they were stuck, going down, down, down. Insert evil laugh …

‘So long, suckers!’ I yelled to the crowd. I was sure Jonathan from Accounting had a tear or two welled up for me. I’d always sort of eyed him cautiously. He was cute in a bookish kind of way, but I imagined us going out for a date and him talking about tax and GST. I wink and say, ‘Howz about we talk spreadsheets, hey?’ and he totally doesn’t get it. You know, one of those highly educated stupid people. They’re everywhere. I was stuck talking to a molecular scientist at a party recently. Honestly, I think I was actually stupider after talking to him. Like my IQ had dropped a few notches. With one last lusty look at Jonathan, I was out of that musty hell-hole for good.

Chapter 2

Breakfast at Toffany’s

Since it was only just after ten, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Toffany’s. It was a small cafe owned by a seriously delusional drag queen named, you guessed it, Toffany. I was always a little terrified when Toff served me. A six-foot-five Amazonian with sparkly silver stilettos and a booming masculine voice was a little too much first thing in the morning, but it’s where all the cool people went so, of course, being cool, it’s where I went too.

I pushed the pink feather boas out the way and put my handbag down on a table in the ‘I’m late’ section of the cafe. This signified you wanted an omelette. Get it: I’m late – Omelette. Told you she was delusional. The cafe was sectioned into food. There was also a ‘Serial killer’ section, which was cereal served with vodka jelly shots, hence a real killer first up in the morning. If you sat in the wrong section and ordered something from another section, you were booted out in a very humiliating fashion. Once I accidentally sat in the Jews’ section, so I had to wear a yarmulke and could only drink juice. Needless to say, I was starving for the rest of the day, but I wasn’t about to be banned over it.

I strutted as gracefully as I could to the sequin-encrusted counter. The kaleidoscope of colours looked great from a distance but up close, you could see the sequins had seen better days. A lifetime of spilt coffee, dirty money and table dancing by big, burly drag queens had done them in. No one was brave enough to tell Toff she might want to consider some kind of revamp. I shouldn’t even use the word ‘revamp’. That was actually Toff’s ex-partner’s name. She was formerly known as Moan-a Lisa, but she changed it to Re-Vamp after a month-long holiday in Thailand where she ‘rejuvenated’ herself. It doesn’t take a genius to work out it wasn’t just sunshine and screaming orgasms (her favourite cocktail, before you go getting all prudish on me) that made her return to Oz looking ten years younger.

I gazed up at what should be a menu board, but was actually a photo wall of Toff with various celebrities. Before she settled down with the cafe, she lived quite the party lifestyle. As a man. She used to model for all those high-end underwear campaigns. I always felt a little uneasy looking at the photos of this gorgeous hunk of a man, barely clothed, one hand invitingly pulling at the front of his tight Y-fronts with a come-hither look.

I sort of fell a little in love every time. We’d lost Toff to the other side, so I crossed off another ‘maybe’ from my list. It’s true all the best guys are gay or look better in stilettos than you do. Life can be cruel.

I could smell wheatgrass juice, so I knew Toff was lurking somewhere behind the mirror balls that served as a curtain for the mysterious goings-on from the kitchen.

She stood all six-foot-eight (with her heels on) and glared down at me. ‘What section, Sweet Cheeks?’Her booming man voice startled me, but I was careful to show absolutely no reaction.

‘I’m late, thanks, Toffany.’

‘Which country?’

‘Spain, please.’ Each table in the ‘I’m late’ section was split into countries. You could have a Spanish omelette, Aussie omelette, Japanese (not recommended) or Greek.

She reached under the counter and produced a hat. ‘Here, Sweet Cheeks. Put this on so the staff know where to take your breakfast.’ She handed me the brightly coloured sombrero. Mortified, I trundled back to my table. I’d completely forgotten about the costumes in the ‘I’m late’ section. I should have been a serial killer. Cereal with vodka jelly shots sounded appealing since I didn’t have a thing to do all day. Everyone in Toff’s looked extremely busy and important-like, so I took out my iPhone, put on my ‘I’m terribly self-absorbed face’ and decided to text Kylie and tell her my news.

‘Hey, K, you’ll never guess what happened! Fired by Mr I-still-live-with-my-mother-even-though-I’m-like-a-hundred! Yes. Fired. He happened to dislike the skort I’m wearing and somehow sussed out my Twitter updates. Can you believe it? What are you doing? Meet at Toff’s?’

My omelette arrived in all its Spanish glory. I knew it was coming when the 90s dance music stopped and a flamenco tune came on. They definitely didn’t do things by halves. I ate with relish. After last night’s debacle, I was starved. Kylie had practically forced me to open two more bottles of red wine, so with the extra calories there all I could eat for dinner was a family-size packet of salt and vinegar chips. I shouldn’t beat myself up about it because tomorrow I’ll start the new diet Kylie suggested. According to her it was the next big thing, all the celebs were doing it. It was called the ‘Colour diet’. You picked a colour of food and only ate things in that shade. I was leaning towards red. Red strawberries, red daiquiris, red liquorice, red lollypops, red cordial, red wine. I had a penchant for pancakes, but Kylie said I could add red food colouring to the mix and it still counted as a diet meal, the red food colouring changed the metabolic structure of the pancakes or something. I couldn’t wait to see the kilos fall off. It would be tough-going, but I knew I could do it if I tried hard enough.

My phone beeped with a message from Kylie.

‘What? Oh my God! How are you going to live? You’re at Toff’s? Shouldn’t you be looking for a new job? And no, I can’t meet you. Like I told you last night, I am running my own business! I have appointments all day. I’ll come over tonight and help you look through the employment section if you like?’

Geez, what a killjoy. How boring could one person be? I needed to ramp up the search for a replacement BFF. The old one was becoming excessively responsible. She’d obviously been hanging around my crazy mother for too long. Running her own business! Wasn’t the reason people did that so they could take time off whenever they wanted? I began to lament the fact my so-called entourage had developed some serious character flaws. In the past, times like these were a cause for celebration. And now look, everyone was busy. Faux busy, if you ask me. I needed to move on, and fast. Time to go home and wrap myself in my kimono. It made me dream of another, more gentle world. Submissive, subservient, exactly what I needed in a friend.

‘Kylie, you don’t seem to have grasped the seriousness of the situation. I am in a crisis here and need some moral support. You’ve obviously neglected to remember when you were fired from the pet shop for murdering all those fish! You went to ground immediately and I was there to pull you up again. I took you to Underwater World to help you get over your fear of killing things. I took the week off for you! I’m asking for one lousy day!’

I scrolled through my contact list in my phone for a potential new bestie. It was a tough choice. I had certain expectations when it came to friends. I won’t go into the specifics because you’ll think I’m some kind of nut job, but the deal breakers were:

They could not be thinner than me.

They must not be taller than me.

They must not have blonde hair, blue eyes or bigger boobs.

The other stuff on my list was just shallow.

My phone beeped again with a new message. God, that girl did not give up easily.

‘Sam…you took the week off because your boss caught you stealing a stapler and all those liquid paper pens! I’ll see you tonight. I can only drink absinthe because I’m on the green colour diet. K xx’

Green? Why would you pick green? All I could think of was vegetables; that wasn’t a very exciting diet.

I finally found a ‘maybe’ for the new best friend shortlist. Gemma. She was a flame-haired musician type, and while she was kind of cool, I secretly thought her hair colour held her back a little. I decided to call her anyway. At this point, I really had no choice.

She answered on the first ring (not a good sign). ‘Hey, Samantha! How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!’ She was very exuberant for first thing in the morning.

‘I’m great, Gemma. I was just wondering if you’re free? I thought we could go get a pedicure at that place with the massaging chairs? I need to get my French tips put back on too.’

‘Sure, I’d love to! What time?’

I began to regret calling her. She was way too eager and available. I really tried not to hold it against her, but if someone called me that short notice, out of principle I would say I was very busy, because, you know, I’m important-like. It was too late now. I was in too deep.

‘Half an hour?’ I asked.

‘Great! Can’t wait to have a good ol’ gossip.’

‘Ok, Gems, see you there.’

I don’t know if you know about the acrylic nail rule, most girls do, especially ones prone to chubbiness due to inheriting the wrong genes (thanks, Dad!). Anyway, here it is: if you want to shed a kilo or two without dieting or exercising, all you need to do is get acrylic nails put on. They instantly make you look thinner. I’m not kidding. Don’t go too long, though; nails should be kept under a centimetre for best results. If they’re too long, people start looking for an Adam’s apple.

I finished my omelette and took my sombrero off. I hated to think what that damn hat had done to my hair. I didn’t dare get my mirror out to check in case Toff saw me and took offence. You really had to be on your game in that place.

Chapter 3

Massage Chair Diet

There were still twenty minutes or so until I had to meet Gemma. I was walking innocently enough toward the nail place, glancing into the windows of shops whose clothes I could no longer afford when, out of nowhere, something barrelled into me, causing me to trip and fall. Stunned, I glanced up wondering what had happened. I was sure I was concussed and not seeing straight. A small boy approached me, yelling, ‘You’re gonna have to pay for that, lady!’

I looked around for the ‘lady’ he was referring to.

‘Did you hear me?’ he repeated, somewhat huffily.

Miffed, I asked, ‘Are you implying I’m old?’ Lady? I mean, come on, I was early to mid-twenties, for God’s sake.

‘You broke my car!’ He dissolved into tears as a mother-looking figure raced out of the toy shop to investigate.

I looked down at my knees that were now covered with blood, guts and gore. Very unattractive. Jeans for the next month then. My beautiful and expensive red ensemble was now ripped and shredded like a hula skort. I was not pleased.

‘Excuse me, little boy, but look at the damage you’ve done to me! I think I’m gonna sue your parents!’

The mother-looking woman scooped the young boy into her arms and hushed him before looking at me in scorn. ‘That car just cost me $200!’

‘Um, are you some kind of crazy person? Your son just hit me with a remote-controlled car as I was walking along the footpath. It came out of nowhere! Do you know this skort cost me $200? Not to mention the fact my knees are most likely busted up! I’ll probably need some kind of surgery to fix this,’ I said, pointing at my bloody wounds and legs that were all akimbo. ‘I think I have concussion. I hope I don’t die in my sleep. Then you’ll really be in trouble. Actually, now my neck is starting to ache. Maybe you should call an ambulance. Do you have insurance?’ I ferreted through my bag to find my phone. Mother-woman stood looking at me in disbelief.

I dialled Kylie’s mobile, only because she was good in an emergency. In the past, she’s fussed and faffed over me, making me feel quite special. She answered on the sixth ring (much better: not so needy looking).

‘What now?’ she hollered.

‘If you must know, I’ve just been hit by a car and I think I need an ambulance. The crazy woman whose child was in control of the car is trying to get me to pay for it, if you can believe that!’ I shot the pair standing over me a viperous look.

‘Oh my God! A child was driving a car? Did he steal it?’

‘What? No! His mother just bought it for him in a toy store.’ She was slow to catch on this one.

‘Wait, I’m confused. Are you saying you were hit by a toy car? And you think you need an ambulance?’

‘What’s with all the em-phasis? Yes, a big, motorised toy car. I’m quite badly hurt, I’ll have you know!’

She sighed right into the phone. ‘OK, drama queen, I’ve got a colour on a client that needs rinsing before their hair falls out. You know, like, a real drama. So I’ll see you tonight,’ she said and hung up. Again. Of course, I wasn’t going to let devil mother and child know that, so I kept up a one-way conversation. ‘Yes, Kylie, that would be great. Call the ambos and ring Uncle Siegfried for me. He’s in the Yellow Pages under Q. As in Q for Queen’s Counsel. Chief of lawyers. I’ll just wait right here since I can’t walk any more anyway.’

Sure enough, the evil duo was gone as fast as my dad’s wages at a two-up game. It was just the mangled car and me. Finally, a toy shop employee came out to assist me. He was a young boy looking about fourteen who stared down innocently at me. His head hiding the sun made it seem like he had a halo.

‘Are you OK, Miss?’ His cute little cherubic face looked quite concerned, so I held back my wrath about how long it had taken someone to come to my rescue.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, glancing at his name badge. ‘Cooper, I could really use something to clean my leg up and a couple of ibuprofens. You look at the damage, please. I worry I might faint with the blood and everything.’

He looked down at my knees. ‘A couple of Band-Aids should do it.’

‘Band-Aids? Band-Aids? Are you some kind of masochist? Then the hospital will have to rip off the Band-Aids to sew it and possibly make the gash even deeper!’

‘Hospital? You’ve only got a couple of scratches on your knees.’

God! Teenagers were so rude these days, don’t you think? He was probably one of those Generation Z kids that didn’t worry about simple things like school, or working, or the future, and just spent all day surfing and I don’t mean waves. I worried, reallyworried, about our country’s future with kids like Cooper.

‘Cooper, do me a favour. Go back to work. Try and commit to it, OK?’

I got to my feet, definitely unsteadily, brushed as much of the street grime as I could from my clothing and hobbled into the nearest clothes shop. I was on a credit card diet, but this was classified as an emergency, so without any guilt I selected a few outfits. A mere ten minutes later, I was refreshed, redressed and walking to the nail bar, albeit more cautiously.

I could smell the acetone a few hundred metres away. I was now running about thirty minutes late and wondered why Gemma hadn’t called to ask why. Another thumbs-down for her. No one cool waits around like a stood-up date without at least ringing to check that nothing serious has happened to prevent them arriving on time. Which, luckily for her, had happened, but she didn’t know that, so it was still uncool.

A gorgeous Vietnamese guy greeted me as I entered the nail bar. It was the funkiest nail place in town and run by men. That’s not why I went there, if that’s what you’re thinking.

They just so happened to be the very best at acrylic and they were super-fast. Kylie reckons they flirt just so you come back, but I disagree. I didn’t see them flirt with her at all. They were just being friendly. I, on the other hand, had my favourite technician, and whoa could he flirt! He was hot for me for sure, but I drew the line at a boyfriend who touched feet all day. I imagined us getting intimate, and then him caressing me with those hands and instantly saw hundreds of feet belonging to hundreds of different women. It sort of felt like cheating, not to mention the whole ‘ick’ factor of so many dirty feet. Not exactly a turn on.

I asked the guy if Hoang was available for French tips and a pedicure and saw Gemma waving frantically to me. Then she does the unthinkable and yells across the shop, ‘Sammy, you look great! You’ve lost weight!’

Can you imagine? Who says that? Instead, as the consummate together person I am, I casually strolled to the empty chair beside old loose lips and smiled in a friendly and endearing manner that I totally didn’t feel.

‘Gemma, great to see you again. Blue hair, wow, how did you manage to get it that colour?’ Notice I didn’t say anything about her hair looking great. I don’t lie to friends outright like that, unlike some people I know (Kylie).

‘Do you like it? Kylie did it for me. She’s great with hair, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, I love it. Kylie, hmm, don’t use her myself.’ I didn’t have the heart to say blue hair was so 1990s. I mean she really should know these things, being a performer and all.

So, how are you? How’s that fabulous advertising job of yours?’

OK, so I may have bent the truth slightly about my actual role inside the office. ‘Oh, you know how it is, I could only climb the corporate ladder so far before I need to expand to somewhere bigger and better like, you know, Tokyo.’

She nodded in rapt approval. ‘Really? So are you off overseas then?’

‘Well, not at this stage. I thought I’d take a few weeks off, do some yoga, eat lentils, you know, de-stress from that whole pressurised environment. I tell you, it was killing me. It was work, work, work. Deadlines, KPIs, budgets, bonuses, and boys. It’s a man’s world out there in corporate-land. It’s tough going being one of the players when you’re a young, good-looking woman. I must say, I envy you. Being able to turn up unwashed, ungroomed, with just a guitar. Lucky you. Lucky, lucky you.’

She started laughing, although I’m not sure what at. ‘You’re so funny! Kylie was telling me your boss sent you out clothes shopping for him!’

Thankfully, Hoang walked over to me at that moment. Do you see what I mean about Kylie? She can’t help but spread malicious gossip around. It’s the bloody hairdresser in her. Now I was just going to have to spill one of her secrets.

‘Hoang. How are you?’ I said in my best sultry voice.

‘Very good today. What you want today, Miss?’

‘The usual, Hoang, plus a full set of French tips.’

‘OK, French tips no problem. What’s the usual, Miss?’

Coy, very coy. ‘Ha, ha, Hoang. You know, the usual pedicure!

Last time you said my toes reminded you of your long-lost love, Quelo.’

‘Ah, yes, Quelo. My bullmastiff. Had to be put down after he ate our tax bill. All the ink poisoned him. How I miss him!’

Hoang became emotional while I was still reeling over the fact he likened my toes to a friggin’ dog’s! Although, when I thought about it realistically, I could see he didn’t mean my feet visually, he meant metaphorically. He loved me, he loved Quelo. I could see that.

Hoang proceeded to fill up the foot spa and turned my chair massager on to ‘mile-high-club’ mode. It vibrated the bejesus out of me. I knew what he was thinking. The quicker, the harder, the faster – the better. Men. They were as transparent as the defence in the Stapler-Gate affair.

I relaxed into my chair and closed my eyes as Hoang worked his magic. The vibrations of the chair worked all the suddenly unemployed stress right out of my body. Kylie said that sitting in those chairs for thirty minutes or more was equivalent to running on the treadmill for five kilometres. Something about the way they work every muscle in your body. I tried to get a manicure or pedicure every week after I heard that. Incidental exercise, she called it.

I remembered ‘old blue hair’ next to me and figured since I’d invited her here I should really put some effort into some sort of conversation.

‘How’s the band going?’ I asked.

‘Great! We start touring next month. I’m so excited. We start here in Perth and work our way around Australia. It will be great to see the whole country, although we won’t have much time for sightseeing. It’s a gig, then back on the bus to race to the next gig, then back on the bus …’

‘Bus? You’re travelling with a group of grunge boys on a bus? For how long?’

‘We’re booked solid for the next six months. Major cities and regional.’

‘Couldn’t your agent secure a plane? How will you shower?’

She did that infuriating easy-going laugh thing again. ‘Who knows? I guess some of the venues will have bathrooms. That’s all part of the excitement of the trip! We don’t know who we’ll meet, where we’re going. We’ll sleep on the bus, write another album.’ She had a faraway look in her eyes, so I let her escape to the land of the great unwashed. She was totally off the BFF list. Not only because she was going away for most of the year, but because she didn’t care where she would shower and she was happy to sleep on a bus.

Hoang looked up at me with sex written all over his face. I was sure he winked at me, but I was concentrating on holding my stomach in, so I may have just missed it. From where he sat, you know, at my feet, it was kind of an unflattering angle.

‘Excuse me, Miss, what colour you like?’ asked Hoang. See what I mean? He really is interested. Next it will be something like ‘What’s your favourite movie’ and BOOM! He’ll ask me out.

‘Hmm, good question, Hoang. I used to love pink, of course, every girl does. Now I like yellow, sometimes green, but I guess I’m a little partial to purple these days too.’

‘I meant for your toe nails, Miss.’

‘Oh, yes of course … I’ll have red please.’

He walked away from my perfectly pedicured toes and selected the red varnish off a shelf near the front counter. He started speaking in Vietnamese to the guys who were grouped there.

Hoang pointed to me and gesticulated wildly, then the group burst out laughing and looked in my direction. At this point, I felt sort of bad for Gemma. They were obviously laughing about her blue hair. Really though, she brought it on herself.

He strutted back to me and knelt at my feet again (very empowering) and proceeded to paint my nails red. My Mum calls it horrid, as in ‘Whore red’, which is a plus for me. If she thinks it’s tacky, it must be good. I would hate my mum to approve of anything I do, then I would definitely know I’ve lost my edge.

Gemma’s technician asked for her colour choice and she picked, you guessed it, blue. Poor girl. If she were a better friend, I’d take her aside and teach her a few things about the ‘real world’, but at this stage I really had to focus on myself. Put me first for a change. I couldn’t rescue everyone.

‘Any chance you could swing me an appointment with your mum?’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve tried to get in, but she’s booked out for months.’

‘What? Not you too! What is this fascination with my loopy mother lately? Everyone’s on the bandwagon.’

‘You mean, you don’t know? She’s fantastic! Everyone is raving about her. Her Reiki is second to none. I’ve never felt better.’

‘God, Reiki schmaki, it’s all a crock. I mean, really, holding her hands ten centimetres above your body is meant to heal everything?’

Gemma narrowed her eyes at me and said, ‘You can be kind of hard on people, you know that? I think you need to see your mum yourself for some kind of therapy. She has this thing called “Bach flower treatment” that’s great for depression, anxiety and stress.’

‘Are you implying I have some kind of medical condition?’

‘I’m just saying, it’s a natural alternative for relaxation.

Everyone needs an escape now and then when life gets hard. A few bottles of red wine and a packet of ciggies is really not the answer.’

Can you believe this blue-haired monster? Seriously, was she giving me a lecture?

‘Gemma, I hardly ever drink red wine and I definitely don’t smoke, so whoever you’re getting your information from is totally barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Kylie told me she had an emergency call from you last night to fix your hair, because it caught on fire when you tried to light a smoke off the stove while you were plastered.’

‘Wow, who are you suddenly? Oprah? Is Dr Phil gonna run in with a film crew and do an intervention? My mother, too? Clutching a handwritten letter I can take off to rehab with me for my darkest moments?’

I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. She has multiple personalities. I mean, where the hell did that come from? I remember now why we didn’t stay friends long in high school.

I lowered my voice, not wanting to make a spectacle out of myself and said, ‘I’ll have you know that Kylie is one of the worst exaggerators I’ve ever met. We aren’t talking at the moment, so I guess she has to make up these ridiculous lies to feel better about herself or something.’

‘She has photos of last night. You, totally wild-eyed, smoking, your hair a charred mess on one side.’ She had the nerve at this point to start laughing. ‘Oh, and your apartment! What a pigsty! How can you live like that?’

Well, I can tell you right now I was shocked at her utter rudeness. I mean, who says things like that? As for Kylie, oh man, was she going to cop it tonight when she came over. I had some nasty photos of her hidden away for times like this. It was war.

Hoang had just finished my toenails and was clearly feeling the angry vibe we had going on. He made himself scarce.

‘Obviously my mother’s “releasing negative energy tea” has done nothing for you! This has been great but, unfortunately for you, I have other obligations today. You know, with nice people.’

I stood up as daintily as I could so I didn’t smudge my nail polish and walked to the counter to say my goodbyes to Hoang and cancel my French tips. Really, I only had so many hours each day, I should be a little bit fussier about who I dole them out to. Blue-haired band freaks were a big NO from now on. What was I thinking?

Hoang snatched my money and secreted it away like I’d just performed a sexual act for him. He winked at me while I air-kissed him, allowing me to walk out with my head held high. I immediately rooted around my bag for my phone. I was still pissed I wasn’t going to drop a kilo or two by getting my false nails applied.

It took all my might to walk slowly down the street. I suddenly felt like I was living in a parallel universe. It was unheard of for people to speak to me like that. First Kylie, now Gemma, of all people. Even my mum would usually intuit something was wrong, bring me dark chocolate and give me a foot massage. Had the world gone mad? I thought back to my mother’s warning about the kimono, but it was just too preposterous to believe. There was no way a piece of antique silk could be causing my friends to be so mean-spirited. Something was going on and I was going to figure it out, just as soon as I’d organised lunch. I can’t think when I’m hungry.

Chapter 4

Beer Belly Bob

I walked along the busy street, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, scrolling through my phone looking for a new BFF candidate. Slim pickings, really. I decided to text Sharona.

She was a part-time make-up girl for Clinique, so it was pretty much guaranteed she wouldn’t show up with a freak show hairstyle. She was fairly ditzy, you know the type, laughs at everything, vacant look in her eyes, cute little nose. Her hair was brown, even though she totally acted blonde, and she was short with a big bum. I’m not being bitchy, I’m just trying to describe her for you. Oh, her good points? Well, she laughs at your jokes, and she’s a good listener.

‘Hey, Sharona! Want meet for lunch? Tapas?’

Her reply came instantly like the total slave to technology that she was. I think it’s something about being needed and wanted for some people. Like their phone is glued to their hand so they don’t miss a thing. Sad, really.

‘Hey! Love to but I’m at home recovering. You wanna come here?’

Recovering? Oh God, I’d have to listen to the whole sob story, get drinks for her, possibly spoonfeed her. Forget it. I didn’t do nursemaid for anyone.

‘Recovering. From what?’ I sent back.

‘Tyson just paid for me to have a boob job! Look out! DD all the way!’

Well, cross another off the list. How tacky. Her boyfriend of one month obviously didn’t like the fact he got her shoulder blades mixed up with her boobs and paid for her to have them done. It was practically prostitution, if you ask me.

‘Would love to, but I’m allergic to the smell of desperation, so maybe another time.’

‘Aww shame, you should feel them!’

Eww. See what I mean? It doesn’t take a person long to fall into that hooker-ish behaviour. Looks like I have another potential stalker on the way. Note to self: steer clear of Sharona until the anaesthetic has worn off.

Just when I’m feeling super-despondent, my phone rings and it’s JJ. He’s a flirtatious gay guy who is hardly ever around because he travels a lot. A funky artist type who spends a lot of time in Paris living ‘like a leper’, he says, because it’s the only way a true artist learns.

What he really means is he sucks everyone into paying for everything for him. It’s cool though, because it’s good to be seen with him. His art sort of went global a few years ago and he was semi-famous for a while there, even though he lost all the money he earned by falling into a serious drug habit.

He says he did it on purpose because he needed an edge, something dark with a violent tendency because his work was becoming too commercial. He said he felt like a sell-out. Anyway, so now he’s back and broke.

‘Sexy Samantha, I’m in Perth!’

‘Hey, JJ. I guess you want to meet for lunch?’

‘Babe, I’d love to, but you know how busy I am these days. I have exhibitions to arrange, paint that needs painting, brushes that need, umm, brushing, you know how it is. Why, what did you have in mind?’

See. JJ is a consummate professional at the scam. Firstly he tells you he is very busy and important-like; thumbs-up for that. Next, he finds out what you’re prepared to offer before he even considers it. JJ is high-end. He only does restaurants that have linen tablecloths with wait staff that place the napkin over your lap (he has a real thing about doing it himself, he says that’s for buffets and truck stops). He usually manages a top-notch lunch with fabulous wine, then a small spot of shopping.

He’s decked out like a super-rich playboy, and it’s all so effortless for him. I’d hate him if I didn’t love him so much. The upside to shopping with him like you’re some kind of Sugar Mummy was that he’d help put a whole outfit together for you. Things you’d never pick for yourself and somehow they always worked. It was the Parisian in him.

‘I understand, JJ, I’m swamped too. I start a new lifestyle choice tomorrow, though, so I wanted one last day of degustation beforehand.’

‘Lifestyle choice?’ he queried.

‘Yes, diets are so passé, I don’t do diets unlike some people we know, who are constantly stuck on that carousel of failure.’

‘Oh, a diet. You don’t need to diet!’ Hear that? That’s how I know he’s expecting me to pay.

‘I know, JJ. Sweet of you to notice. How about lunch at Silk in South Perth?’

‘Silk. An oldie but a goodie. Let me ring you back. I’ll see if I can swap a few things around.’

‘Let me ring you back, JJ. This has come totally out of the blue for me. I wasn’t planning on doing lunch at all today. I’ll see if I can reschedule a few things.’

I can’t be seen to be too available either, you know. It would be social suicide, especially with JJ. While he was uber-cool and arty, he could be terribly bitchy. I’m not kidding. I let my guard down with him once, poured my little heart out after a long lunch in the sun drinking mojitos. If I remember correctly, my then boyfriend had been caught kissing Toffany and I was heartbroken. JJ thought it was hilarious, and spread it around town that I had the ability to turn straight men gay. I tell you it was a dark week for me. I almost considered moving to Sydney until I did a Google search on how many straight men have turned gay there – alarming. Instead, I went to ground for a week, watched Will and Grace-a-thons and decided maybe I needed a cool gay best friend too. I bit the bullet and rang the ex-straight guy and offered my BFF status. He said yes and here we are, about to have lunch again. So now you know. The ex-boyfriend was JJ. The bastard.

JJ breathed heavily into the phone, ‘OK, babe, but be quick, ‘I’ve got a million things to do today.’

‘Sure, JJ. Me too.’ I hung up the phone and walked along the footpath looking for a taxi. I knew JJ would be doing the same. We’d both be working our way to Silk even though neither of us had confirmed. It’s just the way things are done.

I waited seven minutes before I called JJ back.

‘JJ, it wasn’t easy but I think I’ve managed to reschedule everyone. It’s not every day a friend arrives from Paris, is it?’

‘Great, me too. I’ll be playing catch-up for the rest of the week, but I’m sure it’ll be worth it.’

‘Let’s hope so for both our sakes. Meet you at Silk in fifteen?’

‘Twenty,’ he said.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘I’m in the thick of it here. If you get there first, order a drink or two,’ and with that I hung up.

I looked at my phone and noted the time. I added another five minutes to JJ’s twenty, which would make made it exactly eleven-forty. I would wait in the underground car park if I had to. Getting to the restaurant first smacked of desperation.

A white taxi appeared as if I’d ESP’d him, like my mum does when she wants a cab.

‘Where you off to, love?’ asked the elderly grey-haired driver.

‘Silk, South Perth.’

‘Hop in, love.’

The taxi smelled like stale sweat. Air freshener, people. Two dollars! I felt like mentioning it, but after the last taxi fiasco where I was booted out unceremoniously in the dodgy end of town, I thought better of it. Who knew cab drivers were so sensitive? I simply mentioned he might want to think about using deodorant in the summer time. It was as much for his sake as mine. Sheesh.

As I always did when I hopped into a taxi, I typed the driver’s name, Bob, and taxi registration number into my phone and texted it to my Mum. When you are a young, good-looking girl, you must take precautions.

He turned up the radio; horse racing. Of all the luck. I surreptitiously glanced at him again to make sure it wasn’t my dad who’d arisen from the dead, or something.

The race was coming to its climax and so was the driver, it seemed. He was hitting his steering wheel and yelling, ‘C’mon, Pocket Rocket, you good thing! C’mon!’

The race ended, and Bob was hooting and hollering like he was sitting on a lit cigarette. At one stage, I grabbed the steering wheel to straighten it. He had his eyes closed and was punching his fists into the air, saying, ‘Show me the money, Pocket Rocket, show me the money, baby!’

As you can imagine, I was getting annoyed that suddenly I had to be the responsible one. What was I paying him for, then?

‘Ah, Bob, can you man the steering wheel again? It’s just that we are coming up to the bridge and all …’

‘Sure, love, sure. Sorry, got lost in the moment for a while there. You see, I’ve just won more money than I make in a year. Now I can take my gorgeous girlfriend out to a flash joint for a vegetarian dinner!’

‘Great, Bob. Woohoo for you.’

‘Yeah, my new girlfriend is a vegetarian, which is fine except now I have to be a vegetarian too! I sneak burgers during the day, but she reckons she can smell death on me!’

I appraised old Bob and wondered what his girlfriend was like.

He was really old. Weathered and leathery. Saying girlfriend seemed wrong, like he was too ancient for that word. His clothes had seen better days. His polo shirt was stretched over his beer belly and it had faded yellow stains down the front.

‘Yeah, she’s tops this new sheila. Changed my whole outlook on life,’ he continued. I felt like saying, don’t care, Bob!

‘I used to smoke two packs of ciggies a day, drink half a carton of beer with the boys, and food, well, I won’t go there. Suffice it to say, I’d never even heard of lentils before!’

Um, suffice it. Yes please.

‘Anyway, this new sheila is great. No more drinking. No more smoking. She did some kind of acupuncture on me that took the urges right away! Although now that I’m healthy, I have a whole different set of urges!’ His bawdy laugh reverberated through the taxi.

Eww, was he talking about sex?

‘Yeah, this new sheila, boy, has she taught me a few things in the bedroom department. I think it’s all the yoga she does. She sure is flexible!’

Eww, yes, he was talking sex. This was sexual harassment for my ears.

‘Not long now, love. I’m gonna ring her after I drop you off. We were meant to go out last night but she had some emergency. Her wayward daughter is the only thorn in her side. She reckons she just needs to do some past-life regression therapy on her and she’ll be good as gold.’

‘Yay.’

‘Yeah, this new sheila, I’d do anything for her, you know?’

‘Must you call her a sheila? Don’t you realise how seventies you sound? Can’t you just say her name?’

‘Her name’s Valerie, love. Val for short.’

‘That’s my mum’s name, too.’ God. Can you friggin’ believe it? There are two women named Valerie who believe in all that hocus-pocus and bloody vegetarianism. What are the chances?

Finally, after what seemed like a week, we arrived at Silk. I paid Bob and got the hell out of that stinking car. I almost contemplated being first in because I seriously needed an alcoholic drink after that excursion. Common sense prevailed though, and I walked a few metres to the entrance of the underground car park. There was a big bristly bush I could hide behind and still get a view of the front door of the restaurant.

As soon as I saw JJ approach, I’d wait another few minutes and then go in.

I delved into my handbag and scoured around for my perfume. I was worried the taxi smell was contagious, so I liberally sprayed myself and continued peeking through the bush. I didn’t think I could keep this up much longer. I was hungry and thirsty. How did people survive lost in the outback for so long? I was going to cave in if this kept up. The smell of salt and pepper squid and spicy chorizo was going to kill me. My mouth started watering as I caught myself in a little fantasy with the head waiter, Alberto. He was drizzling fresh lemon over the chorizo, never taking his eyes off me for a second. He brings the tasty sausage up to my mouth and I accidentally bite his fingers which taste tart like lemon …

‘What are you doing, Miss?’ boomed a voice behind me. I screamed like I’d just been arrested for shoplifting. I turned quickly to offer an excuse to the policeman until I realised it was JJ.

‘You bastard! You scared the crap out of me!’

‘Why are you hiding in a bush?’

‘I wasn’t hiding. I, ah, dropped my purse,’ I said, as I dropped my purse.

‘I think someone was trying to arrive last.’

‘JJ, you are seriously delusional at times,’ I scoffed. I instantly kicked the head waiter guy fantasy to the kerb when I saw JJ. I’d forgotten how seriously good-looking he was. He was wearing navy-blue linen pants and a tight white singlet that emphasized every ripple of muscle. His hair was lost somewhere between blonde and brown, and was just long enough that you could run your fingers through it. His skin was the colour of honey. Mmm, honey. Honey on JJ. Mmm.

I shook myself before I got lost inside my head with that train of thought. I really couldn’t believe he’d turned gay on me. I looked up to the bright-blue sky, looking for answers from a God who obviously doesn’t like me, and said silently, ‘Why do you hate me so? Why is he gay? Why, why, WHY?’

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked JJ.

Oh, whoops, I must have said that out loud. ‘Ah, nothing. Just reciting lines from a play I’m in.’ Phew, that was close.

He studied me intently before grabbing my hand to walk up the steps. His grip felt good; warm and strong. I wished the steps went on forever and, believe me, that’s not something I usually wish for. If I want to exercise, I’ll just go get a manicure on the massaging chairs.

Alberto, the head waiter, walked over. I could barely look at him after what we’d just been though. He handed us some menus.

‘Would you care to order something to drink first?’ he asked, oozing class. ‘Perhaps a glass of sparkling wine, or champagne, whilst you’re perusing the wine list?’

JJ piped up, and let me tell you now, it’s like I’m psychic, he won’t choose sparkling, that’s for sure.

‘We’ll have a bottle of champagne, please,’ he smiled at me and said. ‘You didn’t want sparkling, did you?’ His tone of voice suggested drinking sparkling wine instead of proper champagne from the Champagne region in France was akin to drinking a goon bag.

‘Champagne’s great,’ I said, keeping my eyes averted from Alberto.

Alberto disappeared as quickly as the guy who took my virginity.

JJ clasped my hand and leaned forward like we were lovers. ‘So, how have you been? I’ve missed you, you know.’

Remember he’s gay.

Remember he’s gay.

It wasn’t working! ‘Ah, I’ve missed you too, JJ.’ I had to be certain this wasn’t another set-up from him. ‘So, how’s your love life? Met any hot guys in ol’ gay Paree?’

‘No, there is no one for me there, ma cherie. Actually, I’ve been sort of wrapped up in the past.’ He began caressing my hand and winked at me.

‘Oh, is that why you’re back? Unfinished business with Toffany?’

‘No, ma amour, not Toffany.’

I searched my memory for other people he’d had passionate one-night stands with.

Ah. ‘Ashley?’

‘No, not Ashley, ma préféré.’

‘Shannon?’

‘No, ma seul véritable amour.’

For God’s sake, what was this? A quiz show? What was with all the French mumbo jumbo?

‘OK, JJ, I give up.’

‘You mean, you really don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘It’s you. It’s always been you. I just needed to experiment for a while. All along I had the perfect partner right here, in little sunny old Perth.’

Well, you can imagine how shocked I was. I thought he’d been swearing at me in French and I still hadn’t forgotten pouring my heart out to him after the whole Toffany fiasco. It never rains, but it pours. First Alberto, then this.

‘Is this another attempt to humiliate me in the gay community?’

‘That was uncalled for, Samantha. If I could take it back I would.’ His azure-coloured eyes looked sincere as he stared right into my soul. A wave of desire washed over me like a spray tan. Alberto strode to our table with a bottle of champagne and two flutes standing expertly on a small tray.

‘Excuse me, Sir, Madame, are you ready to order?’ He was all charm. He even looked like what you’d expect a hoity-toity waiter to look like. Thick black shiny hair. Manicured nails (I can always tell). Sharp, tailored suit.

JJ spoke up first, ‘I’ll have the lime and vodka oysters to start,’ he gave me a lascivious wink, ‘and for main I’ll have the fennel and honey pork belly.’

Great. I was going to have something as equally calorie-laden, but now he was hot for me again I wouldn’t be able to eat like that in front of him. I’d have to order something healthy.

‘I’ll have chorizo and garlic bread to start. Hold the garlic,’ I couldn’t stand the smell of garlic any more after my ex-boss bathed in it, ‘and the Wagyu beef for main, thanks, Alberto.’ I sincerely hoped JJ wanted to share his pork belly. That was half my reason for coming here.

JJ stood and moved his chair closer to mine. He bent down, nuzzled into my neck, and whispered, ‘So, what do you say? Can we go back to where we left off?’

That kind of nuzzling gets me every time and he knows it. It sent shivers down my body. I felt woozy, intoxicated by him. Still, there were rules in these kinds of circumstances and I must play by them if I wanted to remain on top in this town.

‘Look, JJ, I’ll consider it, but don’t hold your breath, OK? I’m kind of seeing a few people at the moment and I’m pretty sure one of them is a keeper.’ OK, not true, but if I say I’m alone and have been since he tore my heart out, threw it to the ground and then beat it to death with his straightening iron, he’d change his mind for sure. I know I would.

‘I understand, just tell me you’ll think about it?’ he said in a syrupy voice.

‘I’ll do my best. Now, can you excuse me for a minute? I need to ring the office and check everyone is meeting their KPIs.’ I stood up quickly and strutted to the ladies’ room. I shut myself in a cubicle and screamed, ‘There is a God! He’s not gay, he’s NOT GAY!’ I did a little happy dance and a kind of karmic ‘up yours’ to Toffany.

That taken care of, I walked back and joined JJ at the table.

He’d ordered a bottle of Margaret River chardonnay while I was gone. I tried not to sit there with a stupid love-struck grin on my face, because it’s just so damn cheesy, and I didn’t want JJ to know I was happy.

Our entrées came and we ate, quietly taking in the view of the Swan River. We used to come to Silk together every Friday after work, when we were a couple. It was where all the power couples went so, of course, it’s where we went.

I was mentally weighing up the pros and cons of getting back together with JJ. We’d be invited to all those cute little couples only dinner parties. Those couple types could be downright hostile if you were a singleton. I’d have my personal shopper back for good. Oh, and the sex thing. I’d have sex on tap again and I’m sure you are all aware of the calorie-burning properties in that particular activity.

I glanced at JJ’s oyster-shovelling smugness. Suddenly I remembered the cons. First, running off with a delusional drag queen and telling the world about it. His uncanny ability to spend every last cent of mine and then disappear like my lost youth. He was almost too good-looking. How can you be that good-looking and be faithful? I sort of understood. I was good-looking myself.

You know, it’s like expecting a big famous rock star who travels around the world being mobbed by models, to say, ‘No! My gorgeous ninety-five kilo, brown-haired haus frau is at home with my two sugar-happy hyperactive kids. I must say ‘no’ to you, you blonde forty-nine-kilo, waif-like supermodel. I took a vow on my wedding day, you know.’ Trust me, it will never happen.

I knew I was one up in the ridiculous mind battle we were having when JJ asked me, ‘What are you thinking?’ In case you don’t know, that’s a very big NO NO. What are you thinking? Are you ever honest when someone asks you that? NO! God, I would have been fired at least six or seven times by now if that was the case. Kylie would have stabbed me in the jugular with her thinning shears. And JJ. And my mother. It doesn’t bear thinking about. So I did the right thing and said, ‘I was thinking about cutting my credit card in half.’

His face contorted in sheer horror, like I just told him Toffany was expecting his first child. (Impossible? I get confused). ‘Why? Why would you do something so hurtful?’ He was grasping at his napkin like a safety blanket.

‘It’s virtually empty anyway. I’m just sick of the pressure of all that free money. Why? You’ll still love me sans credit card, won’t you?’

His blue eyes turned crimson. I’m not kidding. His face turned purple. I had my answer. That bastard. I folded my napkin and stood up again, ‘Excuse me, JJ. I need to call the office again.

Pamela mentioned they were having some issues with their IPLs. Back in a jiffy.’ I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit by the back door. I waved goodbye to a drooling Alberto, who I knew was mentally undressing me as I hurried past. As I rushed off, I began to ponder why JJ was suddenly back in town. He usually came back to Australia in summer, and he made sure we all knew he was coming, probably so we could save money to lavish on him. It was autumn and he hadn’t warned anyone. Very unusual.

Chapter 5

The Hair Psychologist

I held my breath until I reached the taxi rank. Once I flagged an incoming taxi, I managed to relax and do a big old evil belly laugh. I pictured JJ finishing the bottle of chardonnay, ordering another perhaps even more expensive wine. He’d eat my main meal, then his. Then it would dawn on him. I was not coming back. He would have to leave his fake Prada sunglasses as collateral and make some frantic phone calls for cash to get out of there with any shred of dignity.

The taxi pulled up, and I jumped in without taking any notice of the driver’s details. I was too distracted picturing JJ’s handsome face trying to explain to Alberto why he couldn’t pay. Then, JJ takes Alberto’s soft, manicured fingers in his strong, warm hand, and convinces him he could pay in other ways.

Alberto’s eyes light up and he kisses … eww, hang on. Damn it!

That’s not the right fantasy. Bloody cheating bisexual men. It’s rife around here, I’m telling you.

I shook the image from my mind and glanced at the registration of the driver. I began to text it to my mum when a distinctive voice pipes up and says, ‘So, how was lunch, love?’

You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me. Beer belly Bob. Of all the luck.

‘I was left unsatisfied, if you must know, Bob.’

‘Boy trouble, love?’

‘You could say that.’

‘What’s the trouble? He’s not a vegetarian too, is he?’

‘Hmmm, I’m not sure how to answer that, Bob. I’ve heard lesbians described as vegetarians, so does the same apply to straight men that turn gay, then straight, then almost definitely gay again?’

‘You’ve got me there, love. I have no idea. So, your boyfriend’s gay?’

‘Yes. He’s gay and the only slot he’s interested in is the one that swipes my credit card.’

Beer belly Bob looked slightly shocked, but managed to change the subject back to himself, like most good cabbies do. ‘So, I called my sheil – I mean Val – like I told you I was gonna. I’m all set to take her out to this Indian vego place tonight. I was thinking of buying her some flowers and maybe some chocolates.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah. I thought I might get a hotel room, you know, with a spa. Get some of that non-alcoholic champagne she loves.’

Eww. Go away naked mental picture of Bob in the bath.

‘Yeah, then I thought I’d surprise her and scatter rose petals all over the bed, you know, all romantic like.’

‘You’re very original, Bob. Did you think of that all by yourself?’

‘No, love. I wish. Saw it on a movie.’

I just wanted to get home, but it’s the saint in me, I tell you. I had to, something literally forced me to. ‘Bob, what are you planning on wearing tonight?’

‘Well, my birthday suit eventually,’ cue disgusting bawdy laugh.

Another mental picture I’ll need erased by regression therapy.

‘To the date, Bob. What are you planning on wearing on your date?’

‘Oh, I’ll just chuck a shirt on over this one I think, love. Maybe spray on a bit of Old Spice.’

Aptly named. Old.

‘Hmm. I was thinking, Bob, you really need a new look. You look like a truck driver that’s been on the road. For a few months. With sheep. Who have fleas.’

‘A new look? Val likes me just as I am.’

‘I bet she makes you take a shower before she kisses you. Am I right?’

He narrowed his bloodshot eyes at me.

‘I bet she bought you a “special” toothbrush just for her house. Am I right?’

‘Well, yeah, but that’s only ’cause …’

‘I bet she came to your house only the once and has never been back. Am I right?’

He hung his head and said, ‘Yes. You’re right.’

It’s like I have a gift. I had to help him. For the sake of his poor girlfriend.

‘Right, Bob. I’m very busy you know. Stop at these shops here. Bring your credit card and let’s go.’

Bob pulled in to a narrow car park and wearily followed me into the shop. He really was very shabbily dressed and I was risking my reputation just by being seen with him. What can I do, though? I’m just a good person. Saint-like.

Bob followed meekly behind me with his head hung as low as his thick neck would allow, like he was trying to hide his face in his chin folds. I filled my arms full of clothes and directed him to the changing room. I sat expectantly on a blue-and-yellow striped chaise lounge. I knew Bob could be transformed from booze hound barfly to, well, one step up from that.

‘I’m ready, but I’m not coming out. I look ridiculous,’ Bob whispered sharply over the changing room door.

‘That’s an impossibility. You looked ridiculous before we came in here. Be a man for God’s sake and come out so you can see yourself from every angle.’ Big tough men were all the same deep down. Sensitive and scared.

Bob walked out in loose-fit denim jeans coupled with a navy-blue long-sleeved shirt that nipped in slightly at his waist. It had small white pinstripes running down the length of it. He looked like a different person.

‘What’s wrong with that? You look great. What size shoe are you?’

‘What’s wrong with my thongs?’

‘Bob. I’m on a schedule here. Things will move quicker if you just listen.’

The shadow cleared from his eyes. He had no fight left. ‘Size eleven.’

I walked to the shoe section, which sold genuine leather shoes in every colour imaginable. I picked black, brown and beige and six pairs of matching socks. He could wear his thongs on Sundays.

‘Try these.’

The black boots fit perfectly and again I realised how gifted I was. I had a natural talent for shopping.

Bob stood in front of the mirrors and eyed himself cautiously. ‘I like it, but it doesn’t feel like me.’

‘Will you miss the grubby old polo, Bob? Now try on the rest of the clothes. We’re running out of time.’ I shooed him back into the plush purple-carpeted changing room and decided I’d call Kylie, even though she was a no-good, gossiping liar, to see if she could fit Bob in for a mercy cut.

‘What now?’

I decided to ignore her curtness and get straight to the point. ‘I have an emergency client for you. He has a date tonight and he can’t possibly go looking like the Bee Gees. The dead ones. Bad hair coupled with pallid and pasty skin, it’s not nice to look at.’

‘What? Who is he?’

‘Bob. A taxi driver I met today. Can you meet at my place?’

‘You want me to cut the hair of some random taxi driver you met today and you’re taking him to your house?’

‘God, when you say it like that it sounds creepy! Good point, though. Let’s meet at your house in half an hour.’

‘No, I’ll meet at yours. He’ll be the last client anyway.’

‘OK, if I’m not there on time just make yourself comfortab—’

‘Samantha, this is not a social experiment, just friggin’ get there on time!’ And with that, she hung up on me for the third time that day.

I glanced over at Bob, who was still looking at himself sceptically in the full-length mirror. ‘C’mon, Bob, we’ve got another appointment. Grab the clothes and pay. I’ll meet you in the cab.’

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