—9—
Lunch was divine, which I only expected. Brett had the same as breakfast, though more. For myself, I ordered a salad, 'something simple and fast, with pine nuts, apricots, and lots of cracked Jamaican pepper, and capers and plum vinegar, and rocket of course, and ouzo-splashed grilled baby octopus, to be mixed in a eucalypt bowl unseasoned by garlic.' That and iced lapsang souchong with coconut milk. I didn't bother thinking up dessert, because dessert had been served before lunch, and I had been picking at it ever since. The fabulous meringue of my name. Dessert came 'with the Restonia's compliments' anyway—a huge plate of fresh dates that I devoured to the last sticky one, Brett not wanting any.
Now, lunch removed (service here was instantaneous), I felt confident enough to push for our next meeting of the day.
'I could use a change of clothes,' I said, as soon as Brett was again ensconced on the pile of mats.
(And toothbrushing stuff. And a bag. I felt naked without a bag, though I had nothing to put in it, and really, no need to have a bag since I never needed a pen or paper again. But I still needed something to clean my teeth, a change of clothes [wouldn't be difficult to shop for, or expensive to get—just another pair of jeans, a couple T-shirts, socks, undies, all in basic black]—and that bag that I needed just because, even if it would only hold as much as the Queen's.) But I felt uncomfortable discussing all this with him.
'Could I please have some money? Then I'll take off so you can get to work.'
He drew himself up so high on his mountain that he suddenly looked fairytale royal. He needed something fanciful to complement his majesty. He needed a ... a hookah! I began to smile.
'A change of clothes,' he repeated—so critically, so harshly that spit flew with the 'clothes'. 'And what else?'
And just when I thought we were getting along. 'Only pants and a shirt and some cottontails. Nothing different to what I've got on now. And a toothbrush and paste.' I left off the bag, as the look on his face took the saliva right out of my mouth.
'That's all, eh?'
I regret to say, I burst into tears.
'Desirée,' he growled with severity—but thankfully, not rage. 'You propose that I spend my money on purchasing just what you need to look the same as you look now, and then you'll come back and brush your teeth, while I work?'
I hadn't proposed anything. But at the moment, my sole possessions were my glorious future and the clothes on my back—and the clothes reeked like a hot, post-Christmas rubbish bin, down to the rotting prawn shells.
My teeth chattered, but for my self-esteem I had to answer. 'I haven't proposed anything,' I insisted. 'Can't you see I have some simple needs?' I heard the wheedle in my voice, but couldn't stop it.
'I expect no less from you than I do from myself!'
All became clear. This was jail. He was my master. The book was my punishment. And he was a liar. 'But you said you'd write it!'
'Desirée!'
What had once been food leapt from my throat, spattering the bottom of his futon mountain. An insufficiently masticated arm of baby octopus hung from a corner of grey rubber. Before I could breath properly, another convulsive spasm added more mess to the lake on the shiny parquet. Then I retched bile. My teeth had felt velvety before. Now, in the interstices of my top front teeth, shreds of vomit hung.
I ran out of the room and brought back towels, but he stopped me with his hand held up. 'Leave it!'
My body shook, but I stood to attention with the towels hanging from my hands, because I didn't know what else to do. I was too scared, too heartbroken, to think.
'Now now,' he said. 'My dear Desirée.'
He threw down a handkerchief. It landed in the puddle, so he pulled out another that he knotted first, and I caught it.
'Ta,' I said, wiping my face and throwing it back, where it disappeared.
'May I call you Desirée?' he continued, with a token of a smile. 'Good. Now look at yourself.'
That was easy. The walls were full of me.
'Do you see a Desirée?'
And then, all became clear.
And when I bent to clean up the mess, he stopped me. 'Would Desirée do that?' And then he added, 'Or would Desirée—'
'Just call room service.'
Of one thing, I was sure. The staff at the Restonia had cleaned up messes far worse than mine.
~
I didn't get a salary with my new job, but I did get a credit card in my name (Desirée Lily)— with a 'Ms'. Brett was learning! I had to order up a pen and paper to design my signature so I could perform my first task, signing my card—tremendous fun.
My credit limit was 'Whatever makes Desirée Desirée', and when I added 'and then some', Brett nodded approvingly.
This first day was going to be terribly rushed, with now only two hours to closing time, and me being so inexperienced. The only two things I'd ever really shopped for were fancy fountain pens and paper, my only other lash-outs being cake in coffee shops. Those style and fashion magazines I was so addicted to flipping through were nothing I had regarded with any more attention to detail than the clothes in paintings hung in an art museum.
I needed to organize my thoughts before barging out of the Restonia the way I usually barged out of everywhere—without a plan—so I tried lying on my bed, to think. And that re-prioritized my first decision. Instead of leaving the Restonia to rush downtown, I pushed the button in my bedroom wall, for room service.
'Madam' (I wasn't sure about this, but this was their term of address, so I let it be) required: 'A king-size super-comfortable bed with full thickness mattress and box springs, high enough off the floor so I can stand a pair of knee-high boots underneath. And a little fridge stocked with a carton of milk. And a plug-in jug, and a few sachets of instant coffee, and some teabags, and sachets of sugar, and a packet of Tim Tam chocolate biscuits in the fridge, and a chocolate mint on my pillow. And all to be arranged by my bedtime tonight ... No, a little earlier than that. Ten o'clock would be acceptable, if that's okay with you.'
A moment after I punched off, Justin Abernathy knocked, asking for Mr Hartshorn. They had a whispered consultation in the lounge, ending with the manager bowing and scraping himself out the suite door.
Then it was time for me to leave. I popped my head into the lounge, asking Brett if everything was alright. From his eyrie, he waved me away in a friendly but I-just-want-to-be-left-alone-to-work manner.
My credit card in my pocket, I was already on my way out when something grabbed my eye, and I grappled it.
Downstairs in the ultra-nondescript lobby, 'Dump this,' I said to the assembled staff, handing to Jim with a difficulty that was repugnantly familiar to me, the massively tricky flowerpiece of calla lilies wrapped in a coil of barbed wire—our sole flower arrangement, which had sat on a cut-glass 'table' in our suite's entrance hall.
'A dozen red roses in a crystal vase,' I ordered, 'for the Hartshorn suite. Oh, and white ones for my room ... that smell, not just for looks. And a proper table in the hall.' And I added, though I didn't know if they'd revile me for saying it, 'please'.
Then I sailed out the door like I'd done it before, trailing the smells of exotic unguents—and for the last time in my life, my dirty laundry.
One hour left to closing. No time to figure out buses, and I couldn't see a taxi so I jogged downtown, prioritizing like blazes as I rushed. My mouth tasted unbearable, so I ran past the last-forty-five-minutes' crowd into Soul's Chemists first, found toothpaste and a toothbrush and a bag of their strongest mints, ripping it open to crunch some as I shoved myself into the check-out queue. When everything was bagged and I handed over my card, it was knocked back as 'under the purchase limit', so I excused myself to the people in the queue as I eased through them to the perfume display, grabbed the biggest box, and inserted myself back at the check-out counter. Though I had rushed, my assistance didn't make the check-out girl happy, but the new total meant my transaction sailed through. She sourly repacked my purchases and I rushed out of the store, stopping for a moment to open the bag, remove the perfume, and lob it in a rubbish bin—an early Chrissie prez to some homeless person.
My mouth tasted so much better, but I only had thirty minutes left. I had never shopped for a new persona before, but the jog down here shook valuable cells in my brain, stimulating me marvellously. Remembering in detail what magazines had advised was impossible, but details never matter. My brain whirled through thousands of pictures and millions of words. As I jogged, the clutter cleared, and one overriding Instruction emerged, as clear as One Commandment: Accessorize! And then my brainstorm whirled some more as the one accessory that had to be so very Desirée Lily materialized in my mind's eye. Jewels!
Luckily, only steps from the rubbish bin, Proud's Jewellers twinkled. I weaved through the crowd to its long front window, shuffled between window-shopping nuisances, and then rushed inside. Within three minutes, I could see that none of Proud's jewellery was jewels.
Emeralds and rubies and violet and yellow stones (zircons? amethysts?)—anyway, stones of wine-gum colour and size, in a choker collar. At least, that had been my vision, not that I was stuck on that model exactly. But Proud's, though busy as a hive, was disappointingly plebeian. Now there was no time left to find another jewellers, so I had to leave jewels for tomorrow. At the moment, I only had enough time to buy clean clothes.
Around the corner was where I bought my clothes when I had to. The women who wore lipstick where I grew up thought of this as Mecca. I came here when I had first arrived and needed clothes, and it was where I still bought them, whenever I had to. Dependable as Monday, the staff were wrinklies uniformed as mourners, the look never changed, and the vast halls either echoed, or on pension days, filled with muted clucks and the swishes of support-hosed legs against pleated wool skirts.
I brushed past the doorman, to be hit with a dizziness attack. The displays were unrecognisable. The vast hall was still mostly empty of shoppers, but one flaunted a bare midriff. I rode the escalator up, only to be let down again. The whole store reeled crazily in an attempt to go 'youth'. Musical chairs had been played with the stock. The only good thing was that it hadn't worked in terms of bringing in trade. I would have gone elsewhere if I'd known where, but I didn't. Even if I had known, there wasn't time.
I didn't bother looking for underwear. It was hard enough to find where they'd moved the department with the jeans and T's. Dangerously close to kick-out time, I found it, now nefariously musicked to confuse, and fashionably jumbled. Salesgirls aspiring to be chicks hung around the place like cheap perfume. One came up to me and asked me what I wanted. Coward that I was, I answered. 'Black jeans and T. One each.'
'One more purchase, Pam,' she announced as she walked away from me, the bitch! I waited by the till as she rummaged through the mess piled on two tables. She was efficient, though, as in less than two minutes she returned with clothes over her arm, and threw them on the counter, flashing their blackness at me as she unclipped the tags and shoved them in a bag while Pam punched stock codes into the register, and the both of them planned the night they were going to have, beginning in a few minutes—the only acknowledgement of me being a 'sign here please' from Pam, and from her salesgirl accomplice, the final flick-off—a smile as painted on as an Indian statue and the odd command, 'Enjoy your things,' both tossed so casually that if they'd been spit she was directing towards me, they would have hit Pam.
I stabbed them both with my cutting reply, or would have if I could have thought of one. Desirée certainly would—but I slunk out.
~
It took bloody forever getting home. A taxi would have been a treat, but impossible to flag at rush hour. If there was a technique, I'd have to learn it. But then again, I reckoned that Desirée would have a limo, though upon consideration, that could be worse than a bus if you have to wait for the limo to come when you call ...
By the time I got back to the Restonia, I had a dull headache, my socks were sticking to my toes in my hot Docs, and regardless of their orthopaedic pretensions, the arches of my feet sent shooting pains up my leg. Jim opened the door with a smile that looked surprisingly genuine.
I gave him a half-smile, embarrassed about my teeth, and rushed back up to our suite. The entry was bare, its horrid shard-glass table removed, but nothing had been put in its place. Humph!
My bedroom door was closed as usual. I opened it to find my every request fulfilled, except for the flowers. And in addition to instant coffee, there was a jar of what smelt like fresh-ground in the fridge, and a little plunger pot on a table—a round table with a white linen tablecloth, embroidered with forget-me-nots! The two cups and saucers matched the tablecloth. I could see through the china! I had forgotten to order a chair, but there one sat—the only one in the suite—comforting as a bap bun. And the bed was so astoundingly luxurious and snowily white (with little sprigs of embroidered white flowers), that I didn't know what to do first. Bathe, change, agonize over tea? or coffee? or change my clothes?
Then my stomach gurgled, and a bubble of bile erupted into my mouth, prioritizing me without my needing to agonize.
I took my purchases to my bathroom, where I brushed my teeth first. Teasing myself by not rushing added immeasurably to the thrill of shedding the old life, putting on the new. But enough of that.
I stripped, kicking my boots out into the bedroom, and dumping my clothes in the trash.
A short shower rid myself completely of the stench of my old clothes, and then I anointed myself with just a little of this, a little of that ... But enough of that.
I pulled the new clothes out of their bag, stripped them of their tags and stuff and dumped it in the trash (the first time I had ever thrown away pins), tossing the clean clothes onto the surgically spotless bedroom floor. Then it was time to dress, and although I couldn't be Desirée all the way yet, I could imagine the missing accessory already, which put me almost solidly there.
Out in the bedroom, I stepped into the jeans and was pulling them up when I felt resistance at mid-thigh. Glancing back to check what was wrong, I stuck.
The wall behind me was mirrors and my movement drew my eye. Full-length mirrors had not been part of my life. I felt like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, both fixed in my stupid position, and fixed in my gaze. That person was both a stranger and worse—me—the me I had dumped years ago. I had never seen so much of myself before, and at this crucial time in my transformation, I hardly needed memories intruding.
Anyway, I couldn't wear this. The bitch had given me the wrong size. These jeans were not shape-camouflage—the only style I had worn all my adult life, except for the bank uniform that made me walk with my eyes down—the polyester blouse that gapped just wrongly, and the laugh-at-me black skirt. Ugh! Once retrenched from the bank, I had never needed any other outfit than the one I always wore. Ultra-baggy shirt, ultra-baggy pants, everything in black. I didn't use a belt for the pants, though the waist stuck out behind like an open shopping bag. The shirt covered all.
Gordon once asked me why I wore this—a silly question. I pointed out that everyone in Bettawong wears baggies (who isn't a pensioner or public housing type, or a magistrate or something, but, say, everyone in Nostramamma's), and mostly in black, including Gordon. He dropped the subject.
I had a few boyfriends before I left Wooronga Station, who said they liked the way I looked, but once I got to Sydney Uni, the big hurts started coming, without even laughter, and always, it seemed, in tender moments of post-coital intimacy. These comments were so blandly objective, so helpfully accusatory, that I stopped allowing myself to be led into vulnerability, and adopted body camouflage. I was not depressed at the situation. Rather, I was relieved.
And once I knew my writing intentions and the heaviness of the places I was trying to break into, the panache of celibacy gave weight to my gravitas, especially since the body image I ideally needed—it was clear from the black-and-white bio pics—jutting collarbones, jutting hipbones, a hard-edged sharecropper face shadowed by long-fingered, veiny hands—this look was unachievable for me, no matter what I ate. I had hoped that it wouldn't matter, that I could do a Garbo and hide. Be lauded, loved, and celebrated—in absentia.
It was Brett who made me realize that hiding was hopelessly naive. That I couldn't be a name without a face, without a look. I had to be seen, with a look as important as the book, for fame, lasting fame. Not only that, but a look that suits my book, that fits my name, Desirée Lily.
Names came back to me. Little Bustle, from my father. Peaches, Rockers (my brother Angus's abbreviation for Rockmelons), and variations on that theme.
I remembered my other brother Stuart's party trick at shearing time (biggest audience then) of balancing a mug of tea on my bum while I had my hands full and couldn't do a thing. The mug always fell off, but only after teetering for the longest while. If I shook it off, I exacerbated the situation.
Mugs of tea would have been balanced on my chest if the blokes could have gotten away with it. As it was, I developed a powerful set of fists.
My waist only made the situation worse. My hands (small) could almost meet around it, and all my brothers' friends and every station hand grabbed at the waist of the girl with the jokey postcard shape.
All of that I had forgotten, until now—as I shoved the jeans down to my ankles. The T-shirt at my feet was probably just as bad as the jeans—ready to laugh at me if I tried to pull it on, sticking like a rubber band, just above my breasts. My eyes roamed over the disaster in the mirror as my brain raced over my problems. Would my normal uniform, plus the accessory jewels, work? Would my figure be guessed at anyway? Discussed in critical reviews of my work? Could I be Desirée Lily?
And then there was a knock on my door, and before I could say 'Just a minute', the door, as it would, flew open.