Cherry Pie (40 page)

I locked the office and Trip and I took the back stairs up to Chloe’s concrete deck. It was early evening, warm, still light, and from the top of the stairs you could look out across rooftops and see the trains slink along the raised track, heading south towards Elsternwick.

Curtis manned the smoking barbie and nodded curtly at me, still pissed off I hadn’t granted him an exclusive. But it was Andi’s story and despite publicity being the kiss of death for PIs, apparently, I’d told her everything. Since I hadn’t saved her leg, helping her career was the least I could do. She was going great, though, everyone loved a story of survival against the odds, and her agent had negotiated a deal with a media outlet that guaranteed her a journo job, as well as a lump sum. She couldn’t exactly waitress anymore.

The deck was dotted with palms and pots of star jasmine released their sweet perfume into the air. Trip’s mouth turned down when he spied the supermarket snags and the bowls of crisps and Chicken-in-a-Biscuit, but he cheered up remarkably when he glanced through the French doors into Chloe’s office. The room was full of strippers in various stages of undress, drinking champagne and taking turns on the practice pole she’d had installed. He grinned and entered the fray, thoughts of settling down completely forgotten.

Patsy and Andi wandered out onto the deck and I gave them both a hug and we sat at a green plastic outdoor setting.

His pumped up biceps strained the sleeves of his tight white t-shirt. She was on crutches still, and hadn’t been fitted for a prosthetic leg.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Legless!’ She raised her beer and Patsy and I looked at each other and groaned.

‘I know,’ she grinned lopsidedly, ‘I need some new material.’

‘How’s work?’ I asked Patsy.

‘I’m digging the money and the outfits, but I can’t believe the women. You were right. They go completely insane, screeching like harpies with this look in their eyes like they want to …’ He shuddered. ‘I thought you guys were supposed to be the fairer sex.’

Andi and I looked at each other and snorted as Chloe lumbered out of the office, her belly thrust out like the prow of a ship. Despite being nearly six months pregnant she wore gingham pedal pushers, a matching bikini top, a pink cowboy hat and clear Perspex heels. She carried a plate of what looked like chocolate chip cookies and we all stared at her boobs.

They were so insanely huge it was impossible not to.

‘Watch out,’ Andi said, ‘you’ll take someone’s eye out.’

Chloe gave her an affectionate clip over the head and offered the plate. I’d known those two would get along. Andi took two cookies and Patsy declined. Chloe shoved one in her mouth but didn’t offer the plate to me.

‘Hey,’ I said.

Chloe and Andi looked at each other and Andi broke a biscuit open and showed me the inside. Green flecks competed with chocolate chips, primo buds by the look of things.

‘Chloe, you’re not supposed to!’ I pointed to her taut and swollen belly.

‘I’m not supposed to smoke. The doctor didn’t say anything about eating it!’

Her mobile phone rang and she put the plate down on the table and answered, then held the phone to her chest and looked at me. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but someone’s just called up requesting you for a show right now at a pub in Brighton. Want me to see if they’ll take someone else?’

I thought of my credit card and the overdue rent on my one bedroom flat and shook my head. ‘If they pay cab fare I’ll do it. It’s not far, I can be back in an hour.’

‘Sure you don’t want me to organise a driver?’

‘Nah, it’s a pub, I’ll be fine.’

Chloe shrugged and worked out the details and I slammed down a couple of champagnes to get me in the mood. Turned out they wanted a cop themed show so I dressed in the outfit, put a big coat on over the top and stuffed a CD and the accessories—hat, cuffs and plastic gun—into a zip-up shoulder bag. Chloe covered my scar with makeup just before I left, and I did my face in the back of the cab.

The hotel was a white, two storey building opposite the beach, with function rooms on the ground floor out the back.

The one I was looking for had wood panelling, green carpet and an island bar. It was dark inside, thankfully, the windows draped with swathes of black cloth and one of those disco lights swirled coloured dots across the ceiling and walls. The place was crowded with blokes, all pissed and singing along to thumping eighties hits. People often asked if I got scared performing at buck’s turns and the answer was no. The guys were loud, but if anything they reminded me of a bunch of overexcited kids hopped up on red cordial.

I ordered champagne off the young barman and asked if he could locate George, the guy who’d organised the shindig.

A couple of seconds later he appeared, fat, forties, dark curly hair. He looked me up and down with a knowing smile plastered across his face, as though something about me amused him. Whatever. He handed over the two hundred bucks and I put it in my wallet, slipped out of the coat, put on the police hat and clipped on the belt with the cuffs and the gun. I handed the barman my CD and stashed my bag behind the bar.

‘Which one’s the buck?’

George pointed vaguely to a crowd of guys in the centre of the room. ‘On the chair. Ball and chain.’

The barman hit the play button and ‘Bad Boys’, the theme song from
Cops
, blasted out of the speakers. You couldn’t go past it for a police themed show and to be honest I couldn’t bring myself to strip to ‘Cherry Pie’ anymore. It reminded me of Mum, and all the awful things that had happened. The guys all sang along gleefully and clapped their hands, just like kindergarten kids. I swaggered over in time to the beat, in the mood after a few champagnes and feeling special because it was my birthday. The crowd parted and I found the buck, sitting on a chair in the centre of the room with his back to me. I grinned at the other blokes, unclipped the gun, came up behind my victim, put my hand on his shoulder and pivoted around to straddle his lap, smiling and pointing the gun at him. His jaw dropped. So did mine. It was Alex.

Perhaps I should have been a tad more professional but I squealed, jumped off his lap and ran out of the room. George and the rest of the guys were falling about laughing, obviously all in on the joke. I fled down the corridor, came to a disabled toilet and locked myself in, leaning against the bench around the sink, looking in the mirror and breathing hard. Alex must have been hot on my heels because a few seconds later he was bashing on the door, telling me to let him in. Then I heard another voice. George.

‘C’mon, mate, come back to the party. It was a joke!

Not much of a show though. Reckon I should ask for my money back?’

‘Piss off, George, you’re a dickhead. It wasn’t fucking funny.’

‘No sense of humour, Christakos, that’s always been your problem.’ His voice became faint as he staggered back down the corridor, muttering about how it had been worth two hundred bucks just to see the look on Alex’s face.

Alex kept banging. ‘Simone, I’m sorry about my cousin.

He’s an idiot and he’s been shitting me since I was a kid. Open the door, please.’

I sighed and opened it and Alex slipped in and locked it behind him. I leaned back against the bench in my lycra police outfit, tarty makeup, fishnet stockings and thigh high boots. He was checking me out so I crossed my arms and studied him back.

He looked different and the only word to describe it was dishevelled. His usually neat hair was mussed up, his shirt was open, half untucked and one of his pockets had gone inside out. His nose looked different since it had been broken, not so straight and slightly wider across the bridge. He was drunk, granted, but I’d seen him pissed in the past and he’d always kept himself tidy.

Alex fumbled in his back pocket with his right hand, pulled out a hip flask sized bottle of Jameson’s and wiggled it at me. That’s when I noticed his right arm, hanging sort of limply at his side. He saw me looking.

‘It’s better than it was.’ He screwed up his face in concentration and wiggled a couple of fingers. ‘But they still won’t let me back on the job. It’s not just the arm. I reckon they think I’m too fucked up.’

I grabbed the bottle off him, took a hefty swig, handed it back.

‘How come you never answered my calls?’ he asked.

‘I wanted to, but Suzy told me she’d kill me if I went anywhere near you. After a run-in with one jealous bitch, I believed her. Besides, it’s better all round if we stay away from each other. I’m a jinx, remember? I’ve already ruined your life. Next time I’ll probably get you killed. It’s not worth it.’

Thinking about what had happened to him made tears come to my eyes and a couple rolled down my cheek. Alex put down the bottle, reached out with his good arm and wiped them away with his thumb. My skin tingled where he touched me and I moved my head away.

‘Don’t.’ I grabbed the bottle and had another drink. The whiskey burned in my stomach.

‘Why not?’

‘Alex,’ I said, ‘you’re the one who told me it’s not too late to change and be a good person. In a few days Sean will be back and you’ll be married to Suzy. I know we’ve always fancied each other but nothing’s ever gonna happen. End of story.’

‘Sure.’ He held up his good hand, stepped back unsteadily and had another drink. But his eyes were travelling down the tight blue lycra like he was trying to mentally undo the zip.

I gripped the sides of the bench and silently repeated my new mantra: it’s alright to think it, as long as you don’t act on it.

‘It true that crazy bitch popped you with an axe?’ he said, and I was glad he’d changed the subject.

‘Uh-huh, forty staples, stitches. I cover it with makeup for shows but it’s still a hell of a scar.’

‘Can I see?’

‘Alex!’

I was starting to think that Sean hadn’t been joking about the whole impulse control thing and if that was true then Alex was now on a par with me. The safest thing was to get out of the bathroom, fast. I finished the last of the Jameson’s, chucked the bottle in the bin and slid off the bench.

‘It’s been great to see you, Alex, and good luck with the wedding, but I’m missing my own birthday party.’

I turned the lock and had just started to open the door when Alex came up behind me and slammed it shut again.

I whirled around. Up close he still smelled of aftershave but not so much of clean washing, more of spilled booze, cigarette smoke and sweat. I’d never minded that smell and I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.

‘I miss you,’ he said.

‘I miss you too, but—’

It was all the encouragement he needed. He moved in to kiss me and when I made a half hearted attempt to angle my face away he held my jaw in his good hand and tilted my chin so I would have to look at him. My mantra deserted me. His coffee coloured eyes had such an unguarded look of desire that something melted inside and I couldn’t help myself.

When he bent his head and pressed his lips to mine, I kissed him right back.

Thanks to Anthony Larsen and to my family: Thea Woznitza (who bears no resemblance to Simone’s mum in any way, shape or form except for the fact she looks damn hot for her age!), Tony Redhead, Kelly Burke, Bruce Worrall (you’re not Steve, okay? Right, sorted), Jesse, Kate, Jasmine and Julian Redhead, Jean and Stella O’Connell.

To the people who took the time to read my manuscript and gave insightful comments: Donna Thompson, who did it with four young kids—yikes; Katherine Howell, crime writer extraordinaire—see you on a panel soon babe; and Michael Lynch—thanks for the constant encouragement, Sicilian olives and everything else.

My friends and people who helped me out and inspired me: Dorothy Mozejko, Juliet Lamont, Donna Butler, Helena ‘Hell-Bags’ Bond, Scott Wales, Greg Thorsby, Jemina Napier, Andy Carmichael, Amanda Monroe, Rhys Newell, Keith Larsen, Julian Wu, Matt Rasmussen, Carl Donadio, Danielle Johanesen from RMIT and Bob Noreiks from Ducati.

Hospitality veterans: Andy Russell, Bradley Dawson, Kerryn Davies, Siobhan Ryan, Simon from Mecca and Patsy from Mecca—the real Patsy!

All the wonderful Sisters in Crime especially Carmel Shute, Lindy Cameron, Sue Turnbull, Katrina Beard, Vivienne Colmer, Phyllis King, Michelle Cooper, Cathy Martin, Tanya King and Robin Bowles.

Everyone at Allen & Unwin: Annette Barlow, Louise Cornege, Christen Cornell, Clara Finlay, Patrick Gallagher, Andrew Hawkins, Julia Lee, Catherine Milne, Christa Munns, Renee Senogles, Louise Thurtell and anyone else I met at the Christmas party but was too drunk to catch your name.

Jo Jarrah, world’s most fabulous editor. With each book she tightens up my writing and I get to teach her a new rude word!

Thanks also to the wild-eyed fisherman at the Tin Can Bay pub, Ray, who bought me a steak and kindly offered me a berth on his boat, which I had to decline.

Everyone I met at UQ: Veny Armanno, Kim Wilkins, Bronwyn Lea, Sue Gough, Megan Jennaway, Alyssa Ryan, Michele Yamada, Geok Ang and a special thanks to Vicky Schinkel for the lend of your house and your cat! Also thanks to all the people from QUT I met along the way, including Nike Bourke and Sally Breen.

Thanks to the management and staff of Café Al Dente who turned me into the dishpig-par-excellence that I am today. Greg and Jo Fowler, Holly Godwin (you did ask me to use your name!), Phil Winters, Jeff and Kristy.

My favourite band, Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils: Doug Mansfield, Jack Coleman, Bruce Kane, Gerard Rowan, Nick Del Ray. With a special thanks to Jack for letting Simone flirt with him. The lyrics from ‘Trouble Follows Me’ are reproduced with permission from Doug Mansfield.

Oh yeah, and to kitty-cats current and departed: Jackie, Leroy, Sally, Harry, Barry and McDuff without whom I could never have created such a deep and multi-layered character as Graham.