Another book launch, this one in Sydney, also with a post launch dinner

NONE MAY HEED

The cold wind blasted grit against her legs as she stood in Glebe Point Road, stunned by the tedium of the launch she had just fled. She prayed for a taxi before they all came clamouring out, denying her the graceful exit which was now all she wanted from this evening.

No taxi appeared on the stretch of road; she was beginning to loath it.

She knew she did not have long if she was to avoid being caught up in the post event indecision and desperation Tina was prone to. She set off for Parramatta Road and whatever obscurity buses could offer.

Tina caught up with her. ‘What are you doing? We’re here. Gus is giving us a lift. We’ve been invited back for the dinner. Come on!’

‘Oh no, thanks Tina, it was great – very interesting. I’ve got a bit of a headache – why do they always serve such lousy wine?’

‘You can drink orange juice, or mineral water - come on. It’s in his warehouse. Gus is giving us a lift. I think he likes me.’ Tina grabbed her arm.

She allowed herself to be dragged back down that unpromising road.

The crowd milling outside the launch had the abstracted gaze of predation she had so wanted not to be part of. Restaurant? Does it have vegan? Fabulous Thai place. I’m so over Thai. Why can’t we go somewhere like that new Italian near St Johns Road? Does it have BYO? There’s this great pub in King Street, it sells fabulous steaks and grilled fish and things like fresh salads, you feel so clean. Let’s go to Oxford Street, you and Tim and Harry can go in one cab and Lottie, Missie and I can go in another with Tranh. We’ll meet in Lansake for a martini.

What taxi?

Tina interrupted her own strained encomium of the author to demand, ‘Couldn’t you get a closer park?’

‘No,’ Gus said.

‘Isn’t he … Wasn’t that thing he said about East Timor and the oil deal with Australia amazing? Did you know that? I didn’t. Isn’t he so like … right?’ Tina leant over and lowered her voice, ‘Didn’t he look cute in that jacket? It was so cool.’

‘They’re everywhere in New York,’ Gus said.

Tina whispered in her ear, ’Isn’t he a hunk? I think he likes me.’

‘He’s with Gabriella,’ Gus said.

‘Do you mind if I smoke in the car?’ Tina said after she had lit the cigarette.

‘Yes,’ Gus said.

‘I’ll blow the smoke out the window.’

She decided she would ask Gus to let her off where she could get a taxi – maybe he could let her off at a station, she could at least salvage some of the expense of the night. She must not go out with Tina when she was wearing the boots. As soon as she saw them she should flee. Anyhow. No excuses, out of there.

Tina was fishing in her bag, brought out a little tube and sprayed her mouth.

‘Where is it again?’ Gus demanded.

‘Gus – ’

‘It’s around here somewhere. I thought you knew.’

‘You’re the one going Tina, all I do is drop you off.’

‘Aren’t you going?’

‘He wasn’t invited,’ Tina said, ‘he’s just giving us a lift.’

‘Gus, would you mind dropping me off somewhere?’

‘You’ve got to come! Don’t be silly. You can’t run away like that. All the time.’

‘Tina, I wasn’t invited.’

‘You were! His girlfriend said to bring you.’

‘Tina, I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a very stressful week. Thank you for inviting me to the book launch, it was great but I really must go home now. Gus, will you – ’

‘If you don’t go, I can’t. I won’t know anyone there. It’s my only chance to get to know him. I think Abbie Abramovic is going too. Did you see him at the launch? I thought you liked his stuff. You bought one of their C D’s. It’ll be so cool. This is a really big chance for me.’

‘Go for it,’ Gus said.

They drove up and down some deserted and ill-lit industrial cul de sacs.

‘There’s Abbie. With some chick. Stop.’

She turned to watch Gus’ tail lights diminish. Then turn into the night.

Tina was intent on watching Abbie and his friend. They were looking around uncertainly.

‘Hi!’ she called out, ‘we’re lost too.’

Tina clutched her arm, ‘Shut up! What are you doing?’

She shrugged Tina off and walked up to Abbie Abramovic and whoever.

‘Are you going to Mac Baker’s?’

‘I hope so,’ Abbie said. ‘Where is it?’

‘No idea,’ she said, ‘my girlfriend Tina … this is Tina, I’m Catherine, I know you’re Abbie Abramovic, I bought one of your C D’s … ‘

‘Fine,’ Abbie said. And looked away.

‘I’m Catherine,’ she said to Abbie’s companion.

‘My name’s Lorelei.’

Abbie returned his emptied gaze to their presence. ‘Lorelei’s a performance artist.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what do you perform? Where?’

Just as Lorelei said, ‘I’ve almost got a major in dance from Western Sydney,’ another car rolled down the noir cul de sac.

She wouldn’t have been surprised if some bros had got out and pushed them up against a wall. She was ready for a fight.

A solid blond woman bustled out of the driver’s seat. A small bull of a man hauled himself out of the passenger door and a very thin woman got out of the back door. A man wearing an overcoat held it open for her.

Abbie started over to them.

They all followed.

‘She’s an agent,’ Lorelei whispered of the solid blond woman.

‘Oh, what will we do?’ After a few more clattered paces she added, ‘Like in The Matrix?’

Tina caught up.

The two parties stood off a little then Abbie said, ‘I heard it’s a fabulous loft.’

The agent turned and headed towards a building.

As they all started after her the bull said, ‘You’ll have to get a bigger car, Pinkie.’

‘How come?’ the agent turned around to say.

‘My publicist wouldn’t approve of me driving around in a car which drags its bum every time a few people get in the back.’

‘And we don’t even weigh that much, do we Cassie? Not that I’m not intensely grateful for the lift Pinkie … I hope. Where are we – if that isn’t too existential a question?’ The man in the coat addressed Tina.

Tina ignored him.

Delighted by a sally, Catherine said, ‘I think we must be careful, there are agents about.’

The fact that he smiled ameliorated the agent’s turning and glaring at her. Catherine smiled back at the man. He was quite old.

The agent pushed a buzzer and said, ‘It’s us and some other people, we’re all lost for Christ’s sake you’d better have some whicky whacky waiting. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

‘Push the door.’ The voice was singularly flat.

It took three of them to get it wide enough for them to squeeze through one at a time.

She looked to Tina in appeal as they mounted the slippery steel stairs. Tina’s profile told her she no longer knew her.

The loft was a vast space, appallingly cold though a single bar radiator glowed in the distance. It illuminated some outlines of people. The effect was rather Munch.

Pinkie led them on, clattering over the polished concrete floor.

Their approach was regarded in silence by the four silhouettes. One of them was Mac Baker. She could tell by the coat.

A huge refectory table stretched near a wall; assorted chairs broke its interminable line. On the other side of the radiator was a screen but you could see a bed behind it and a crowded clothes rack under which assorted shoes had dropped dead. There was a glow in another further darkness. It was an oven. Thank god: food.

Three of the four turned out to be minor celebrities like Mac.

‘Where’s my whicky whacky?’

‘Didn’t you bring some?’ Mac made it a rebuke.

‘No-o. You know I only drink whisky.’

‘There’s wine,’ the statuesque woman who didn’t seem to be a celebrity said and moved towards the oven glow.

‘Jesus,’ Pinkie said, ‘I can’t stay.’

‘Tra-laaa!’ The man in the coat pulled a half bottle of whisky from one of its pockets.

‘Thank Christ,’ said Pinkie. ‘Bring glasses!’ She bellowed at the dim form near the glow of the oven, ‘And ice! I’d better go and see what she’s up to.’

In the silence – was it despondent, hostile, coolness? - they listened to Pinkie interrogating the statuesque woman about glasses and ice and the statuesque woman refusing to be organised.

‘Pinkie must have her whicky whacky,’ the man in the overcoat risked, ‘we all have our needs.’ Then, ‘How about some music? With all these musicians present.’

Mac moved off and bent down near a wall. Little red and green lights blinked and music leapt into the air. Techno jazz, she thought but hoped there wasn’t a quiz.

They all had a drink in their hands. Abbie was standing near the little steady red lights and the oscillating green ones but he seemed to be grooving to a different beat. She glanced at Tina. Tina was offering to help the statue who was Gabriella. Pinkie was kneeling at the radiator, her whisky glowed wonderfully when she raised it.

‘Give us your car keys Pink,’ the small bull said.

‘Get me some cigarettes, will you?’ Cassie said. Her face had been everywhere for years.

‘Oh have one of mine, they’re in my bag,’ Tina called from what had lighted up to reveal itself as a kitchen nook. Everything was stainless steel.

Cassie did so at once.

‘And what would you like – chewing gum? chips? I’d send out for a new life but the delivery people have obviously always stolen them by the time they arrive. Some things you’ve just got to get yourself.’

‘I’d kill for a vodka and tonic with a not too thin slice of lime,’ she replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Oh stay here, I know I’m senile – oh we don’t say that any more do we? – demented – it sounds wrong but it’s probably right, I’d be the last to know – I can remember that: vodka, tonic, lime and a Crunchie – how was that?’

‘Pretty good. Let me come with you!’ she whispered intensely and clasped his forearm. His sleeve felt like cashmere.

‘This is Mel,’ he said of the small bull who was swearing at the car as he drove, ‘and I’m forgotten – no, my name’s Sanders.’

‘But call him Chicken, everyone else does,’ the bull said.

‘And call him Meltdown, everyone else does.’

So the bull was who she thought he was. ‘Call me Catherine, everyone else does,’ she said but was interrupted by Mel.

‘Where the fuck are we? Why do they live in these industrial estates, there won’t even be a Twenty-four Seven or whatever they’re called …’

There was. And it even had a little basket of limes.

Chicken presented her with a Crunchie. The woman in the burkha smiled at her but did not know where a bottle shop was.

They found one. She bought the most expensive bottle of vodka they had and a bottle of lime water in case she really wanted that instead of a slice of lime.

‘Do you think we’d better buy takeway?’ Meltdown said back in the car.

‘Yes,’ Chicken said, ‘because we’ll never find our way back.’

She helped them to.

Tina hissed, ‘Where did you get to?’

‘Oh I don’t know, Tina,’ she proclaimed so that her voice echoed through the gelid air, ‘Chicken and Meltie and I were just cruising about, you know what I’m like.’

Tina had cut free of the group at the refectory table to come over and address her thus. The other party was still huddled about the reassuring useless glow of the radiator.

‘Not before dinner, honey,’ Gabriella said in her American accent, ‘please.’

Tina drifted back to the table.

She followed to see if they were grazing on food.

Mac was razoring some cocaine on a black glass tray. He neatly curtailed a line, rolled up a hundred dollar note and handed it to Abbie who snorted. Mac watched him for approval. After a minute or so Abbie nodded at Mac and went back to grooving at the light show. Mac handed the note to the other man and arranged the thin beautiful disintegrating line of white on the black glass. It disappeared. ‘Some people think it makes the food taste better,’ he turned to say to Gabriella before continuing with his hostly duties. The men were served first, Meltie and Chicken declined. Pinkie told him to go fuck himself. ‘I might do that later,’ Mac said and laughed. Tina did too before bending to snort up her assistance. Catherine waved her vodka at him when it was her turn. She had decided she wanted vodka and lime.

Now she decided she wanted a slice of lime as well.

Gabriella glared at her as she entered the kitchen. She was preparing a salad in a huge greasily transparent scratched plastic bowl. It looked as if it were all leaves and very, very wrong. Some of the limes lay around butchered.

‘May I use this?’ she picked up a knife.

‘Suit yourself,’ Gabriella said.

She sliced a lime and plopped the slice into her glass.

There was a terrible smell seeping through the kitchen.

Gabriella suddenly stopped, turned away and came back carrying a card. ‘Fill this in,’ she said, ‘for yourself.’

She looked at it. It was blank. ‘Fill it in with what?’ she asked.

‘Your name, what else? It’s a place card. Put it where you want to sit.’

That note of exasperation could not be all her fault.

She moved along the table. Every now and again there was a white card held up by a little wrought wire claw. She saw Chicken/Sanders’ name and suddenly realised she’d done him at uni. She wondered if she would get the chance to tell him. Meltie was who she had guessed. The other names were known except for Tina’s and Lorelei’s. Lorelie’s family name was Monroe – had her mother been inspired by Gentlemen Prefer Blonds? She decided not to ask.

Abbie looked as though he was now actually dancing. She recognised the music, it was his own. Lorelei slid up next to him and began to move to the music too. Abbie stopped and moved away from her, into the gloom. Catherine saw Lorelei slump from beauty. Mac was standing as if a lighthouse but it was Tina who was beaming, up at him. Every now and again he lowered his eye balls to make sure he was still being lapped up. Cassie was staring intensely at the man whose name was that of another writer, lesser known but of high repute. He appeared to be explaining something; she appeared grateful. The remaining woman was a painter. She was staring around as if for something. As far as you could see no art hung on the walls, nor stood.

‘This place is fabulous, who was the architect?’ Tina exclaimed to the beamless lighthouse.

Gabriella came into the room bearing another huge plastic bowl in which something strange sat. The putrid odour of the kitchen intensified about them.

‘It’s minimalist,’ Mac explained to the room, ‘Gabi did it.’

‘Yeah,’ Gabi said. ‘it’s an N Y style. Would you like to take your place now?’

Catherine was pleased to be at the distant end of the table because that indignity had also been accorded Chicken.

‘Take your coat off, Chicken,’ Mac ordered from the head of the table.

‘I have nothing on underneath,’ Chicken said.

‘This is durian, it’s a traditional Indonesian fruit, they call it the shit of the gods,’ Gabriella announced. ‘You pass them around,’ she ordered Tina who had managed to seat herself next to Pinkie who was on Mac’s right. Tina scowled, pushed some bowls on.

Pinkie rose. ‘I would like to propose a toast  - to Mac.

All upstanding!’ When they had, she said tenderly, ‘ I hope your book is a great success dear in a difficult market, of course there will be t v spots.’

‘T V spots,’ Chicken murmured.

They tried to eat.

‘Has everyone got wine?’ Gabriella waved a huge bottle.

She must be very strong, Catherine noted, Tina had better watch out.

‘What can she follow durian with?’ Chicken said to her. Everyone else was engaged in ignoring them.

‘Some sort of – Lomatil is the only possibility.’

Unfortunately at that moment the table had fallen silent to listen.

‘I guess you don’t use place names much in Australia,’ Gabriella said down the refectory runway.

‘Well dear,’ Pinkie said, ‘we don’t find them necessary. The theory down here at the arse end of the world is that the hostess considers who to sit next to whom – very carefully -and leads them to their place. Or indicates it. Personally.’

‘Yeah well we think that’s rather ordinary, you know?’

Catherine stopped feeling sorry for Gabriella.

‘I learnt to make this on an Aegean island one summer when I was on holiday from Vasser,’ Gabriella announced of a casserole dish which didn’t look nearly big enough. ‘It’s very rich so you only have a little bit.’

‘Moussaka,’ Meltie said. ‘It’s actually an Australian Aboriginal dish. The Greek immigrants took it back when they returned with the wealth they earned from bad backs. Traditionally it’s kangaroo?’ It was a question.

‘No-o,’ Gabriella said. It was almost a question.

Even the coked had cleaned their plates in an alarmingly brief time.

Gabriella returned with the salad.

‘It’s too cold for salad,’ Mac said, ‘haven’t you got any … potatoes, or something?’

‘There were potatoes in the moussaka, I couldn’t deal with the aubergine. They’re traditional.’

‘Did the Aborigines steal that from the Irish convicts?’ Cassie asked Meltie.

He shrugged.

Whatever celebratory soufflé had briefly bound the party – raised on coke, hostility, novelty, alcohol, the bizarre level of discomfort – piffed into resentment and ill temper.

‘God it’s cold in here,’ the painter said.

‘Why don’t you get one of those oil heaters? They don’t work but they’d be better than that,’ Cassie said.

‘They’re not environmentally friendly,’ Mac said.

‘Bullshit,’ Abbie said.

‘I’m not allowed to have a dishwasher either,’ Gabriella said. ‘I feel colder here than I ever did in Brook- New York.’

‘That’s because you never do any exercise,’ Mac said.

‘Exercise is very important,’ Tina announced.

‘Anyone want coffee?’ Gabriella asked after she had stood up.

‘Oh. I brought some chocolates,’ the painter said, ‘I’d love some.’

‘Have you got any tea?’ Catherine asked.

‘Of course. Lemon grass or mint?’

‘I’ll have coffee,’ Catherine said.

Everyone laughed.

Gabriella retreated.

Catherine went after her. ‘I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Forget it,’ Gabriella said.

Meltie came in. ‘Here are the chocolates. Will I put them on a plate?’

The coffee and the chocolates were very successful. Pinkie poured whicky into hers.

‘Let’s dance,’ the painter said. And did.

Lorelei joined her. She was pretty good.

Cassie dragged the reputable writer onto his feet and danced in front of him but soon gave up.

Tina loved dancing; it would be interesting to see what she did. She sat with Mac who was lecturing Meltie who wasn’t listening.

Gabriella retreated to a wall, on the way she flicked a switch and more light suffused the room.

Catherine looked at Chicken’s sleeve. Red glowed up through the blue. ‘Look at your coat,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s a revelation. Do you think I can go now?’

‘Can I go with you?’

Gabriella escorted them out to wait for the taxi.

Chicken kissed Gabriella and thanked her.

Catherine thanked her too and gave her her card. ‘Please ring me, we can go out to the pictures, or just talk.’

‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ she said in the cab. ‘Do you think she will? I really wanted to ring her and thank her – I wasn’t really invited and I don’t have her number and … well, she had gone to some trouble.’

‘You could say that. She’s got something, I’ll say that of her, the durian was a sensational touch. That alone made her too good for Mac, though god knows a tin of pâté would have done that. Doesn’t the book sound dreary?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I studied you at uni.’

‘I think you’re confusing me with Chaucer,’ Chicken said.

‘I remember a line –

the ash floats like gentlest snow

before the fiery blizzard

but none may heed the warning

…’

She was going to add, ‘It’s so true’ but got caught up in the thrill of having remembered the quote.

© Ian MacNeill