17

FIRST, I ran a bath. Then I went to choose an outfit. After ten minutes, I hadn’t made a decision, and went to check on the bathwater levels when I saw a message on the machine. ‘It’s your sister, just ringing to see how you are. Give me a call, please. ASAP.’

Kylie rarely rang me. The call would be about the so-called Tyler business, whatever that was. I hit delete.

Now, what to wear? Something suitable for north winds, dry heat, hail storms, Armageddon. I pulled out some leggings, a vintage frock, and my good cardigan. Not that one’s best was required for The Ashbrook Hotel. A clean tracksuit would suffice. Actually, so would a filthy pair of old tracky-daks. A fresh singlet with no holes, or a putrid one with holes in which you had laboured all day. Your best shoes, or your old thongs. Whatever, as long as you were well behaved and kept it nice, or went bat-shit crazy and started bashing people. The main thing was to show up with money, and then lose it all on the poker machines. That was all.

The bath was nearly full. This particular date night called for more than water and soap. In the cupboard under the sink, I found a packet of orange-scented bath salts I scored in a WORMS Kris Kringle a few years back.

As I reclined in the warm, citrusy water, fumes clearing my nasal passages, I wondered what Phuong had made of the conversation between Ricky Peck and Jeff Vanderhoek that she had recorded, then copied, then transcribed, then deleted. I couldn’t ring her to ask because her calls were probably being monitored. Just the mere mention of his name on the tape had made Copeland nervous. And what of the other cop mentioned on the recording — Blyton. I would ask Phuong about Blyton tomorrow.

Dressed and clean, I headed to Paisley Street. I parked near the Narcissistic Slacker, and tooted once. Brophy appeared, clean and shaven, wearing a jacket. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Get in.’

He opened the door and I caught a whiff of what marketers call ‘male fragrance’: bergamot and a floral scent, rose maybe, an exotic spiciness. He loved me. ‘That’s a pleasant scent you’re wearing.’

‘Like it? Felicity gave it to me. She said if she had to sit around my studio all day, at least I could smell good.’

He loved me not.

‘Well, I suppose she has the right —’

‘The top notes are vetiver.’

‘You don’t know what that is.’

‘No.’ He smiled to himself, as though at a private memory. ‘And the base notes are musk and cashmere wood.’

Cashmere wood? Not a material of the natural world. Felicity was a total fraud.

‘And you, my darling Stella, you smell of …’ He nuzzled his nose in my hair and inhaled. ‘Lemon peel?’

I sighed. ‘Pine lime.’ An ingredient more suited to ice-cream. Cheap bath-product remorse was a new kind of remorse. If I couldn’t afford top-shelf French fragrance, then plain water and soap it would be from now on.

He buckled up. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The Ashbrook.’

He laughed. ‘No, seriously. Where?’

‘Seriously.’

He stopped laughing. ‘Mate, why? There are plenty of good options around here. Have you been to The Drunken Tweet?’

I bristled. ‘Been there, yes.’

‘The pomegranate and cauliflower salad has cashews in it. Cashews!’

As delicious as that sounded, it was out of the question. I had a high horse to climb up on, and a sharp glare to shiv him with. ‘The Ashbrook has salad. Decent, honest, proletariat salad, made with iceberg lettuce and quartered tomato.’ How did I know this? I didn’t; it was a guess. It was possible my assumptions were wrong. It was not inconceivable that The Ashbrook had pomegranates on the menu, next to the steak and chips. The suburb of Braybrook surprised one sometimes.

He leaned across and mashed my lips with his, until I started to black out and pushed him away.

‘Ladies’ choice,’ he said. ‘Wherever you want to go.’

‘The Ashbrook it is.’

The Ashbrook was not an elegant Victorian-era pub. It was a modern-day horror with ample parking, floor to ceiling windows, wide open spaces, a gaming room, and a serve-yourself carvery from a bain-marie the length of a train carriage.

The gaming area was a barrage of noise. At every machine, punters pressed buttons, images rolled, synthetic music repeated. The cashmere wood of amusement.

Brophy grumbled through the menu and passed it across to me. He looked sad. Pasta and a glass of wine, what was so horrible about that? I told him my choice, and he sniffed.

‘You seem frazzled.’

‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to know the details.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I’m managing; Felicity’s a great help.’

‘I bet.’

‘She’s developed a painting schedule, it’s pretty intense. But if I stick to it, the work will be ready on time.’

‘Does this plan include time with me?’

He coughed. ‘I’m not sure that is going to help at this stage.’

‘Help what?’

‘Sorry, Stella. It’s not personal. I’m just anxious about the exhibition.’

I touched his arm. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’

He smiled faintly, seeming more dismayed than encouraged, and went to order.

I studied my fellow patrons. There were families with young children, couples, and group tables of middle-aged women. But mainly there were men in singlets with shaved heads and sleeve tatts, beefy blokes drinking at the bar who seemed ready to fight. But none, as far as I could see, had fuck yeah tattooed on their face.

At work, regular updates on local issues had informed me that this venue alone turned over twenty million a year in poker-machine revenue. Take that much money out of the low-income economy, and see how great life is. No wonder they were angry.

Brophy returned with a number on a stick, and two glasses of wine. I sensed his mood had deteriorated. I picked up a promotional card that was on all the tables. It was an ad for a brand of beer, masquerading as a competition: give them all your details, win a hat.

‘Don’t you hate those competitions where the prize is hardly worth the effort?’ I said.

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, a ticket to the movies, a stubbie holder. If I go to the trouble of entering, it has to be for something way more substantial. Like an island, or a submarine. Something cool.’

‘Marigold and I once won an inflatable armchair,’ Brophy admitted.

‘Really?’

‘The competition was on a packet of nuts. Around the time of the World Cup. Watch it from the comfort of your inflatable armchair. I won, but the chair didn’t arrive until the World Cup was over.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘It had a puncture.’

I noticed he was hunched down in his seat, like he didn’t want to be recognised. No chance of that, I thought. Unless he had another life as a factory worker. He probably did have another life. I coughed. ‘How’re the paintings coming along? Think you’ll be ready?’

He looked into his wine. ‘Don’t know if I’ll have twenty ready on time.’

‘And the opening is Melbourne Cup Day, that night? Five days’ time?’

‘Yep.’

The waitress brought two plates. There was a lull in the conversation while we comprehended the consequences of our choices. Brophy bravely picked up his fork. And I took another sneaky scan of the landscape for the target. Negative. Brophy stopped skewering his penne. ‘What was that you were asking me about Isaac Mortimer?’

I twirled my linguine. ‘If Mortimer testifies, Copeland keeps his job. Mortimer’s gone to ground, but they reckon he’s still in Melbourne somewhere.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Phuong thinks I’m good at connecting with the kids, learning people’s whereabouts.’

His laughter was not of the with-me variety. ‘What do you get out of it? A reward?’

‘I do it out of the goodness of my heart; also I owe her lots of favours.’

I waited for the speech — he’s a dangerous, violent man, you don’t know what you’re getting caught up in, you don’t owe Phuong something of this magnitude. If there was a time for a lecture or a caution, this was it. But he said nothing. He slathered his bread roll in butter and stuffed it in his mouth.

I sipped some wine. ‘Reckon you could ask your friend Jeff Vanderhoek for me?’

‘He’s not my friend.’

‘But he knows Mortimer.’

He shrugged. ‘Does he? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Actually, word is, The Ashbrook is Mortimer’s preferred watering hole.’

Brophy put down his fork, crestfallen. ‘That explains everything.’

He took his ringing phone from his back pocket. Seeing the caller’s contact details, he stood. ‘Hey, you. What’s up?’ He walked away from the table.

I pushed remnant pasta around on my plate. Mortimer was a man in hiding. He was never going to come here, out in the open like this. That kid in the restaurant toilets sent me here for a prank. I bet she knew more than she let on. Time I revisited a certain toilet.

‘That was Felicity,’ Brophy said, standing beside me.

‘No shit.’

‘Her concert was cancelled.’

‘What concert?’

‘She plays the horn, didn’t I tell you?’

‘I bet she does.’

He ignored that. ‘Anyway, she can model for me now. Can you drop me back at the studio?’

‘Sure, but I’m going on a little detour to Macca’s first.’

‘You what?’ Brophy was incredulous. ‘If you’re still hungry you can come back to my place; I’ll make you a sandwich.’

It was a tempting offer, until I remembered Felicity would be there. ‘I’m not going there for the food.’