Sahara quickens her steps, alarmed by the voices coming from inside. The door to her studio is open and the far end of the cavernous room is overtaken with a procession of people, lighting, cameras, racks of clothes and as she gets closer, she finds Sean in the centre of it all.
What is going on in here? she shouts over the racket of voices and equipment being dragged across the floor.
Sean is wearing only tight black underwear and his favourite dress watch.
What the hell is this? Sahara’s eyes dart desperately around the room. Where are my paintings?
Oh, we moved everything, babe, for the shoot. The stylists had to set up. It’s fine, it’ll all be put back like it was at the end, okay? He kisses her forehead.
There’s a white leather couch in front of the window with a stack of Vogue magazines on the floor. There’s an open bottle of wine on a sheepskin rug with two glasses and her easel holding a cheap blank canvas.
No, it is not okay! This is my studio and you’d better tell me quickly what you’re all doing in here. She looks around for answers, no one meets her eye.
I thought Kiki told you. She organised a shoot for the MCA. A bit of PR for your show, babe. How cool is that?
Sahara drops her bag on the floor. But I still don’t get it, what are the photos for?
Sean pulls her behind a rack of clothes. I don’t know, babe, but all of these people are here and I can guarantee you someone is paying them a shitload of money to be here. So can we just do it and you can talk to Kiki after?
She picks up a pair of hot-pink leggings.
That’s your wardrobe for the shoot, he says.
Right. Sahara marches past him and up to a man with a camera. Who said you could come in here and move my things around?
The photographer shrugs, levels his camera at his chest and starts snapping away at her.
Stop! She pushes the camera away. Not until you tell me exactly what this is all for and why my studio looks like we’re backstage at Fashion Week.
Sahara, I’m Raphael and I’m here to take your picture. It’s no big deal. He glances over to Sean. I’m sorry if we intruded on your space, it was not my intention to begin the day this way. Now. You don’t have to wear any of those clothes if you don’t want to, let’s just calm the whole thing down, okay?
Sean gets between them. Pick anything from the rack, there must be something you like. You want to be looking the part, you know?
I don’t need to look the part, Sean, I am the part! My life is not some frigging B-grade movie, okay? She shoves her hands against his chest as emphasis. I am a real-life artist, trying to get some work done for the most important show of my life and my studio has been turned into a bloody circus without my permission.
Sean hisses at her. You’re embarrassing yourself and me. Now get your shit together and go and sit in that chair and get your hair and makeup done. This is happening, whether you like it or not.
Sahara seethes as her hair is teased with a comb, pulling too hard against her skull. Raphael blows her a kiss. All we want are some pretty photos of you painting him. No big deal, darling, I will make you look so beautiful you won’t even believe it with your own eyes.
Sahara get home, exhausted from the day. She finds Sean passed out on the couch and shakes him awake.
Hey babe, he says, rolling over to her.
I spoke to Kiki, Sahara says. She told me she didn’t organise the shoot, so can you explain why I sacrificed a whole day of painting and why I let some man take photos of me in a man’s shirt and white underwear?
Sean rubs his eyes. What time is it?
Is that all you’ve got to say?
Sean sits up and groans. Give it a rest, Sahara. So I organised the damn shoot. So what? You’ll thank me when you’re gracing the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine.
What have you done, Sean?
I sold the story to a magazine for a bucketload of cash. And as soon as your paintings are shown off to the world, they’ll run the article and everyone will get an inside look into Australia’s newest emerging artist.
Oh my god. Sahara slides onto the floor. Please tell me you didn’t.
Babe, it’s done, and it’s the way the world works these days. I’ve been in the industry a lot longer than you. I know what it takes to make things happen. He stretches and looks at his watch.
We’re not in the same industry, Sahara snaps. I knew this whole thing was a mistake. How can you think it’s okay to do this all without my consent? she says, her voice shaky.
I had no idea you’d feel like this, he says. How could I see that coming, I’m not a mind-reader.
Then why did you plan it all behind my back?
He walks over to the bar and opens a bottle of vodka. Sometimes I know what’s best, Sahara, you just have to trust me. You’re tired, you’ve been painting late at night, you’re not thinking clearly. This is a good thing, I know it is. Just have a drink and chill. You’ll feel better in the morning.
It’s morning, Sahara says, after a fretful night beside him.
And? Sean turns the alarm off on his iPhone.
And it’s a new day, so let’s try to be nice. She nestles into him.
I’m sorry about the shoot thing. I’ll make it up to you, okay?
She nods, listening to his heart beating rapidly in his chest. The rhythm is loud and erratic and does nothing to dismiss her sense that they’re standing very close to a precipice; another step closer and they’ll fall.
Sahara looks at him through the glass, his iPhone is dangling out of his hand and he’s napping in the sun. She creeps out to the balcony and takes the phone from his hand before it slips onto the sandstone.
He lurches up. Don’t sneak up on me like that! he says as he snatches the phone back.
Come and have a nap inside, Sahara says, her voice soft and encouraging. She wants Sean to sleep properly, to take the edge off his mood.
He pushes past her, realising he’s slept through a conference call with investors. Damn it, he says, lacing up his white sneakers.
Where are you going?
Out, he says, pressing the button for the lift.
Sahara zips up the Collette Dinnigan dress, sucking herself into the netting and gold lace so fine that from a distance she appears to be wearing nothing but glitter. It’s a dress straight off the runway, same size, same everything, a gift from Sean for the opening of his new megalithic bar.
Her manicured foot, enshrined in a hand-made Italian shoe of golden leather, finally touches the red carpet outside the club and she floats along, blinking away the camera flashes and clutching Sean’s hand tightly.
Inside the first floor of the new glitzy bar is illuminated with white fairy lights. Giant orchids and vines cascade down from the ceiling in keeping with the exotic theme. The room has been transformed for the night into a jungle, with fire-breathers, tigers in cages and scantily clad cocktail waitresses dressed in animal print bikinis. Sahara surveys the crowd. ‘There’s not a dress, an outfit, or a woman to match me,’ she thinks. A waiter turns to offer her a drink and she gasps. He looks exactly like Rip.
Bellini? he asks, holding out his tray.
No, I, ah, no, she says, backing away. Sahara spots Nick in the crowd and heads over to him, letting go of Sean’s hand.
You look pale, Nick says, blowing a bubble with his gum.
I feel like shit, Sahara says, dehydrated, hot and flustered.
Maybe you should sit down, he suggests, just as Sahara’s legs buckle and she falls to the floor.
Her eyes open again, the room is spinning above and Nick is fanning her with a giant green leaf. Get me out of here. She grabs feebly at his legs, hoping desperately that Sean is out of sight.
Nick lifts her to her feet and walks with her out a back exit. Back in the penthouse he pours her a vodka and opens a box of water crackers.
I’m not hungry, Sahara says, smoking her cigarette greedily.
You have to eat, he says, holding the crackers out to her. You just fainted, dolly, Nick says with a hand on his hip. I know you’ve lost a shitload of weight and it’s all fabulous, but you’re starting to look a bit scary thin, okay? You can’t survive on air and coffee, Sahara, it’s not good for the skin.
Sahara takes a cracker out of the box and bites into it, just to shut him up. There, are you happy? she says, glaring at him.
It’s not my fault you fainted and missed the party of the year, he says, shaking his finger at her.
What a disaster, Sahara says. Do you think they still got some good shots of my dress?
Nick looks at the gold fabric wound tightly around her. It’s not too late you know, we can always go back.
What time is it?
It’s only ten. The party’s just heating up.
Sahara breathes deeply, feeling a migraine coming on. Do you have any valium?
Nick hands her a bottle from the table.
Let’s go back, she says.
Only if you eat something, Nick says, pushing three crackers into her hand.
Sahara eats the crackers, careful not to spill a crumb on her dress. You know Kate Moss once said nothing ever tastes as good as being thin feels?
You know you’re being a brat?
Sahara hears the words, but for the second time that night she trips up in time and it’s not Nick’s voice she’s hearing, but Rip’s. Sahara closes her eyes and falls deep into the memory…
She’s seventeen, it’s the first day after the final school exams and Jan’s watching her eat a bowl of Weet-Bix.
This is the best day of my life, Sahara announces. She gets up from the table and prances through the house, singing at the top of her lungs, shaking her body in crazy dance moves. She’s waited for hours for Rip to come over and share the excitement. They’ve planned to see a movie, but he hasn’t showed and Sahara is following Jan around like her shadow, jiggling with pent-up energy.
You’re getting on my nerves, young lady. Jan scolds. Go and find your partner in crime.
But he’s meant to be coming here, Sahara whines.
Jan pushes the broom roughly under the table. Maybe something’s happened to him?
As if! Says Sahara, Rip’s tougher than anyone!
He’s not tougher than his old man.
The broom hits Sahara’s feet and she pulls it out of her mother’s hands. Do you know something I don’t?
That mongrel was pretty wild last night. Some parents had a party to celebrate you kids finishing school and he got real drunk. He was bad, Sahara. I think you should make sure Rip didn’t cop his father’s temper last night.
Sahara drops the broom and runs out of the house. She bangs on the door of Rip’s house, recoiling when Jimmy opens it. Where’s Rip?
Jimmy scratches a sore on his bare chest and sneers. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?
Where is he? What have you done to him? He was supposed to come over to my house.
He’s in his room, crying about something. He’s a worry, that one—soft as they come.
Sahara barges past Jimmy into the house and into Rip’s bedroom where she finds him lying facing the wall. Rip? Are you okay?
Rip stays silent, his body shaking.
She pulls at his shoulder to make him turn over, but he won’t move. She turns the light on.
Leave me alone.
Did you have a fight with your dad, is that why you’re upset?
Rip rubs his eyes and rolls over. Please just go, Sahara.
Not until you tell me what’s wrong.
You can’t do anything.
Try me, she says, sitting on the edge of his bed.
I miss Mum, that’s all. She wasn’t there to see me finish school yesterday and she’s not here to see me grown up, he says, choking back tears.
Sahara climbs into bed with Rip and hugs him; the memory of the day at the waterfall hangs in the air, unspoken but present in both their minds.
It wasn’t your fault, she whispers, playing with the mole at the back of his neck. You know that right?
Don’t talk about it, Rip says. Please.
Okay. She keeps hold of him while she thinks. I know, let’s go down to the beach. You can teach me to surf.
The sea is choppy and Sahara is cold but she paddles out with him, ducking the surfboard under the waves like he’s shown her. A wave smacks the underside of the board, pushing it up and into her nose. She goes under, losing her grip on the board. When she makes it to the surface for air, she rips the Velcro strap off her ankle and swims back to shore.
Rip catches a wave past her, laughing. It’s only a small bang, he says, standing with her in the shallows.
Sahara feels her nose and scowls at him. She pulls up her bikini bottoms then slaps her hands on the water. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?
Yours, Rip says. Come on, let’s go back out.
My eyes are stinging, she says as a wave smacks up against her.
I love you, Sahara, even when you’re being a brat. Rip flicks his tousled, sun-bleached hair out of his eyes and kisses her wet mouth.
She blinks in the bright sun, she can’t find his face. She reaches for his hands but they’re gone.
Nick comes back from the bathroom. Sahara?
She sees the black baseball cap that rarely leaves his head and is disoriented for a second.
Sahara, what is with you? Nick stares at her confused expression. You’ve cracked it, sister, he says, taking the bottle of pills out of her hand. No more smarties for you. Uncle Nick is going to stay right here and babysit you, all right?
Sahara lies down with her head in his lap. I saw a unicorn the other day, she says.
Nick squeezes her shoulder. You’re definitely not okay, he says, searching for a music channel on the TV.
Two days have passed since that night and Sean finally comes home. You look old, Sahara says quietly.
He pulls out a chilled pinot from the fridge and drinks straight from the bottle. Why the hell are you lying on the floor?
I like it down here, she says from a spot in front of the window. She flicks ash from her cigarette onto the floor. Put that out, he says, we decided no smoking inside. You haven’t been home for two days so you don’t get to tell me what to do. Where have you been?
I’ve been at the bar, cleaning up from the opening.
Sahara laughs hysterically. Do you really expect me to believe that?
Sean slams the fridge shut and shakes his head. He stands against it until she snakes up to him. She stubs her cigarette out on the floor near his shoe. They stand in the kitchen, silently inconsolable. It’s brewing—all of their hurt and rage. He tugs at her arm and she slaps him away. He passes her the bottle and she drinks, then he’s on her, sucking the wine from her mouth as they kiss. Sean lifts her onto the marble benchtop, knocking over the pinot. He climbs over her, holding her hands above her head and rips the buttons from her shirt with his teeth. She digs into his skin with her nails. They rock in a manic, frenzied rhythm, he grunts, she screams as her head smashes against the counter. He comes violently inside her.
When it’s over he rests his wet cheek on her chest and cries out the three-day bender he’s been on. She twists knots in his sweaty hair. They’ve swapped their stories, their damaged dreams and deflated spirits; they’ve passed on tragedy with saliva and darkness with their fluids. There is nothing left to say, their hearts and bodies have spilled it all over each other and the sum of their aching lies in the mess of red wine on the floor.
In the bathroom she scrubs spots of blood from her underpants in the basin, squirting hand soap under the running tap. Her nose stings from the lines of cocaine they’ve just shared and her body is bruised and sore.
Sean brings her a fresh glass of wine and pats her head. Here, take this one, he says and pulls a fluffy white dressing gown from a rack behind the door. He traces the scratches on her back and bends to kiss the space between her breasts.
After he leaves the bathroom, Sahara gets into the clear depths of the black marble spa bath. The water fizzes as she sprinkles cinnamon and vanilla bath salts from a jar with a French label. She’s alone with the echoes of the tumbling water and the throbbing between her thighs. She steps into the water, it’s hot, too hot, but all she wants is to be submerged, to disappear. With her whole body under water, she fights the urge to come up again for as long she can. She breaks the calm surface as if strong hands have lifted her upwards. She gulps in the steamy air, splashing water over the side of the bath as she rushes to turn the cold tap on full. The water runs straight onto her head, cooling her blood and swollen skin.
The harbour is bright and glistens outside the windows. Music blasts in her studio from a laptop and Sahara jumps wildly, beating her feet and her hands on the concrete. She thrashes her body around in the air, dancing to the disjointed synthetic sounds. She spins in circles, around and around and around, arms out wide, fingers stretching into the empty space, reaching for something, anything to hold her. The cream silk kaftan twirls around her body, rippling and sliding as she spins harder, her feet juggling over each other to match the speed of her body. Her laughter is frenetic, theatrical as she stumbles, knocking over a cup of scalding black coffee; she keeps spinning, hardly registering the blistering of her skin. She twirls—a ballerina, a madwoman, a tormented vixen, a planet spinning off its orbit. She screams as the concrete loft whizzes past her, her neck twisting this way and that. She dips down and rises up again, her black hair sweeping the floor before she arches up onto the tips of her toes.
Rip, where are you? she yells. My beautiful! Dance with me!
Her left foot collides into her right and her body comes crashing down. She feels the fall in slow motion, the jerking, the whiplash as her legs slide forward and gravity pulls her down, her neck crunching as her skull hits the ground.
Her eyes stare blankly up at the exposed ceiling of copper pipes as the shockwave implodes into real time. She feels breath across her face and the softest whispering of her name.
I’m here, he says. I’m here.
She comes to. Her cheek is wet and cold. She lifts her head and recoils at the sour smell of her own vomit. Dizzy, she wipes her face on her kaftan. The same devastatingly melancholic song is on endless repeat. She crawls over to the chair and slams her laptop shut. She looks over to where she fell, to the contents of her stomach and a small spot of something dark. And a single gardenia, a few feet away. She tries to remember picking the flower on her way to the studio but the whole day is a blur. She feels the bump on the back of her head; her fingers come away sticky with blood.
What the hell happened to you? Nick pulls her off the back wall of the lift.
Can’t talk, she says, collapsing into his arms.
Shhh … It’s okay, he says. What happened?
I think I’ve finally hit rock-bottom. She staggers to the bedroom and falls into the bed.
Are you okay?
She passes him the gardenia. Put this in water.
Where do you keep finding these flowers? He asks.
Someone’s leaving them for me. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
He fills a glass in the bathroom and puts it next to her bed.
Please stay, just until If all asleep.
Of course. He strokes her back gently.
My whole life is a mess, Nicky. I finally fell down the rabbit hole.