Claire McNab - Quokka Question

"Sorry, missed it."

The ghoul's attention was back on Chantelle's passes. "A hundred and fifty," he said. "Each. That's my best offer."

"Two hundred," someone called, pushing through the crowd in our direction. There was a general murmur of interest.

"Let's get out of here," said Chantelle, seizing my elbow and heading for two overmuscled security guards. She waved the passes under their noses. "We're with United Flair."

They did the squinty-eye bit, and then allowed us to join the privileged people on the red carpet. "There's Sigfried Smithey," Chantelle hissed at me. "Not A-list yet, but they're saying this movie should give him a good push in that direction." She scanned the slowly-moving queue of people. "Look over there, beside Demi Moore-that's the newest teen sensation, Godfrey Free."

"That's Demi Moore?" I said. "Crikey, she looks as fit as a flea."

"Fitter," said Chantelle. "If she's going to run with a young crowd, she has to be."

"What's this celebrity dread thing you were talking about before?" I asked.

"They dread everything," said Chantelle with a touch of scorn. "Celebrities dread being the target of kidnappers-preferably with some link to foreign terrorists-who'll demand millions of dollars to set them free. Then they dread that they're not famous enough to be kidnapped in the first place. And of course they dread not having hordes of paparazzi after them."

"Stars are always complaining about paparazzi," I pointed out.

"They don't mean it," said Chantelle. "United Flair has one client who insists we alert the paparazzi every time he goes out in public. Last week he had a knock-down, drag-out fight with one. Broke the guy's nose and his camera." She shook her head admiringly. "You can't buy that kind of publicity."

"Chantelle! Long time no see!" was shrieked in our direction. The young woman's long hair was a rich red, her hot pink dress was miniscule, her physique anorexic, her delight at seeing Chantelle almost alarming.

"Ashlee, hi," said Chantelle without a great deal of enthusiasm.

If this was the Ashlee I thought it was, then the teeth she was flashing were of the snap-on variety.

Ashlee had turned her fevered attention on me. "And I suppose this is your special friend, Chantelle?"

"G'day. Kylie Kendall's the name."

The snap-ons disappeared. "Oh," Ashlee said, "you're foreign."

"Actually, I'm an American citizen," I said, "thanks to the fact my dad was a Yank, and I was born here in L.A."

"But your funny accent-Cockney, isn't it?" Ashlee looked quite pleased with her powers of perception. "Cockney," she repeated with emphasis.

"My funny accent's Australian," I said. "Australian."

"Oh?" Ashlee didn't seemed convinced. "It sounds like Cockney to me."

"It isn't," snapped Chantelle. "We've got to move along. See you later, OK?" She watched Ashlee totter off on her very high heels. "Occasionally, you get a bad apple in the receptionist pool," she said gloomily.

"Ashlee's a bad apple?"

Chantelle grinned at me. "Rotten to the core."

Very early next morning I kissed Chantelle goodbye and set out to walk the couple of kilometers to Kendall & Creeling. I'd got into the habit of leaving a set of casual clothes at her place, so if I stayed the night, I could change into shorts, T-shirt and running shoes, bundle whatever I'd been wearing into a shoulder bag and jog-or more likely, briskly walk-back home.

Because I wanted to go through my notes before going to UCLA, I hadn't intended to spend the night at Chantelle's apartment. However, as Bloodblot Horror II had scared the living daylights out of me, the thought of being alone in the dark after what I'd seen on the screen had given me the heebie-jeebies. If I'd had an inkling of how bad it was going to be, I'd have skipped the screening, the way the stars of the movie had.

Last night, after a reception thingo in the lobby of the cinema, people had started to move into the theater. At that point I'd noticed the celebrities drifting in the opposite direction.

"Where are they going?" I'd asked. "Is there special seating for them?"

"They're leaving," said Chantelle. "The stars of Bloodblot II came to be seen by the fans, not to view the movie. They'll slip out the back way, hop into their limos, and beat it."

After enduring the vile, gruesome images of Bloodblot Horror II, I'd wished I'd done the same. Chantelle, of course, had taken the carnage in her stride. I'd clutched her hand and shut my eyes at the worst spots, but even the screams from the audience didn't drown out the ghastly sound effects of slicing, dicing, and disemboweling. One good riling, though-I'd had no opportunity to brood about Ariana and the Natalie sheila.

Later, Chantelle had been warmly appreciative of the effect Bloodbot had had on me. "You're clingy tonight, honey. I like that."

"I wouldn't call it clingy," I protested. "It's just that I'm a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to horror movies."

Chantelle's eyes had lit up. "There's some great ones I'd love you to see. For instance, the DVD of Death Gurgle is out next week. And another really good one, Eviscerate, is already in the stores, and-"

"Are you serious? Or are you teasing me?"

Chantelle had given me a ravishing smile. "Both," she'd said.

Now, in the early-morning light, the butchery of Bloodblot Horror II didn't have the same clout. I felt a little embarrassed that I'd allowed a mere movie to frighten me. Hell's bells, there were enough real horrors in the world without worrying about fictional ones.

I turned my thoughts to the major challenge ahead of me. Today I was lobbing into UCLA in my undercover role. Before I left for the campus, I'd just have time to shower, dress, gulp down a bowl of porridge, and do a lightning check of the information any real graduate student would know. I reminded myself I'd have to devote a few minutes to soothing Julia Roberts. It seemed to annoy her intensely when I stayed out all night. It wasn't lack of food, as I always left her ample provisions, so I'd decided it was that she missed me. This gave me a warm feeling.

"Did you miss me, Jules?" I said as soon as I opened Kendall & Creeling's front door.

Julia Roberts, who was reclining on Melodie's reception desk gymnastically washing her nethers, paused with one hind leg high in the air. She considered my question for all of three seconds, then resumed washing.

"Hiding your true emotions, I see. Well done, Jules. It's the way to go these days."

"Good morning, Kylie."

My heart did a rollover. "Crikey! You gave me a fright."

Ariana smiled faintly. "Sorry. I came in early to catch up on some work."

"Are you OK?" This was the question I'd told myself not to ask, but this morning, looking at her white, drawn face, I couldn't stop myself.

I thought Ariana would brush me off, but she didn't. "Yesterday I was-I was taken aback. Penelope Braithwaite stirred up old memories. My apologies for leaving everything in the meeting to you. It wasn't very professional of me."

The impulse to comfort her was almost overwhelming. But if I took two steps and put my arms around her, I was pretty sure she'd freeze me out so fast my head would spin. Instead, I offered the great Aussie restorative, used in situations ranging from a simple case of fatigue right through to the total loss of one's home in a bushfire. "How about a cuppa?"

"Tea? I'd rather have coffee."

I followed Ariana to the kitchen, Julia Roberts bringing up the rear. Once there, Jules parked herself in front of her empty food dish and looked meaningfully at me.

"You ate all the chicken and liver?" I said. Julia Roberts twitched her whiskers impatiently. Last night's dinner was old news. Today was a new gastronomical adventure.