Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

We followed a stream of cars toward the house. "If you want to learn the inside story about security," Fred said, "you'll want to stick with me." His right hand hovered, as if he were going to pat my thigh. Lucky for him, he chickened out at the last moment.

Yerks! Fred's company on the drive over had been enough. Even if I had to hitch, I was getting back to Kendall & Creeling some other way.

The driveway near the house was lined with parked vehicles, lots of them bulky SUVs. When we got near the front door, there was a mini traffic jam. A couple of young men in black outfits were dashing around opening doors of arriving cars to let the passengers out, then leaping into the vehicles to drive them out of the way. Past the entrance was a bunch of big, black limousines lined up like beached whales. Drivers leaned against them, talking.

The house was lit up, just like last night, but this time there was noise. A buzz of conversation and music rose above the building like an invisible cloud. People were wandering everywhere. "Security must be a nightmare," I said to Fred, "seeing there's so many guests."

He took this as a criticism. "I've got a handle on it. Don't you worry, missy!"

It was a relief when we got to the head of the line and my door was opened. "See you later," I said to Fred, thinking no time was too soon.

"Now, wait a minute-"

I left him struggling to get his ungainly body out from behind the steering wheel.

The entrance was crowded with people all talking at the top of their voices. Just inside, the Deers were doing the greeting routine, smiles flashing on and off like dental semaphore. They seemed to have it down to a fine art, exclaiming with delight, warmly shaking hands, hugging, air-kissing, and generally giving incoming guests the big welcome.

When it was my turn, Elise, looking terrific in red, cried, "Kylie, at last!" before her attention was taken by the next guest.

Dave Deer took the opportunity to embrace me rather too closely. I smelled expensive aftershave and the Scotch he'd recently consumed. From working in a pub, I knew my liquor. If he kept breathing on me like this, I'd be able to identify the brand.

Trying not to be too obvious, I wriggled my way free. "My wife's cousin," he announced in a loud, ringing voice to anyone who cared to listen. It sounded so stagy I cringed. Whatever Dave Deer's talents might be, acting wasn't one of them.

A slight, older woman, with a face and bearing reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Nancy Reagan, said, "You're an Australian too, my dear?"

"Too right."

I was about to say more, but a bloke in a dark suit with a hearing-aid thing in his ear shepherded her away. Secret Service? I gazed after the two of them, fascinated. Maybe it was Nancy Reagan.

Crikey, and over there I'd bet a motza I was seeing Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones chatting with Julie Andrews. Or maybe they were star look-alikes…

My gaze settled on someone who was doing a good imitation of being Brad Pitt. And was that shortish bloke Tom Cruise?

No one was listening to the string quartet playing classical music. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and plates of bities. I snaffled a glass of champagne from one passing by, noticing he was smoothly handsome in a tanned, regular-featured sort of way. He flashed a quick electric smile when I thanked him. Now that I looked around, all the waiters, male and female, appeared to be good-looking.

Positioning myself beside double decorative columns-the architect of this place had column-mania, that much was clear- I settled down to enjoy eye-surfing the guests to see how many I could identify.

The columns formed a sort of little alcove, which turned out to be the perfect place to inadvertently eavesdrop. Like eddies in an ocean, people constantly moved around, often halting briefly near me. Bart Toller, one of the patients who'd had his disks stolen, was one. I recognized him immediately, as he'd been getting lots of attention recently for his scene-stealing supporting role in a movie based on Sigmund Freud's theories, a comedy called The Id and I.

Toller was alone, looking handsome but very down in the mouth. I was actually considering going over to him to say g'day and cheer him up when a man and woman approached, both bouncing along like the power couple I supposed they were.

"Bart!" he exclaimed.

"Gavin. Judy. Good to see you." I noted his enthusiasm factor was low.

"And great to see you, Bart," Gavin said warmly, pumping Toller's hand while simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. "It's been too long. How's Kathy and the kids?"

Bart Toller's forced smile disappeared. "We're separated. Getting a divorce."

"Oh, man!" Another hearty whack to the shoulder. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that."

Bart Toller excused himself and moved away. Gavin turned to Judy. "It's a mystery to me why she's stuck with Toller this long. He's such an asshole."

"At the salon yesterday I heard Kathy's hot and heavy with her personal trainer. Dumb as a post, but quite a performer between the sheets. Can hardly blame her. Bart's supposed to swing both ways…"

I was relieved when the couple drifted off. I hate that sort of goss, when someone else's genuine misery provides entertainment.

"Lime-green suits you," said a cool voice. I'd been so busy celebrity-spotting, I hadn't noticed Ariana approach. She saluted me with her champagne glass. Her pants and tunic top were black, of course, but embroidered with an elaborate gold and red design. Her pale blond hair was down. Her blue eyes glowed. She looked sensational.

"Do you always wear black?"

She took a sip of her drink, looking at me over the rim of the glass. "Not always. But usually."

Suddenly I had the thought that Ariana might be in mourning for someone and that was why she dressed in black. Maybe she'd been multicolored in the past, prior to the tragedy. "I shouldn't ask questions like that, Ariana. Sorry."

There was an awkward silence between us. I searched for some topic to fill it. "All the waiters are good-looking," I said. "Have you noticed that?"

"Most are actors, hoping to be discovered. Parties like this let them rub shoulders with the movers and shakers."

"Does anyone strike it lucky?"

Ariana shrugged. "Probably not the way they hoped."

A loud shout of laughter billowed from a large group near us. "Who's that?" I said, indicating a bloke who was tubby and toad-faced but wearing a suit that even I could see had to be very expensive. He stabbed the air with a huge cigar as he spoke in a penetrating, nasal voice to a captivated audience.

"Harvey Colby. A producer. Very big in the film business."

A skinny blond came gliding up to attach herself to Colby's free arm. She fixed her wide-eyed stare on him with apparent adoration. She looked half his age and a quarter his weight.

Seeing me watching the woman, Ariana said, "Trophy wife number four, I believe. Or it could be five."

A perceptible rise in the hum of conversation indicated something was happening. "It's Jarrod Perkins," someone said in a reverent tone.

The Aussie director was making his way across the room, an entourage following in his wake. He hadn't gone to a lot of trouble dressing for the function. His blue jeans were faded, and he wore a black T-shirt under a shabby tweed jacket.

"Behold the artist," said Ariana sardonically.

The crowd parted before Perkins as though he deserved special attention. People called out greetings, flashed smiles, but nothing slowed his progress until he abruptly halted near us. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and snapped his head around, frowning petulantly.

This was the first time I'd seen him in the flesh, and all those unflattering photos turned out to be true. He was weedy, stoop-shouldered, and pigeon-toed. His thinning dark hair had been carefully combed over his scalp, but the pink showed through. His most notable feature was his nose, an enormous, curved beak that made him look like a ferocious parrot.