Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

"Where's the fucking bar?" he half-shouted. "I need a fucking drink." A waiter tried to offer him champagne, but Perkins snarled, "A real drink, not lolly water." He jerked his head at the nearest in his support group. "Get me a bourbon on the rocks. Make it a triple. And don't fart around doing it."

Astonishingly, there was a ripple of appreciative laughter at his rudeness.

"Jeez," I whispered to Ariana, "if he's that bad-tempered, he must have heard about the disks."

"This is Jarrod Perkins on a good day," she said with scorn. "You should see him when things go wrong."

"Beats me why anyone puts up with him."

"He can get away with anything because he's a successful director. That makes him a god in this town."

A delicious picture of Jarrod Perkins in therapy popped into my mind. I visualized Dave Deer taking personal pleasure in delivering the blows in Slap! Slap! Get On With It to this particular patient.

Ariana gave me a gentle shove. "You shouldn't be seen talking to me for more than a few casual minutes. Circulate, Kylie. Get to know some people. That's what Elise's cousin would do."

Five minutes later, as I was obediently mingling, Elise herself found me. "Kylie, dear. There are some people you musrmeet!"

Soon I was dizzy with introductions to individuals whose names I wouldn't remember and who weren't at all interested in me. Then Elise swept me into the larger dining room, which was absolutely huge and filled with people screaming "Darling!" and laughing extravagantly at one another's jokes. Mounds-no, mountains-of food were arranged on tables lining the walls. White-aproned waiters rushed around serving guests too lazy or busy to serve themselves. There was even a meat station, where a bloke with a wicked carving knife cut slices from various roasted meats.

So I ate, and chatted, and tried to smile like everyone else. I was getting jack of the nonstop noise and endless parade of faces, though, and longed to escape. But how?

"And when are you moving in with us, Kylie?" said Dave Deer in my ear. "Tomorrow?" He attempted to put an arm around my waist, but I nimbly moved. Plainly he'd been chug-a-lugging the scotch all night.

"Perhaps next week. I'll let you know."

He squeezed my arm. "I look forward to it."

"Lovely party," I said. "Thank you so much."

"You're not leaving?" He looked quite put-out. "The night is young, as they say."

Groan. "I'm still a bit jet-lagged," I said. Of course I wasn't, and he probably knew it, but he nodded obligingly. "Would you thank Elise for me?" He wrinkled his brow. "Your wife," I added helpfully.

At this point someone claimed Dave's attention, so I took the op to get away. Ariana. I had to find her. A horrible thought struck-perhaps she'd already left. If so, I could throw myself on Fred's mercy. Or I could just slash my wrists right now.

I found her talking with a pleasantly ordinary man whose best characteristic, at least in these surroundings, was his low-key manner. He ducked his head almost shyly as Ariana introduced him.

"Kylie, this is Dr. Vincent Adams. He's at Deerdoc, and he's aware you'll be working there next week."

Dr. Adams gave me a moderate smile, a relief after all the teeth I'd seen exposed tonight. "Call me Vince," he said in a quiet, gentle tone.

We all made light conversation for a few minutes, then he was called away by an imperious command from an old woman wearing enough bright jewelry to decorate a Chrissie tree.

"I want to go home," I said to Ariana. "Any chance of a lift? I can't face Fred again."

"Sure. Do you want to go now?"

"Blood oath, I do."

"I'll say my farewells and meet you outside. Go down the drive a little way, so I can pick you up without anyone seeing."

The night was cool and mercifully quiet. I threw my head back to check out the stars but could only see a few of the brighter ones. Back in the 'Gudge, even on moonless nights, if there were no clouds, the Milky Way arching across the sky provided starlight enough to see your way.

"Ready to go home, little lady?" said a voice close behind me. "I'm at your service."

Fred Mills. I turned around fast, nearly taking off his nose. "I've got a lift home, thanks."

Not pleased, Fred said, "Don't you know the good old American custom that says you go home with the boy who brought you?"

"No worries. Ariana's leaving now, and I asked her to drop me off."

With relief I saw Ariana emerge from the building. I'd run the chance of someone seeing us together. "Over here," I shrieked.

She nodded to Fred. "Evening." To me she said, "Ready?"

"You've no idea how much."

When Ariana retrieved her car and we were leaving, I looked back. Fred Mills was standing splay-legged, his arms folded over this corpulent chest.

I'd made an enemy. My first in L.A.

Sunday was a gorgeous day. I had my breakfast with Julia Roberts in dappled sunshine out in the backyard under the citrus trees. I'd wedged the back door so it couldn't spring closed and lock, dragged out a box from the storeroom to use as a table and a spare chair from the nearest office. Perhaps I could persuade Ariana to fund a garden table and chairs. I tut-tutted to myself. Here I was forgetting half the place was mine. I could simply instruct Fran to get the furniture and it would be done. Or not. Fran was still an unknown quantity. I had no idea at what point she would buck an order, but I didn't doubt there was such a point.

Jules had plunked her tawny self in a large patch of sunshine, opening her green eyes now and then to check if potential prey had materialized. I realized what a poor excuse for a hunter she was when an inquisitive bird hopped onto a low branch to eyeball her. Julia lashed her tail a bit then lost interest, gave a wide pink yawn, and dozed off again.

I'd never seen a squirrel in real life before but recognized what the little thing was when it leapt from the roof onto one of the trees and ran headfirst down the trunk, where it stopped, fluffy tail vibrating, upside down. I thought Julia Roberts would jump up and clobber the intruder, or at the very least look dangerous, but she regarded it without interest, and shut her eyes again.

"Call yourself a cat," I hooted. "Any Aussie feline would be up and at that squirrel."

My heart did a gymnastic leap when a voice said, "Julia Roberts is incurably lazy." It was the beautiful, the spoken-for Harriet Porter.

"Crikey," I said, "you scared the living daylights out of me."

"Didn't Ariana call? She said she would."

"I wouldn't have heard the phone. Jules and I have been out here for ages."

She grinned at me. "And you're asking yourself what I'm doing here this Sunday morning, when I could be breakfasting in bed with Beth?"

This was altogether too intimate a picture, especially as I recalled breakfasts with Raylene that began with bacon and eggs and ended with something far more exciting.

"I'll bite," I said. "Why are you here?"

"Ariana called me this morning and asked if I cared to be paid double-time to help you rent a car, get a cell phone, and look at some clothes for your stint as Dr. Deer's assistant."

"Was it the pleasure of my company that persuaded you or the double time?"

"I won't lie to you," said Harriet. "I can be bought, I'm afraid. Money's tight this month, and it was an offer too good to refuse."

"Want a cuppa before we get started? I'll make a fresh pot."

"Tea? That'd be nice."

After finding another chair for Harriet and checking how she had her tea, I zipped into the kitchen, filled the electric jug, and switched it on. Tea-making was an art, and I followed to the letter the method Mum had taught me when I was a kid. First, half a cup of boiling water in the teapot to warm it for a few moments, then swirl it around and tip it out. Second, add one spoonful of tea for each person, plus one for the pot. Third, pour in boiling-repeat boiling -water that has to be actually bubbling. Finally, let steep for four minutes.