Eat Me (5 page)

‘A what?' Helen asked.

‘Airhead. And she happens to be a paranoid coke-addict as well. Charming to work with under the most ideal circumstances, as you might imagine. Anyway, we were planning on posing her with two Dalmatians down at Circular Quay for a series of photos with ferries, the Opera House and whatnot in the background. She was wearing a series of black and white vinyl minidresses. You can imagine the crowd that gathered. It's not like shooting anywhere else in the city where people actually have lives. You know, where they stop for a minute to look, glance at their watch and move on? At the quay it's all either tourists or people killing time waiting for a ferry, and within seconds we had a crowd of, oh, maybe a hundred people watching us set up. Well, I don't know what that girl douches with, but as soon as those dogs were handed over to her, they both immediately dived for her crotch. I swear, it took both their handlers to pull them out of her skirt. The crowd roared with laughter. She, of course, had a breakdown on the spot. She even accused me and the photographer of trying to humiliate her, of planning it all. It took ages to repair her makeup after all those tears.'

‘Have you ever had a dog lick you out?' Julia asked the others.

‘No!' Helen looked at Julia with intense curiosity. ‘Have you?'

‘Uh, no, no, of course not,' Julia responded. ‘Just wondering if any of you had.'

‘Joo-li-ya,' coaxed Philippa. ‘Tell the truth.'

‘Leave me alone,' Julia protested, blushing. ‘If you want to know the truth,' she said, changing the subject, ‘I haven't exactly had a model revolutionary opera of a day either.' She sighed dramatically and took a sip of her wine.

‘What happened?'

‘Well, I was racing to finish up some photos for a magazine story on Chinese artists in Sydney.'

‘You're getting obsessed with China, aren't you, Julia?' Philippa interrupted. ‘When is it you're going on that cultural exchange program?'

‘January. Can't wait. Anyway, would you believe, I dashed into the magazine offices at four-fifty only to learn that the editor was cancelling the story because some idiot had told him that Vietnamese were the new multiculti flavour of the month?'

‘Bummer,' Philippa sympathised. ‘But don't they have to pay for the photos anyway?'

‘So you'd think,' nodded Julia. ‘But no, the bastard sleazed out of paying me a kill fee. He claimed he hadn't actually commissioned them, that he'd just said he'd probably be able to use them.'

‘Arsehole!' Now Helen was outraged.

‘Quite. And then he fobbed me off, saying he had to get the magazine to bed, and that he'd talk to me some other time. I exploded at him.'

‘Good on you!' Philippa approved.

‘Yeah, but I was really unprofessional. I called him a fuckwit, a shit-for-brains, a sleazebag and worse. Then I burst into tears and stormed out of his office.'

‘Oh, darling, you poor thing,' commiserated Chantal.

‘So I raced home.' The Surry Hills warehouse where Julia lived was a low-rent, high-status place with poor plumbing, worse lighting, a few sweatshops and a resident tribe of artists, photographers and designers who wore nothing but black. ‘I waited for ages for the lift. It never fucking comes when you want it to.' It was one of those old-fashioned industrial lifts, a large cage in the centre of the stairwell. ‘To top it off, Sarah, that pretentious performance artist, artiste, whatever she calls herself—I know for a fact that the only real job she's had for ages has been check-out chick at a Kings Cross supermarket and that she's addicted to romance novels—opens her door and this acid jazz floods out of her space. I
hate
acid jazz! I don't give a stuff how sophisticated or trendy it's supposed to be! Well, I started to sob all over again and I decided not to wait for the lift. I pelted up the stairs to my studio.

‘Slamming the door behind me, I flung myself down on the bed. Chocolate, I thought, I must have chocolate. I got up and did a search and destroy in the kitchen. You know, opening cupboard doors and banging them shut again, trying to find just a morsel of chocolate. Then I remembered I had some Chocolate Rock ice cream in the freezer. Wouldn't you know it, the container was caught in the jaws of this major stalagmite-stalactite situation, and I had to chip it out from the ice. There were only about two scoops of ice cream left, and I was spooning them out and cursing and about to burst into tears again when the penny dropped.'

‘Don't tell me...' Helen had guessed.

‘Oh yes. PMT. Isn't that terrible? I'm so embarrassed about what I did with that editor. I mean, I was right and he was wrong, but still. I'll never be able to work for them again, I'm sure. Do you think I should go back and admit I was suffering from premenstrual tension?'

‘Don't be stupid, Julia,' Chantal shook her head. Her bobbed red hair—it was now bobbed and red—swung like something out of a mousse ad. ‘Never
ever EVER
admit to a man that your bad behaviour was caused by PMT. It only reinforces stereotypes. Which isn't a good thing even if they happen to be true. Besides, it confirms their sense of superiority.'

‘I agree,' Philippa had chipped in. Philippa was sitting back down on the floor, nibbling contentedly from the bowl of roasted peanuts on the floor beside her. She listened sympathetically to the others, but had no tragic stories of her own to contribute. If the truth be told, she'd actually had an excellent day. But she didn't want to spoil the general mood by saying so. She'd done an entire draft of the second chapter of her novel. And she'd called Jake.

A commercial came on for lamb. Julia turned to the others. ‘Remember that old advert where the girl passes up a date with Tom Cruise for a roast lamb dinner?'

‘Certainly do,' said Chantal. ‘Could you believe that?'

‘Actually, I could.' Philippa wrinkled her nose. ‘I'd take lamb over Tom Cruise any day. He doesn't appeal to me at all. That's because he looks so stupid.'

‘I thought he sort of redeemed himself in
Interview with the Vampire,
' Helen commented.

‘I refused to see that film. I'd read the books and no matter how much blonding cream he put in his hair, Tom Cruise is
not
Lestat, and I don't care what sort of sucky things Anne Rice said in the
New York Times,'
Philippa remarked testily. Then she smiled. ‘When they make the film of my book, of course, they can have Tom Cruise in it so long as they pay me enough. But I won't ever say I'm happy about it.'

‘How is your book going, by the way?' Chantal couldn't wait to read it.

‘Two chapters down. Heaps to go. But back to the Tom Cruise issue. This stupidity thing really is a problem with me. I'm not saying he really is stupid. He might be a rocket scientist for all I know. But he looks dumb. I have the same problem with Richard Gere and Keanu Reeves, actually. I wouldn't sleep with either of them. Even if they begged. On their hands and knees. In tight black leather chaps with their bare arses sticking high in air. While licking my boots.' She popped a handful of peanuts into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Well, maybe if they licked her boots really hard.

‘Me neither,' Helen jumped in. ‘I think we all have to stare into the void at one time or another in our lives, but I'd rather not do it while looking into a man's eyes. In my opinion, there's no sexier attribute than intelligence.'

‘Oh, you intellectuals,' laughed Chantal, rolling her eyes and blowing a smoke ring into the air. ‘A man doesn't need a PhD to be a good lover. Besides, dumb men tend to have better muscles. You don't develop excellent pecs reaching for library books. Anyway, you don't really want him coming up for air long enough to be able to say more than a few words at a time, and those don't have to be in Sanskrit. “Me Tarzan” is good enough for me.'

‘I remember quite distinctly when you had a thing for weedy poets, Chantal,' Philippa smirked.

‘Don't remind me. That was a very long time ago. And I did learn my lesson.' Chantal took another puff on her cigarette. ‘God, old friends are a pain. Especially ones with good memories. If you don't watch it, I'm going to trade you lot in for new ones with no knowledge of my previous life.'

‘Never mind. We'll take the new friends aside and fill them in,' Julia promised cheerfully.

Chantal took the remote control from Philippa and idly flicked through the channels, stopping briefly to flake out over the ‘Mr Muscle' commercial for a household cleaner that masquerades as a young spunk. ‘Wouldn't mind having him in my kitchen cabinet. I wouldn't even make him do the chores. Well, not those chores anyway.'

‘You know, on this brain versus brawn thing, I'm with Chantal,' Julia commented. ‘What were the words to that old song by Shakespear's Sister?—you know, something about needing a “primitive lover”, a “Stone Age romance”? That's me all over. Except, on second thought, I also tend to go for young artistic types. Do you think there's such a thing as an artsy caveman?'

‘I can see it now,' said Philippa. ‘Conan the Expressionist, fresh out of art school, thwacks Julia on the head with his easel and drags her by the hair into his studio.'

‘Mmmm,' Julia purred. ‘I'd like that.'

‘Why can't a man have both muscles and brains?' Helen mused, pushing her glasses up on her nose. ‘Conan the Barbarian becomes Conan the Librarian. Still, Arnold Schwarzenegger's not really my type. Although, I must admit,
Terminator I
was a very post-modern sort of film.'

‘Post-modern, shmost-modern,' replied Julie. ‘I'd just like to glide up and down all of Arnold's luscious, shiny hillocks and buttocks.'

Chantal switched channels again.
Beverly Hills Cop III
was playing on one of the commercial stations. ‘Stop!' cried Julia. ‘That's my man! I would suck Eddie Murphy's toes after his feet had been in basketball hi-tops all day. That's how much I love him.'

‘I don't know about the toes,' rejoined Chantal, wrinkling her nose. ‘But I'd put my mouth anywhere else on that man. He's scrumptious. Hot chocolate.'

‘Not for me, thanks,' said Helen. ‘I'm uncomfortable with the treatment of women in his films. I suppose
Boomerang
was sort of interesting, but overall, I think the image that comes across of women in his movies is negative.'

‘Helen, darling,' Chantal shook her head. ‘We're not talking deep and meaningful relationships here. We're talking sex. Keep your mind in the gutter. And pass the peanuts.'

Chantal aimed the remote control at the TV. Some male journalist was fronting a documentary on the bargirls of South East Asia. Click. A public service announcement about safe sex. Click. Eddie Murphy again. Click. The leader of the Labor Party nattering on about budget deficits.

‘What are you stopping there for?' Julia asked in an anguished voice. ‘The economy is such a turn-off.'

‘He isn't exactly Mr Sex Appeal in the best of circumstances,' Philippa observed.

‘Hey,' cried Helen. ‘You don't prefer the other mob, do you?'

All four opened their mouths and, pointing fingers at tonsils, made little retching noises.

‘So,' Helen persisted. ‘If you had to take one...'

‘I'd take the prime minister,' said Chantal, her voice heavy with sacrifice, ‘close my eyes, and think of Australia.'

Julia reached over and snatched the remote control from Chantal. The Bush Tucker Man appeared, promoting some product in an advertisement. ‘Now that's what I call a fetish object,' she squealed.

‘The man or his funny bush hat?' Philippa asked.

‘Both. I really got off watching him range over the outback eating bizarre leaves and crunchy insects. I loved the way he'd never admit it when something didn't taste very nice. His face would scrunch up into a kind of pained, heroic smile. Reminded me of the expression on some men's faces when they're giving you head.'

They all laughed. They knew exactly which expression Julia was talking about.

‘Do you remember the episode where he consumed honey ants?' Helen sighed at the memory.

‘Absolutely. One of my favourites. I've always had this mad fantasy about making love to the Bush Tucker Man in some wild corner of Australia. He'd be wearing his hat and nothing else, and an echidna would be licking wild berry jam off our bodies. But I think it's time for you two'—she looked at Helen and Philippa—‘to fess up. Who do you fancy, media star-wise?'

Philippa narrowed her eyes, tilted her head back and smiled. ‘John Travolta. Uma Thurman. Flacco. Ernie Dingo. Linda Hunt. Dale from
Twin Peaks
dressed in his FBI jacket and nothing else. And that wonderful little fellow who played the out-of-work circus clown in
Delicatessen
. All at the same time. With a bowl of chocolate cake mix, a feather duster, a snap-on bow tie, some olive oil and five silk scarves for props. Richard, the head of the writing workshop, would be there too, of course, watching.'

‘You're really weird, Philippa,' said Chantal appreciatively. ‘I can't figure out for the life of me what the fifth scarf is for. But I'm sure you've got your reasons for everything.'

‘How 'bout you, Helen? Tell all. Lay the object of your fantasy on the table, so to speak.'

Helen took a long while in answering. Then, a trifle unconvincingly, she mumbled, ‘I was going to say Flacco or Ernie Dingo, but Philippa's got them.'

‘We can share. I don't mind.'

‘No, look,' Helen blurted out after another pause. ‘I'll come clean.' She took a deep breath. ‘But I think I need a touch more wine first.'

‘Get the girl some more wine!' Chantal commanded. She recovered the remote control from Julia and switched off the TV. Philippa shuffled to her feet and filled everyone's glasses. She sat down again on the floor but this time in front of the set, hugging her knees, facing Helen.