Indelible Ink (21 page)

‘Yeh, yeh, yeh.’ Lim was nodding. ‘What? Oh yeah, they’re clearing it.’

‘But I mean it’s so nice to know that for once it’s actually
okay
, you know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how about coca?’ Blanche’s eyes gleamed deviously.

Lim frowned. ‘I always get mixed up between them. Then there’s guarana ...’

‘But aren’t they all related? Like how does cocaine grow? Isn’t it a bean?’

Lim was standing very straight with his back to the wall. ‘I don’t know. I’m the last in the food chain in that one.’

Blanche felt so excited she wanted to gnash her teeth. ‘Why hasn’t the cocaine market ever taken off in Australia? It’s so bloody expensive like there’s a stranglehold on
supply, I’ve never figured it out.’

Somebody came into the toilets. Lim rolled his eyes and whispered with stagy seduction, ‘
The love drug.
’

‘I better go home and fuck my husband now,’ Blanche said airily over her shoulder as she walked back into the bar and swooped onto their table just in time to save their Negronis
from a zealous waiter. Lim tittered.

They drank and watched the bar fill slowly with suits.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Blanche asked, realising one second later that he had already told her.

‘Apart from the circus, just having a quiet one. Maybe the beach. My girl’s just bought a flat in Bronte.’

Something lanced into Blanche’s chest. She rummaged through her handbag, thinking of the phrase
stabbed by jealousy.
She tried to retreat from her body, shaken by the vehemence of
its feelings. ‘I didn’t know you had a girl,’ she said, trying to be flippant.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Blanche,’ Lim replied with heavy innuendo.

‘Really? Do tell.’ Rummage, rummage.

‘I can’t. Then you’d know it.’

A bitter glob fell down the back of Blanche’s throat and she sucked up the last of her drink. Her rib twanged angrily. Her car keys were in her hand even though she didn’t want to
leave. ‘Sometimes I can’t understand why Terry comes to every meeting when he hardly says anything.’

‘He wants to watch over his minions.’

‘Hal-looo.’

‘I mean, that’s
his
line of thinking.’

‘He still doesn’t trust me. Even though he promoted me for my signature risk-taking.’

‘Fuck ’im. We’ll give the old farts a run for their money.’

Blanche only had four blocks of the Pacific Highway to drive, but on a Friday evening it could take half an hour, longer than walking. She pulled out of the underground car park and drove up the
hill and when the lights went green, like a little metal tooth her black BMW slid into the chain of cars heading north. Thirty-six degrees out there, ten less in here. She plugged in her iPod and
scanned to Radiohead. The cocaine was ebbing now and her backache moving to the fore. She noticed how premenstrual she was, her legs needed waxing. She felt dirty.

Half an hour later, she was sliding the gear into Park, pushing the remote, and watching the garage door rise before her. She pulled back into Drive too soon, nearly skinning the hood of the
car. Hugh was in the shower when she came into the house. She dropped her keys into the bowl on the mantlepiece and went into the kitchen. It was hot and stuffy, the windows shut all day against a
promised storm that never came. Blanche opened the freezer and rested her forearms inside its gelid shock, then withdrew a carton of cookies’n’cream ice-cream. She took it into the
living room, switched on the television and ate watching the news.

Hugh crossed the hall wrapped in a towel, then returned to the doorway in shorts and singlet, drying his hair. ‘André’s wife moved out this afternoon,’ he said over the
top of the television.

‘Really?’

‘Yup. The removalist van was packing the last things when I got home. Adios!’ Hugh spoke with a note of triumph: both of them had sided with André because his wife had
screamed louder.

‘Fantastic. We might sleep tonight.’

Hugh draped his towel over the back of a chair and sat down. ‘I saw this place today that might be perfect. I want to take you to have a look at it tomorrow morning. It’s got a
view.’

‘You’ve got the day off?’ Blanche said excitedly.

‘No. Before my inspections.’

‘I wanted to sleep in tomorrow and maybe go to a gallery, Hugh. You promised me you’d get a free Saturday. I was having drinks tonight and I came home for you.’

‘I’m sorry, pooky. It’s just crazy at the moment. I sold that Deco place in Kirribilli in one week, didn’t even advertise it.’

‘You really want to go ahead with this now? With the downturn and everything?’

‘Downturns are good. They bring back the investors.’

‘I don’t think I can handle another mortgage right now, Hugh.’

‘Why not? The more you have the easier it gets. And we’ll get money from the Sirius sale in a few months.’

‘Are you sticking to six million by the way? Isn’t it more like six and a half?’

‘Better to be conservative, then when you get more you’re over the moon.’

‘Will you take the usual commission?’

‘I think it’d be wrong if I didn’t do things by the book.’

‘The book might say we should give mates rates.’

‘We?’ Hugh arched an eyebrow.

‘Get out of town, Hugh.’

Hugh kissed her on the forehead then got a bottle of white wine from the fridge. ‘Ultimo’s a safe bet.’

Blanche stared at the television, spooning ice-cream into her mouth direct from the carton. A line of tanks rolled towards a crowd, Molotov cocktails shooting through the night.

‘Blanche, can you at least look at me?’

‘Hughie, I’m really tired, okay? I’m pre-menstrual and it’s been a big week.’

Hugh poured her a glass of wine and muted the television. ‘What are you doing, pooky? It’s half empty. Have you eaten all that? I thought you were trying to lose weight.’

Blanche sighed and stretched along the couch, lifting her legs onto Hugh’s lap. Hugh looked worn and jowly. There were camels on his boxers, all heading in the same direction —
nowhere — around and around his hips. He looked so unsexy that she felt sad. ‘You can talk with your middle-aged spread.’ She poked her toes into his armpit.

He jammed it over her foot. It was hot and moist and comforting, like a mouth. ‘I know. We both have to go to the gym.’

Miffed, Blanche turned up the television. A kookaburra laughed in the bedroom and when Hugh walked out to answer it, Blanche began to eat the ice-cream again. Why did they play such shithouse
ads in prime time? What an embarrassment. No wonder Australia was the laughing-stock of the world. Her mind became keen and predatory, slicing through each twenty-second slot with the clinical
precision of a surgeon removing tumours.

‘Hey, Stav,’ Hugh spoke into his phone, watching her from the doorway. ‘Yeh, yeh I’m working on her.’ Blanche raised her eyebrows over the spoon moving towards her
mouth. The ice-cream felt fantastic slipping down her throat. The quicker she ate it, the deeper it retained its chill, cooling her from the inside. She scraped the bottom of the carton, thinking
how wonderful it would be to get fat and really go to seed. Attached to Hugh’s arm, she would wrap red lamé around her corpulence, tie a ribbon around her fat waist and go as a giant
Christmas bauble to the next realty Christmas party.

Hugh shut his phone and came over, slinging her legs back up.

‘Ow, ow,’ she protested.

‘Did you have a bad day?’ He massaged her calves.

‘No, my back’s out. When are you going to Mum’s?’

‘A week or so. When the ads are ready. Did you finish the copy?’

‘Yeah, I emailed it straight back to you.’

‘I was out of the office all arvo. Stav wants to come tomorrow morning too. He’s got the keys to the place next door. We can look at them both then have brunch at the Fish
Markets.’

‘Do we have to have brunch with Stav? He’s so
boring.
’

‘Dimitri’s going to retire soon, and Stav will take over the agency.’

They stared at a mob of shoppers charging through the doors for the Australia Day sales as though fleeing a tsunami. Security guards waved their arms with the alert ineptitude of schoolboys
playing cops’n’robbers. Blanche hadn’t told Hugh about her mother’s tattoos; she hadn’t known how. She had thought it would all blow over, but if what Clark had said
was true, they were only spreading. The ice-cream was glued to the pit of her stomach, a warm, sticky pool. She gulped down wine to dissolve it.

‘Shall we order Thai?’ Hugh said. ‘Or the new wood-fired pizza?’

‘I need to tell you something. I had a weird conversation with Clark when we got back.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘About Mum.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s started getting tattoos.’

‘Hey?’

‘She’s had all these tattoos done, I don’t know why.’ Blanche ran her hands through her hair then rested them across her face and looked shyly through the paling of
fingers at Hugh. ‘Clark sounded pretty upset.’

‘I didn‘t see anything when I was there last week.’ Hugh frowned. ‘I thought she looked really good.’

‘Well, they’re there, even if you can’t see them.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it was stupid.’

‘Tattoos? Your mother?’ Hugh started to laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘It’s true. And she’s getting more.’

‘She’s such a fruitcake, your mum.’

‘Really?’ Blanche’s eyes swung onto Hugh’s face, beaming challenge and enquiry.

‘Well, she’s supposed to be selling her house, not getting tattoos! And doesn’t she want to be a psychologist now or something?’

Blanche drank more wine. Hugh kept laughing, shaking his head. ‘It’s not funny,’ she said.

‘Well, I think it is. What else is it? Tattoos!’

‘Stop laughing, Hugh!’ Blanche lifted her legs off his lap. ‘It’s not fucken funny. Okay?’

‘I’m finish, Mrs King,’ Fatima called from the hall.

‘Come into the kitchen,’ Marie called back, from where she was reading an old
National Geographic
while she waited for Hugh to arrive.

Fatima came in, rolling down her shirtsleeves and buttoning the cuffs.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs King.’

‘Oh, go on. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me.’ Marie got out a cup and set it on the table. ‘You’ve been working nonstop for hours. Have a break.’

Fatima perched on a chair. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve been reading about tattoos in your country,’ Marie said brightly, pouring tea.

‘What?’

‘Tattoos. Drawings on the skin with ink.’

Fatima looked at her in puzzlement.

‘How they’re mostly done by the women. And to ward off sickness. Here.’ She touched the corners of her eyes. ‘And here.’ She touched her forehead.
‘Look.’ Marie showed Fatima the
National Geographic.

‘Ah.’ Fatima glanced at it politely. ‘Duck.’

‘Duck?’

‘
Daqq.
’ Fatima pointed to the word in the headline. ‘It’s old, not many anymore.’

‘That’s sad. Is that because of Sharia law?’

Fatima was inscrutable. ‘I’m from city. We don’t see much in city. Only the people do
daqq
who are prim ...’

‘Primitive?’

‘Yes.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t like.’

‘Yoo-hoo!’ Hugh’s footsteps came down the path.

Fatima cleared her throat. ‘Mrs King, your cheque is no good.’

‘Pardon?’

Hugh walked in.

‘My bank say your cheque is no good.’

‘Hi, Fatima!’

A blush scalded Marie’s face. ‘I must have used my old chequebook. How stupid of me. I’m so sorry, Fatima.’

Fatima ignored her and smiled at Hugh. Superior little cow, thought Marie. She was only trying to be friendly. Days like this she wished she hadn’t given up drinking.

‘Did the cheque bounce?’ said Hugh.

‘Don’t worry.’ Marie reached for her handbag. There was five hundred dollars in her wallet, and the next session with Rhys had to be paid for. Tattoos had the highest priority,
up there with food. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she said, trying to hide the cash.

‘Two hundred thirty. The bank charge me ten dollars for cheque.’

Hugh had his chequebook out and was writing in it already. Marie reminded herself he would soon be making the equivalent of some people’s annual wage from the sale of her house. As Hugh
tore the cheque out and handed it to Fatima, she said, ‘You’ll keep note of everything, won’t you, Hugh.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘I go.’ Fatima pocketed the cheque. ‘Bye-bye, Mrs King.’

Hugh was holding a boutique arrangement of natives, lilies and orchids. The sort they sold up at the Junction for around seventy dollars. He handed it to Marie, then stood back and examined her.
‘How
are
you?’

‘I’m good. Aren’t you kind.’

‘Ready for the big sale?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because it is a big one.’ Hugh looked at her with emotion. ‘You’re being very brave.’

He opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of laminates and papers in plastic folders. ‘This is going onto our website. This is the listing. And this is the main one.’ He shuffled
through the advertisements, isolating the glossiest. ‘We’re going to run this in “House of the Week” in
Domain.
’

‘Right.’

‘It’s a real coup. It’s a jungle out there, Marie. I mean, “House of the Week” is as good as it gets.’

‘It looks great. Did Blanche write the copy?’

‘Joint effort.’