Natalie

3 Shades of Blue

I’m floating in one of those fancy swimming pools, where it seems that the water of the pool overflows into the ocean. I look up to the cobalt blue sky, yeah, there are definitely worse places to relax, especially after what happened the day before.

It was one of those days when everything seems to go wrong and Murphy’s Law is invented just for you. Leaving early in the morning I preordered a taxi, just to make sure one would be available at 7AM. At 7:02 AM I call the taxi service, 3min 22 seconds later I get a person on the line. Not too bad, that’s quicker than average. I sometimes wonder all the niceties people say to these automated machines. I feel like cursing most of the time, and sometimes I do; but mostly I try to outwit the machine. ‘Please state your destination now’ the machine would ask, and I would say something like heaven. ‘I repeat, your destination is Craven’. If I say to the loo, the machine would answer Waterloo; and when I tried top of the world, I learned that it’s actually an existing place. It had become a bit of a game to try to fool the automated answering machines and I would time how long it would take the machine to finally give up on giving me more and more options (none of which usually apply to me) and I would get a real person at the other end of the fiber optic line. Anyway, I scolded the operator for my taxi not showing up. ‘I’m afraid we have no booking for you at this moment, but we have one for 7PM. You want a taxi now?’ Of course I do, otherwise I’ll miss my plane!

I’m squeezed between a fat ugly woman who smells a bit rancid and a Chinese guy picking his nose. Nice! Where are the cute guys when you want them!
‘Dear passengers, please do not panic, we are going to make an emergency landing’. I open my eyes, close them again, did I just hear what I think I heard? Am I having a bad dream? I open my eyes again and the look on the other passenger’s faces is telling enough. If the pilot wished for undivided attention, he got it. ‘We have some technical problems and need to have them checked. We will fly to the nearest possible airport where we are authorized to land. We thank you for your cooperation and ask you to remain seated with your seatbelt fastened’.
It takes a couple of seconds for things to sink in. Surely this must be a joke, are we being X-ed or something? I think about all the corny books I’ve read where it states that in the last moments of life you see your life flashing by. Not me. The only thing I can think of is: A. why did I never pay attention to the safety instruction and B. who should I pick for a last hug when we go crashing down: the fat lady or the nose picking Chinese? Where are the cute guys when you need them!
I start to look frantically for the plasticized safety instructions but my brain does not want to register what I’m trying to read. Should I ask the crew to repeat their safety routine? None of the crew is in sight and I wonder if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Did they hide themselves in the back of the plane, the place with the highest survival rate when planes go crashing down? Or was it the front? Why else would they put business & first in the head of the plane? Does the crew have somewhere a secret stash of parachutes and are they preparing themselves to open the door at a lower altitude and jump out of the plane while the rest of us is sucked out of the plane?
I try to calm myself by looking out of the window. Somewhere between the triple chin and the bosom of the fat lady I see that we are flying over the ocean. So where are we? We left Sydney 5 hours ago, so we must be somewhere flying over the Pacific Ocean. But where are we going to land? I try to find the TV channel with the real time flying path but it seems they closed the entertainment system. Oho, that’s definitely not a good sign! I take the flight magazine out of the seat pocket and look on the map to guess where we should be. I trace a line with my finger from Sydney up to Hong Kong. West Papua, could that be it? West Papua where regularly violent clashes occur between the military and the independence fighters? No, not where I want to land. I trace with my finger a bit higher. Southern Philippines. Even worse, that’s where the JI has a stronghold and they target specifically Westerners. I remember the many kidnappings of relief workers and even tourists some time ago in the region. I look around on the map for a save haven, but it seems all the places on the map are involved in some kind of conflict. I feel the airplane making a left turn. The voice of the captain comes on again.

We land safely in Kota Kinabalu, the capital of Sabah in Malaysian Borneo. Later it turned out that some moron was smoking a joint in the toilets, the alarm malfunctioned and the smoke was sucked trough the ventilating system right into the cockpit, causing the necessary alarm there. After some hassle with the local bureaucrats about paperwork and probably some bribes to be paid, the doors of the aircraft are finally opened and we are released on the tarmac. Never felt so good to have bitumen under my feet. I feel like the pope and want to kiss the ground but hearing my Chinese co-passenger snort and spit, I reconsider.

We are transferred in small groups to hotels in the vicinity of the airport. We pass small markets on the way and when the van stops at the red light, vendors come up to the car selling everything from banana’s, dried fish & red bull to Moroccan cigarette boxes. I wonder if I should get one to give as a Christmas present to my friend as she likes this kind of stuff but the van is moving already.

My mobile buzzes and a text message says: your requested taxi for 7 PM is on its way.

... Kevin, more about the BBC

As you can imagine there can be huge variances in the score. The setting for the get together so far has always been somebody's house. A great meal, washed down by excellent wines and lively discussions. As they used to say in school newsletters " a good time was had by all." The book is chosen by one of the group with no restrictions being placed - new, an old classic, something they've already read, poetry, fiction - we even had a graphic novel. Books in 2006 have included Small Island, V for Vendetta, Jane Eyre, Running with Scissors, Life of Pi, Regeneration & The Kite Runner to name but a few.

Why Billingsgate? No other reason then I thought it sounded good.
Billingsgate is an area of London (the city where I grew up) and is famous for its Fish Markets. Billingsgate was originally a general market for corn, coal, iron, wine, salt, pottery, fish and miscellaneous goods but became associated exclusively with the fish trade until the sixteenth century. In 1699 an Act of Parliament was passed making it 'a free and open market for all sorts of fish whatsoever'. The only exception to this was the sale of eels which was restricted to Dutch fishermen because they had helped feed the people of London during the Great Fire.

I digress. For Christmas we decided to have a special get together and it would be our turn to write. We each wrote a piece with the stipulation it had to contain the phrase 'Moroccan Cigarette Case', have something to do with Christmas and be around 1500 words. The stories were then given to other group members to read and we each had to guess who wrote what (a bit like the board game Balderdash) and also vote on which story we thought was the best. Henri's won the most favourite category and Leanne guessed 7 of the 11 authors! Overall the consensus was that the quality of stories was nothing short of fantastic. Most of us hadn't written since school.

Peruse & enjoy!

Kevin
Secretary General - BBC

Leanne

Off Time

“Isabella!” came in loudly from the front door.
“I’m up here in bed”, she called back.

She could hear Tom taking the stairs two at a time and suddenly it seemed like he’d come home too soon, instead of three days later than she’d expected. Isabella rhythmically tapped the screen to smooth the covers. She needed to compose herself. She didn’t want him to be angry at her for having had such a stupid accident.

“It’s the middle of the day. What are you doing in bed?” asked Tom as he leant over to airbrush her forehead with a kiss. Seeing his well bred wife gave him such intense satisfaction. She was a reflection of his talent as much as of her own.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked again as he straightened up and sat down on the bed. “Stop tapping the screen,” he chided.
“I’m just straightening the covers. Don’t mess them up and don’t laugh at me either”, she said in reply.
“Why are you? What have you done…? asked Tom

“I’m fine”, she said.

“That’s not what I asked my love” he said. “Just tell me what I’m not supposed to laugh at. And stop it – the covers are perfect!”

It was never easy finding the right grafts for a woman as beautiful as Isabella, but that was the joy of it for Tom. When Isabella got sick of wearing glasses he’d pored over downloads for 17 months to find a pair of non modified almond shaped cornflower blue eyes. The colour was predetermined by Isabella’s own natural colour. The shape had revealed itself to him slowly as he traveled across the globe scrutinising cultivated offsprings’ eyes. Tom realised over that time that he needed matching eyelids if the transplant was going to be worth it. Isabella had been lucky that way. Tom was an aesthete with enough money to indulge both of their tastes. They were a great match. And they were in love – such an old world outmoded luxury.

Three years ago as a surprise for Christmas Tom had bid in a twelve hour frenzy for the hands of 19 year old virtuoso Nadya Lim, simply because Isabella had said in passing that she wished she could play the piano. Poor Nadya had died in a head on collision and no amount of fame or money could keep you off the donor register if you were born in a Grow zone. Isabella’s wedding ring hadn’t needed resizing, and if she ever decided to take up piano she could span an octave no problem at all. She loved it how her life always seemed to work out now.

“I’m fine darling. I was just waiting for you to get home before I went into Off Time so I could tell you why I was resting.” Pointing at the release tube she said “So pass me my drip n trip ….”

“Hold on, hold on”, Tom interrupted. “You haven’t told me what happened yet.” Tom pulled back the covers to check that everything looked alright.

“Cover Up”, she said waspishly to the screen.

“Look just tell me what happened”, said Tom. “And if you tap that screen one more time I’ll break your hand and get you an arthritic three fingered one instead.”

“Empty threats from a man like you”, countered Isabella. “But anyway – I fell over at tennis on Tuesday. The court was all slippery from the rain and I was running forward to return the serve and badaboombadabam! Landed really badly. Bruised my arse, hurt my wrist, but my hands are ok. And I wrecked my ankle. Dr Lowe came straight over. The x-ray’s on the dresser.” Isabella pointed past the drip ‘n trip kit to a large envelope beneath her mirror.

Reaching over Tom shook his head. “Babe, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but you know the court wasn’t wet. It’s all in your head when you and H play tennis. He’s not real. The rain’s not real. You can’t fall over if you’re not even standing up to play the game.”

“Look – how ever it happened, it happened Mr No Imagination. I fell, I broke my ankle, I need a new foot. One foot, two feet, a matching pair – I don’t care – you decide. I only need it for mobility – you’re the one with the foot fetish and the eye fetish and the flawless wife fetish. I just need a body that works. And I really need some rest. There’s no point being conscious if all I’ve got to do is worry about the pas de deuxs I won’t be executing anymore is there? Pass the d&t please my love. And promise you won’t wake me until you’ve found the perfect fit.”

“Of course not Belle”, said Tom. He leant in to approximate a kiss on the lips and made a mental note to check them later for lines. Pursing them around words like ‘unimaginative’ and ‘fetid foot’ was cause for concern.

Three months later and Tom knew he’d hit the jackpot. Here in front of him was a perfect size 37, unblemished, delicate looking left foot. It was still intact – owner and all. The skin was milky white, with no darkening of veins bulging to the surface. No patches of hard skin on or under the foot. Tom couldn’t believe how many vendors were oblivious to details like elongated or stubby digits, hair in places it shouldn’t be, split nails, cracked heels, scars from warts and other injuries. The foot in front of him was the very first flawless sample he’d been shown. Isabella would be as happy with this foot as he was. It was just a shame that the owner didn’t want to sell the pair.

Tom reached into his breast coat pocket for his Morrocan cigarette case holder. The case had been in his family for 12 generations and it was a constant reminder of how precious rare olden times possessions and notions were. He tapped out a cigarette ready to start negotiations. He started to lean back with the confidence of the rich and free born but froze mid extension as he was suddenly struck by the beauty of the owner/occupier.

Nadia was an amazing looking Muscovite with the limbs of a thoroughbred. Green eyes, long hair, 182 cm tall and the beauty of youth. A visage so perfect that now that Tom was looking at her he forgot momentarily which part he wanted for his wife. Nadia’s lips were perfect, maybe he could have those too? Her hair was amazing and her expression so innocent. He knew he couldn’t buy that for Isabella. He was falling headlong for the second time ever.

It was funny – Isabella’s name had been Nadia too. It was the most popular name on the farmer’s children register. Well – for daughters at least. Tom had nearly erased that part of Belle’s life out of his memory. He’d almost forgotten that he’d come to a meeting similar to this one about twelve years ago with the object of procuring a nose for his wife Jane. He’d looked at Isabella’s nostrils, tapped the cartilage for density, inspected the nasal hair on the inside and the condition of the skin on the outside. When he was satisfied that this was the nose Jane had to have he’d pulled his gaze back from the centre of Isabella’s face to look her in the eye and start negotiations. He was as startled then as he was now with the beauty absolute that sat before him.

Isabella didn’t need mobility in Off Time and Tom could see her there any time he liked. Maya would be the perfect name for a goddess like Nadia.

Dennis

A Gift

All her fault. Even after all this time that thought came unbidden to Lauren’s mind. Her doctor had taught her that this was a self defeating thought, and he was right rather more often than not. Pity about the name though. Dr Love. You’d really want to change that wouldn’t you? I mean he was a shrink for heavens sake, and the moniker was just a little too Bris-Vegas for her tastes. A little too eighties. Still he was highly regarded – and undeniably good for her. And just quietly, his somewhat dazzling green eyes and honey tan didn’t make it too hard to keep appointments either. She smiled to herself briefly, and abruptly shook off the distraction and strode forward.

The noise as she walked seemed inordinate. Why did she wear these shoes? Why on this morning when invisibility was all she craved did these ridiculously deafening Ferragamo sandals leap on to her feet? Why did these vulgar places insist on such polished terrazzo nightmares underfoot anyway. Why pay tribute to mobility carts and vomit reparation? Why was she enduring this? These sandals should be whispering over warm soft sand she thought, A memory of softly waving date palms, and bright bright stars surfaced again as she wistfully recalled another kind of palm clasped warmly within her own. But that was another younger time before the reality of sweat and middle aged embarrassment robbed the delight from impulsive action. Grown women don’t do that sort of thing, no matter who makes their shoes.

It had taken her a year to make that first appointment. December. Everything always seemed to start and finish at Xmas. A year later she first told him of the gift. Another year and his insights had brought her here. Some things cannot be destroyed - but they can be passed on.

A sharp squeal shattered her brief reverie, bringing reality into sharp focus rather too closely in front of her. A small dark haired girl was mercilessly beating a somewhat larger boy with all the concentration of a prize fighter. Evidently she thought the pram in which he was seated was rightfully hers. And too be perfectly honest it did appear rather too small for his troll like girth. But the shrill wail emanating from his chocolate crusted mouth could have flayed flesh from bone. A precious talent highly sought after by certain Korean dictators no doubt, but apparently unnoticed by his mother who stood impervious to the weapon of mass destruction she had spawned and the pummeling he endured.

Lauren reacted with pity. Motherhood was a road she could never even contemplate walking – even in exquisite sandals. The responsibility of another psyche in her care? God knows it had taken enough time and cash in therapy to navigate her own way out of the minefield of parental trauma, without laying a fresh field for the next generation.


p.2

Her eyes flicked to the grubby pink sneakers. With an involuntary shudder, she saw the woman she might have been. There but for the grace of Prada, clutching a slightly rusted shopping trolley and dreaming of exotic warmth -just like her. Difference was the troll mother would never stroll across warm African sands at midnight, even in grubby sneakers, and the two sweaty palms she regularly clutched were smaller than the one Lauren’s fantasy evoked. Even in the midst of warm memories, the turning points in your life sometimes hit you with the suddenness of a snowball. Cold and hard and there all along if you only thought to scoop it all together yourself first. A rare joy flowed through her, and suddenly -in that moment- enduring this Christmas became easier than before. And that was a change for the better at least.

She had spent her first Christmas in this country sitting next to the scarecrow that had once housed her father’s vibrant energy. Even as he lay on the metal bed and the cancer ate away the remnants of his bowel he still reached for the gift she had given him so thoughtlessly in a colder climate all those years before. An African treasure whose beauty surpassed the status of mere souvenir. Each time she had passed it to him, she discovered how much pain a smile could cover.

Xmas had just never felt right since. She tried blaming the heat. It’s easier to escape in a Winter Season. They have things to drink that will warm you inside when you have nothing left to warm yourself. They call them spirits for a reason. And they help. At least for a while… till you feel better…or warmer at least… more spirited. Next year I’ll go where it’s snowing she decided yet again. It’s a different view. A great concealer - the truth not erased, but completely hidden. Wrapped. Not even Xmas morning can tear its away its cover. Nature is much more sensible than man. But then she’s a woman and they are supposed to understand intrigue. Mother Mata Hari…

In successive years she had discovered this seductively warm land of beer and prawns cloaked a dangerous ennui. Even though the December light has a dazzling clarity, everyone wears shades. You can still see, but everything is greyer, and it had caused her to delay for too long.

The wailing had stopped and Lauren suddenly realized she was still staring at the woman. Unnerved by Laurens intensity, the woman smiled uncertainly and grabbing the two malignant offspring, maneuvered her collection of wheeled accessories with surprising dexterity towards K-mart. Hopefully to shop for shoes. But she had already given Lauren an unintentional gift and so thus bolstered, she ignored the distracting sandals and strode towards her goal with a new sense of purpose.




p.3

She placed the parcel nonchalantly amid the others, hoping no one could detect what it cost her to make that seemingly most simple of gestures. Another piece of the past shed ...or lost. Released perhaps – but never forgotten of course. Still she felt a new hope rising inside. Well it was Christmas wasn’t it? Surely it had been hope that had kept the yearly Christian festive season… well…festive? That and Westfield of course. Here with their echoing floors and massive Charity tree. Nevertheless she couldn’t deny the thrill of discovering a little hope resurfacing even at the beginning of her fourth decade. Surely that counts for something she thought with a smile. Looking up she could see the shiny baubles of hope sparkling amid the pine branches above. Ho ho hope. She noticed the lights seemed to twinkle brighter on the tree. For a brief moment the baubles shone like rhinestones on a Bassey gown.


He stepped dutifully toward the tree - a sacrifice before its pagan lusts. At its foot the blood of a thousand new disappointments lay veiled in the gaudy bondage of good intentions. Looking up he could see the shiny baubles of commercialism clinging precariously to the fake plastic branches. He thought they looked faded - like a theatre costume whose fragile glamour was now rancid with the sweat of too many encores. Never again he had sworn. Never ever again. But here only 12 months later the resolve that seemed carved so deeply into his heart a year ago lay shattered for the 12th time. One month to forget each year-and 12 days of Christmas. Perhaps coincidence was cheaper by the dozen too.

The bright blue bow untied easily as the slim young man pulled at its ends. Underneath the unruly bright red hair his green eyes marveled at the shiny expensive paper beneath. In all his life he could never remember receiving such a beautifully wrapped present. Presents were rare anyway, when you had as few parents as he did. And now a stranger had randomly passed this special beauty to him. To be his own special Christmas gift.

The white paper unfolded by itself. No need of tape here with such meticulous creases at each corner. He paused for a moment then withdrew the slender wooden box within. Confusion creased his forehead then slowly eased as he turned it over, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the intricate inlaid pattern. As he did, a panel slid open to reveal a series of hollow tubes. A bullet case he thought uncertainly. Then as the final realization dawned he smiled and quickly concealed the unexpected contraband. How on earth did this slip through? The perfect excuse. A New Years resolution that now need never be made. And the smiling 12 year old boy headed for the tobacconist to fill the magazine of the darkly beautiful Moroccan cigarette case.

Rajah

The Moroccan Cigarette Case

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house…….. there was Chaos (with a capital “C”). My dear but irascible niece, Corrine, had for some incomprehensible reason known only to her, decided that she must be married on the 27th of December. She had tried to explain to both her mother and myself but the explanation seemed not to contain much reason. Something about it being such a joyous romantic time of year. I suppose such things make sense when you’re twenty-two and I’ve obviously become a cynical old fool.She had also decided that she absolutely must leave from my house. “Your artwork would make a much better backdrop for the pictures… please Uncle G…”. So there we all were, my sister-in law more than slightly miffed that Corrine would want to reject her mother’s home, and the rest of us thanking God for the innovation of central air conditioning in a globally warmed Sydney summer. I had never really understood Corrine. Her brothers were so much easier to deal with. Boys are so much more straight forward to bring up they used to say, the ubiquitous “they”. I used to think that was faintly insulting point of view, having been a young person capable of extremely intricate emotional intensity…. But perhaps that only applies to gay young persons. The boys are uncompromisingly straight. But Corrine…She’s uncompromisingly complicated. Wilful and forthright or wily and fey in turn, she sails through life with the supreme confidence of one who just knows that everyone adores her. Except for me, or at least that’s how it used to be.It is perhaps the great regret of my life that Peter and I never had children. A simple physical impossibility you might say, but we thought of surrogacy, adoption and many other alternatives before giving up in our late forties, when we decided that we were too old anyway. It has been, then, with great gratitude that I have accepted the generosity of my brother and his wife in sharing their children with me. Oh, I know that it hasn’t been entirely unselfish on their part. When the three were quite young, they could be an exhausting package and I occasionally took one or two of them away for a weekend just to give their parents a rest. Corrine, though wasn’t keen on my company at first. She was the youngest and only daughter and therefore to be adored, or so she instinctively believed, but she became aware quite early on of my disapproving stares at her attempts to stretch her parents’ patience to breaking point. In time, though, we made our peace and as she grew into a sensible young lady so did our mutual respect and liking. I had always loved her as I did her brothers as if they were my own .How could I not, when they all have so much of my only brother in them? And so it came to pass that on this roasting Christmas Eve, while wedding planners and bridesmaids bustled below, I sat my eyrie study and pondered the beautiful cigarette case I had almost decided to give Corrine as a wedding gift. Ridiculous perhaps, as she doesn’t and has never smoked but it is a beautiful thing and she has always admired it. She knows how much I treasure it so I hope she will too.It is inlaid with many coloured woods and most certainly was made in Morocco or thereabouts and so it was unusual that I should find it in the markets of Florence, but there it was one sparkling autumn morning all those years ago. Peter and I had managed to secure a short lease on a charming little house high up in the old walled part of a small village just an hour south of Florence and were in the midst of the most glorious holiday of our lives. He had recently completed his doctoral thesis and this was our long planned for reward.The house, while rustic, had wonderful views across the undulating Umbrian landscape and the weather was unrelentingly beautiful. The village seemed to bumble along just as it would have done for hundreds of years and in fact little had probably changed along the winding, cobbled streets of the old “town”. Every second doorway had a beautiful stone surround and we delighted in the soft and subtle colours and textures as we walked down the hill every few days to the train station and the slow local train into Florence.That morning was particularly soft and shiny,( perhaps I remember it all in soft focus) the sun gentle and the breeze coolly reminding us that summer was slowly slipping away. We woke very early, bought our bread sticks and plodded down to the train. It was exactly on time which always feels so strange in Italy, where nothing else seems to work, but we were grateful to be out of the wind on the platform and on our way. We pulled into Florence much earlier than we usually made it and I particularly sit, what we remember…. We must have headed off to the markets straight after, I suppose. I don’t really remember, but everything happened so early in the day that we must have. I do remember that Peter saw the cigarette case before I did and commented on it, saying how beautiful it was. He wandered off and I did what I had often done before, quickly bought it and secreted it in my bag to give to him later….. to remind of the day… that beautiful day….It all happened so quickly after that, I hardly know even now what actually took place. There was a lot of shouting around the corner. I couldn’t see Peter and hurried along to find him and draw him away from whatever was going on. There was pushing, yelling…. I was yelling… he was on the ground… blood on his head… Then, I don’t know when, my dear sweet brother was with me, sorting out the paperwork. Incessant paperwork. We brought him home. It all seems so long ago.So the children, Corrine in particular, have become so important to me. I needed, still need some other focus..Of course, the painful memories still come to the surface….. but I choose to remember the good times. I choose to remember that glorious morning …. and how I was going to surprise him with the cigarette case.

Henri - Winner of the Inaugural Billingsgate Book Club Writing Award 2006

Edmund – Uncut

December 6 1965.

It was dark, the house was cold through out except for the dining room, where Edmund was gathered together with his siblings, in a mix of fear and eager expectation… Logs were being consumed and an orange hallow filled the room. Something was about to happen. Edmund was not sure what to expect, but the attitude of his older brother and sister, Rosalie and Julien, dictated his own behaviour. They were nervously talking about his arrival, and got even more nervous about the one accompanying him. It had to do with having behaved well in the past year, and with having been a good child, obedient to your parents. School was also part of it, and Rosalie was pointing the finger at her brother Julien: “You have been getting bad notes in the last couple of months, and your teacher has told mom that you are up to no good in the classroom, always laughing and talking! Surely, He will not bring you anything tonight!” Julien pulled at her hair and grinned: “Stop playing little mother, you are way too bossy, I am sure He knows that and all the goodies will be for me tonight!” They kept nagging at each other. Strangely, dad was not there, he had vanished. Edmund was the only one who noticed. The others were too busy talking. And then there was also Georges, the little one, the cadet. He was still a baby, but so full of life already, sensing the tension in the air, and screaming in excitement, his mouth full of mashed banana. Edmund looked at him in amazement. Georges was getting real more and more. From being a closed eyed doll that always slept, Georges had become a lively creature that was able to draw a lot of attention. Mom was elegant as ever, plucking at her long silky woolen skirt, smiling under her wavy golden locks, overlooking the whole scene. She just had a touch of make-up and little jewelry, but Edmund could stare at her for hours, trying to catch her eye by pointing his eyes towards her. He loved sitting next to her when she was combing her hair, moisturizing her legs, applying all sorts of facial creams, and then the lip stick… Fascinating little tube that made lips look so vibrant and red. He secretly had been able to lay his hands on it, opening it with a sense of forbidden pleasure, turning the bottom part to unfold the secret to mums beauty. She had many different color variations for her lip gloss, but she always used that same one, the one that had a discrete red, with a hint of orange, and that smelled beautifully out of its golden package. It matched her nail varnish that she only used on special occasions. Yet another of mums beauty secrets. Edmund loved the smell of it, and was intrigued at how hard it would become once applied on the nail. He only used very little, in fear that mum would find out, but also because it was very hard to remove when it got into the corner of his little finger nail. He felt so mature when he was able to remove the varnish from his finger with a wipe of polish remover on a bit of cotton. Nobody would notice he had touched it! Nobody would know about his fascination for it, not even mummy. Tonight, she was wearing the nail varnish, so it must have been a special occasion. Edmund vaguely remembered a similar occasion where the whole family was ushered together in the same dining room waiting for the arrival of the same old man with his friend. And he instinctively shuddered at the thought of the old man’s friend. Because he was very dark, and he carried a big rough linnen bag with him. Edmund linked him to the dark space at school in the basement, where his teacher was threatening to lock up naughty children. It was the place where the teacher would collect coals for the heating stove. Edmund believed that the old man’s friend lived in that same dark hole. His name was Black Piet. And it was as if Piet could carry the dark hole with him in the shape of the rough linen bag. And yes, he did make naughty children disappear in his bag, and then they would be eaten by the monster in the bag. So if you had not been a good child, then the monster would eat you! Edmund was contemplating that this horror could possibly happen to him. Had he been a good boy? Was touching mummy’s lip stick and nail varnish a wrong thing to do? He believed it was, because that one very day, his father had harshly disapproved him playing with it on that Sunday morning, when all the kids were up shouting and making noise, and running to the parents bedroom to jump up and down on their bed, telling stories, asking for cuddles, and fighting amongst each other. Suddenly this idea came to Edmunds mind, he would surprise all of them by using mummy’s beauty secrets, and they would all be so impressed that he knew how to apply the lipstick and the nail varnish. And he would be looking so much like mummy, and they would all love him even more! His heart was beating very fast as he applied the wonder secrets on his lips and nails in the parents’bathroom, and he looked approvingly in the multipannelled mirror. He made a discrete entrance to the bedroom, expecting Ooh’s and Aah’s… But no, to his heartbroken despair, dad had uttered the deadly words “Only girls play with lipstick and nail varnish, stop doing that!” Edmund feigned that he was not affected by those words, but deep down he felt humiliated and very hurt. And secretly he started to hate his father from that very moment. And he was upset every time he saw dad all over mummy, kissing her and making her laugh with his poking embraces. But daddy was not here tonight. And nobody seemed to care. Even his Moroccan cigarette box was not on the table. Edmund had mummy all for himself. With his eyes wide open and with his tongue loosely showing between his teeth and his half open mouth, his usual facial expression when he was concentrating on something, he stared at mummy and thought how beautiful she was. And all of a sudden, there was a big bang. The door swung open and an icy breeze swept through the dining room. The old man was there! Did he bring any goodies? Was Piet with him? Everybody gasped in shock at the unexpected noise and movement. And then as by miracle, what seemed like hundreds of sweets and candy were thrown onto the floor. Rosalie and Julien jumped to the pile of goodies and tried to pull as much of it as they possibly could by making big arm movements on the floor and gathering it all in a pile. While all this was happening, Edmund was in shock, unmoved, not knowing if it was better to do the same as his older brother and sister, or whether to stay invisibly quiet. Too late, he decided to make a move to the floor, but most of the candy was already collected, and he could only pick up a handful of it, while they were triumphantly admiring the huge heaps of goodies they managed to appropriate themselves with. Edmund started to cry in disbelief and in disappointment, he had been cheated! They had not told him that this is how you had to behave to get the goodies. Georges was still all smiles, munching on his banana, reaching his arms out with his hands spread out, knowing that this would allow him to get part of the treasure! And that was it, the door had mysteriously closed again, the room was filled with laughter, excitement and cries. Edmund looked at his handful of candy, and then clutched it onto his little belly. At least he had something… Something to fill the long dark nights with a sweet sensation, the nights that he could not sleep, the nights that he was sitting upright in his bed, trying to listen over the snoring of his little brother to the noise that came out of the bedroom of mummy and dad. Was mummy giggling again? Why did they not close the door to their bedroom? Was dad all over her again? Was mummy again becoming this different person, who did not seem to care about her children? Who did not seem to care about him, little Edmund?
Edmund looked up from his little belly and saw in disbelief that dad was standing next to mummy. Where did he come from? Why was he not here when the door swung open? Dad never seemed to be there at crucial moments. Dad was always absent when Edmund was reaching for air at night, when breathing became such a painful action, when his mouth was all dry from desperately trying to fill his blocked lungs, when his forehead was all sweaty from the effort at trying to inhale, and his eyes burning from forgetting to blimp. But mum always came to his bedside, and her sweet words and her soft hands caressing his hair, made him feel very sleepy and allowed his body to redeem its much needed sleep.

Kevin

Sabah Shopping Spree

It was a simple design - that’s probably why he liked it. In fact looking at some of the overly-ornate items surrounding it he could see that that’s why it caught his eye. The least gaudy – the most elegant. He didn’t even know what it was but made up his mind that he had to have it.

Five minutes later he had made his purchase and had stuck to the 4 rules :
1) Under the price of 5 quarter pounders
2) Purchased in an exotic location
3) A totally non practical item
4) Bought after December 1st

This year had been a tough one – too many demands on his time as the company struggled with growth but in 23 years he had never broken the rules. Rules that were drawn up on a beach in Sabah – early one tropical morning after far too many drinks and as it later transpired, not quite enough talking.

He walked to the station and his mind was already excited about the prospect of the 20 minute ride where his mind could wander back to 1983. In all the years since he had never tired of reliving that night and weaving extrapolations, scenarios and what ifs.

He had been in Paris for 5 nights and was flying home in 4 hours. As he headed towards the entrance to The Metro he took a last glimpse around. Inevitably a view of The Eifel Tower, a couple of tourists had snared a passer by to take a picture of them, he’d good naturedly agreed and was joking with them in a mixture of English and sign language. There was a light dusting of snow but generally the weather had been fine during his stay. Azure blue skies, zero degree nights but most days got up to a high of 5. Heading home to the cold and drab grey skies wasn’t that appealing.

He had just enough time to get to the hotel, pick up his bags and head for Charles de Gaulle. Only one task to do at the Post Office in the airport.

-2-

The train came quickly and in no time he was settled back into his seat …

15th December 1983. He was 16 and had travelled from Sacramento to Borneo to stay and work at an orang-utan orphan sanctuary. It was a wish he’d had since he was about 7 and had been mesmerised by a National Geographic documentary. His parents had given the trip to him as a surprise birthday present, his first overseas since a family holiday to Puerto Rico when he was 11. He’d been a little nervous but was always pretty good with strangers and the airline staff looked after him – being a good looking boy-next-door type always helped. Two stewardesses and one steward had taken a particular liking to him.

There were about fifteen helpers at the sanctuary that month – a mixture of young Americans, Canadians, Brits & Europeans. There was also a retired New Zealand couple who he’d gotten on really well with – in fact they still Christmas carded eachother every year though the respective trips to Sacramento and Christchurch had never eventuated. The usual holiday promises made in a hurry and meant at the time but not quite holding up to the reality of life.

He’d meet Frederique the second night he was there. A quiet 19 year old French Canadian who was studying Environmental Studies at the University of Toronto. At first Ben thought he was a little too serious and standoffish but over the course of the next few weeks he began to understand and enjoy Frederique’s humour more and more and they would have eachother in stiches over the silliest things. Freddy did a mean impersonation of one of the contrary old female Orang-utans – Biowali Manhu - which literally meant “old red hag!’

In the final week they worked together every day building the new nursery and got to find out about each other’s histories, dreams, likes and dislikes. They were both fairly practical and whilst Fred was good with the woodwork side of things, Ben knew all about the electrics (a legacy of his father being an electrician.) They discovered years later that the nursery had been named after them “Bans Sumha Hasnahe Manhu King-Benoir” – it suffered a little in the translation – “The King-Benoir Nursery for sick babies with red hair and pain”.

-3-

On the final night the locals built a huge bonfire on the beach and were barbequing local delicacies and freshly caught fish. There was also a small deer roasting on a spit that smelt both exotic and reassuring at the same time – a reminder for Ben of the lamb roast that would no doubt greet him upon his return home. Everyone gathered for the farewell party, even some of the orphans were bought down to join in the fun. Everybody seemed a little distant, a little sad – it truly had been the magical month that the World Wide Fund for Nature had promised. Tonight was the last chance to laugh together, swap stories and make promises about keeping in touch.

After an impromptu late night volley ball match, which the North Americans and Kiwis had won by 2 games to the Europeans/Brits 1, the party began to fade and people started heading back to their huts at around 11pm - which was late considering they’d all been in bed by about 8pm for the past few weeks.

Frederique and Ben were two of the last and decided to stroll down the beach together. They had talked and laughed for hours and decided that they would keep in touch and not only send each other Christmas cards but they would also buy eachother a present every year. They even went so far as to swear an oath – Frederique on his honour and Ben, never to be outdone, on his families honour.

Towards the end of the night (well morning) conversation started to turn towards more earthly matters, arduous trips home with long stopovers in exotic sounding airports, wondering what family and friends had been up to, plans for Christmas. The weaving conversation and laughter of the past month seemed to be disappearing into a more mundane formality. Ben had wanted to say something but didn’t know what, there was a strange knot in his stomach and that nervous butterfly feeling. It would take him two years before he knew what he had wanted to say and a further 18 month before he finally said it.


- 4 –

The metro stopped at Porte d’Orleans and he hopped off and headed towards the hotel. The snow had picked up and now the streets were covered in a fluffy white layer.

The trip back to Toronto was uneventful and he followed his usual travel routine. Bloody Mary in the airline lounge and a light meal once on board, followed by a stillnox washed down with sparkling mineral water. Morpheus was his companion for the next eight hours.

True to form it was overcast with bulbous grey clouds and just starting to rain when the plane touched down and the drizzle continued until he was deposited by the cab at the foot of the drive way. No lights were on and there was no one to greet him as he fumbled for keys whilst rain drops beaded on his glasses.

He stepped through the front door to the illumination of the blinking Christmas tree lights in the lounge room – set to come on at 6 and turn off at 11. He dropped his bags inside the door, tossed the keys in the dusty glass bowl on the equally dusty hat stand and headed towards the lounge.

Either side of the fire place were large bookcase display stands. He looked to his side, closest to the Christmas tree and scanned the assorted items – his favourites were the brightly coloured marionette, the tin Japanese robot circa 1961 and the intricately carved Moroccan Cigarette Case.

His eyes flicked to the right hand side of the mantelpiece and the array of equally eclectic items that he’d purchased in far flung place. The worn clock-work monkey, the pyramid-in-a globe that had a sand storm when you shook it, the set of chipped lead toy soldiers, the miniature Mexican guitar, the Botswanian leopard tooth necklace – bought in Amsterdam of all places! He could remember in detail when he bought each item. When, where, the look of the shop or stall owner, the smell in the air, what the weather was like – one year at a market, the next year an antique come junk shop, the next a train station. He treasured every memory. He treasured joy of the effort he had put in to finding the perfect gift and the sheer delight with which it was always received – not too mention the laughter.


- 4 -

It had been over seven years since Freddy had died. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A simple trip to the drug store to get Ben’s flu medication, a three hour wait whilst (no doubt bumping into a friend and enjoying a coffee and a gossip) and then a call from his sobbing mother. Ben wasn’t next of kin so wasn’t the first to be contacted by the authorities.

Ben had continued their ‘Sabah Shopping Spree’ as they’d called it. Every year a package would arrive addressed to Monsieur Frederique Benoir. Ben would open it on Christmas Eve evening, knowing the contents already, sometimes he’d smile, sometimes he’d cry, always he would place the item on the right hand side of the fireplace.

He also received a package every year. Sometimes he hated the fact that someone was doing this but lately he would hang out for it, a tangible link to Freddy. He never wanted to know who sent it. A friend? Maybe Freddy’s sister in Montreal?



Every year the same note was inside “To Ben love always, Freddy x”

Mark

A Moroccan Cigarette Case

November 1915 Australia

Flame against the stones of a hearth, in the ruin of a house, in a paddock of almost ripe wheat, at the edge of a drying lake, the crust like a pie, its salty edges shimmer through the warmth.

A whiff of mallee smoke and a dray in the distance, the driver, the owner of the ruin leaves the kid alone. This scene suits Lawrence’s daydream of a more a more Arcadian, or maybe more urbane, life, sparely imagined from flickering movies or mail order encyclopedias.

Lawrence the cuckoo is lightened, and mildly ashamed, of his fantasies of an ancient, distant world, spawned by boredom and a hunger for experience. He peddles home weaving along a gravel sand track in low scrub by the railroad. Each turn promises something new, but yields only the familiar uninhabited spots where he and his brothers made hammocks in the snotty gobble vines, or tried to derail the train.

After tea he walks and says goodbye to the humbling dazzle of night sky and the rustle of eucalypts. Then in the morning the crow’s call, not like a rooster, starting loud then fading, like it wished it had never started, ah, ah ah.

He leaves the others to work in the clay rusted vehicles, with their smelly tang of agricultural, of oil, gasoline, jute, clay, grain, baked on to metal, cutting through the spotless air.

December 1915 Istanbul

In Istanbul Lawrence spends a night at the Pera Palace Hotel, in respectable Beyoğlu its fading glamour at the crux of hemispheres, a Christmas gift to himself before billeting. French, Germans, Italians and Greeks have not all yet departed and the Armenians, Christian Turks and Jews are still present despite of the purges of the new republic.

He buys chocolate profiteroles from Inci, as the porter recommends, and catches the Istiklâl Caddesi tram, dinging unnecessarily for Taksim square. Wandering down to Galata he watches people hop on and off the ferries, as they come in, bump the doc before reversing their motors and heading back for the brief, low, ride across the Bosphorous. Proudly blasé about this odd act, they try to catch one of the better ferries, the dingy ones wait a little longer, and try a little harder.

Back at Taksim Laurence circles the streets looking for something familiar, somewhere he can enter and take in Istanbul. Avoiding other uniformed men, and in a side street, he spots the Cağaloğlu Hammam, Istanbul’s oldest public bath, also recommended by the hotel porter, perhaps mischievously, and not to all young soldiers.

The Cağaloğlu still answering the need for public bathing, also houses a café and barbershop. Lawrence resists and walks on, but the Cağaloğlu’s magnet of clean masculinity draws him back, and he figures that half an hour in a barbershop, although a strange one to him, could satisfactorily punctuate the day, experiences since leaving Australia having emboldened him.
“Merhaba”
“Merhaba sir”

He indicates a short cut, to satisfy the military and knowingly accepts the foreigner price, which quietly amuses the other patrons. This doesn’t create the camiaderie Lawrence would like, more distain for his lack of guts. Easing into to the chair, he is attended to, unsubmissively, by the most senior barber but with the deference of someone attending to an unknown, and possibly dangerously official, entity.

“Where from?”
“Australia”
“Ah, little America”

Half accepting, but intimidated by the presence of a foreigner, the shop settles into its quiet heat and snip snip snip, a calm glassy pool open to, but an oasis from, the street outside. Along the row Lawrence sees a handsome man, a sheik a Valentino. This confident, agelessly good looking young man, passes for twenty five, but maybe ten years older, snaps a smoke from a Moroccan cigarette case, seeming to take Lawrence in, and flicking his hair, to slightly acknowledge this, and his satisfaction at his own reflection. Occasional exchanges with the barbers suggest that he knows them, or maybe they now know each other against an alien presence. They show deference to the handsome man, but maintain a seniority, or is it? to him that comes with their age. A well-off young man, a smartly dressed gigolo, a poor young man on the way up by virtue of a refined nose, and the appearance of intelligence? Laurence can’t decide.

Encouraged by the relative ease of the barbershop Lawrence decides to try the Hamam.

A church with steam, white marble worn by three hundred years of naked flesh, soft contours and warm, almost flesh itself. A whitewashed dome with blue glass chips drips with audible tinkles into the steamy quietness.

Seasoned with heat, massaged, and as near to a man as he has been, scrubbed to peeling, a final soap and Lawrence dons the robe provided. He makes his way back to the bed cubicle, provided for relaxing, but not for too long, before dressing and returning to the street. In the courtyard, The Valentino sheik, sits, sipping his coffee, seeing him, but not seeing him, as Lawrence makes his way around the upper gallery. Lying down he is restless, and feels watched by the attendant behind the frosted glass, worth keeping an eye on. English speakers don’t usually make their way, here, sticking to the attractions of Santa Sofia and the Arabesque Cabaret. As Lawrence surfaces from the effects of the soaking, he sees the sheik through the glass, walk slowly, seemingly towards him, then gone to the marble steam church.

Dressed, Lawrence steps into the gallery, the attendant not in his seat and the sheik’s cubicle left ajar, Lawrence spies the Moroccan cigarette case, put deliberately? on the sheets of the nun’s bed. He steps in and pockets it, before making his way into the glare and dust of the crowded streets, the hard world, a relief, though demanding, return to life.
August 1920 Australia

The young man Lawrence lies in the grass, fragrant, by the fire, in the two walled stone house with no roof. A warm winter’s day, years away from the old world and death. From his pocket he takes the Moroccan cigarette case, turning it slowly, burnished, in his hand.

Andrew

A Moroccan Cigarette Case - A play in One Act

A CAR HAS JUST PULLED UP OUTSIDE A NEW INNER CITY APARTMENT COMPLEX, THERE ARE TWO PEOPLE INSIDE IT, A MAN, (IN THE DRIVING SEAT), AND A WOMAN IN THE PASSENGER SEAT. BOTH THE MAN AND THE WOMAN ARE IN THEIR LATE TWENTIES. HE IS IN A PLAIN UNBRANDED BLACK T-SHIRT, PATCHED JEANS, SHE IS ALSO IN BLACK CLOTHING. THE WOMAN IS JUST FINISHING A BRIEF PHONE CALL.
SALLY: “Every bloody time.”
SHE REACHES IN HER BAG FOR A PACK OF CIGARETTES.
MICHAEL: “God it’s hot. More than a year and I still can’t get over this heat.
SALLY LIGHTS HER CIGARETTE
MICHAEL: “I thought you were quitting?”
SALLY: “There’s no such thing as quitting, just longer pauses between relapses.”
MICHAEL: “He’s running late?”
SALLY: “He was meeting me here. What am I supposed to do now?”
MICHAEL: “You could maybe come up for awhile, I’m sure Todd won’t mind. I don’t know about Ian though, he can be a little…”
SALLY: “What the hell, me and a load of gay guys.”
MICHAEL: “Charming, anyway, I thought you were only interested in Steve?”
SALLY: “That’s not what I meant and I am, ‘only interested’ when he bothers to show up……what!”
MICHAEL: “Steve’s always doing this. It’s like your time’s not important compared to his.”
SALLY: “You’re a good friend Michael.”
MICHAEL: “Meaning shut up and don’t judge?”
SALLY: “Well…”
MICHAEL: “Even when I’m right?”
SALLY: “Especially when you’re right.”
PAUSE, THEY BOTH SIT FOR A MOMENT SAYING NOTHING.
MICHAEL, (SIGHING): “What are friends for, c’mon.”
THEY GET OUT OF THE CAR, LOCK IT UP AND BUZZ THE APARTMENT INTERCOM
SALLY: “So what’s the story with this party?”
MICHAEL: “Todd.”
SALLY: “The pretty boy you met on that freelance job? What about him?”
MICHAEL: “Me and him are, y’know, having sex at the moment and I’m having a hard time quitting.”
SALLY: “Then don’t.”
MICHAEL: “Well, it’s his boyfriend Ian’s party.”
SALLY: “WHAT!”
MICHAEL: “They have an open relationship. I just don’t know exactly what that means or what the etiquette for this is.”
THE INTERCOM FINALLY RESPONDS TO MICHAEL’s BUZZING, A VOICE SAYS, ‘TOP FLOOR’, SALLY PUTS HER CIGARETTE OUT AS THEY GO IN
SALLY: “You live in a fucked up world, you know that?”
MICHAEL: “We all live in a fucked up world, I just admit it more readily than you do, anyway, this is Sydney, sex is a gay handshake.”
SALLY: “Go ahead, blame Geography.”
MICHAEL: “You’re being disapproving.”
SALLY: “That’s because I disapprove.”
MICHAEL: “You’re a prude.”
SALLY, (JABBING HIM IN THE RIBS): “Slut.”
THE LIFT ARRIVES
THE APARTMENT IS ANYTHING BUT HUMBLE, MODERN, DESIGNER, ALL SURFACES AND SLEEK, PEPPERED WITH ART OBJECTS. THERE ARE FIVE PEOPLE ALREADY THERE, MICHAEL WAVES AT A YOUNG ATTRACTIVE MAN WHO WINKS SAUCILY BACK AT HIM. SALLY IS THE ONLY WOMAN AT THE PARTY. AN EARLY MIDDLE AGED MAN COMES OVER AND EFFUSIVELY GREETS MICHAEL, WHEN MICHAELINTRODUCES SALLY HIS GREETING OF HER IS MUCH MORE CURSORY THAN THE ONE MICHAEL RECIEVES.
IAN: “Welcome to my humble abode, both of you. Todd dear, your birthday present’s here.”
MICHAEL LOOKS CONFUSED, SALLY COVERS THE PAUSE AS THEY SIT ON A LARGE BLACK LEATHER COUCH
SALLY: “Ian, your apartment is amazing, may I?”
SHE POINTS AT A BOX ON THE COFFEE TABLE WITH INTRICATE INLAY AND ELABORATE MARKETRY
SALLY: “What is this?”
IAN: “A cigarette case.”
SALLY: “You see Michael, I’m not the only one who smokes.”
IAN: “I don’t actually.”
SALLY: “Oh. Well, it looks exotic.”
IAN: “It’s Moroccan.”
SALLY, (SMILING, SUDDENLY INTERESTED): “What’s it like.”
IAN: “Where?”
SALLY, (PUZZLED): “Morocco?”
IAN: “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been.”
SALLY, (IRRITATED): “So, you don’t smoke and you’ve never been to Morocco?”
IAN, (AMUSED): “It’s not here because it’s useful or meaningful dear, it’s here because it’s beautiful.”
SHE LOOKS POINTEDLY OVER TO TOOD AS HE APPROACHES THEM WITH DRINKS.
IAN, (SEEING WHAT SHE’S ASUMING, STILL AMUSED): “Todd honey, could we have a top up over here, Michael’s token heterosexual’s getting a little parched?”
SALLY: (REALLY IRRITATED NOW): “Look, no offence Ian, but I don’t like being called ‘token’, or ‘dear’.”
IAN: “Good for you, but when you get to my age, you realise that dear old Oscar was right, however it happens, there’s only one thing worse than being called and that’s not being called at all.”
HE POINTS AT HER MOBILE
IAN: “How’s yours ringing lately?”
SALLY: “That’s not the proper quote, it was something to do with being talked about, wasn’t it?”
IAN, (FINALLY ANNOYED): “I know.”
SALLY, (REALIZING HE WAS BEING IRONIC): “Oh.”
TODD ARRIVES WITH THREE GLASSES
IAN: “For God’s sake Todd, have I taught you nothing? There’s no ice in these drinks and in this heat too.”
IAN TAKES THEIR DRINKS AND LEAVES THEIR SIDE AS TODD SITS DOWN NEXT TO MICHAEL
MICHAEL, (WHISPERING): “Todd, what did he mean, ‘birthday present, it’s his birthday, not yours, right?”
TODD: “Oh ignore him, he was hoping you were from me to him, he’s just fishing for a ‘plan B’. Gavin’s let us down and isn’t coming over so he’s spent the last three hours on gaydar trying to sort us out a threesome for later.”
MICHAEL: “I just don’t fancy him.”
SALLY: “Being a ‘plan B’ is what you shouldn’t fancy, I swear Michael, your priorities.”
TODD (SHRUGGING): “Whatever.”
SALLY, (UNSURE WEATHER HE WAS TALKING TO HER OR MICHAEL): “So, um, what do you do Todd?”
TODD: “I.T. manager, bores the shit out of me, but I seem to be good at it.”
SALLY: “Do something else if it bores you.”
TODD: “It pays, very well and the money doesn’t bore me. I’m too materialistic to consider giving it up. I want my thirty foot yacht one day”
TURNING TO MICHAEL
TODD: “Hey, did I tell you, I got that promotion, I earn nearly as much as Ian does now, which winds him up no end.”
IAN, PASSING BY THEM, RETURNS THEIR DRINKS (WITH ICE IN THEM). THE BELL RINGS, TODD EXCUSES HIMSELF AND LEAVES THEM TO ANSWER IT
SALLY, (AFTER IAN’S MOVED AWAY): “I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty woman, ‘these are your friends’? How the hell did you meet them?”
MICHAEL: “I told you, that freelance job I did a month ago, Todd works in their studio and he flirted, I called his bluff, I assumed he didn’t have a boyfriend at the time.”
SALLY: “Well, that was then, we’re here now because?”
MICHAEL: “Look, the way he lives might be a little off most people’s radar, but he doesn’t lie about it or pretend to be living in a way he’s not. What you see is what you get, I’ve never met anybody that up front.”
SALLY: “Ends matter as much as means you know.”
MICHAEL: “Don’t’ be so…”
SALLY: “What, ‘disapproving’?”
MICHAEL: “It’s their choice. I’m still getting my head around Sydney. People couldn’t live like this back where I’m from. I’ve never had a threesome.”
SALLY: “Oh God, you think this is cool?”
SALLY’S PHONE RINGS
SALLY: “Steve! 7A, It’s apartment, 7A, but I’ll come down. What? Well, it’s not my party, I’d feel bad doing that. Steve?”
SHE REMOVES THE MOBILE FROM HER EAR AND LOOKS AT IT, IT’S GONE DEAD. THE APARTMENT BUZZER GOES. SALLY GETS UP AND CROSSES TO LET STEVE IN AND WAITS BY THE APARTMENT DOOR FOR HIM TO COME UP IN THE LIFT.

MEANWHILE IAN HAS COME BACK AND SAT HIMSELF NEXT TO MICHAEL WHO IS ALONE ON THE SOFA.
IAN: “We have rules you know.”
MICAHEL: “Pardon?”
IAN: “Me and Todd, or should that be ‘Todd and I’, grammar never was my strong point?”
MICHAEL: “Um?”
IAN: “One of them is we don’t play around with other people here, in our home.”
MICHAEL: “Ian.”
IAN: “Oh don’t worry. I’m not blaming you. It’s the assumption I wouldn’t care that grates. He didn’t even bother trying to pretend he’d taken you anywhere else and I bet he didn’t mention to you that he was breaking one of our little rules? It’s very apt that phrase, little rules, they shrink further with ever month.”
MICHAEL: “I’m sorry.”
IAN: “What have you got to be sorry about?”
IAN PUTS HIS HAND ON MICHAEL’S SHOULDER
MICHAEL: “I don’t fancy you.”
IAN REMOVES HIS HAND
IAN: “Well, that’s that out of the way. What do you fancy then? What brought you to ‘sin city’? Searching for someone to love and be loved by? Maybe a job you don’t hate?”
IAN: “You sound mocking?”
MICHAEL: “Not at all, as aspirations go, those are modest, but worthy.”
MICHAEL: “You talk…”
IAN: “Bollocks?”
MICHAEL: “Elaborately.”
IAN: “Forgive an old thespian his quirks.”
MICAHEL: “I thought you ran a theatre, you’re an actor?”
IAN: “I found out I was better at providing a good stage than I was at being on one, surprisingly good actually, would you like some more canapés?”
MICHAEL: “Well, you do well.”
IAN, (GESTURING AT THE APARTMENT): “All this? Filthy lucre, mere matter, the stuff of physics, it’s our spirits that count in the end. Confuse not the cart of life, for the horse.So, what do you want?”
MICHAEL: “Not sure yet, still looking around.”
IAN: “Oh dear.”
MICHAEL: “What?”
IAN: “The worst of answers, time will pass, opportunity fades, swiftly for those who refuse to compete. Others who are sure will beat you, to whatever it is you think you want. Take Giovanni over there, I’ve seen you looking. Giovanni realized when he first came to Sydney that he came here for sex, lots of it. Don’t look at me like that, like you’re above the urge. Let’s face it, it’s what most men of your age and our persuasion come to cities like this for. The jobs they end up working in are often ones you could do anywhere. But not Giovanni’s, he’s earned a small fortune working for the Falcon porn label. Oh I know, I know, the blossom in his cheek is about to turn to chalk, but Giovanni knows that too. Now he wants, other things, but he did what he set out to, he went through, not around. Can you say the same?”
MICHAEL: “So I’m in existential crisis because I don’t want a threesome with you and Todd? Not everything’s about sex.”
IAN, (LOOKING ACROSS THE ROOM TO TODD): “Oh I do so hope you’re right.”

SALLY HAS COME BACK TO THE COUCH AND SITS DOWN WITH HER ARMS FOLDED
MICHAEL: “Where’s Steve, I thought I saw you let him in?”
SALLY (PISSED OFF): “Kitchen, drinks!”
MICHAEL: “Oh dear.”
SALLY: “Oh, fuck it!”
SHE STANDS BACK UP AND HEADS FOR THE KITCHEN

IN THE KITCHEN
CARL: “You should come to Arq with us.”
STEVE, (LAUGHING): “Look, you may know your porches, but you don’t’ know how to pull chicks. What good’s Arq gonna do me mate?”
CARL: “You kidding, Ian’s brother used to go with us all the time and he’d never leave without at least two offers. It’s the best place in town for a pussy hunt. it’s peppered with straight chicks who get wound up by hot topless gay guys who don’t care they even exist and who they can’t get their hands on. And there you are, right in the thick of all that agitated oestrogen, no competition saying ‘come and get it, I’m all man.”
GIOVANNI: “As opposed to all the other gay men in the crowd who aren’t?”
CARL: “Oh here we go, look I didn’t mean…”
GIOVANNI: “Yes you did, that’s exactly the kind of internalised self hatred…”
CARL: “You should talk to his girlfriend, you’d get on great. Ian said she’s politically correct too.”
STEVE: “You know, man, that’s crazy, but it makes sense.”
CARL: “If you want, I’ll let you drive us there in my porche?”
CARL AND GIOVANNI NOD OVER STEVE’S SHOULDER, INDICATING A ‘BEHIND YOU’ LOOK.
STEVE: “Yeah? That sounds great… oh hi Sally.”
SALLY: “Don’t ‘hi’ me. ‘Pussy hunt’, ‘that sounds great’, what the hell….”

APARTMENT BALCONY, FIVE MINUTES LATER AFTER SALLY’S CLEARED THE KITCHEN BY FALLING OUT WITH STEVE
MICHAEL IS ON THE BALCONY, WITH ANOTHER GUY, THE STRANGER IS SMOKING.
SALLY, (GESTURING AT PETER’S CIGARETTE): “Thank God, I’m not the only one yet, can I?”
PETER, (OFFERING HER A CIGARETTE): “Sure.”
MICHAEL: “You look pissed off?”
SALLY, (TERSE): “I’m fine.”
GIOVANNI COMES OUT OF THE MAIN PARTY AREA TO JOIN THEM
MICHAEL, (TO GIOVANNI, EAGER): “Hi, I’m Michael.”
GIOVANNI: “Yeah, we’ve met before.”
MICAHEL, (BLUSHING): “You work at the Wharfe Theatre, front of desk, I’ve seen you there.”
GIOVANNI: “That’s not the only place you’ve seen me.”
MICHAEL, (PUZZLED): “I beg your pardon.”
GIOVANNI: “You fucked me in Centennial Park, around midnight, about a year ago.”
SALLY, (SPLUTTERING HER DRINK): “Oh my God!”
GIOVANNI, (MORE AMUSED THAN ANYTHING ELSE): “You don’t remember do you?”
MICHAEL, (NOTHING TO LOSE NOW): “If you know it was, ‘around midnight’, you obviously do.”
GIOVANNI: “You want to do it again?”
MICHAEL: “Yeah.”
GIOVANNI: “We’ll see.”
HE TOSSES MICHAEL A CARD AND LEAVES THE BALCONY
SALLY: “Is there one of those ‘beat’ places you’ve told me about in the park?”
MICHAEL, (BLUSHING, BUT NOT BACKING DOWN): “You know far too much about the Sydney scene, you know that.”
SALLY: “Less than you by the sounds of it. You’d only just got to Sydney a year ago and you’ve been doing beats all this time?”
MICHAEL: “Only when I’m single.”
SALLY: “So more or less all year then?”
PETER, (PLAYFULLY TONE, HE’S BEEN WATCHING SALLY FOR AWHILE): “You object?”
SALLY: “To the fact he’s been doing beats?”
PETER: “To victimless consenting behaviour between adults?”
SALLY: “Oh please!”
PETER: “I’m really asking.”
SALLY: “Well leaving aside it’s potentially dangerous and illegal...”
PETER: “Statistically speaking, it’s not dangerous. Individuals are more at risk from people they know than they are from strangers.”
SALLY: “It’s illegal.”
PETER, OFFERING HER A CIGARETTE: “It won’t be long before these are illegal too, I bet that won’t stop you smoking unless you want to? And don’t tell me you’ve never tried an E?”
SALLY, (TAKING HIS CIGARETTE): “Don’t tell me, beats are ‘just sex’, right?”
PETER: “Most women underestimate the pressure men feel to have sex.”
SALLY: “Michael wants intimacy, at least more than just getting laid, he’s told me he wants, intimacy.”
MICHAEL: “You two do know I’m still here, right…”
PETER: “What I admire about my brother’s world is that it doesn’t have to be either or, his life has he’s taught me that there’s no shame in pleasure, for him anyway. Maybe men just tend to understand each other better in that regard?”
SALLY: “That’s the most sexist thing, I’ve ever heard, I just couldn’t let someone objectify me like that.”
AKWARD SILENCE, THEN
SALLY, (GESTURING WITH HER CIGARETTE): “I’m supposed to be quitting.”
PETER: “There’s no such thing, just bigger gaps between fuck ups.”
SALLY LOOKS AT HIM AGAIN, MORE INTENTLEY
PETER: “Well, I have a dilemma now.”
SALLY SAYS NOTHING
MICHAEL: “Which is?”
PETER: “Sally here is just as much an object as are. And in her case I think it’s a beautiful and intriguing one, but you’ve just told me you don’t welcome anyone showing they appreciate that part of your reality, so I’m stuck here. Can you help me out?”
SALLY, (CONFUSED/DEFENSIVE): “What did you mean earlier, when you said ‘my brother’s world’?”
PETER: “Smokers aren’t the only ‘dying breed’ in central Sydney, I’m Ian’s brother, the other ‘token heterosexual’ here, hello.”
SALLY (WARILY): “The guy who goes on ‘pussy hunts’ in Arq? Your reputation precedes you.”
PETER, (SMILING): “I’d prefer you make up your own mind about me Sally, especially in a crowd like this. But I’d have thought a girl like you would appreciate a straight man confident enough to be comfortable in an environment like Arq?”
SALLY: “Depends how confident.”
MICHAEL, SMILING, LEAVES THEM TO IT AND GETS ANOTHER DRINK.

BY THE BOATHROOM DOOR, MICHAEL QUEING BESIDE GIOVANNI
GIOVANNI: “Ian was hoping to share you with Todd.”
MICHAEL: “Tough.”
GIOVANNI TURNS TO LOOK AT HIM, SAYS NOTHING, MICHAEL BREAKS EYE CONTACT
MICHAEL: “Ian said you wanted ‘other things’, what things?”
GIOVANNI: “You really want to know?”
PAUSE
GIOVANNI: “Well?”
MICHAEL: “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
GIOVANNI: “What are you doing after the party?”
MICHAEL: “Whatever you are?”
GIOVANNI SMILES.
THE TOILET DOOR OPENS, TODD IS STANDING JUST INSIDE IT. HE TAKES ONE LOOK AND GRABS GIOVANNI AND PULLS HIM IN. MICHAEL MOVES FORWARD TO JOIN THEM, BUT TODD SHAKES HIS HEAD AND INDICATES SNIFFING HIS NOSE, (DRUGS?), AS THE DOOR CLOSES TODD AND GIOVANNI KISS.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, THE BALCONY
SALLY: “I don’t think I like your brother’s crowd, they’re mean.”
PETER: “Try not to judge, my brother’s crowd tends to be upfront.”
SALLY: “Michael’s said the same, but he’s British and he’s also always saying that diplomacy exists for a reason.”
(CACKLING FROM INSIDE THE APARTMENT, THEY LOOK OVER TO SEE ONE OF THE GUESTS, MAKING HIS WAY THROUGH THE LOUNGE CROWD WITH AN ENORMOUS BLACK RUBBER DILDO, IAN ROLLING HIS EYES AT THEM).
PETER: “Yeah well, we’re Australian and that doesn’t mean that reasons’ a good one. Look, people are laughing. Not you though. Why did Michael ask if you were alright earlier, you did look ‘tense’?”
SALLY: “I’ve split up with Steve.”
MICHAEL LOOKING OVER TOWARDS THE KITCHEN DOOR WHERE STEVE IS STILL TALKING TO SOMEONE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DIVIDING WALL
MICHAEL: “The guy you let in after you arrived? He’s still here.”
SALLY: “I’ve picked a fight in public, he won’t go straight away to save face.”
PETER: “But we’re all strangers to him.”
SALLY: “Even so, besides, I’m not a stranger, or I thought I wasn’t. And anyway, he’s getting on well with ‘I drive a porche Carl’, they’re planning a ‘pussy hunt’ in Arq.”
PETER: “He really shouldn’t do that.”
SALLY: “Steve can do what the hell he likes now.”
SHE PLAYS WITH HER DRINK A FEW SECONDS
SALLY: “Why not?”
PETER: “Because Carl will feed him drugs, pay for his drinks and get him so off his face he won’t know weather he’s coming or going and then he’ll try and have sex with him. Judging by his track record, he’s got a good chance of succeeding.”
SALLY: “Carl’s straight.”
PETER: “Which makes him irresistible, Carl only goes for straight men.”
SALLY, QUOTING GIOVANNI: “Internalised self-hatred.”
PETER: “WHAT?”
SALLY: “Nothing.”
PETER: “Well, Carl does better than you’d think. Money and drugs can move mountains.”
SALLY: “What Steve has is considerably less of a challenge.”
THEY BOTH LAUGH
PETER: “Innuendo? Sally, I think this crowd’s having an effect on you. Here, we need refills and you don’t look like you want to go back in there, I’ll get them.”
PETER STEPS OFF THE BALCONY TO GIVE IAN THEIR GLASSES AND ORDER A REFIL FROM HIM.
SALLY: “Have you ever?”
PETER: “Ever what?”
SALLY: “Been with Carl, or any other man?”
PETER: “No, I’m one hundred per cent straight.”
PAUSE
PETER: “Excuse me, I just need to use the little boy’s room. Don’t go anywhere?”
SHE SHAKES HER HEAD.
PETER: “Promise?”
SALLY NODS ONCE

IAN RETURNS WITH NEW DRINKS AND STAYS OUTSIDE WITH SALLY.
IAN: “So you’re a single woman again?”
SALLY: “Yep, they come and go and what changes?”
IAN: “The freedom to leave, it’s the one thing no can take from us in the end, don’t you think?”
SALLY: “Uh?”
IAN: “I expect Todd will, leave I mean, eventually.”
SALLY: “How long have you been together?”
IAN: “You know, people always ask that, as if duration bore any relation to intensity. I suppose from the outside it looks like an easy yardstick. What’s the matter, you look alarmed.”
SALLY: “You’re…”
IAN: “Hard work?”
SALLY: “Yeah.”
IAN: “So are you honey, didn’t you know, besides, nothing worth having comes easy.”
SALLY: “So you’d be the exception that proves the rule.”
HE LAUGHS AND RAISES HIS ALREADY ALMOST EMPTY GLASS TO TOAST HER
IAN: “Now, that’s more like it.”
SALLY, (SLIGHTLY SARCASTICLY): “Thanks for the verdict.”
SHE TOASTS HIS GLASS WITH HER OWN ALMOST FINISHED VODKA CRANBERRY
PETER RETURN WITH REFILS
IAN: “Ah, here we are.”
HE HANDS OUT DRINKS
IAN LOOKS ODDLY AT HIS GLASS, THEN STARES AT SALLY AND PETER’S WHICH ARE ABOUT TO BE DRUNK FROM
IAN: “Peter, where did you get the ice from?”
MICAHEL: “The freezer.”
IAN: “The one above the fridge?”
MICHAEL: “There was none in there, I used the little freezer next to; HEY.”
IAN SNATCHES THE DRINKS FROM THEM, THEN RUNS OFF THE BALCONY, THROUGH THE LOUNGE TOWARDS THE KITCHEN. HE SHOUTS SOMETHING TO TODD AS HE RUNS THROUGH, PETER AND SALLY DON’T CATCH WHAT IT IS OVER THE MUSIC AND CONVERSATION. THEY FOLLOW IN AND APPROACH TODD AND MICHAEL WHO ARE BACK ON THE COUCH NEAR GIOVANNI
PETER: “What the fuck?”
TODD: “It was frozen lube, not ice.”
SALLY: “Why would you freeze lube?”
PETER: “Sally…”
SALLY, (BLUSHING): “Oh. Peter, I think I need to leave now.”
PETER, (SURPRISED, PLEASED): “Oh, right, yeah, I could go too, if you need a lift?”
SALLY, (LOOKING TOWARDS THE KITCHEN WHERE IAN HAS DISAPPEARED TO): “Maybe, yeah, that might be a good idea. Michael, you need a lift anywhere?”
MICHAEL, (GLANCING AT GIOVANNI WHO IS TURNING THE CIGARETTE CASE OVER IN HIS HANDS): “I’m going to stay.”
SALLY, (LOOKING WARILY AT GIOVANNI): “You sure?”
MICHAEL, (STILL LOOKING AT GIOVANNI): “Not really, but there’s only one way to find out.”
HE STANDS UP AND WHISPERS AS HE KISSES HER GOODBYE ON THE CHEEK
MICAHEL: ‘Even when you’re right’, remember?”
SALLY: “What are friends for?”
SHE BLOWS HIM A KISS AND PUTS HER HAND ON PETER’S SHOULDER AS THEY TURN TO LEAVE, STEVE, STILL BEING TALKED AT BY CARL, IS SUDDENLY WATCHING HER FROM THE KITCHEN AS SHE LEAVES, BUT SALLY DOESN’T NOTICE.