Chapter 11
The Evening of Saturday, 19th November, 1988
Dana Roberts is Sally Brown
Wired
I was standing in the middle of the lounge room of the cheerless flat, in my trashy, white micro-mini and bikini top, watching the door close with an ear-smashing bang. I’d sent the communications bloke away, as it had soon become blindingly apparent that there was no way that I could be fitted with a wire, whilst wearing this get-up. Basically, as I was hardly wearing anything at all, I could not hide the bulky, tape recorder, or its wires, which needed to go around my waist and wrists. There was no time now to organize a transmitter and I doubt we could justify the expense of having a team sitting in a van a few streets away, to pick up what might turn out to be party conversation only.
I took a look at myself in the mirror, at the fake, orangey tan that I had applied only this afternoon and at my long, shell-pink painted nails. I goggled at my breasts which were popping out of the tiny top, like overripe melons, and at the skirt, which barely covered my rude bits. I actually felt like putting on my comfy tracksuit and going for a long run. Instead, I slipped on the strappy, high shoes, threw a cotton housecoat over my glory and hurled my fringed bag onto my shoulder and began to clop down the five flights of stairs, making a racket, which would wake the dead. I came out into the growing evening and felt the salty breeze caressing my skin.
I drove to Rose Bay and entered Ruslen’s property from a back laneway, as I had been directed to do. There were quite a few other cars parked there, all as modest as mine. This was obviously the service car park and I suddenly felt that little had really changed since the Victorian era. It felt like I was a servant; considered just another member of the great unwashed, by the Ruslen aristocracy.
I saw another woman loping across the car park, wearing a similar clobber to me, and so, I quickly jumped out of the car, and loped off after her. We passed through some thick clumps of trees and soon came to a brick wall where a security guard stood with his legs wide apart. He had a gun in a holster on his hip. The other woman, who had a black, bee-hive hair-do, very white skin, and piercing green eyes, looked around quickly in my direction, but did not acknowledge me in any way. She gave her name, I gave mine (my fake one that is) and the guard stepped aside, so that we could enter the gaping mouth of the open elevator. In we stepped.
With a swish and ding and a fair amount of vibration, down we went, with not a word said. We soon stepped out into a long hallway next to a large, commercial kitchen, which was a hive of activity and delicious smells. I followed the bee-hive woman, who walked, with a slow, sensual sway of her hips, and quiver of her peachy shaped rump, down a carpeted hallway, with walls decorated with shiny, papered, silver panels. Then, giving me a questioning glance, she turned into an open double doorway, and we came out into a huge ballroom, where various other similarly clad women stood around waiting.
What hit me immediately was how nouveau riche the decoration was here. I had expected subtlety and class, but instead, found vulgar, enormous, white, leather lounges dotted about piled with a mix of diamante and Versace throw cushions. Gigantic, spangled chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which featured hideous, gold, ornate plasterwork mouldings. On one wall, I could see a huge, marble bar, loaded with bottles of alcohol, and coloured lights, and a muscly looking bartender, with no shirt and a pink bow tie. I turned around and saw a long table with a synthetic, gold cloth, covered with food and ice sculptures of fairies and kissing doves. Yuck!
I should have realised that vulgarity would be the order of the day the moment I saw the uniform that I was expected to wear. But I had assumed that Peter Ruslen, having inherited his money and rubbed shoulders with established money, would know to steer clear of flashy displays. It was odd.
An emaciated woman with a face like a crumbling cliff face, wearing head to toe Dior, clapped her talon like hands together and called out, ‘gather round gals, gather round’.
There was about fifteen of us who flocked about the woman like moths and waited for her to speak. She seemed to fix each of us each in turn with her gimlet eye, before she spoke:
‘Very shortly, our guests will have finished their entertainments and activities and will move en mass through that doorway.’ She flapped her hand like a limp lettuce leaf at a double doorway behind her, which was in the process of being hooked back by a man in a black tuxedo, with huge padded shoulders. ‘Once the guests move into this area, you gals are responsible for attending to their needs……I mean this in a purely professional, food service manner, of course. There will be no private arrangements’. She paused to let her words sink in. ‘Now, off you go and get yourselves a tray from Mr Antoniou at the bar.’ She clapped her hands again, and we sprung like deer, across the room.
Soon enough, through the door there advanced a lava flow of men of all shapes and sizes and many of them had beautiful women hanging off their arms, wearing little more than body paint or shiny adhesive patches, shaped like stars. At the same time, a part of the wall near the bar opened up and a 5 piece band appeared, complete with an Elvis impersonator and the strains of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ filled the room.
There was a great rush of guests toward the laden, food table, but I was tapped upon the shoulder by a hawkish, woman wearing a pink uniform, and apron, and told to circulate with a tray of finger foods. She shoved the enormous tray at me and off I went.
After about two hours of this I was bloody exhausted, my arms were killing me and many trays of food had been consumed. I felt like every part of my body had been gaped at, and groped, and I just wanted to have a shower and go to bed. And I hadn’t overheard anything remotely useful….. Then Peter Ruslen appeared.
It was a theatrical appearance that turned every head, as the gold Porsche appeared to float down from above, surrounded by glass. As the car hit the floor, the glass doors flew open and Ruslen stepped into the room with those two ladies that I had first encountered in the nightclub dunnies; the women appeared to fall out of the passenger doors and immediately began pulling down their skirts, which had ridden up their thighs, in an almost demure fashion. A trio of men then, jumped out of the boot of the car playing guitar, drums and a flute looking thing. It was music that made me want to tap my feet and it also seemed to send a wave of merriment through the room and a contagion of smiles.
I’d never seen a car lift before, and so, I just stared like the small town rube that I was.
Attention was then diverted away from Ruslen and his entourage, by the appearance of a posse of jugglers entering the room, tossing silver and gold balls, in mesmerising ways. Then a belly dancer sashayed into the melee and a young woman wearing a very busty, tight dress came through the double doors, wheeling an ice-cream cart and offering gelatos.
I felt a hot breath on the back of my neck, with the slight aroma of peppermint, and I swung around to find Peter Ruslen smiling at me, and covering me with a long fur coat, which probably belonged to his mother.
‘Hello, we meet again,’ he said softly.
‘Hello’, I answered back, not knowing what else to say.
He grabbed my hand. ‘Come, I want to show you something’.
Holding my hand, he and I began to make our way across the room.