Liar Bird Page 2

  ‘What’s a warklyward? Do you want me to get rid of him for you?’

  It was tempting. I eyed the gym-toned muscles in Ant’s arms. Simon would be no match. It wouldn’t solve anything, though. ‘No, shit, I’d better get it over with.’ I felt a surge of fondness for Ant. He did his best. ‘Thanks anyway, snookie.’

  There was no time for meditation, but I did consult Alice. Flipping the book open I pressed my finger to the page.

  Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  I slammed it shut. Right. Thanks for those stirring words, Alice. I didn’t say it was an infallible system, did I?

  Bing bong, went the doorbell again. I pulled on my J-Lo velour tracksuit for a casual ‘at home’ look, ran fingers through my hair, et cetera, and opened the door.

  I almost slammed it shut again when I saw how many of them were out there. McKechnie I’d been expecting, but not The Terror and the TV stations. I’d have to be careful — one of the TV journos was a woman and they’re not as easy to fool as men.

  Simon’s eyes were glinting. It suddenly dawned on me: this was personal. He still hadn’t forgiven me for knocking him back; it was payback time.

  I’d have sorted something out if it had just been him. Men are usually pretty straightforward that way. I might even have enjoyed it. I had to admit he had something — a certain ruthless charisma. But that wasn’t going to happen with this melee outside my door. Was that why he’d brought them — for maximum embarrassment?

  Straightening his face, he opened his wallet and handed me a cheque. I glanced at it, a surge of nausea running through me. It was made out to the People’s Council for Better Community Services. No prize for guessing whose signature was on the bottom.

  The TV woman thrust a microphone at me, practically breaking a tooth. I hate the way they do that.

  ‘No comment.’ I slammed the door and leaned up against it. No comment. I may as well have put my head in the stocks and passed them the rotten tomatoes. Public shaming in the media is the modern version of that medieval punishment.

  On Wednesday, Ant brought in the Herald, laid it carefully on the bed and backed away — I’d been known to throw things when I was angry. It was on page three, not that this was any surprise. The story had made the TV news last night. My no comment and door slamming made great visuals. The same close-up of the J-Lo tracksuit disappearing behind my Grecian Blue door on ABC, Nine, Ten and Seven. SBS, bless its multicultural heart, had other fish to fry.

  What I couldn’t get over was how guilty I looked. Even if you turned the sound down, I still had a ‘caught in the spotlight’ face — like someone who’d been selling fake shares to kindly grannies. Even I wouldn’t have believed I was innocent after seeing that face. ‘Coffee, Ant,’ I muttered, snapping the newspaper pages straight.

  He was glad of an excuse to get out of there.

  Simon had pulled out all the stops. It ran to almost a page. I figured he had that award in the bag.

  Astroturf — fake ‘grassroots’ group funded by developers

  It was all there. How I’d used telemarketers to find people to write letters in support of Rainforest Runaway. The ‘spontaneous’ outbursts of support I’d funded. The ‘activists’ I’d paid to lobby for the developers. Note the ‘I’ — no-one else was mentioned. It was like I’d dreamed up the whole idea myself. Where were all the executives who’d been singing my praises just yesterday?

  I didn’t know how Simon managed to sound so surprised — it was standard practice. I knew he knew that. He knew I knew he knew. Oh, shock, horror — the evil spin-doctor. Give me a break. It’s an elaborate charade — journalists and PRs — played out in front of an unsuspecting public.

  ‘Standard for us, not standard for most people,’ said Wazza, when I rang him for support. ‘Remember the first rule of public relations.’

  ‘Do what it takes?’

  ‘And the second part?’

  ‘But don’t let them catch you.’

  ‘I’m going to have to let you go, Cassandra.’ He lowered his voice, adopted a mournful tone. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  My stomach contracted. I hadn’t known at all. It hadn’t even occurred to me. Yes, Wazza was my boss, but I’d thought he was more than that. I’d thought we were friends. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  ‘This is nothing to do with Winning Edge Public Relations. I’m shocked and saddened by these techniques.’ Wazza’s voice dripped with sincerity; he was in his element. ‘This sort of thing brings the whole public relations industry into disrepute.’

  I realised he was practising his sound bite. ‘Save it for the media, Wazza.’

  He snapped back into his normal jovial tone. ‘Give it six months, maybe a year, it’ll all blow over, darling. Then it’ll be business as usual.’

  And that’s how Wazza hung me out to dry.

  I cried for most of Wednesday — most of Thursday too. When I wasn’t crying I was eating. When I wasn’t crying or eating I was drinking. Sometimes, in a feat of multitasking that no-one but me will ever appreciate, I did all three things at once. Even Alice in Wonderland provided no solace. Knowing that everything has a moral if only you can find it might have been apt, but it did nothing to pull me from my gloom.

  Ant tiptoed around me like I was an unexploded mine. ‘I know you didn’t do anything wrong, Cassandra,’ he ventured once.

  ‘Shut up. What would you know?’ I sobbed and threw a chocolate muffin at him. ‘Dickhead.’ Yes, I was mean. Not everyone can be Zen-like in the face of adversity.

  It was the unfairness that pissed me off most. It’s not like my clients were selling tobacco — they just wanted to build some nice houses with rainforest frontages … and backages.

  A community group called Save the Long-footed Potoroo was making it difficult for them. I mean, what is a long-footed potoroo anyway? A rat with big feet? I’d looked it up on the internet. Turned out they’d left their run a bit late when it came to saving the long-footed potoroo. Only by about fifty frigging years. That’s how long it was since one had been sighted in that area. The last of these big-foots were holed up in a national park on the Victorian border — nowhere near Rainforest Runaway.

  The group was made up of a bunch of nutters who for no good reason had decided their backyard supported a bunch of long-footed potoroos. Their case was based on two sightings, both — coincidentally — on a lonely road shortly after pub closing time. They had the moral high ground, though. The wish fulfilment brigade was out in force. The long-footed potoroo had returned. Hallelujah! It was the second coming of Christ as far as they were concerned. The media loved them.

  You can’t fight a community group with news releases, it doesn’t work. So I’d just done what any good PR would have — created my own community group.

  The newly formed People’s Council for Better Community Services was doing a great job of lobbying for increased services on the South Coast. A minor part of their role was to lobby for the Rainforest Runaway development, which would bring with it sporting fields, a community centre and a skate park. The fact that this group didn’t really exist was obviously just an oversight on behalf of the community. Who wouldn’t want a skate park? I knew they’d love it once they had one.

  On Friday afternoon I pulled myself together. The show must go on. I was due to attend a gala launch of a new perfume by one of my clients, Cosmonauts, at the Art Gallery that night. Chin up, I told myself as I sorted through my dresses, carefully selecting one that wouldn’t show the spot where all those muffins and whiskies had lodged. Razzle dazzle ’em. It takes more than this to get a girl like Cassandra Daley down. Wazza might have let me go but I still had connections. Wasn’t I the hottest PR in town?

  I was jumpy, though; I couldn’t shake it. Would people be mean to me? I hadn’t felt nervous about a social function for a long time, but now, the old insecurities came knocking at the door. Remember to make eye contact, smile, think of co
nversation starters …

  I even pulled out the little notebook I’d started when I was twelve. It was stuffed full of useful questions to get a conversation going. I flicked through, in search of inspiration, but it seemed to have dated badly. Do you like guacamole? Have you ever been in a food fight? If you could have a superpower, what would it be? What did you have for lunch yesterday? I tossed it back in the cupboard; I really needed to update that book …

  I’ve come a long way since I was twelve. No-one ever picks me for a shy person these days. At least I don’t think they do. I hide it well. Years of training, years of training …

  ‘Cassandra, phone for you,’ said Ant at five o’clock.

  ‘Coming.’ I fixed my diamond teardrops to my ears as I traipsed down the corridor.

  It was Jessica O’Callaghan, the client and, yes, my former ‘best friend’ from Blacktown. Like me, Jessica had escaped Western Sydney at the first opportunity. She was now the marketing executive for Cosmonauts, a cosmetics giant. Our shared desire to bury our less-than-glamorous origins created an uneasy bond between us.

  Growing up in Blacktown didn’t add to one’s allure in the rarefied world of the Sydney A-list crowd. East, yes, north, yes, inner-west, maybe, but far west … never. It was our dirty little secret. I’m not sure if you could call my relationship with Jessica a friendship; it was more of a strategic alliance or trading partnership.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know, Cassandra,’ Jessica’s voice trilled down the phone, ‘we’re not expecting you to come tonight. I’m sure you’d rather not, after the week you’ve had. You must be wrung out.’ Her voice dripped concern, but I understood.

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten it was on, Jessica.’ I laughed gaily. ‘Ant and I are off to the opera. Life is such a whirl, isn’t it, ha ha ha?’ I slammed the phone down. ‘Bitch.

  Bitchy bitch. I’m sure you’d rather not,’ I mimicked. ‘Damn right I’d rather not go to your stupid launch, Jessica. And did I ever tell you your platform wedges are just so yesterday?’ I think when the term frenemy was coined, they were probably thinking of Jessica.

  Ant, his white silk shirt half-buttoned, gave me the kind of look you’d give a sick kitten.

  ‘And stop looking at me like that. I’m not dead yet.’ A hiccoughing sob burst from my lips. ‘Oh, Ant, why are people so ho-ho-horrible?’

  Ant and I got takeaway from the local Thai and watched repeats of Six Feet Under. He licked my calves and attempted to massage my feet while we lay in front of the box but I kicked him away. ‘I’m not in the mood, Ant.’

  On Saturday morning I woke up even crankier. I’d hardly slept a wink and felt like crap. Getting dumped by Jessica — who’d been lucky to have me do her PR in the first place — was the final straw. I’d be networking with the underworld snitches on the bottom of the harbour if I sank any lower.

  I still found it hard to believe things could change so quickly. One minute I was the Golden Girl, the next incredibly tarnished. I felt for Britney Spears now, I really did. What did they want me to do? Shave my head, get drunk and attempt suicide? Would they forgive me then? I doubted it. Knowing Sydney’s A-list as I did, they would pretend not to notice, while enjoying a secret thrill.

  Schadenfreude — isn’t that a great word? We don’t have one like it in English even though it’s one of our favourite pastimes. Maybe the Germans take delight in others’ troubles even more. It’s possible.

  I ground my teeth, thinking of the source of my misfortunes. The way Simon had looked as he handed me the cheque. It reminded me of something. Yes, that’s right, Sydney University, 1997 …

  The quadrangle was seething with chanting students. IMF? Shut it down. World Bank? Shut it down. G8? Shut it down …

  Flicking back my long, pink-streaked hair, I punched my fist in the air. I’d been doing a lot of protesting in my first year. The cause wasn’t as important as the sense of power it gave me. At the centre of a yelling mob of students I felt alive, energised, part of something bigger than myself.

  ‘Cassie?’

  I turned. It was that sandy-haired guy from my Communications tute — I couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Do you want to go get a beer after this?’

  I checked him out, out of the corner of my eye. I was about to say no when something made me hesitate — maybe it was his green eyes. He was clever too, I remembered that, always had lots to say. My eyes flicked up and down, maybe, but nah, not in my league.

  ‘Get nicked,’ I muttered, then turned back to the front. ‘The banks have blood on their hands …’

  In my defence, it was the way we all spoke. Revolutionaries have no time for niceties. I did feel a quiver of guilt as his eyes bored into me, before he pushed his way through the crowd …

  ‘I thought you might like to read the colour mag, Cassie?’ Ant laid the paper on the bed like a dog that’s not sure if it’s done the right thing.

  ‘Cassandra,’ I snapped, snatching it off him. Would he never learn? No-one calls me Cassie. Not since uni, anyway.

  Outside, the Manly ferry chugged towards the city — my city that had turned against me. Oh, Sydney, you gorgeous, callous bitch. I flicked through the paper. I was old news. One of the columnists pontificated on the evils of spin-doctors, but there were no letters, no follow-up. Spin-doctors. That was me, I suppose. At the moment, though, I was more spun-out than spinning.

  The city had moved on, but it wouldn’t forget — not yet. Like Wazza said, six months, maybe a year. Until then I was dog food — no-one in Sydney would touch me. What was I going to do with myself? I couldn’t mope around — what if people saw me? I’d look pathetic. The last thing I needed was for someone to see me hanging about on a weekday. It would kill my reputation.

  I imagined the commuters eyeing me out of the corner of their Ray-Bans. Did you hear? She used to be … they’d shudder as I gorged myself on muffins at the café, my stomach straining at my size 26 tracksuit. No — I couldn’t let that happen to me.

  I needed to get away for a while, act like it was my choice, return refreshed, revitalised and triumphant. What I needed was another job — some place they’d never heard of Cassandra Daley and her astroturf. Somewhere Sydney people would never find me.

  Ant was still sitting on the end of the bed, doggy eyes following my every move.

  ‘For chrissakes, Ant, stop watching me. Get me a coffee … and a fresh muffin from the bakery, will you, snooks?’ That would keep him out of my hair for a bit.

  As he left the room I grabbed Alice from my bedside table. ‘You look a little shy; let me introduce you to that leg of mutton,’ said the Red Queen.

  Ha. I would be lucky to be introduced even to a leg of mutton if I stuck around here. A pathetic, friendless loser, that’s what I’d be.

  I opened the jobs section. There were lots of PR jobs, but all in Sydney. I kept flicking. There at the end was a small box: Public relations specialist for wildlife agency, North Coast — Beechville.

  Beechville? I shuddered. There were good parts to the North Coast. Come to think of it, one good part — Byron Bay. Byron was tres chic — most of Balmain was there in summer. You had no trouble getting any sort of latte in Byron. Somehow I suspected Beechville wasn’t like that. It sounded like the kind of place where Instant Roast and teabags were the order of the day.

  Getting out of bed, I turned on my computer and typed the name into Google. There it was: Beechville — a small dot near the Queensland border. Why on earth would they need a public relations specialist there? What could happen in a country town like that? Something about that appealed, though. I’d had enough action for the time being.

  I pictured myself in a rocking chair on a wide verandah — maybe strolling in to work to have my photo taken with a koala or on a rainforest walkway …

  At least it wasn’t too far from civilisation — if you could call Surfers Paradise and Brisbane civilised. Anything north of Hornsby was the wilderness as far as I was concerned, but, given the cir
cumstances, you take what you can get. It would be quiet, boring maybe, but quiet. I’d have time to plan my comeback; recuperate my energies for a big re-entry.

  Wazza would take me back; he’d never find anyone else as good as me. No, stuff Wazza, I’d set up in opposition to him. I might find my reputation to be an asset; in fact, I’m sure I would — once people had the chance to reflect on it. It showed I’d go the extra mile. Clients liked that.

  The good part was, Beechville was North Coast and Rainforest Runaway was South Coast. Separation of these two places could only be beneficial.

  The door clicked as Anthony let himself back in. Ripping out the ad, I placed it in my top drawer.

  Beechville. I felt half-asleep at the thought of it.

  Chapter Three

  Three o’clock is always too late

  As I’d expected, I had no trouble getting the job. They must have been in a hurry to fill the position — they flew me up for an interview the day after I emailed them my résumé. It was a one-hour flight to Coolangatta, then I hired a car and drove back across the border and inland.

  It was amazing how fast the vestiges of civilisation died away as you headed west. One minute it was high rises and shopping malls, the next, tiny villages interspersed with lots of nothing. Never mind skinny latte, I didn’t think they even ran to cappuccino out here.

  Talk about winding roads — and dusty. Every five minutes or so some cow cocky in a battered ute would raise one finger from the wheel in a subtle salute as I went past. There was etiquette to this — it was always the pointer finger, and only lifted a smidgen off the wheel. I was pretty much in the swing of it by the time I got to Beechville.

  The town itself was tucked in at the base of a range of mountains — probably the Queensland border. It was pretty — if you liked that kind of thing. A zigzagging road headed towards the gap between two mountains. The trees were thick up there, like a shag pile carpet — rainforest, I guessed.

  Why do people get so excited about rainforest? Think about it — ‘rain’ forest. Those places are muddy. And what about leeches? I was yet to experience them and didn’t plan to.