The Girl with the Gold Bikini Read online

  A girl in a long-sleeved wetsuit top and green bikini bottom takes off on a wave out the back. She does a bottom turn, pulls up to the top of the wave and walks to the front of her board. Curling her toes over the edge, she leans back and rides the lip of the wave for a few moments, then, as if she’s strolling down the street, she walks back to the middle of her board and drops into the splits. I pick my jaw back off the dashboard. How did she do that?

  I’m so engrossed I almost miss Ajay jogging past me, surf ski under his arm. He’s going to Julian Rocks again.

  I look out at the surf, at the sparkle of the water, and listen to the siren call of the waves. It’s been too long. I’m going to do it. This time I’m going to do it. It’s time to surf.

  The salty, fresh air sends a charge of electricity through me as I leap out of the car. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching, I whip off my hat and plaits and pull my faded old wetsuit out of the boot. The currents can still be cold at this time of year.

  Getting into the wetsuit is a struggle. I’ve got bigger since I last had it on. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to move.

  ‘Filthy little pearlers out there,’ calls a dripping wet surfer to a guy who’s pulled up in an old Kombi. Surf talk. I’ve heard Inuits have forty-two words to describe ice. I reckon Australians would have at least as many words for surf. It could be interesting to keep track.

  My stomach contracts as I head out. Ajay is paddling into the distance as I push my board into the waves. Then the salt spray dashes at my face and my body loosens. Why didn’t I do this ages ago? It’s not like there aren’t waves on the Gold Coast; it’s just that I haven’t been catching them.

  Letting go of my board I dive, dolphin-like, under a wave. The water fizzes like champagne against my skin. I burst out from under the wave, collide with a body board above me, and tip a small, freckled boy into the water. Dumbstruck, he crawls back on and paddles away as fast as he can.

  My elation dented, I pull myself onto my board. A shimmering lattice of sunlight dances beneath me as I paddle out to the break. In a few moments, I’m lined up with the pack, ready and waiting.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m still ready and waiting. I’d forgotten how cutthroat it is out here. One of the men in the line-up is a kind of man-fish thing. His hands are the size of flippers and he gets onto the waves with about two strokes.

  The pack takes my measure quickly. Every time I paddle for a wave someone else comes in from in front or behind or materialises out of nowhere. I get psyched out and pull back while they take off. It’s depressing.

  My lack of action surf-wise gives me plenty of time to observe the line-up. It looks like a typical surf pack. As always there are:

  (a) The old crusties—weather-beaten dudes who remember Byron Bay when you had to go looking for someone to surf with;

  (b) The grommets—school-age kids with no respect for their elders;

  (c) The surfing lawyers—distinguished by their name-brand clothing, shiny surfboards and superior attitude; and

  (d) Backpackers—these are the most annoying.

  All around me backpackers, who have probably never even seen a wave before, are jumping to their feet. Whoops and hollers in Swedish and German trail behind them as they ride into shore, legs stretched wide and arms out for balance.

  I’m almost convinced to call it a day and head in when a voice behind me calls, ‘Come on, it’s yours.’

  Craning my neck, I peer down the length of my board. The girl in the green bikini bottom is surfing towards me.

  ‘Get on; party wave,’ she yells.

  I paddle hard, my arms straining against the constraints of my wetsuit. My yoga-weary muscles ache, but I ignore them. As a drop opens beneath me the wave picks me up. Using movements I’ve almost forgotten, I struggle to my feet. The girl whoops, surfing beside me.

  But the enjoyment is short-lived. The wave curls and whitewash whooshes next to me. The wave sucks up and with a shriek I tumble down the vertical face. Water spins me head over tail, my leg rope dragging on my ankle. I pop up, holding my hands over my head to avoid getting conked by my fin.

  Wiping water from my eyes, I see the girl doing some fancy footwork as she rides on ahead of me. As the wave dies she flicks her board around to face the horizon and lowers herself onto it. It’s beautiful to watch—like a dance. She paddles back out to me, motoring across the water.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I call as she comes near. ‘First wave of the day for me. First wave for two years, actually.’

  Close-up, she looks younger than she did at a distance, about my age. She is muscular and her short blonde hair clings in wet wisps across her face. There’s not a lot to her, but what there is sure packs a punch.

  She sits on her board next to me. ‘Two years! You must have been hanging out for it. Great wipe-out by the way. Good effort.’

  ‘Yeah. I know I can surf better than this.’ I pause. ‘Although I never have yet.’

  She giggles, exposing a gap between her two front teeth. ‘There’re lots of things I know I can do better too, but never have.’

  ‘Well, clearly surfing isn’t one of them. You must have started at birth, right?’

  ‘Yep, my dad whisked me straight from the delivery room into the break.’

  Something in her tone suggests she’s not exactly joking.

  ‘That’s him out there.’ She points at a man leaping to his feet out the back.

  It’s the man-fish. That makes sense: like father, like daughter. He rides the wave towards us as if the board is an extension of his body. With a powerful thrust he flicks off next to us.

  His weather-beaten face scans mine and moves on. ‘Keep at it, Maya.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.’ She lies on her board again. Her father paddles back out, his shoulders rippling under a black lycra shirt. A wave washes over us, pushing me towards shore. ‘Don’t let them psyche you out,’ she calls back to me. ‘You’ve got as much right to the waves as anyone; and get further forward on your board when you’re paddling for a wave. You have to commit more. Ask yourself: what’s the worst that can happen?’

  Another wave rushes over the top of us. Maya pushes her board under it, while I tumble off. ‘I might get pounded on the head and killed,’ I yell, scrambling back on my board.

  ‘Right,’ calls Maya. ‘Hardly worth worrying about, is it? You know, in the scheme of things.’

  I suppose I see her point.

  Maya glances out at the break, where her father has taken off on another wave. ‘I’d better make a move.’ She gives him a mock salute as he nears us.

  ‘See you ’round,’ I call. I’m about to try for another wave when I spot Ajay paddling towards shore. Damn, back to work. I catch a friendly sweep of white wash into the beach, lying on my stomach. I’m smiling as I plod up the sand. I didn’t exactly carve it up, but it’s good to be back. It’s really good. Two years out of the surf is way too long. I’ve forgotten the pleasure of tired muscles and salt-coated skin.

  As I towel off next to my car, a girl with golden skin presses a pamphlet into my hand. ‘Ten per cent discount on Bikini Beach Body Boot Camp Speed Yoga classes with this brochure,’ she says in an unidentifiable European accent. Her tight orange T-shirt reads, Want Bliss? As she walks past I read the back; Get it here. Sexual innuendo never goes out of fashion as a marketing tool. I glance at the brochure. Ajay’s on a heavy sales push.

  Throwing the brochure in the car, I do a rapid under-towel shimmy and resume my position outside his house. As I do so my watch alarm goes off. I grimace at the condensation under the face. I know no one wears watches these days, but I like them. I’m too lazy to pull out my phone every time I want to check the time. Why I keep buying cheap digital watches though, I don’t know. Last year I went through four. Each developed annoying habits. There was the beep-on-the-hour-every-hour watch, the stop-start watch, the faster and faster watch, and now, it seems, the watch with a random alarm function. I press the off
button and it stops. I can only hope it’s a one-off quirk.

  The sun is low in the sky now and the surfers skim across a sea of melted gold. Maya is out the back with her father. They’re a long way away, but something about their postures makes me think they’re arguing. Maya’s father waves his arm.

  I don’t have long to think about it as Ajay’s car comes down the driveway and takes off at his usual break-neck speed. Turning my key in the ignition, I follow. He weaves through town, out onto the highway and then turns north.

  A knot in my chest relaxes as I drive away from Byron Bay.

  The surfing was fun, but I’m glad to leave. Baby steps.

  To ease the boredom of the highway, I flick on the local radio station, Lighthouse FM. The announcer is a chirpy young woman. ‘To wind up, what do you think of the commercialisation of yoga, as seen at Ajay’s Lighthouse Bliss, Luna?’

  My ears prick up at the mention of Ajay’s name.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a bad thing for yoga generally. I mean, not only will Ajay put smaller operators like me out of business with his hard-sell tactics, but now he’s going for us legally, too.’ The interviewee, also a young woman, has a high-pitched voice and a broad Aussie accent.

  ‘I understand Ajay has trademarked Bikini Beach Body Boot Camp Speed Yoga, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. I mean, yoga is thousands of years old, you can’t trademark it. Yoga is a gift.’

  ‘So, you’re still teaching speed yoga in your classes?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to watch what I say. I’ve been served a notice by Ajay’s lawyers. Let’s just say it’s pretty fast.’

  ‘You and Ajay go back a way, don’t you, Luna?’

  ‘Yes, I did my advanced teacher training with him. I don’t know where his head’s at now, though.’

  ‘Well, that’s it for the Spiritual Hour. If you want to catch one of Luna Nakamura’s classes, she’s at the Pink House.’

  ‘Thank you, Gaia. Namaste, everyone.’

  The Pink House. Holding the steering wheel in one hand, I flip open my notebook and scribble down the name, as well as hers, Luna Nakamura. Yes, I have a blue notebook, like Nancy Drew. I don’t have a magnifying glass though. That would be weird.

  The station fades as I near the Queensland border. It’s a Friday night and it looks like Ajay has a date on the Gold Coast.

  6

  ‘Go crazy in Surfers Paradise; fun party games all night and more …’

  I turn the radio off as I follow Ajay into a Surfers Paradise rat run and watch him vanish inside the Starburst Nightclub. A sandwich board outside reads, Allure Under-Thirties Speed Dating: Tonight—Fully Booked. I eye the flashing fluorescent lights. A man with a buzz cut, his solid body straining at his suit jacket, stands guard outside.

  It looks like Rochelle’s suspicions about Ajay were correct. The speed yoga guru is now at speed dating. First, exercise for those with attention deficit disorder, and now, romance. Maybe it’s no coincidence? I make a quick note.

  So, Ajay’s doing something suspicious at last, but … I can’t get in. Rochelle won’t be impressed. Rosco should have covered this situation in his training.

  First things first. Parking my car in a dark side lane, I rummage around in my bag. This situation calls for the debut of a new outfit—the femme fatale. Considering my usual look is T-shirts and cargos, femme fatale is a stretch. Second-hand shops though, I’ve discovered, are great for slinky dresses. I have two femme fatale outfits, and I decide to go for the eighties-style figure-hugging purple wrap dress with a silver clasp on the hip. It’s like something Joan Collins might have rocked in Dynasty.

  Fluffing up my blonde wig, I pull the rear-view mirror towards me and, taking off my glasses, slip in the blue contact lenses. I catch a glimpse of my chest as I climb out of the car. Wow. Push-up bras really work. My reflection in a shop window gives me a peculiar feeling. I look like a stranger.

  So now I look the part, but I still need to get past that buzz-cut bouncer. He eyes me suspiciously as I sashay up the street and tuck myself into a doorway, down from the entrance.

  Speed daters trickle past, easily identifiable by their eager nervous look. I can relate. Dating is hell. I’ve gone out with a few boys but none of them worked out. There were various problems—too pushy, no conversation, drunkenness. In the end, though—with one Notable Exception—it boiled down to one thing: their kisses left me cold. Having someone’s tongue in your mouth is disagreeable when there’s no chemistry.

  I’m hanging on to the idea that when I meet the right person it will happen. Our lips will meet and zing pow zap. It will be like Han and Leia’s first kiss in The Empire Strikes Back.

  Having Han and Leia as my romantic role models sets the bar pretty high. Let’s face it: their romance carried multiple Star Wars movies. That’s a big ask. I adore the way Leia brings out the soft side in Han, even though he’s such a vagabond. I love how she stays so feisty and independent, even when she falls for him. Their kisses seem so … transcendent.

  And the Notable Exception to the disagreeable kisses? Well, that’s one more reason why working with Rosco is difficult.

  I peek out at the door of the nightclub. The bouncer is still there. Maybe I could create a distraction and slip past him? That’s what Nancy Drew would do. I should add firecrackers to my kit.

  A girl with bleached blonde hair, wearing a gold boob tube and tight black pants, strides towards me. She has a grim look, like she’s going into battle. I bet my push-up bra she’s going in there. How can I convince her to give me her place? My sick mother is in there? No, my boyfriend’s in there and I want to spring him? Better.

  Sometimes I get so carried away with this private eye stuff I forget honesty can be the best policy.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I whisper as she walks past.

  She jumps and gasps but her alarm fades as she sees I’m a girl. ‘What? You scared the hell out of me.’ Her accent is broad North Queensland.

  I pull out my private investigator’s card. ‘I’m a PI and I need to get into that club. How much is it worth to you to give me your booking?’

  She laughs. ‘You’re really a PI?’

  I nod.

  ‘That’s pretty cool.’ She glances towards the bouncer. ‘To be honest, I’d pay you to stop me going in there. I’ve been trying to psyche myself up, but it’s not me. I just don’t know how to meet guys around here. It’s not like Townsville. I know everyone there.’

  ‘So, you’ll give me your booking?’

  Her face relaxes. ‘Yeah, I’ll take it as a sign that I’m not meant to do it. I’ll go home and watch a movie. Take this stupid boob tube off.’ Her hands pull at her top. ‘My booking’s in the name of Anna Smith. I haven’t paid yet.’

  I pull a twenty dollar note out of my bag. ‘Here, get yourself something to go with the movie.’

  She takes the note, tucking it in her purse. ‘Cheers. Knock ’em dead, ay?’ She looks ready to kick up her heels now she’s escaped from the horrors of speed dating.

  ‘You could try surfing,’ I call as she walks down the street.

  She turns, her face puzzled. ‘Huh?’

  ‘There’s lots of guys out there.’ I flick my head in the direction of the sea.

  ‘Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. Hot tip, thanks.’

  I watch her go, then glide up to the doorman. ‘Anna Smith. I have a booking.’

  7

  Inside the nightclub, the air buzzes with conversation. Waiters in black and white shuffle here and there like penguins while customers mill about under blue downlights. I shiver. The air-conditioning is at Antarctic temperatures. Blinking in the blue glare, I scan the crowd for Ajay.

  ‘Looks like Happy Feet, doesn’t it?’

  I know that voice. I turn. ‘What are you doing here? I thought this was my job.’

  Rosco takes a sip of beer. He speaks in a low voice. ‘I got a tip-off from Rochelle Randall. She’s been checking his email. I wasn’t sure if you
were going to make it. I tried your mobile, but you didn’t answer.’

  I detect a note of criticism. ‘Of course I made it,’ I hiss. ‘You want me to answer calls while I’m driving?’

  ‘You’re not driving now.’ Rosco’s voice is neutral.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my phone. It’s ancient and the battery goes flat so quickly I’ve got in the habit of putting it in aeroplane mode when I’m not using it. I turn off aeroplane mode and it rings to let me know I’ve got a missed call. Oops.

  ‘Almost didn’t recognise you. Not your usual look.’ Rosco’s eyes are carefully focused on my forehead but I’m sure my preposterous cleavage hasn’t escaped him.

  My cheeks turn warm. ‘Femme fatale.’

  ‘Good job.’ He turns to survey the bar. ‘Our man is over there.’

  I follow his gaze. Alone at the bar, Ajay is nursing what appears to be a glass of mineral water. His shoulder-length brown hair is held back in a ponytail and his white silk shirt is buttoned up to the top.

  I take out my phone and discreetly snap a few photos for our report. ‘He doesn’t look real keen.’ He looks like a man dragged to the ballet by his wife.

  The microphone squeals and a soft voice coos. ‘Welcome to tonight’s speed dating. I’m your facilitator, Maxine.’ A spotlight zooms in on a woman on a blue-carpeted podium.

  I’m glad to see my choice of fluffy blonde hair and push-up bra affirmed by an expert in the field. She’s outdone me, though; her dress is covered in sparkles that shine in the light, drawing attention to her curves.

  ‘We have fifteen couples and five minutes each to get those sparks flying. Try to relax and have fun. If you run out of things to talk about there’s a laminated list of questions on each table.’

  Is she joking? Laminated questions are not sexy. This is more like an exam than a date.

  ‘If you could all take a seat we’ll start. I hope Cupid’s got his arrows pointed your way tonight,’ she chirps.