Trying not to be too obvious, I wriggled my way free. "My wife's cousin," he announced in a loud, ringing voice to anyone who cared to listen. It sounded so stagy I cringed. Whatever Dave Deer's talents might be, acting wasn't one of them.
A slight, older woman, with a face and bearing reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Nancy Reagan, said, "You're an Australian too, my dear?"
"Too right."
I was about to say more, but a bloke in a dark suit with a hearing-aid thing in his ear shepherded her away. Secret Service? I gazed after the two of them, fascinated. Maybe it was Nancy Reagan.
Crikey, and over there I'd bet a motza I was seeing Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones chatting with Julie Andrews. Or maybe they were star look-alikes…
My gaze settled on someone who was doing a good imitation of being Brad Pitt. And was that shortish bloke Tom Cruise?
No one was listening to the string quartet playing classical music. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and plates of bities. I snaffled a glass of champagne from one passing by, noticing he was smoothly handsome in a tanned, regular-featured sort of way. He flashed a quick electric smile when I thanked him. Now that I looked around, all the waiters, male and female, appeared to be good-looking.
Positioning myself beside double decorative columns-the architect of this place had column-mania, that much was clear- I settled down to enjoy eye-surfing the guests to see how many I could identify.
The columns formed a sort of little alcove, which turned out to be the perfect place to inadvertently eavesdrop. Like eddies in an ocean, people constantly moved around, often halting briefly near me. Bart Toller, one of the patients who'd had his disks stolen, was one. I recognized him immediately, as he'd been getting lots of attention recently for his scene-stealing supporting role in a movie based on Sigmund Freud's theories, a comedy called The Id and I.
Toller was alone, looking handsome but very down in the mouth. I was actually considering going over to him to say g'day and cheer him up when a man and woman approached, both bouncing along like the power couple I supposed they were.
"Bart!" he exclaimed.
"Gavin. Judy. Good to see you." I noted his enthusiasm factor was low.
"And great to see you, Bart," Gavin said warmly, pumping Toller's hand while simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. "It's been too long. How's Kathy and the kids?"
Bart Toller's forced smile disappeared. "We're separated. Getting a divorce."
"Oh, man!" Another hearty whack to the shoulder. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that."
Bart Toller excused himself and moved away. Gavin turned to Judy. "It's a mystery to me why she's stuck with Toller this long. He's such an asshole."
"At the salon yesterday I heard Kathy's hot and heavy with her personal trainer. Dumb as a post, but quite a performer between the sheets. Can hardly blame her. Bart's supposed to swing both ways…"
I was relieved when the couple drifted off. I hate that sort of goss, when someone else's genuine misery provides entertainment.
"Lime-green suits you," said a cool voice. I'd been so busy celebrity-spotting, I hadn't noticed Ariana approach. She saluted me with her champagne glass. Her pants and tunic top were black, of course, but embroidered with an elaborate gold and red design. Her pale blond hair was down. Her blue eyes glowed. She looked sensational.
"Do you always wear black?"
She took a sip of her drink, looking at me over the rim of the glass. "Not always. But usually."
Suddenly I had the thought that Ariana might be in mourning for someone and that was why she dressed in black. Maybe she'd been multicolored in the past, prior to the tragedy. "I shouldn't ask questions like that, Ariana. Sorry."
There was an awkward silence between us. I searched for some topic to fill it. "All the waiters are good-looking," I said. "Have you noticed that?"
"Most are actors, hoping to be discovered. Parties like this let them rub shoulders with the movers and shakers."
"Does anyone strike it lucky?"
Ariana shrugged. "Probably not the way they hoped."
A loud shout of laughter billowed from a large group near us. "Who's that?" I said, indicating a bloke who was tubby and toad-faced but wearing a suit that even I could see had to be very expensive. He stabbed the air with a huge cigar as he spoke in a penetrating, nasal voice to a captivated audience.
"Harvey Colby. A producer. Very big in the film business."
A skinny blond came gliding up to attach herself to Colby's free arm. She fixed her wide-eyed stare on him with apparent adoration. She looked half his age and a quarter his weight.
Seeing me watching the woman, Ariana said, "Trophy wife number four, I believe. Or it could be five."
A perceptible rise in the hum of conversation indicated something was happening. "It's Jarrod Perkins," someone said in a reverent tone.
The Aussie director was making his way across the room, an entourage following in his wake. He hadn't gone to a lot of trouble dressing for the function. His blue jeans were faded, and he wore a black T-shirt under a shabby tweed jacket.
"Behold the artist," said Ariana sardonically.
The crowd parted before Perkins as though he deserved special attention. People called out greetings, flashed smiles, but nothing slowed his progress until he abruptly halted near us. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and snapped his head around, frowning petulantly.
This was the first time I'd seen him in the flesh, and all those unflattering photos turned out to be true. He was weedy, stoop-shouldered, and pigeon-toed. His thinning dark hair had been carefully combed over his scalp, but the pink showed through. His most notable feature was his nose, an enormous, curved beak that made him look like a ferocious parrot.
"Where's the fucking bar?" he half-shouted. "I need a fucking drink." A waiter tried to offer him champagne, but Perkins snarled, "A real drink, not lolly water." He jerked his head at the nearest in his support group. "Get me a bourbon on the rocks. Make it a triple. And don't fart around doing it."
Astonishingly, there was a ripple of appreciative laughter at his rudeness.
"Jeez," I whispered to Ariana, "if he's that bad-tempered, he must have heard about the disks."
"This is Jarrod Perkins on a good day," she said with scorn. "You should see him when things go wrong."
"Beats me why anyone puts up with him."
"He can get away with anything because he's a successful director. That makes him a god in this town."
A delicious picture of Jarrod Perkins in therapy popped into my mind. I visualized Dave Deer taking personal pleasure in delivering the blows in Slap! Slap! Get On With It to this particular patient.
Ariana gave me a gentle shove. "You shouldn't be seen talking to me for more than a few casual minutes. Circulate, Kylie. Get to know some people. That's what Elise's cousin would do."
Five minutes later, as I was obediently mingling, Elise herself found me. "Kylie, dear. There are some people you musrmeet!"
Soon I was dizzy with introductions to individuals whose names I wouldn't remember and who weren't at all interested in me. Then Elise swept me into the larger dining room, which was absolutely huge and filled with people screaming "Darling!" and laughing extravagantly at one another's jokes. Mounds-no, mountains-of food were arranged on tables lining the walls. White-aproned waiters rushed around serving guests too lazy or busy to serve themselves. There was even a meat station, where a bloke with a wicked carving knife cut slices from various roasted meats.
So I ate, and chatted, and tried to smile like everyone else. I was getting jack of the nonstop noise and endless parade of faces, though, and longed to escape. But how?
"And when are you moving in with us, Kylie?" said Dave Deer in my ear. "Tomorrow?" He attempted to put an arm around my waist, but I nimbly moved. Plainly he'd been chug-a-lugging the scotch all night.