Pants on Fire by Maggie Alderson

morning. It was not good. It took a while for the far-away bell in my dream to register as the phone. My voice must have sounded even huskier than Liinda’s.
    â€œHurro?”
    â€œGeorgie! I was just about to give up on you. Thought you’d gone out for a jog. How are you?”
    â€œUh?”
    â€œIt’s Billy. You know, Dog-shit Billy.”
    â€œOh Billy, hi, how are you.” That’s romantic, I thought. Dog-shit Billy. Lovely.
    â€œHow am I?” he replied, in a disgustingly perky voice. “I’m bloody starving and I thought you might like to come and have some brekkie. I presume you don’t have to go to work today? Too bad if you do, because it’s nearly eleven-thirty. Why don’t you come and have breakfast with me at Bondi? Get some sea air into your lungs, that’ll wake you up.”
    I felt a bit better already at the thought of seeing Billy’s face again. And Billy’s shoulders.
    â€œThat would be lovely. Where shall I see you?”
    â€œI’ll come and pick you up. Can you be ready in fifteen?”
    Years, maybe, I thought as my mouth said, “Sure, sure. Great. See you in er . . . fifteen, then?”
    â€œBeauty,” he said and hung up.
    I flopped back onto the pillow. I was feeling so sick—just moving my head was torture. But I was grinning. Beautiful Billy, the farming broker, the disco king, the perfect man with perfect manners (apart from the odd unannounced tonguer), had rung me less than twelve hours after I’d last seen him. Rock and roll. I now had twelve minutes to get ready.
    I spent six of them in the shower, hoping that the therapeutic effect of water on the head would make me feel better. After forcing down a banana as a pill cushion, I swallowed two painkillers and six glasses of water, while fantasising about Antony’s bottle of Coca Cola. The phone rang. It was Antony.
    â€œHello. How are you this fine and glorious morning?”
    â€œI are terrible, how is you?”
    â€œOh, I’m marvellous. Just walked in the door. Starving. Want some breakfast?”
    I couldn’t believe it. “You just walked in the door? From last night?”
    â€œYe-es,” he said, as if I’d asked a peculiar question. “And I don’t feel ready to sleep yet, so I thought you might like to have some bloody marys and a steak sandwich with me at the Bourbon and Beefsteak.”
    â€œThat would have been lovely, Antony, but I’m already doing something. I’m just rushing out the door, actually. Perhaps we could do it some other time?”
    â€œWhatever. Have a nice time. Goodbye,” he said, completely unperturbed.
    A quick look out of the window revealed a perfect summer day, so I threw on a very short, striped T-shirt dress, a pair of slides and my old Panama hat, with the lack of care that comes only from feeling extremely ill and having one minute to get ready. The doorbell rang at exactly 11:45. And it wasn’t until I was riding down in the lift that I remembered I hadn’t given Antony my phone number.
    Billy was waiting for me on the pavement, looking just as attractive in daylight as he had by the light of the Milky Way. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt and his hair was wet again. I wondered idly what kind of car a farmer broker would drive and was secretly thrilled when he walked up to a really beaten-up old “ute.” He opened the passenger door for me and I was met by a hot wet tongue.
    â€œScoobs, stop it!” came Rory’s voice from inside. “Don’t worry, she’s just being friendly. Scoobs, stop it. Come here.”
    â€œHello Rory,” I said, surprised. “Hello Scooby. How lovely to meet you. I see even Australian dogs like to tongue-kiss people they haven’t been introduced to. Did you dare her as well, Rory?”
    He laughed heartily and Billy went red, which made me feel vindicated. Then, with Scooby sitting on