Pants on Fire by Maggie Alderson Page A

Billy’s knee, both front legs and her entire upper body hanging out the window, and me sandwiched between the two men, we set off for Bondi.
    The three of us made jokey chit-chat about the party and the outrageous hats, while I tried not to let the throbbing diesel engine and the smell of Scooby make me feel even sicker. Behind the talk, my head was racing. Was I abnormal for thinking that it was a little strange of Billy to bring Rory along?
    It was Billy I had snogged. It was Billy who had lain naked in my bed (not for long, admittedly). Rory seemed nice enough, but I thought I was having a let’s-get-to-know-each-other-better breakfast with Billy, not Rabbit’s friend, relations and pets as well. Perhaps they were gay, I thought for a moment, but then I stopped caring.
    The sun was shining and Crowded House came on the radio singing “Weather with You.” The happiest guitar break in history always makes me smile and when Rory turned it up, saying “I love this song,” we all sang along. Scooby howled. OK, I thought, my hot date is a foursome, including a dog, and my mouth feels like the inside of a junk-shop handbag, but my life could be worse. And as Billy’s leg pressed into me on one side and Rory’s hand touched my knee every time he changed gear, I thought, yes, it could be much worse.
    All too soon we pulled up at a café with outside tables and views right over the surf. It was only the second time I’d been to Bondi and it still amazed me. Such incredibly ugly buildings and then that jaw-dropping beach. But even covered with people as it was on this bank holiday morning, once you turned your back on the awful cheap brick apartment buildings and burger shops, it had such a powerful vibe.
    â€œYou should go for a swim after brekkie,” said Billy. “Get your head under the surf. Guaranteed to cure a hangover.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I’ve got a hangover?” I asked him, crossing my eyes.
    â€œJust an informed guess.” That smile again.
    Scooby came with us, carrying her own bone, which Rory had thrown to her from the back of the ute. She sat quietly under the table and was given a bowl of water by a waiter who knew her name. Rory poured some milky coffee into it.
    â€œLove your coffee, don’t you Scoobs?” he said.
    She certainly lapped it up eagerly. When she seemed settled I slipped off my slides, and put my feet on her warm, furry back and scrungled my toes in her smooth fur. Dog therapy. She turned her head and licked them a bit and then went back to her bone.
    The boys had the full hangover breakfast, but I was still feeling sick so I ordered plain toast. This was unusual. I’m normally the one who has two fry-ups, a brace of cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels and then heads to Burger King to fill up after a big night out. This morning, though, the thought of crispy bacon was repellent. I didn’t want to own up to myself that this might have something to do with Antony’s dinner plate and the magic white powder. Not good, I thought, wondering if there were any public loos in the vicinity. They could come and film some up-to-date anti-drug propaganda for schools starring Georgiana Abbott as the Class A desperado.
    Rory was speaking to me.
    â€œSorry? What?” I said.
    â€œHow long have you been in Sydney?”
    â€œOh, um, two weeks yesterday.”
    â€œHow do you like it?”
    â€œIt’s great. I’ve found a really good place to live in Elizabeth Bay—I can see water, which is thrilling—and the job seems OK. It’s all very new still, but everyone’s been so friendly.”
    â€œWhat do you do?”
    â€œI work on Glow— ”
    â€œOh that’s right, with Debs. How is she?”
    â€œShe’s great. Really great,” I said, wondering if we always had to talk about Debbie, who seemed to have quite enough male attention as it was, judging by the amount of