asks.
‘I might.’
‘Better than hanging around some roach motel, yeah?’
‘It would be that.’ The heat in the studio is intense. Sweat beads on her face faster than she can pat it dry, and the skin on her back, her chest, feels clammy and close. Jacqueline wonders how the man can stand to work in here. She tilts her chin towards the concealed canvas. ‘Just a peek, Ryan? For me, not Dante. I promise I won’t say a word to him about it.’ Smiling, she draws a lazy cross over her left breast.
Ryan watches her finger complete its path before lifting his eyes to hers. ‘Sorry, but it’s not done yet and I don’t show anything that isn’t done. Not to anyone, yeah?’
‘We open in less than eight weeks, Ryan, and we need to allow time for everything to be crated and shipped . . .’
‘Hey now, don’t get yourself in a knot. It’ll be done.’ He reaches up with both hands to scratch at his scalp. Nervous serpents, his dreads twitch with each movement. ‘Less than a week, maybe, I get my blood up. You can see it then if you’re hanging around that long. You gonna be hanging around that long?’
Jacqueline tries not to think of the heat and the humidity. How, after a week of it, she might be little more than a puddle on the motel’s cheap polyester carpet. Instead, she nods. ‘I’ll be here, at your disposal. Anything you need.’ The grin that splits his face is wolfish. A startling flash of tooth and fire that sparks something equally unexpected deep in her loins. Uncertain, Jacqueline laughs. ‘Well, nearly anything you need.’
‘What do I need, what do I need?’ Ryan stalks across the room. Squeezes both her hands in his. ‘I need you to come out with me tonight, girl. I need inspiration, I need to dance. C’mon, you can be my muse, my Calliope.’ He’s laughing now as well – Ryan Jellicoe, Court Jester – but still his hands swallow hers.
‘All right.’ She pulls free, grinning despite herself. ‘Tell me where the club is.’
‘That’s my girl!’ Ryan retrieves a small scrap of canvas from the mess that litters the floor. Using a stub of charcoal wetted against his tongue, he sketches a series of intersecting lines. Streets, Jacqueline realises as he starts to label them. One near the middle he marks with a big fat asterisk and a scribbled name. ‘Here you go.’
The tips of her fingers blacken as she turns the map around. ‘ Merde ? That’s really the name of the place?’
‘Hey, you’re in Brisbane now; no one knows shit up here.’ Ryan snorts at his own joke, then snatches the canvas back. Still grinning, he signs his name in the bottom right corner. ‘There, you see, that’ll be a worth a mint one day. Isn’t that right, Alice ?’ The last word is shouted over her shoulder, and Jacqueline turns in time to catch a glimpse of a shadow beneath the studio door before it slips away. Sister dearest, indeed. How long had the woman been standing there, ear pressed to the dry and splintery wood? Jacqueline suppresses a shudder. Her skin crawls.
There is always a game; there is always an audience.
Her own private mantra, for as long as she can remember. It wouldn’t do for her to forget it, not now. Jacqueline tucks the map into her bag. Feels her composure return. Ryan Jellicoe may have slipped briefly beneath her skin for a few scattered, heat-swollen moments, but what of it? She is beginning to sense the rules now, the conditions and boundaries. Gentle flirtation and the padding of egos.
It’s a game she knows she can play. It’s a game she knows she can win.
— 5 —
Waking to darkness and disorientation, Antoinette spends a few seconds fumbling for a reading light that isn’t there, before remembering and rolling across to the other side of the bed. Jacqueline’s side, the side with the art nouveau lamp Antoinette bought as a housewarming present, its green-glass shade casting a faintly olivine glow once her fingers find the switch.
The room is as
‘I might.’
‘Better than hanging around some roach motel, yeah?’
‘It would be that.’ The heat in the studio is intense. Sweat beads on her face faster than she can pat it dry, and the skin on her back, her chest, feels clammy and close. Jacqueline wonders how the man can stand to work in here. She tilts her chin towards the concealed canvas. ‘Just a peek, Ryan? For me, not Dante. I promise I won’t say a word to him about it.’ Smiling, she draws a lazy cross over her left breast.
Ryan watches her finger complete its path before lifting his eyes to hers. ‘Sorry, but it’s not done yet and I don’t show anything that isn’t done. Not to anyone, yeah?’
‘We open in less than eight weeks, Ryan, and we need to allow time for everything to be crated and shipped . . .’
‘Hey now, don’t get yourself in a knot. It’ll be done.’ He reaches up with both hands to scratch at his scalp. Nervous serpents, his dreads twitch with each movement. ‘Less than a week, maybe, I get my blood up. You can see it then if you’re hanging around that long. You gonna be hanging around that long?’
Jacqueline tries not to think of the heat and the humidity. How, after a week of it, she might be little more than a puddle on the motel’s cheap polyester carpet. Instead, she nods. ‘I’ll be here, at your disposal. Anything you need.’ The grin that splits his face is wolfish. A startling flash of tooth and fire that sparks something equally unexpected deep in her loins. Uncertain, Jacqueline laughs. ‘Well, nearly anything you need.’
‘What do I need, what do I need?’ Ryan stalks across the room. Squeezes both her hands in his. ‘I need you to come out with me tonight, girl. I need inspiration, I need to dance. C’mon, you can be my muse, my Calliope.’ He’s laughing now as well – Ryan Jellicoe, Court Jester – but still his hands swallow hers.
‘All right.’ She pulls free, grinning despite herself. ‘Tell me where the club is.’
‘That’s my girl!’ Ryan retrieves a small scrap of canvas from the mess that litters the floor. Using a stub of charcoal wetted against his tongue, he sketches a series of intersecting lines. Streets, Jacqueline realises as he starts to label them. One near the middle he marks with a big fat asterisk and a scribbled name. ‘Here you go.’
The tips of her fingers blacken as she turns the map around. ‘ Merde ? That’s really the name of the place?’
‘Hey, you’re in Brisbane now; no one knows shit up here.’ Ryan snorts at his own joke, then snatches the canvas back. Still grinning, he signs his name in the bottom right corner. ‘There, you see, that’ll be a worth a mint one day. Isn’t that right, Alice ?’ The last word is shouted over her shoulder, and Jacqueline turns in time to catch a glimpse of a shadow beneath the studio door before it slips away. Sister dearest, indeed. How long had the woman been standing there, ear pressed to the dry and splintery wood? Jacqueline suppresses a shudder. Her skin crawls.
There is always a game; there is always an audience.
Her own private mantra, for as long as she can remember. It wouldn’t do for her to forget it, not now. Jacqueline tucks the map into her bag. Feels her composure return. Ryan Jellicoe may have slipped briefly beneath her skin for a few scattered, heat-swollen moments, but what of it? She is beginning to sense the rules now, the conditions and boundaries. Gentle flirtation and the padding of egos.
It’s a game she knows she can play. It’s a game she knows she can win.
— 5 —
Waking to darkness and disorientation, Antoinette spends a few seconds fumbling for a reading light that isn’t there, before remembering and rolling across to the other side of the bed. Jacqueline’s side, the side with the art nouveau lamp Antoinette bought as a housewarming present, its green-glass shade casting a faintly olivine glow once her fingers find the switch.
The room is as
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