Pants on Fire Read Free Page B

John bloody Howard in drag, he’s the Harbour Bridge, a Harry’s pie, he’s Ray Martin, John Laws and Molly Meldrum having a threesome . . .”
    â€œBut where does the Turkish bread come in?” asked a tiny woman in a severe black dress, wearing a fez.
    â€œWhat Turkish bread?” said Jasper, annoyed at the interruption.
    â€œThe Turkish bread that has to feature in every short film for it to be shown in Tropfest this year.”
    â€œOh, that. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe Toohey will step on it and fall over . . .”
    â€œMaybe he’ll choke on it and we won’t have to listen to his painful dialogue,” said a voice from behind the sofa which I immediately recognised as Antony Maybury’s.
    â€œAnd whose camera are you using this year?” asked a man with a thin mouth and a thick moustache, wearing a Key West baseball cap. “Tony Abrovmo told me you didn’t give his camera back for months last year and he wasn’t going to lend it to you ever again.”
    â€œAnd haven’t you already missed the deadline for this year’s films?” said the fez woman.
    As the crowd broke up into sniggering groups Jasper caught sight of me. “Hey Pinkie, there you are!” he cried, clearly glad of a distraction. “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
    What is it with this party? I wondered, as he took my hand and dragged me off. People were either telling me what to do or physically assaulting me. I looked back to see some familiar eyebrows peeping over the back of the sofa. They did a quick one-two and disappeared again.
    â€œI’m going to show you something you’ll never forget, Pinkie,” said Jasper, grinning broadly as he weaved through the crowd.
    â€œYou’ve already done that.” I nodded in the direction of his penis hat.
    â€œOh, I’d forgotten I was wearing that,” he said, taking it off and dumping it on the floor. “That’s better, my brain’s got some room. Come with me, little girl . . .”
    He led me out the front door of the studio and up the main stairs of the building.
    â€œWe’re not taking the lift for a reason,” Jasper explained, beginning to puff after the second flight. “I want you to earn this. We’ll just have a ciggie break here first, I think.”
    He leaned against the wall and lit up. I don’t really smoke, but sometimes when I’m with someone who clearly adores it I can’t resist trying it again in case it’s nicer than I remember. So I helped myself from his packet and we smoked together in silence. It was horrible as usual. Every now and then Jasper looked at me, smiling and nodding as if we were sharing some great secret. I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mad, but after he’d ground both cigarette ends into the stairs with his boot heel he took my hand and we set off again.
    Five more flights up we came to a door with a large padlock on it. Jasper pulled an enormous bunch of keys out of his jeans and opened it.
    â€œI used to have a studio in this building. I kept this key because I always knew I’d need it one day. This is that day.”
    He threw the door open and we stepped out onto the roof.
    Sydney Harbour was spread out below us, a map of shiny blue in the January sunshine. Curving over our heads was a clear dome the colour of skies I’d only ever seen on postcards. The water in the harbour sparkled like lurex. Yachts darted around like little white hankies and ferries chugged along purposefully. Everything looked choreographed. The view was unbroken right out to what I guessed were the Heads and the Pacific Ocean beyond. You could see all the way over to Taronga Zoo and to Manly in the distance.
    â€œWow,” I said, for want of a better word. “We just don’t have skies this big in England. Nothing is on this scale. Look at it.”
    â€œIt’s a pretty city,