The Mak Collection Read Free

of working, and a much needed cash injection. A taxi pulled up and popped its boot, and in no time Mak was hurtling through the rain towards Bondi Beach.
    Twenty minutes later the taxi crested the rise on Bondi Road, passing Waverley Oval as the clouds parted. Golden rays of sunlight reflected on the twinkling, green grass of the cricket oval, and by thetime they reached the top of Campbell Parade the clouds had completely disappeared, as if Bondi had a special arrangement with the gods of weather. It lifted her spirits to take in the spectacular stretch of shimmering sand and surf. Two whole months to enjoy the beautiful coastline and catch up with her best friend. Perhaps a bit of travel and a revived modelling career was just what she needed to invigorate her lagging spirits.
    Makedde stood outside a weatherworn, three-storey, red-brick block of flats on Campbell Parade and checked the address again as the taxi pulled away. She buzzed the intercom for number six and waited. And waited. She tried the door. Must’ve had a late night , she thought with slight irritation. The lock was broken, and the outside door opened to reveal a shabby, rickety timber staircase. It appeared she’d have to drag the bags in herself, and knock until Catherine woke up.
    Makedde lugged the suitcases up the stairs, cursing the books and winter clothes that weighed them down. She reached flat number six, which was barely distinguishable by a small metal “6” hanging upside down on a loose nail, appearing at a glance as number nine. She knocked on the door.
    No answer.
    “Urrrrr…” she growled with growing frustration.
    She left her bags at the top of the stairs and ventured to the mailbox outside to search for a noteor a key. When she found box number six empty, save for a Thai delivery menu, she felt the first twinge of a headache. She groped around inside the box, hoping her eyes were deceiving her. No luck. Empty.
    It was after 9 a.m. on a Thursday morning and surely most of the building’s inhabitants would be working or surfing, so she walked back up to number six and laid into the door with a fierce and futile burst of pounding.
    The flat was unresponsive.
    She slumped against the door and rested her aching head in her hands. Chill , she thought. Chill, and find a phone .
    Hoping no one would bother to drag her cumbersome baggage away, she stepped onto the street and spotted an orange hooded public phone booth a block away. She walked briskly over to it, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. The phone ingested her coins in a hurried, metallic gurgle, and rang several times before someone answered.
    “Book Model Agency.” The greeting was monotonous and disinterested.
    “Hi, this is Makedde Vanderwall. Could I speak with Charles Swinton, please?”
    “He’s busy right now.”
    “How long will he be?”
    “Can I take a message?”
    Mak closed her eyes. “Look, I just flew in from Canada and I’m standing outside one of your model’s flats with my suitcases, and there’s no one here to let me in or give me a key. I really need to speak with Charles.”
    “Just a moment.”
    After a couple of clicks, a man’s voice came on the line.
    “Hello Charles, this is Makedde Vanderwall…” She explained her situation as politely but firmly as she could manage.
    “ We have an extra key for the Bondi flat here if you want to come in,” he replied.
    “I’m standing out here with two very heavy suitcases. Could you have someone put it in a taxi and send it over?”
    Twenty-eight minutes later a taxi pulled up and Makedde let herself in with the extra key. The accommodation was modest—typical for travelling models—a studio flat with twin beds and a tiny kichen and bathroom. Although the bed looked short enough for her feet to hang off the edge, she savoured the thought of getting horizontal on it. Catherine had only been living in the furnished flat for a month, but Mak noticed that she had already added her