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Greta Garbo apparel, which was disturbingly convincing. Except for the fact that Greta was beginning to sport a two-in-the-morning shadow—but Liv figured that just added to his moody Swedish allure.
     
    Two hours and even more Orgasms later, Liv was trying very hard to focus on Greta, but her eye had begun wandering in a spastic fashion to Dave and a member of the New Zealand Ballet Company, who were rhumbaing the early hours away on the bar.
    “All over the world women are being slowly murdered by their lingerie,” Greta whispered. “Too tight. Too constricting. Which is fine for a night like tonight. But for day wear? A woman needs comfort and support.”
    “You can say that again,” said Liv, now downing her seventh Orgasm. “And not just from her bra.”
    But Greta wasn’t in the mood to discuss emotional dalliances. Greta had business in mind. “Which is why Greta’s Grundies are going to be headline news internationally. A bra that looks binding but fits like it’s not there at all. Know what I’m saying?” He winked at Liv and she nodded seriously. She made a point of never laughing when paralytic. It was the only rule she could remember, but it stood her in good stead. It meant that she didn’t offend anyone and therefore never got her nose broken. Unless, of course, she tumbled headlong into a bar stool or table.
     
    “So if I pay, you promise me you’ll do it?” Greta asked. What felt like minutes but must have been hours later, given that Liv now had no feeling in her left leg and the Rainforest Crunch was now just a cluster of nuts. Liv found herself staring into the heavy-lashed eyes of He-Greta and trying to remember what terrible thing she’d agreed to do.
    “Sure. You’ve got my number. Just call me,” she said, trying to cast her mind—well, what was left of it—back to a moment earlier in the evening when Greta had offered her money for something. Not old rope. Not her body, she didn’t think. Though that was pretty old rope–ish itself. God, she had to remember. Think, Liv. Think. What was the meaning of life and what on earth have you promised you’ll do for this Greta Garbo with facial hair?

Chapter Six
    Liv Makes a Clean Breast of Things
    L iv had taken the precaution of closing the shutters so that a random Peeping Tom on his yacht on the ocean couldn’t get a butchers at her through his telescope or on his radar or whatever. Then, recollecting a
Blue Peter
recipe, she mixed up some flour-and-water paste, took out a copy of yesterday’s
Sydney Morning Herald,
and began to mould the papier-mâché to her chest. What she had drunkenly agreed to do was be at work at their market stall on Saturday mornings and be the sample size for Greta’s Grundies lingerie. The boys had made some very pretty but, understandably, rather distorted underwear because it had been modelled on Dave, who had only foam boobs and more round the front than round the back in the knickers department. They’d spotted Liv’s very average girl shape at once and, dressed in business suits and city attire at lunch the day after the big night, had persuaded her to offer her body up for their services.
    Though working in a market stall and flashing her tits wouldn’t have been her career of choice, it was a lot more fun than spreadsheets. She gasped as she slapped the papier-mâché on her skin, but the cold was quite soothing in the outrageous midday heat and so as not to crack the mould she lay down on the sofa. Every ten minutes she knocked on the newspaper, but it wasn’t drying. Eventually she picked herself up and shuffled over to the bathroom and took the hair dryer to her chest. But just as it was setting, just as the newspaper and glue hardened over her bust, Laura walked in the door, trailing a ceiling-scrapingly tall woman. Not wanting to seem rude, Liv reached out to shake her hand.
    “I’m Liv Elliot. Nice to meet you,” Liv said as though having Laura Train Wreck and her friends wander