Read Online Pants on Fire by Maggie Alderson - Free Book Online

bear to be a weekend painter. It was never a hobby for me.”
    It didn’t seem like the right moment to tell him it was very much a hobby for me and that I was actually searching for a good life-drawing class to go to in Sydney. Rory looked very sad. I turned to Billy for help—he was studying the stock prices. This was the strangest date I’d ever been on, I thought. First he brings his friend and then he ignores both of us. Rory seemed to feel the awkwardness of the situation too.
    â€œHey, Bills,” he said, winking at me. “I think I made thirty cents profit last week, at the sheep sale. Seen any can’t-miss shares I should buy with it?”
    Billy looked up. “No, just hold on to the land, mate. Most valuable asset you have. So, Georgie, how are you feeling? You haven’t eaten your toast.” Oh, so he had remembered I was alive. “Maybe you should have another coffee. Rory? Another latte?”
    Rory nodded and Billy went inside to find a waiter. When he came back he was pushing his wallet into his back pocket and looking at his watch.
    â€œWell, I’ve got an appointment at one, so I’d better be off. Good to see you, Georgie. Let’s catch up again soon. I’ve got your numbers; I’ll call you. See you at the Four in Hand later, Roar? I’ve fixed this up. OK, bye you two.”
    And that was it. He hailed a taxi that was just coming round the corner and left. I was glad I was hung-over. In my stunned state I couldn’t process the full weirdness of Billy’s behaviour. We met. We danced. We snogged. He called me. We went out. He left me. This cycle normally takes more than twelve hours. Rory didn’t seem too perturbed by it. Was I missing something here?
    â€œHave you got something to rush off to, Georgia, or do you fancy a walk when we finish these coffees? Scoobs would love to take you for a walk, wouldn’t you Scooby?”
    Great. Perhaps Rory was planning to leave too, so it would just be me and the dog.
    â€œI’d love a walk,” I said, all the same.
    So we finished our coffee and strolled down the hill to the promenade. It was very hot and the beach was packed with people enjoying the public holiday. There were families, with big fat grannies in black dresses and cardigans, but most people seemed to have improbably good bodies. Girls in tiny bikinis and guys in brief Speedos Rollerbladed along the concrete walkway. There were buskers playing pan pipes and a circle of drummers in front of the pavilion.
    â€œThose drums remind me of the crazy jungle drum pedestrian crossings here,” I told Rory. “I think they’re hilarious. They always make me feel I should limbo dance across the street.”
    â€œWhat else have you noticed since you arrived here?” he asked and I felt that, unlike Billy last night, he was genuinely interested in hearing my answer.
    â€œWell, everyone is really friendly. Even the people on the phone when you ring the gas board. In England they hate you, on principle. And taxi drivers here are amazing. They don’t always know the way, but sometimes they round the fare down when they give you the change. That would never happen in London.”
    Rory was a good listener and one I get started I can really go on. But he didn’t seem to mind. He listened and laughed and smiled and nodded and Scoobs padded along by our side, sniffing everything keenly.
    I wanted to ask him more questions, about his life on the farm and his life before it, but it seemed too intrusive and I felt it was better to keep prattling. And of course, this was an ideal opportunity for me to probe him subtly about Billy. About how long they had known each other and all the things they’d done together—the tattoos, the first youthful drinking binges, the sporting achievements—until I managed to drag the subject round to what I really cared about: girlfriends.
    It’s useful being a journalist