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way, ‘Breaks like this can develop arthritis in middle age.’
    Great! Now I can worry
about my middle age.
    At the time Emma looked
incredulous. ‘You may have a problem. I plan to kill myself before then.’ Why
does she have to be such a drama queen? Even someone like me who’s known her
from birth can’t always tell the wish from the actuality.
    Did Lilbet and Ella feel
the same? From their letters, messages and poems you might think all their
thoughts about each other were positive. But I’d bet a million dollars that
they weren’t.
    I put down the book. More
pressing on my mind is: what’s Emma up to in Broadbeach?

8. EMMA, Gold Coast
     
    In the bathroom of our
Broadbeach unit, I’m busy applying make-up. Up here I need loads of blusher
until that unhealthy pallor caused by too much work and lack of sunshine
disappears. I’m in the same dress I wore on my date with Abdul. When I assess
my reflection, as usual, I’m disappointed. If only I could change places with
someone taller, would guys then take me more seriously?
    I go into the
living room where Sacha has already turned up. ‘Em,’ he says, ‘you look good
enough to eat.’
    I smile back,
grateful how quick he is to compliment me. ‘So do you,’ I assure him and it’s
true. This evening he’s in mid-calf shorts, a shiny black tank top, and eyebrow,
lip and ear piercings.
    We catch a bus
into Surfers and walk onto pavements choked with Schoolies and holiday-makers:
the kids pimply and pale-faced waiting for something to happen; the
holiday-makers tanned and in bright casual gear — loads of yellow,
orange, a yellowy-green, every possible shade of blue, and masses of creams and
whites. How I love all this colour. Tomorrow I plan to buy some shorts, a
skinny teeny skirt and the brightest tops I can find.
    Down Cavill
Avenue, the crowd flanking the pavements is almost too thick to move through.
We wind around mobs of kids determined to have fun, and Toolies, older guys
hoping to pick up chicks or start a fight. A shiver runs down my spine. When
Jodie turns to stare at a drunken Toolie throwing up in the gutter, I hurry her
along. ‘Where to?’ she asks. ‘I’m starving.’
    Kaz shakes her
head. ‘Later. I promised Jon and Brad we’d check out their flat.’
    ‘Do we have to?’
Sacha asks, dismayed.
    ‘Yes.’ Kaz
refuses to be swayed. ‘I promised!’
    ‘Just a short
while. Okay Kaz?’ I chime in. I’m only too aware of Sacha’s reluctance to meet
with those macho guys.
    Kaz holds up a
scrap of paper. ‘Here’s the address.’
    She leads us to
one of the streets that back onto the sand where some of the older high-rise
group together. This late, shadows engulf the beach. If I half close my eyes,
they hint at another dark dank city where just about anything horrid can
happen.
    The building’s
foyer needs updating. Here, smudged mirrors and torn seats hint of too many
renters. We ride to the twentieth floor in an elevator that smells of beer and
vomit, then turn right along a corridor that reminds me too much of the
hospital where I visited Dessi, similar nausea-making smells, until we come to
apartment 2017.
    The door swings
open.
    Inside we walk
into a room already semi-trashed, the floor covered in cigarette burns and
other unrecognisable stains, two coffee tables littered with empty cans, saucers
overflowing with butts beside a NO SMOKING sign. Sprawled over the couch Jon
McKenna waves a stubby at us. ‘Hi. When’d you lot get in?’
    ‘What a mess!’
Kaz exclaims. ‘The others here too?’
    ‘Yeah… Out
there.’ Already half stoned, face flushed, bare-chested, Jon waves us towards
the open balcony door. I hurry past. I know he’ll want to talk about Dessi and
how sorry he is about that accident and how he wishes she’d talk to him.
    What am I
supposed to say?
    On the balcony
we find the other guys as drunk and stoned as Jon. Apart from checking whether
we’ve brought any more cans, they’re too busy yelling insults to