As she finished Richard snapped out of his trance with a grunt. Aunt Grace had thrown us for a six with her 'vision'. We had to get away. It was about 2am on Sunday morning when we left the house to clear our heads. Richard heroically hailed a taxi in the rain and in an uncharacteristic show of gratitude Paul offered to get the tab. Ten minutes later we were seated in Horace's Hell Kitchen, a fashionable, well appointed coffee shop restaurant in Darlinghurst. The thick plaster walls were bathed in a rosy light. Women of uncertain faithfulness and morals sat lazily around painting their nails (cherry-bomb-lust-loadruby-red-gloss-grunt!). It was Richard's choice of cafe and I inquired whether he came here often. He replied that last time he was here it was quite different. Paul smiled rudely, pointing out two women engaged in a 'heavy conversation' concerning art and decay. Pretty facile stuff. The word 'cathartic' cropped up with boring predictability. This was cathartic, that was cathartic-she was so cathartic. We strained to hear their conversation. You could sense they were artists; the hard slog of the inner city coffee-house romantic artist, well educated, stylishly groomed, pop-popular at the groove-lick niteclubs all that trash. These two with their dyed hair, one packet blue-black and one packet auburn hi-lites. Carefully contoured eyebrows, mascara, lips round, full and coloured. They sat elegantly with their chunky Docs and their jewellery made by a 'close friend' and their magazines folded over so you get a whiff (an article about some Cyber-punk-writer-oh-how-chic). Their eyes pouring over the paper trying to suck it all in waiting for their short blacks to cool down enough to sip and their cigarette ash falling to the floor over their left shoulders and they're waiting while talking - so cathartic.
Jessica: (or Jesse, a designer from the North Shore, she simply adores dots, large obvious earrings that are dragging her lobes down to tribal proportions, a short red stretch mini, hand knitted jumper-32) They say she used to work here, but you can't believe that. Do you get a chance to glance at that interesting article about the writer-by Jeremy? The subject's fascinating but Jezza couldn't put pen to paper if his life depended on it. He can do two things-breathe and look cute.
Sophie: (or Soph, graduated from art school in '84, did two years in a design course post-grad, studied philosophy because it sounded better, English in order to read and understand Robbins and Collins. Presently residing in Melbourne, where she owns and runs a coffee shop-dressed in discreet black) ... that's two things, Jes.
Jessica: (or Jes) Yes-but he does them at different times.
Sophie: Anyway, tell me about this fellow, the one the girl drugged. Peter, you know, the dragon's head buckles, was talking about the book and this writer, so was Joe from 'livid', and Zeep mentioned it as well. I must be the last to hear about it.
Jessica: I thought you would have found out before it happened, Soph. After all, you're not slow on the uptake. Well, the girl was a nurse who used to work around here grabbing a bit of 'purse' money as it were. She ran into a little trouble over some 'powder'. Well, that is according to Arthur, and everyone knows he's a liar, but who can you trust? Now she was working in this hospital with this guy who can't use his feet or his hands, can't move, you know, one of 'them'. And each night he's up typing away. With what, you ask? His face, that's what. Banging down on the typewriter until he splits his skull, night after night.
Sophie: (dropping some ash-unimpressed) He smashes his skull every night?
Jessica: Well, something like that. Now, this nurse, she's pretty mad and thinks this guy's writing about her past life on the streets so she gives him a lethal, one morning after breakfast. Then she apparently feels all guilty and hangs herself by her apron from the rafters in her room.
Sophie: Anyway Jess, what has this got to do with this new book?
Jessica: (annoyed) Well, let me finish and you might find out something. There's this man who's involved as well... where did you get that brooch?
Sophie: Oh this, it's nothing, Julian gave it to me.
Jessica: It's beautiful, just the thing to wear in the rain.
Sophie: The curve here is lovely, don't you think? He found it himself.
Jessica: It really suits your face.
Sophie: Anyway.
