Liar Liar

‘Sweetie, you know I can loan you some money to tide you over until you get a job.’

‘Nope. I’m fine. As Great-Grandma Aida used to say, never a lender or a borrower be.’ In the meantime, I’ll just keep on clipping coupons and stretching my weekly grocery budget to nine days’ worth of meals.

‘I’m pretty sure Aida wasn’t considering shaking her tush in a titty bar to pay her rent.’

I set off laughing. Only Amber could make that sound hilarious.

‘I’ll have you know that The Pink Pussy Cat is a respectable gentlemen’s club.’

‘Sure. And I’m about to let Byron name our daughter after a green rock. But seriously, do you think you might have something suitable coming up, work wise?’

‘I have a few irons in the fire.’ Unfortunately, I think I forgot to light the fire before putting them in, but I’ll keep that to myself. She has enough to worry about without fretting about me. Especially from the other side of the world.

‘I wish I could offer you a job,’ she says suddenly.

And I wish the Aussie immigration system wasn’t so tricky because then she would.

‘You’ll keep me up to date, right? And please let me know if I can do anything to help.’

‘You do help. You helped fudge my resumé, and you help me every Sunday by showing me your sweet, sunny face.’

‘Now I know you’re taking the piss.’

‘Okay, little Miss Aussie-ness. Until next week. I’ve got to go and launder my tush-shaking outfits for my first shift.’

‘You’re really going to go back there?’

‘It’s not that bad.’ I’m surprised I don’t choke on my own words. ‘No booty shaking. Just waitressing and just for a couple of shifts.’ Though hopefully more because really, what choice do I have? I’m down to my last couple of hundred dollars in the bank. My windfall is almost completely spent. Next comes living on my credit card, and that is a slippery slope I’ll try very hard to avoid.

‘Something will turn up soon. I know it will.’

I just hope my responding smile looks less brittle than it feels.

* * *

Birds chirp, pulling me from my sleep.

Birds in the rainforest?

Am I still in Australia?

Or have I fallen asleep on the spa massage table again?

I hope I haven’t drooled this time.

As the irritating cheeping continues, realisation slowly dawns that my phone is ringing.

‘Who disturbs my frickin’ slumber,’ I complain, rising up in my bed with the animation of one of Dracula’s brides.

I hate working at the Pussy Cat. Hate it. I hate the boss, and I hate the patrons. I hate going to bed when everyone else is waking up, and I really hate eating Cheerios in the afternoon.

Fucking. Hate. It.

But most of all, I hate it when I’m sleeping, and the phone rings, and it’s just a stupid marketing call.

Pulling off the satin eye mask, I drop it on the bed. It arrived last week in my little Aussie care package from Amber. I’m only wearing it because she promised that, along with the cream she sent, it’d help prevent fine lines. Honestly, I think it’s more likely she’s just getting a kick out of me wearing something that’s embroidered with the words “dreaming of dick”.

‘Miss Ryan?’ a smoky voice enquires.

‘Speaking.’ I swing my legs out of the bed and pull the phone away from my ear as I yawn.

‘My name is Therese Moore. I’m with Executive Search Recruitment’—I’m suddenly very awake—‘I’m calling about a position you recently applied for via our website.’

‘Yes?’ My voice sounds high, reedy even, and I begin to worry about the impression I’m giving. ‘I mean, of course. I applied online and took part in the virtual interview for a trainee position in hotel management.’

Months ago, back in March, I think. As for a virtual interview, what a crock. I sat in front of my ancient laptop and gave a personal account of myself, as instructed. I was supposed to inform the robotic voice of a time in my life that I was most proud, and I’d begun to recite the well-rehearsed tale of how I’d travelled around the world by myself; my one big accomplishment. I’d intended to cover all the interview candidate buzz words—organised, passionate, enthusiastic, detail-orientated, flexible—in an effort to sell those highly valued transferable skills.

Unfortunately, I’d gotten no farther than explaining how I’d worked in hospitality on several continents when the dumb Poodle I was working on rehoming jumped up on my knee, pressing his front paws to my laptop. The interview I actually sent them was of me mouthing “what the fuck, mutt!” along with one final horrified look at the camera as excitable doggy paws hit the enter key, my interview immediately uploading and pinged to the agency. To add insult to injury, he then peed on me. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty downhearted about the whole thing. When I didn’t hear back, I wasn’t surprised. But hallelujah, it looks like they’re desperate, and I’m about to get a second chance!