Free Pants on Fire by Maggie Alderson Page A

barefaced about her treachery. I knew I was going to be one of those friends who carried on telling her my secrets, because apart from anything else she was a good listener and I needed someone to talk to. I sorely missed my girlfriends back in London and even after two weeks I knew that the time difference made it impossible to communicate with them properly.
    If I rang them late at night for a good chat they were in the middle of their busy days and vice versa. I’d already received a couple of drunken phone calls in the morning at my desk. Even with emails it wasn’t the same. Because I was also realising that if they didn’t understand the context, my romantic tales just wouldn’t be the same. It was no good if I had to start out explaining who Danny Green was and what moleskin pants were. I needed someone who already understood the subtle nuances of Sydney life, which I was only just beginning to grasp myself. Like the vast gulf between living in Elizabeth Bay, where I lived, and in Paddington, where Billy lived, for example. Separated only by a busy road and a couple of parks, but different universes in terms of values and beliefs. One bohemian and sophisticated, but with a dark side, the other chic and sophisticated, but with a dull side.
    â€œWant to have lunch?” I heard myself ask her. I was burning to talk to someone about Billy’s weird behaviour.
    â€œSure, I’ll take you to a Sydney landmark. Do you like Chinese food?”
    â€œLove it.”
    â€œGood. Because I only eat Chinese food.”
    I didn’t even bother to ask why. I knew she’d tell me.
    â€œBecause you can smoke right through the meal.”
    BBQ King looked like a 1950s truckstop, all laminated tables and tatty lino. A jolly Chinese man barked, “Hello mate! Hello Riinda!” at us when we came in. Everyone in there knew Liinda. They didn’t even ask for her order, they just brought it. The chairs were red vinyl, the floor was sticky and the noodle soup I was slurping down was like nectar. Already on her third Diet Coke, Liinda picked at her plate of plain boiled chicken and plain boiled rice with one hand, holding a cigarette in her other.
    â€œI don’t normally ‘do lunch,’ you know,” she was telling me. “I like to eat alone, or there’s a great lunchtime NA meeting in Macquarie Street, so you’re very honoured.”
    â€œNA? Is that Narcotics Anonymous?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow often do you go to NA meetings?”
    She took a long, deep drag on her cigarette. “Most days. I go to AA as well. And Codependents Anonymous. I have been known to do three meetings in a day.”
    â€œCrikey. That wouldn’t leave you much time for a social life.”
    â€œThat’s the whole point. The last thing I want is a social life. Social lives in Sydney have drugs in them. As I’m sure you discovered on Sunday. How was it? Did you trash yourself?”
    â€œYes. I trashed myself. And nearly my reputation as well.”
    Linda looked very interested in that idea. I let her stew for a bit while I took a mouthful of soup.
    â€œTell.”
    â€œDo you know a guy called Billy Ryan?”
    â€œYes. He’s a stockbroker. We had him as one of our 50 Most Eligible Bachelors one year. He’s not bad looking if you like men who look like Liberal Party campaign posters.”
    â€œWhat kind of reputation does he have?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t know. He’s more Deb-rett’s territory. Overprivileged Paddington pond life. He knew the guy she was engaged to who died, I think, so I don’t advise asking Debbie about him. I did try to get her to have some grief counselling when that happened but she started throwing stiletto shoes at my head. And when I left a few Codependents Anonymous brochures on her desk, she just threw them back onto mine. On fire. So I’ve left her to get over it her own way—hard drugs and