Free The Byron Journals by Daniel Ducrou Page B

the hallway, checking the street from Heidi’s bedroom window while Andrew put his feet on the coffee table, lit the joint and settled into the dreamy country strains of ‘Natural Beauty’.
    Tim came back into the room squeezing a grip strengthener and continued pacing. ‘She’s seeing someone else behind my back, Andy.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜She’s been acting weird ever since she started this modelling bullshit on the Gold Coast. She’s always coming home exhausted. And she’s always got new stuff. Usually she says she buys it, but it’s bullshit. They’re presents, I can tell.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜The stuff’s never her style.’
    â€˜Do you think she’s got a sugar daddy?’
    â€˜Who knows? Maybe it’s some sleazy old advertising exec. Just pouring presents and money on her until she gives in. How can I compete with that? What have I got? Nothing! I can’t buy her Dolce sunnies and fucking perfume.’
    Tim disappeared into his bedroom. He came back carrying a large black boutique shopping bag and dropped it on Andrew’s lap. ‘Look at all this.’
    Andrew peered at the assortment of panties, g-strings and bras.
    Tim picked out a leopard-print bra and held it up. ‘Jade would never wear this.’ He dug a handful of lingerie out of the bag and threw it on the couch. ‘Look how ugly all this shit is?’ The grip strengthener creaked in his hand. ‘Do you want to see something else?’ Tim tossed the grip strengthener on the couch, scooped up the underwear and stuffed it back into the bag. He returned the bag to his room and came back with a plain white shoebox. ‘Check this out,’ he said.
    Andrew put the box on his lap and opened it. Cash. It was a quarter filled with fifty and hundred dollar notes. Probably a couple of thousand dollars. He picked up a handful and a G-bag filled with white powder dropped out. When he moved aside the cash, he saw a dozen powder-filled bags, maybe more.
    â€˜What is it? Speed?’ he asked.
    â€˜Coke,’ Tim replied. ‘I don’t think she’s modelling on the Gold Coast at all. I think she’s fucking a coke dealer.’
    â€˜Shit…’ ‘I’ve never seen a single photo of her modelling. Not a single catalogue. She says she’s too embarrassed to show me. It’s bullshit. And all this coke! I worry about her, man.’
    On top of the bags of coke was a memory card from Jade’s camera. The photo of her in black lingerie getting ready for a photo shoot—why hadn’t she shown her photos to Tim? Andrew was about to ask, but remembered the photos of him posing beside the marijuana plants. Tim would think he was an idiot for letting Jade take those photos. He let the cash drop back into the shoebox, replaced the lid and handed it to Tim.
    â€˜That’s fucked,’ he said and left it at that.
    Tim paused on his way back to his room. ‘Thanks for your help tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m no good when things mess up. The thought of owing people money—or the cops getting involved—stresses me out. It’s good to know that when shit goes wrong, you’ve got my back.’
    Andrew thought about mentioning that he’d only agreed to legal protection for the hydro, not for anything else, but he let it slide when Tim’s eyes glassed over.
    â€˜Mum was like me too,’ he said. ‘She killed herself when I was ten. Dad and I moved up here to start over. He changed our names and moved us onto the commune in Nimbin…As though that might fix everything.’
    Andrew stared at the faded patterns on the Persian rug. ‘I’m happy to help, Tim. Anytime you need it.’
    â€˜Thanks. I appreciate it.’ He paused. ‘I’m going to bed.’
    Andrew waited up another few hours listening to music, reading one of Heidi’s books, Breaking open the