Captain’s hat –
No.
Well look, I’ve drawn you to the bottom
of my barrel once again, Ava.
Thing is, the women in that group were
possibly the most fucked up.
Just take our creamy, hair-pulling friend.
And then there were these sisters, Ava,
the oldest was the girlfriend of the tree
surgeon – ‘the sex pest’ – the middle sister was with the
fisherman,
the youngest was even younger than I was
so wasn’t dating but would hang around.
All three looked like they were lifted from a surfing
catalogue – long blonde hair, ankle bracelets, petite
tattoos. They sort of floated round the house,
always together.
I’d walk into the living room and see the
three of them all cuddled up across the sofa watching
Masterchef. Their boyfriends silent, separate on the other
chairs.
I wanted what they had. Silky beauty, perfect skin,
a disinterest in everything but one another.
Once when I was out in town, I saw the youngest,
barefoot, walking with a goat tied to a little piece of rope.
I followed her. She walked it to the pier, sat on the
edge, feet dangling down, the goat just stood beside her.
Calm. And from her pocket she pulled a packet of
Doritos. One by one, she fed them to the goat.
The boat masts rattled like a twinkle all around her.
The sun was bright and warm.
And then one night my boyfriend, a little high, told
me they slept together – all of them – the sisters and
their boyfriends and whoever else.
Orgies.
He said the sisters kissed and more, even when the guys
had gone to bed.
Ridiculous, right? I thought that too, Ava – the
kind of rumour that you’d spread to knock them down a
peg,
