before. I’d imagined them as hard core affairs, frequented and staffed by earnest hairy types in Birkenstocks or walking boots. I expected they would not give the time of day to someone who’d never tramped through thigh-deep mud like the guy in the poster on the shop window.
So I pushed open the door to Outdoor World timidly, like a stranger entering a wild west saloon bar, half expecting the shop to fall silent as the hairy types eyed me with suspicion. Nothing was further from the truth. I wonder why I waited so long. Outdoor shops are an Aladdin’s Cave of goodies, staffed by sensitive, muscular, handsome, men who are also good at sales. Why did no-one ever tell me this?
I’m not sure what happened there in Outdoor World. My memory is hazy, as if I’d had a big night out. I’ve never had much interest in shopping – our hippie upbringing I suppose. That anti-consumer ethic is hard to overcome. But buying outdoor gear isn’t the same – you can consume, while being anti-consumer. You’re buying the simple life. It’s a win–win situation. Wielding a Channel Five credit card also helped.
Not only did I leave the store with a down jacket, mittens, down booties, thermal underwear, quick-dry casual wear, a puffy sleeping bag, walking boots, sunglasses, a nifty outdoorsy toiletries bag, karabiners, crampons, a rope and much, much more, I also left with the phone number of my helpful sales assistant, Dave.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the karabiners, crampons and rope, but Dave seemed to think they were essential equipment for a glaciologist embarking on a journey to Antarctica.
‘You’ll be wanting to climb some glaciers, I imagine,’ he said, fondling the rope in a suggestive manner with his manly, muscular hands.
I nodded decisively. ‘Yes. Absolutely. The more the better.’ I was pretty sure my relationship with Dave went beyond his desire to earn sales commission. There was a meaningful connection going on. Something about the way he held my feet when he fitted my crampons reminded me of Owl from Lukla. His broad shoulders stretched out his ‘Save the Dugong’ T-shirt. His hands knew exactly what they were doing.
Yes, I flirted. A little. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, Marley. I needed to restore my confidence. It was nice to feel acknowledged as a woman. Let’s face it; Adrian wasn’t exactly a powerhouse of lust. I never felt like he was overwhelmed by desire. A conscientious performer is what I would have written on his report card. But Adrian has other strengths that are much more important and I do miss him terribly.
After we’d concluded our business Dave handed me a card with his mobile phone number scribbled on it. ‘In case you need any after sales service. I teach rock-climbing if you’re interested. It’s good to know how to tie knots.’ I was definitely picking up on some double entendre. It seems like everyone’s talking about bondage these days.
‘You don’t play guitar, do you, Dave?’ I asked as I was about to go.
‘Yes. How’d you guess?’ he said.
‘A woman’s intuition.’ I dropped his card in the bin down the road. As you know I have good reason to avoid guitar-playing men, Marley.
You are the exception to the rule.
My cameraman, Rory, knocks on my door at eleven am. He blinks when he sees me. ‘Wow. You look different.’ Rory is about six foot three with flaming red hair and chubby pink cheeks. I expect his ancestors excelled at caber tossing and bagpipes. Rory himself plays the drums in the Inner West Marching Band.
Rory and I don’t know each other well, but we have a water-cooler relationship revolving around him showing me pictures of his cute two-year-old twins, Rory Junior and Beth. Like most cameramen, Rory affects an air of worldly cynicism, as if he has just emerged from the trenches of Afghanistan. His evenings are spent changing nappies and playing peek-a-boo though, not carousing in bars or dodging bullets. I suspect the thing he is most looking forward to on this expedition is a good night’s sleep.
‘So, Summer, I never knew you were an igloo-building expert,’ says Rory. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s all around the station. Changed my whole impression of you.’
‘Why, what sort of an impression did you have before you knew I could build igloos?’
‘You just seemed normal. But now I know you build igloos, I realise you always did have this mystery woman air about you.’
‘Yes, well …’ I spread my arms out. ‘There you go, igloo-builder extraordinaire – that’s me.’ There is no accounting for the aura that comes from being an igloo-builder.
‘That’s a cool skill to have. I wish I could build igloos. Not that you get many opportunities, I suppose …’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘We’re meeting Alicia and Mary at the airport, by the way.’
I grimace.
‘I know,’ says Rory.
Alicia and Mary, the stylist and producer, are Maxine’s protégées. They will be reporting back on my every move.
‘So, you’re all ready?’ Rory takes in my outfit. ‘Been shopping?’
The karabiners on my backpack jingle as I twirl, displaying my outdoor regalia. ‘Good, huh?’
‘Well, you look the part. Think you can pull it off?’
I put a hand on my hip and channel Alexis. ‘I can’t wait for the day I see you walk out into the snow with those two trashy seals you came in with.’
‘Pardon?’
I twirl my hand in a get with it gesture and repeat my line, but he still looks baffled. ‘I’m Cougar. Get it? I’m like Alexis from Dynasty.’
‘You watch that show? How come I’ve never discovered this about you before? I love Dynasty. Alexis, huh?’ His brow furrows. ‘Good call, but you don’t sound bitchy enough. Try this.’ Rory points his finger at my chest, narrows his eyes and puts on a female American accent. ‘I want you. Your seal. And the other seal. Out. Now. I need to lie down before I’m on camera.’ He puts the back of his hand to his forehead and sighs dramatically. ‘Why do I have to work with such a bunch of incompetents?’
I laugh. He is as close to Alexis as a red-haired giant could be. ‘Oh – you’re amazing. I thought I was a major Dynasty fan, but you have way outperformed me. I can’t believe it. You’re going to have to help me with this.’
Rory raises one eyebrow. ‘Try rephrasing that.’
‘You’ – I assume a commanding tone – ‘You with the camera.’ I click my fingers. ‘Feed me my lines.’
‘Right on.’ Rory raises his fist in a power salute. ‘You’re going to be a natural at this, Summer. Ready to go, bitch queen?’
‘Yep. I’ll close up.’ I go around the flat, closing the windows. I’m almost out the door when I see it – Marley’s book. I touch the spine – there will never be a better time. I stuff An Antarctic Mystery in my backpack next to my new bible, Extreme Project Management. Slamming the door
