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of it, but mostly I hated when rich, powerful people tried to become even richer and more powerful by screwing with people who couldn’t defend themselves. I didn’t tell Nick any of those things, though.
    ‘I dunno.’ I shrugged.
    ‘What about your dad? Is he on the scene?’
    ‘Haven’t seen him for fifteen years.’
    ‘How does that make you feel?’
    ‘It doesn’t make me feel anything. Why?’
    ‘Sorry, I can’t help myself. I’m always trying to figure out motivation.’
    ‘Let me guess—I became a stripper because I needed the male attention and I became a PI because, shit, you tell me.’
    Nick shook his head and blushed a bit. It made him look like a teenager. ‘I shouldn’t have . . .’
    I chucked him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t stress. I’m just messing with you, not pissed off.’ It was half true.
    Nick changed the subject. ‘When’s our next session?’
    I pulled my diary out of my bag and flipped through. ‘How about Monday? I’ve got something a bit different from the WorkCover case. Guy thinks his wife is having an affair, little lunchtime liaison, so I’m gonna follow her around the CBD. No trackie-daks either, we’ll have to go corporate on this one.’
    ‘Monday’s great. Meet at your office?’
    ‘Nah, I’m gonna follow from her home. Lives in Collingwood.’
    ‘I’m in Abbotsford.’
    ‘Great. I’ll pick you up.’
    We shook hands and Nick got up to leave. ‘Oh, almost forgot.’ He patted his jacket, withdrew a couple of laminated passes and handed them to me.
    ‘Yarra Bend Summer Sessions,’ I read out. ‘Sounds like a dance party.’
    ‘It’s a mini arts and writers’ festival at Yarra Bend Park in Clifton Hill this Saturday. Come along if you’re not busy, bring a friend. I’m on a panel with Shane Maloney and Peter Temple, so should be a good one. Pass includes entry into everything and a couple of free drinks.’
    ‘I’ll see what I can do. May have some work coming up . . .’
    God I was a liar.

chapter three
    A fter the pub I decided to drop in on my best friend, Chloe. She held the lease on the building that housed my office and sublet to me while she ran her agency, Chloe’s Elite Strippers, from her flat upstairs.
    The Carlisle Street entrance, a glass door next to mine, was locked, so I entered my office intending on scooting out back, before hesitating. I don’t know whether it was the champagne, or Nick’s amateur psychology, but I booted up my computer and composed an email to my dad, care of the IT company he’d worked for the last time I’d seen him. I kept it simple— Hi Mark, it’s your prodigal daughter, Simone. Long time no see. What’s up? —and pressed send before I could chicken out. I turned off the computer, left my office, jogged across the small rear car park, and took the back stairs up to the deck at Chloe’s.
    Her place was pretty basic, a couple of bedrooms facing Carlisle Street and a small formica kitchen she never cooked in. The huge lounge in the middle was her command centre: vast corner desk, practice pole in the middle of the room, feather boas hanging from hooks and body-glitter ground into the carpet. Publicity pictures of the girls decorated the walls, along with posters of Marilyn Monroe and prints of old-time dancers like Blaze Fury and Gypsy Rose Lee. Opposite the desk sat Chloe’s pride and joy, a recently purchased red couch shaped like a pair of lips. French doors opened from the lounge room onto the best thing about the place: a concrete deck at the back of the building that looked out over the rooftops and train line. Chloe had set it up with outdoor furniture, potted plants and lurid green astroturf.
    That’s where I found her, lying topless on a yellow striped banana lounge, simultaneously eating chicken-in-a-biskit, flicking through Picture magazine, and talking to prospective clients on the phone. She was just over six months pregnant, belly stretched taut and boobs so enormous they were