Kookaburra Gambit

including local nightlife.

I had a quick shower, being careful not to muss my new hairstyle, then made myself a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a cup of tea to tide me over. I served Julia Roberts tuna. For such an elegant cat, she wasn't what I'd call a delicate eater. She hoed into it like she hadn't had food for days, making rather disgusting slurping noises.

'We chew with our mouths closed in this house,' I said, repeating the words my mum had said to me a zillion times when I was growing up. Jules ignored me.

I had some time to kill, so I went back to my room and sat down with Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook I was up to the chapter on how to tell when someone's lying to you. Liars, I read, tend to touch their mouths or noses when saying something untrue. I was so engrossed, I jumped when the phone rang.

'I'm outside, Kylie,' said Chantelle. 'And you're not. Where are you?'

'Got caught up in something. Be there in a mo.'

I grabbed my things, said goodbye to Julia Roberts, and rushed out the front door. As soon as I appeared in the parking area, Chantelle, who was leaning against her red Jeep, gave my hair the once-over. 'I like it.' Then she gave the rest of me an up and down, and grinned. 'That goes for the rest of you too.'

I was wearing one of the outfits Harriet Porter had helped me buy, and if I say so myself, I didn't look too bad. 'You're pretty crash-hot, yourself,' I said, clambering into the passenger seat.

Chantelle was someone who could wear very bright colors and not be swamped by them. Tonight she looked terrific in an iridescent orange top and pants I would never even try to get away with. Maybe it was the contrast with her dark skin, but more likely it was all to do with the way she walked, her voice, her laugh, her mannerisms. Whatever it was, it added up to a personal style. That got me brooding. I reckoned I didn't have a personal style.

Chantelle glanced across at me. She had a really kissable, pouting red mouth. 'What's the matter?'

'Not a thing. How's the new job?' Chantelle had just started as a receptionist at Unified Flair Inc., a talent agency. It had to be a big one, as even I had heard of it.

While Chantelle negotiated Thursday night traffic on Sunset, we chatted about the stars and near-stars and never-will-be stars she'd dealt with in the last few days.

'Delford Gunderson,' Chantelle said, 'is a sweetie, but I wouldn't give the time of day to Maria Flann.'

'Dinkum?' I said, a bit down to hear this. Maria Flann had been one of my fave movie stars for years.

'If that means you're asking me if it's true,' said Chantelle, 'the answer's yes. Actually, the things I've heard…'

Even if half of what Chantelle then told me was dinky-di, those stars certainly had an interesting time of it. 'Does all this stuff get on the receptionist network?' I asked, thinking how much I'd hate to have everything about my life out there for anyone to know.

'Of course not,' said Chantelle. 'It wouldn't be professional to disclose every detail.'

'How do you decide what details you can let slip?'

'A receptionist just knows. It's a talent.'

Club Jabber was in West Hollywood. As we hit Santa Monica Boulevard, I remembered something I wanted Chantelle to explain. 'The woman next to me in the salon this afternoon was talking about her life coach. What's a life coach?'

She grinned. 'You sure don't need one, honey!'

'So what does a life coach do?'

'A life coach asks what's missing in your life and what you really want to achieve then gets you to set personal goals. Basically, they keep telling you you're marvelous. It's like having your own private one-person cheer squad.'

'People get paid to do this life coaching?'

'Thousands and thousands.'

'Beats me why you'd give money to a stranger,' I said, 'when all you need to do is to sit down and think about it yourself, or maybe talk it out with friends.'

'I don't know,' said Chantelle, shrugging. 'People get in a rut and need someone else to pull them out of it. Quip should be at the club tonight. You can ask him. He was a life coach for a while.'

'Quip? Fran's husband? He's a screenwriter.'

She laughed indulgently. 'Kylie, every second person in this town's a screenwriter. Or an actor. Or both. Then they find you've got to do other things to put food on the table.'

I chuckled. 'Next you're going to say you've got a screenplay.'

Chantelle seemed rather miffed by my lighthearted tone. 'Actually, yes, I have. A romantic comedy.'

'Don't tell me! One of the main characters is a receptionist.'

Her eyebrows dived into a V. She was definitely miffed. 'Something wrong with that?' she said in an icy voice.

Yerks! I'd better tread carefully. 'Nothing wrong with that at all.' I had to get off this subject fast. 'My Aunt Millie's coming to Los Angeles,' I remarked.

'That's nice.'

'No, it isn't.'

Chantelle had expressive eyebrows. Now they were raised in questioning arcs. 'No?'

'It's a disaster. Could hardly be worse.'

Chantelle took her eyes off the road to stare at me. 'This must be some aunt!'

'She's indescribable. You'd have to meet her to see what I mean. Not that you will.' Chantelle's hurt expression spurred me to add hastily, 'That didn't come out quite right. It's not just you. Nobody is going to meet Aunt Millie, if I have anything to do with it.'

Chantelle's disbelief was plain. 'And your aunt will be happy with this? Not meeting anyone? What are you going to do? Lock her in a room?'

'If only.' I was plunged into gloom. Chantelle was right. Aunt Millie would make it her business to meet everyone who had anything to do with me.

'I've got to meet your Aunt Millie,' said Chantelle enthusiastically. 'She sounds like a real kick.'

'Real kick? Is that something good? If so, it doesn't apply to my aunt.'

'She can't be that bad.'

I slumped in my seat. 'You don't know the half of it.'

We turned off the main road onto a narrow laneway. 'We have to find somewhere to park,' said Chantelle. 'Quip said you could usually get something down here.'

'How do you know Quip?' Chantelle had never mentioned she'd met Fran's husband before.

'UCLA Writers' Program. We were in the same script-writing course a few years ago, when we were both starting out.'

Quip had written what seemed countless scripts for movies and television-not one of them made-but at least he was involved in the biz in some way. As far as I knew, Chantelle had only one screenplay.

'Has your screenplay got a title?' I asked.

Chantelle swore under her breath as someone ahead of us snaffled an empty parking spot. She turned the Jeep into yet another narrow lane. 'I was going to call it Wrong Number, but then I decided Sorry, Wrong Number had more pizzazz.'

'Hasn't Sorry, Wrong Number already been used?'

Chantelle didn't seem concerned. 'Has it? Doesn't matter. There's no copyright with titles.'

'So you could call your screenplay Gone With the Wind if you wanted to?'

Chantelle shot me a look worthy of Julia Roberts in one of her more haughty moments. 'That title wouldn't relate to the essential themes I'm exploring.'

I could tell I was getting into chancy territory here. I peered through the windscreen. 'Isn't that a parking spot?'

'Where?!'

I pointed. 'Someone's just pulling out.'

Chantelle accelerated like mad, then slammed on the brakes when we got to the gap in the parked cars. 'Get it