Polaroid Nights

By Lizzie Harwood

Auckland city bars, 1996, when the click / whirr of a Polaroid 600 proved you were living your best life. Betty's is on repeat: waitress till late, drink till dawn, in bed to forget. But partying like there's no tomorrow is no fix for the problems crowding in. Her ex is back and drinking at her favourite haunts, her flat was burgled and she faces eviction if she can't pay late rent. And then there's the serial rapist called the Psychic who's terrorising women in their homes.

 

When her ex is murdered and left in her bed, Betty and her flatmate Alabama turn to the bar world to find out who did it. Was it the Psychic – or someone closer?

 

Polaroid Nights fizzes with the wild energy of the city nightlife of 1990s Auckland. It's compulsive reading – pitch-perfect with wicked humour and a dark hinterland that chills and fascinates in equal measure.

 

Don't miss this brilliant debut, the inaugural winner of the NZSA Laura Solomon Cuba Press Prize.
"a fast and furious snapshot of 90s nightlife – Laura would have loved it" —Tina Shaw

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Cuba Press
• Release date: Nov 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781988595504

Book preview

one

13 June 1996

Paper rustled. The air throbbed.

‘She’s late on rent. Plus this.’ Faith’s voice was gritty in Betty’s ears.

‘She was supposed to go pay the electricity. I rang them. She didn’t.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll pay the late-payment fee.’ Alabama had the sing-song cadence of someone still affected by the night before.

‘It’s more than just being financially inept,’ Faith said. ‘Look at her. She’s a black-haired zombie. What time did you two get home last night? Was that window ajar all night?’

‘Wasn’t so late,’ Alabama said. ‘She must’ve cracked it open for air …’

‘This is exactly why I didn’t sleep here last night.’

‘Ooooooh?’ Alabama said. ‘Where’d you sleep, Faith?’

Betty opened her eyes, taking in her red Mickey Mouse clock. His gloved hands pantomimed: 10.08. Excellent. She had fifty-two whole minutes before she had to be at the restaurant.

‘What is this?’ she said. ‘Barging in when I’m asleep?’

Faith sat on the bed, bouncing deliberately. She had a face like a Renoir and a body like Barbie. The incongruities of Faith Powers didn’t stop there. She was outrageous, generous, yet couldn’t abide criticism. It was her name on the lease. She was legendary for three things: being a kick-ass maître’d, her party trick of getting her own nipple into her mouth, and a habit of rarely wearing underwear beneath her skin-tight dresses.

‘I call a vote. I vote you move out,’ Faith said in monotone.

Betty struggled into her heavy russet dressing gown plucked off the floor. Her blood thudded and her room spun in a kaleidoscope of brightness and shame. Chicken-coop wardrobe, small fake-zebra couch suffocated by dirty laundry, more garments dumped on the unpainted floor, curtains perpetually half-mast, wind whistling through the sash window—she could swear she never opened that—a wooden desk made from wine crates littered with a rat’s nest of paper.

‘Well, I vote I stay,’ Betty said. ‘I got caught up and forgot to sort the electricity. I’ll pay it today.’

Betty remembered telling Alabama last night at about 2 am she had precisely $40 left in her account until she got paid on Tuesday. That was when Big Ruben started buying endless rounds of those nasty shots … What were they called? Quick Oblivion. She shuddered.

‘You owe $290, sweetie. Two weeks’ rent, your share of the electricity, plus the late-payment fee,’ Alabama said softly.

Betty swallowed hard. Alabama was a girl who paid everything a day in advance.

Faith continued. ‘What’s your vote?’

Alabama’s velvety eyes flickered. She swayed a little, her platinum locks mussy and terrycloth bathrobe tied askew. Definitely still drunk to Betty’s trained eye. ‘I’m sure Betty’ll pay it all.’

‘Matthew will go spare if we’re late on rent again,’ Faith said. ‘I could stall him a day, or two, but …’

‘Well, by Saturday I’ll definitely have it. No problem.’ Betty grabbed for the extra time. Today was, what, Thursday?

‘Let’s reassess Saturday.’ Faith nodded, satisfied her message had broadcast loud and clear.

Alabama wandered out, probably to the bathroom to throw up, very quietly.

Their ‘fourth flatmate’ by default, Laverne, snuck in, sniffing a clothes heap. Betty could see a dark puddle of piss spread over a mini skirt that might have stood one more day of wear.

‘Not again, you brat.’

The calico cat was in the tenancy agreement: One Laverne, to be cared for in exchange for cheap rent, as stipulated by Matthew Middlebrook. He owned the villa they lived in on Vermont Street and was in frequent contact from Australia. Matthew was disturbingly firm on the Laverne Clause and sent postcards addressed to the cat, requesting return correspondence with Laverne sitting on a copy of the New Zealand Herald, date visible.

Originally, it had been the Shirley and Laverne Clause, but a year ago something bad went down. Plucky Shirley dug up the garden beds one time too many and Faith had her put to sleep at the Grey Lynn Vet Clinic. As a joke, Faith scrawled in the flat diary: Shirley is dead. Don’t go into the laundry room—I’ll clean up after my shift. Betty and Alabama had been terrified to go in there.

‘I was only pulling your leg. Lighten up.’ Faith had laughed.

Faith lied to their obsessed landlord, swearing Shirley had been run over. Betty and Alabama had difficulties trusting Faith after what happened to that soft tabby girl.

Laverne seemed to have PTSD over her sister’s felicide. This was the second time she had pissed—both times in Betty’s bedroom.

‘I’ll throttle a certain someone if she does that one more time,’ Betty growled at the calico. Laverne scrambled towards the kitchen.

Faith laughed. ‘You can’t kill a bush cockroach. Remember the mouse? You and Alabama screamed your heads off while I was the brave one with a broom.’

‘Yeah, and this sack of mange watched instead of doing her job of catching the mouse in the first place.’

‘She’s never peed in my room. Or Alabama’s. Or the lounge. Maybe she wants you out, too?’

‘Maybe it’s badly aimed revenge for what you did to Shirley. Anyway, you don’t want me out. Friends don’t do that.’

‘Friends don’t piss all over their responsibilities.’ Faith lifted the wet skirt up with her pinky. ‘Let me put this through a wash for you. Got anything else?’

‘Everything you see.’ Betty gathered an armful of black clothes and inched down the hall. It was hard to walk straight. Due into work in forty-five minutes. ‘Uh, Faith … I’m on a double today and I was going to wear that skirt … I’ve got no black tops left, could I maybe borrow your Glory dress?’

Faith shoved the washing in, sprinkled Persil, slammed the lid, wrenched the dial to Delicate and yanked the knob with an ear-splitting pop! ‘Come to my room.’

Betty leaned against the doorframe as Faith contemplated outfits from her immaculate sanctuary of lace-trimmed hyper-femininity.

‘So where did you sleep last night?’

‘Secret. New lover.’

‘Oh! Nice! Is he—hospo?’

Faith had been in a foul mood ever since she and Vince (head chef down at Hasta Mañana Baby) spontaneously combusted. Vince threatening to take out a restraining order to ‘protect himself’ from Faith’s let’s-be-friends antics hadn’t exactly helped.

‘None of your beeswax. If you had decent tits, you could wear this.’ Faith held up a plunging V-neck vintage number to Betty’s chin.

‘I’m on a double,’ Betty said. ‘Nobody wants a plunging neckline at lunch.’

‘They do where I work.’

‘You’d never kick me out, you love dressing me too much.’ Betty felt weak-kneed. Did something happen to her knees last night? She peeked under the dressing gown—yep, black and blue, with bits of gravel still stuck in the skin.

‘What did you do?’

‘Maybe took a tumble on the drive?’ Betty said. The pain in her head made it hard to care for her knees.

Faith busied about with cotton wool, Dettol and tweezers.

Alabama called out, ‘Egg on Vogel’s?’

‘I ate,’ Faith said.

‘Nah, thanks,’ Betty said, the thought of eating overwhelming her. ‘See, you wouldn’t kick me out, you’d have nobody to mother.’ She gripped the doorframe to stay vertical.

Faith refused to look at her. ‘There’s been another rape—around the corner on Islington Street. Night before last. These days you and Alabama get in at god-knows-what time—certainly after 2 am—when I’m home from work, leaving me alone here. If you’re not home, front door locked, watching crap telly by 2.05 am every night, then I’ll get a man to move in who will be.’

‘You’re not going to be next, Faith. Sleep with your big frying pan by your bed. Cast-iron would stop any bastard.’

Faith’s look of fury shut her up. ‘He’s got a knife. He beats the women to a pulp. This is his tenth attack. They’re calling him the Psychic because he seems to know when women are alone at home. I barely sleep after that break-in we had at Christmas.’ Faith was hyperventilating and getting loud. ‘We can’t get a dog because of the stupid Laverne Clause … Fuck’s sake, the only reason I’ve kept you in the house is our friendship. Do you get it?’

‘I get it. I’m sorry.’

Faith pushed her Glory dress at her.

‘Borrow this for today.’ She gave Betty a suffocating hug with her 36DDs. ‘Come straight home after work tonight.’

‘I will.’ Betty stumbled towards the shower.

‘And I need that $290.’

‘I’m sorry, Faith. I’m going to do better.’

‘If you’re quick I can give you a lift on my way to the gym.’

‘Two secs.’

But in the shower, a rush of red vertigo engulfed her, and Betty pressed her forehead against cold tiles to numb her panicked mind. All bravado sluiced down the plughole along with the stale sweat, make-up and cigarette smoke. Didn’t Lithgow talk about the serial rapist last night? He knew a friend of one of the victims—she lived alone at the end of Douglas, had been tied up at knifepoint. She had a broken arm, a collapsed lung and zero description, as he’d worn a balaclava, condom, gloves. All she had was his voice in her ear, calling her a stupid bitch who should have never left him. ‘What the actual fuck?’ Lithgow had giggled, knocking back another butterscotch schnapps. ‘Cheers to catching that piece of human excrement.’

Despite the glitch of a tongue like a truffle grater and a head that felt slammed in the walk-in sorbet freezer, Betty weaved between packed tables with plates seemingly glued to her forearms. Being an extraordinary waitress. A hospo.

Lunch shift had been epic: wall-to-wall advertising execs on expense accounts where wives had eventually picked up hubbies and stuck around for ‘just one more Veuve!’. Expense-account lunchers were cruel and relentless but tipped big.

After a thirty-minute break and half a baguette with cornichons and duck liver pâté for dinner, Betty was back out there. Soda water downed. Double short black slurped. Tabs of No-Doz consumed. Rescue Remedy vial drained of all contents.

Addressing table five: eight thirty-somethings on a couples’ night out.

She gave them her twenty-tooth smile.

‘Are you ready to order?’

‘What were those specials again?’ asked alpha male, who’d picked the wine.

Betty twisted her knife around the neck of a 1994 Chablis.

‘Tonight we have an entrée of scallops with poached-lime infusion. We have Blind Bay crayfish grilled with pimento Parmesan served on a mattress of artichoke and tamarillo, and braised lamb shanks propped by a medley of roast radicchio, parsnip and celeriac with a noir glaze. Ready to taste the wine, sir?’

Betty dispensed the usual millilitres into the glass. He sniffed and chewed it as if he were a master of wine. ‘It’s all right. I think we’re ready.’

There is a system in any well-reviewed restaurant that designates every patron a number so other staff can deliver food or drinks without having to ask who had what. Asking who had what is a sin for hospos. Betty would rather gnaw her left arm off than ask who had what. Table five began calling out their orders indiscriminately. Another hospo trick is never be caught writing down orders. Betty could memorise tables of up to twelve, reducing each person to a number and two or three words off the menu. There is admittedly a serial-killer level of depersonalisation to this skill.

‘I’ll have the oysters, then the duck, but can I have it with no sauce?’

‘Sauce is on the side, sir.’

‘Top stuff.’

‘Same, but no entrée.’

‘Or do you want to share the asparagus with me?’

‘Sure, okay.’

‘And I’ll have the pigeon for my main, thank you.’

‘Uh, I’d like the squid followed by an entrée-sized cassoulet …’

‘Are you sure you can eat squid when you’re pregnant?’

‘Uh, good point, I probably shouldn’t … uh … come back to me.’

‘And another bottle of this stuff—it’s not too shabby.’

‘Uh, and another apple juice, no ice, please.’

‘I just want the Carcassonne platter with no olives as my main. No entrée.’

‘I’ll have the scallops then that crayfish you mentioned. Unless you guys are keen on a red later?’

‘I’m definitely up for red.’

‘Then I’ll have the steak instead of crayfish.’

‘How would you like that cooked?’ Betty asked.

‘Well done, don’t want it mooing! Wait, aren’t you writing this down?’

Everyone stopped and realised that Betty was flying solo. Not scribbling down a single letter of their order. She also poured wine and water, alternating left and right: a waitress savant and ambidextrous. Some panicked. One frowned.

Betty smiled. ‘It’s fine. And what would you like, sir?’

‘The terrine then lamb shanks, please.’

‘Same.’

‘Uh, I’ll have the veal as my main.’

‘Oh, can I change? I’ll have the veal, too.’

Then one of the wives tried to make it easy. ‘And a couple of mixed salads for the table? And more of this bread!’

‘The loaves are made with special flour imported from France.’

‘Whatever’s in them—they are divine. Load us up.’

Betty smiled and