Oh Matilda: Who Bloody Killed Her? Chapter 19

Pesky paparazzi Becky Cummerbund and her loyal cameraman Henry are becoming unbearable.

 

This is ‘summer reading’ like nothing you’ve read before: a diverse field of writers collaborating on a novel that will captivate you through summer.

Each author had just three days to write their chapter, with complete freedom over story and style; it’s fast, fun and very funny.

Start from the very beginning with Chapter 1 or go to ohmatilda.com.au

Today acclaimed writer Damien Woolnough takes up the story with Chapter 19.

By Damien Woolnough

Stuffing his good luck ‘Tradie’ undies into a tattered backpack, Henry conceded that this assignment had been a failure.

The hypnotic powers of hi-vis underpants were useless away from the Kings Cross gym, where a proffered glimpse of waistband guaranteed never having to soap his own back in the showers.

Since landing on this island with Becky, the only action the frustrated cameraman had experienced was countless sightings of Maya Churchill’s décolletage in a bewildering series of plunging Camilla kaftans.

Beggars can’t be choosers and the septuagenarian’s silicone ice cream scoops were more appealing than McCredden’s deflated pectorals, sadly scraping the waistband of stained cargo shorts.

That once firm and furry chest, provocatively pierced by staples in a smuggled copy of his sister’s Cleo, had launched a series of dreams in young Henry that even the Dolly doctor advice column was unable to answer. Decades later the only response was an extra set of morning push-ups.

Pickings on the island were slim, with the director Bradley Champion having more mummy issues than a family dinner at Gina Rinehart’s and the writer Greer targeting Becky, while talking earnestly about his love for Ronny Chieng jokes.

“The plane will be here in 50 minutes, we’ve got an urgent assignment from the newsdesk,” Becky said breezily, clutching two Kamikaze Kev smoothies and entering Henry’s bungalow with the familiarity that comes from years spent ironically grinding beneath mirror balls.

Becky and Henry had bonded at The Daily Terror in the new-ish millennium after a celebratory lunch following the front page unmasking of the Eastern Suburbs Excretor, a fibre-rich vigilante who delivered steaming missives on early morning jogs.

The bulk of the party had disappeared to Hugo’s Lounge in crumpled Country Road suits, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mimi Macpherson, while Becky and Henry escaped to the queue of Palms Nightclub on Oxford St.

Refusing to let Becky in because of her open-toed shoes, a ploy to extinguish the oestrogen in gay bars, the bouncer gave in when Henry deftly removed the black socks stuffed down the front of his jeans, rolling them, still-warm, over her patent leather Peep Toes.

From then on they were inseparable.

In the noughties he was her fairy godfather, and she was his fag hag but today they had to make do with the less salubrious sobriquets of allies.

Henry had helped in the transformation of Rebekah Chung to Becky Cummerbund, dragging her away from a black sea of figure-devouring Japanese designs.

“I’m sorry Becky but no one ever got laid wearing Akira,” he said sagely.

Cue the montage of Rebekah becoming Becky, with form-fitting, cap-sleeved dresses in pinks and blues from Rebecca Vallance and Ginger & Smart.

Cut to Becky being promoted to the celebrity beat on The Morning Show, despite almost losing her job for wearing the same Carla Zampatti blazer as a newsreader on a hard-hitting panel discussing Kate Middleton’s fringe.

She jokingly christened Henry ‘my cameraman’, taking him on as many assignments as the newsroom’s shrinking budget would allow. Luckily this trip was being sponsored by the launch of Sam Newman’s new fragrance Tolerance.

“Well this was a waste of time,” Becky said, sipping on the smoothie, which tasted suspiciously like the Oxford Smash cocktails she had once lived on at Gilligan’s Bar.

“You didn’t get any action either?” Henry consoled.

“No,” she sighed in exasperation. “I wanted to help Matilda but instead I seem to have wandered into a How to Host A Murder Party where no one is sure who the host is, let alone the murderer.”

“Well there’s no denying that Maya Churchill thinks she’s top dog,” Henry said, piling the hotel’s toiletries, tea bags and a shower cap for good measure, into his swelling bag.

“Have you noticed that even at breakfast she seems to be wearing more make-up than a drag queen. She’s changing outfits for every meal and keeps turning to the light. I haven’t seen such a commitment to good angles since Ariana Grande had me removed from a press conference for filming the right side of her face.”

Becky had crossed paths with Maya not long after receiving her boss’s message, at an area of the island which bizarrely sent her phone from no signal to enough 5G to upset half of Byron Bay.

Growing up she had idolised the actress in the acclaimed miniseries All The Rivers Used To Run and here she was, saluting the sun, flawlessly kitted out in the latest pieces from Rebel Wilson’s activewear collection.

It was as though the actress was performing a workout video to an invisible audience. Things got even stranger when Mother Champion showed up, entering a downward dog wearing a spangled bodysuit swiped from Rhonda Burchmore at the opening of Melbourne’s Crown Casino in 1997.

“Well we’ve interviewed everyone and we’re no closer to getting any answers, just self-serving monologues,” Becky said. “And the newsroom want us on this story immediately.”

“And what story’s bigger than a murder?”

“We’re off to Australia Zoo… Bindi Irwin has gone into labour.”

At the jetty there was a commotion around the seaplane, with a disconcertingly effusive McCredden insisting on loading their bags. Mother Champion and Maya Churchill, wearing Alex Perry dresses and enough foundation to make Napoleon Perdis wince, helped them aboard, dabbing away invisible tears from smoky eyes.

“We’ll be back for answers,” a sleepy Becky said in as professional a voice as she could muster, while the door closed on a sea of faces ranging from despairing to strangely relieved.

Within minutes they were in the air and peering down, Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that the island looked like a movie set, with hidden huts and antennas that had escaped his attention fading from view. He even thought he saw cameras in the trees, before a final sip of Kamikaze Kev’s smoothie sent him to sleep.

Waking up to incessant rattling from the backpack at his feet, Henry bent down to examine a bloodied wooden handle jutting from his backpack. At that moment, he caught the well-built pilot appreciating the exposed label of his underpants.

“Luck at last,” was his final thought before the plane exploded.

Read on: Chapter 20

Australia’s favourite writers, from Tom Keneally to Trent Dalton, are collaborating on our summer novel. To join the fun, read from the very beginning with Caroline Overington’s Chapter 1 or go to ohmatilda.com.au

Damien Woolnough is one of Australia’s most highly esteemed fashion journalists and editors. He was fashion editor of The Australian and founding editor of vogue.com.au and has worked for titles including Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, InStyle, The Australian Women’s Weekly and many more.

@damienwoolnough