The hemsworth effect, p.5
The Hemsworth Effect, page 5
Rob cackled and started skating in a zig-zag, slowly heading towards the driveway, tempting Aimee to stop her.
‘Hey!’ Aimee hopped off the crate and skated after her.
The dog jumped onto the bed. ‘Guys, Charlie’s in charge!’ Rob declared to the kids. ‘Don’t make him cry again.’ She whizzed out of the carpark and jumped off the gutter onto the black bitumen of the quiet side street. By the time Aimee caught up, Hot Ew Girl was gone.
‘Quick!’ Rob tossed Aimee her Gatorade bottle and kept going, determined to find the alleged Iron Maiden fan.
‘You are not doing this – I’m turning around,’ Aimee whisper-yelled. It was a false threat.
They rounded the corner and skated down Jonson Street. The main drag was buzzing with people heading out for the night and others heading home from the beach. The pair dodged through tourists eating YoFlo and weaved between the banked-up luxury vehicles that were heading towards Main Beach. As they rolled past the Beach Hotel and into the carpark above the water, a crowd came into view on the grass under the pine trees. About a hundred people. Lots of them holding big cardboard signs with slogans scrawled on them in black pen.
BIN THE BRATS
BRATS ARE TRASH
BAN INSTA BABES IN BYRON BAY
Some of the signs were less creative.
#FUCKOFF
‘Aimee!’ yelled Xanthe, a fellow business owner in town who had a store that only sold things made out of burlap. She was standing at the front of the crowd on a bunch of milk crates that were pushed together to make a platform. The group parted. Aimee clomped her rollerblades across the grass. When she got to the front, she saw TV news cameras filming everywhere. Xanthe lifted a megaphone to her mouth and addressed the camera directly. ‘Aimee has been living here since she was born. If anyone understands the destruction a TV show like this will do to our town, it’s her.’
Aimee moved closer. ‘What is this about?’ she whispered.
Xanthe bent down. ‘The Brats of Byron Bay reality show that’s filming here. We’re protesting. If local business owners don’t grant filming permission, they can’t—’
‘Yeah, I know, then they can’t…’ She closed her eyes and didn’t finish the sentence. ‘… Moe told me.’
‘Come on.’ Xanthe held her hands out to pull Aimee up. ‘Say something. It means more coming from you.’
Rob had clomped to the front of the crowd – just as Aimee hoisted her rollerblades up onto the makeshift platform – and pulled her phone out to film, clearly loving every second of what was unfolding.
A reporter fired a question. ‘What do you think of a sexed-up reality show filming in your town?’
Aimee held out her arms and fluttered her eyelids, trying to find the energy to engage in the absurdity. ‘I think… it’s… ridiculous?’ She shrugged. ‘The last thing we need is reality TV trashbaggery – what’s it called? Twats of Byron Bay?’
The crowd whooped and Xanthe handed Aimee the megaphone. The news camera people pepped up and manoeuvered into better positions. Aimee filled the space with more talk.
‘… They’re running around in those… weird G-string bikinis with all the thin straps. Are those bikinis only single-use? They look like they’d tangle up in a knot like a pair of headphones when you pull them out of your bag.’
Applause. Cheers. Aimee had warmed up. Her shoulders loosened and she gripped the megaphone comfortably.
‘I swear to god – it’s The Hemsworth Effect. That’s what’s ruining Byron Bay. Now no one who grew up here can even afford to live in the town anymore. Do you wanna move to Casino? That’s where we’re gonna end up. We may as well just move there now and start the revolution. And did you see Hemsworth’s crapped off for the summer? Went to Lord Howe Island and left us to deal with the mess. King of The Top 400 Club.’
‘Yeah, right on!’ Rob started blowing the silver whistle that was strung around her neck. It egged on the already-rowdy group.
‘You know, first came the Hemsworths, then the limousines. The night I saw a limo pull up out the front of Orgasmic Falafel in Bay Lane is the night I knew this town was gone.’
The crowd went nuts.
‘Who the hell rides in a limousine to get falafel? I mean, really.’
‘What about Freya?’ a voice yelled. It was familiar. The crowd parted to show Bada Bing. ‘Your niece. Freya. She’s one of the Brats.’
Aimee stared blanky ahead and the world around her started to spin. Suddenly, the crowd of protesters and the news cameras seemed to multiply until the glare of the setting sun turned her vision to white. She felt one of her rollerblades slip involuntarily and shoot forward. Then the milk crate busted out from underneath her and she collapsed to the ground.
The crowd gasped at the spectacle and the news cameras pushed closer.
‘Guess Who, Don’t Sue,’ Bada Bing said with a wry smile.
EIGHT
Aimee took a sip of her champagne just as the frost from the packet of frozen Potato Gems she’d placed on her bandaged knee began to drip onto the velvet couch. Onions spattered from the kitchen, where Charlie was being attentive and cooking up a Mexican dinner to distract Aimee from her public face-plant. Rob was scrolling through Stevie Nicks songs on her iPhone and playing them loudly over the wireless sound system.
‘Is this the seven dollar Aldi champagne or the twenty-one dollar Aldi champagne?’ Rob smacked her tongue on the roof of her mouth while holding her glass up in her left hand. The opening guitar riff to ‘Edge of Seventeen’ chugged in the background. ‘Because the seven dollar Aldi champagne actually tastes better than the twenty-one dollar Aldi champagne. A lot of people don’t know that.’
Aimee nodded. ‘It’s the seven dollar Aldi champagne.’
The music jumped and skipped and blipped as Rob switched and scrolled between songs. ‘OK, how about we perform “Little Lies”?’ She scrolled through the song until it started playing the chorus.
Aimee shook her head. ‘That’s a Christine McVie song. I thought you wanted Stevie?’
Rob held up an A4 music festival flyer. HOT CANYON NIGHTS was printed in big swoopy seventies-style font at the top and below was the artist line-up – rows and rows of band names that shrank in size the lower down the page they were. The Girly Boys were somewhere near the bottom. A big illustration was splashed across it in pinks and oranges and blues, loosely resembling Byron. Loosely. The lighthouse was the only vaguely recognisable thing. And there weren’t really any canyons in the area. Every electrical pole in town was plastered with the poster, advertising one of the biggest music events of the summer. It always fell on the third Saturday of January – just before holidaymakers started packing up and returning to their normal lives. The first time Charlie’s band played it, Rob and Aimee crashed the stage after too much tequila and performed an impromptu cover of Concrete Blonde’s ‘Joey’. Their special guest appearance had become an annual tradition and Rob spent far too much time throughout the year selecting the song they’d sing. ‘We need to stand out. Stevie Nicks is hot again ever since that viral video of Cowabunga Cat. I mean, obviously she’s never not been hot. But Cowabunga Cat got her to number one on the charts again.’
Aimee sighed. ‘I have no idea what that is.’
Rob closed her eyes. ‘Are you seriously telling me you haven’t seen the video of that Sphynx cat riding a surfboard while Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” plays?’
‘Jeez Aimee, read the news,’ Charlie teased.
‘Anyway, the video sent the song back to number one so I really feel like we should do a Stevie song, but not an obvious one. Other people will probably have the same idea and do covers of “Dreams”. Which is annoying. I mean, it’s almost as if Gen Z doesn’t realise our generation already stole Stevie and reclaimed her as our own. That’s why “Little Lies” is a genius choice.’ She jumped to her feet and started doing on-the-spot twirls while playing air tambourine. ‘A lot of people think “Little Lies” is a Christine McVie song just because she wrote it and sings lead – but Stevie steals her thunder with that one-line monotone harmony in the chorus.’ Her voice went all nasally as she impersonated Stevie. She twirled over to the kitchen to dance with Charlie. He played air guitar on a fry pan.
‘No Christine songs.’ Aimee tore open a corner of the Potato Gems bag and picked one out to see if it tasted OK raw.
Rob skipped back to the living room, flopped on the floor, and then popped her head up in Aimee’s lap. ‘Is this because, deep down, you know that you’re the Christine and I’m the Stevie?’
Aimee almost choked on her uncooked Potato Gem. She picked more of the carby balls out of the packet and started throwing them at Rob, who crawled away and cowered behind an old tan leather club chair.
‘You’re the Christine!’ Aimee yelled as the Potato Gems shattered everywhere.
Rob poked her head out. ‘You’re the Christine! Always living in my shadow!’
Charlie stepped in. ‘Guys. It’s my band. I’m letting you guest star on one song. And, because of that… I get to be Stevie.’
‘He’s the Christine!’ Rob tackled him onto the couch.
Freya opened the front door to the apartment and Aimee popped her head up to look over the back of the sofa.
‘Um, hey TV star,’ Aimee said.
‘Hey Byron Karen. Aren’t you the lady from the memes?’
As Aimee tried to comprehend what the hell any of that even meant, Rob had already started tapping away on her iPhone.
‘Oh. My. GOD.’ Rob held up her phone to show the Twitter trending chart. ‘Byron Karen’ was number one. Rob scrolled through the tweets and news links. She paused Stevie and pressed play on a video news report.
Reporter voiceover: Once known for peace and love, Byron Bay is now in the grips of a battle – with furious locals taking to the streets to protest the rise of celebrities and influencers. Tension erupted today at a rally opposing a controversial new reality show set to film in the sleepy paradise.
The video clip cut to Aimee holding the megaphone at the protest – and the footage had been clipped up to showcase her best bits.
The last thing we need is reality TV trashbaggery. Twats of Byron Bay. I swear to God – it’s The Hemsworth Effect. That’s what’s ruining Byron Bay. First came the Hemsworths, then the limousines. The night I saw a limo pull up out the front of Orgasmic Falafel in Bay Lane is the night I knew this town was gone. Who the hell rides in a limousine to get falafel? I mean, really.
Aimee knew what was coming next. She watched through barely-opened eyes. In five, four, three, two…
The footage cut to a wide-shot of her stacking it off the milk crates. Ooft.
Reporter voiceover: It seems the mecca of mindfulness and meditation hasn’t rubbed off on everyone – particularly the cranky local the internet has now dubbed Byron Karen.
Aimee flopped back on the couch, picked up the bag of Potato Gems and plonked it down on her face. ‘You know, I really thought having my loan application rejected by Narissa would be the worst thing to happen to me today.’
Rob put her chin on Aimee’s knee. ‘Really? Cause… I thought it’d be seeing your fiancé with a hot twenty-year-old who called you ew.’
Even with her face covered by a bag of freezer food, it was clear what look Aimee was shooting at Rob.
‘Sorry,’ Rob whispered. ‘Also, it’s Nichelle.’
‘Wait.’ Aimee sat up. She turned to Freya, pointed an arm and clicked her fingers. ‘Reality show. Starring you. Explain.’
Freya walked to the fridge. ‘I’m sure I mentioned it at the mechanic today…’ She poured a glass of the Aldi champagne.
Aimee spun around on the couch to give her a raised eyebrow.
‘Maybe you just didn’t hear me say it. Def Leppard was playing very loud.’ The champagne started frothing over the glass and Freya licked it up.
‘Don’t blame this on Def Leppard.’
Freya dipped her finger into the pan for a taste of the simmering red sauce and Charlie playfully swatted her away. She walked over to the couch and flopped on the floor with Rob.
‘OK, so. I was at the beach a few days ago and a producer from the show came up and started chatting and talking about The Brats of Byron Bay. They’re filming over the summer… It’s about this family who’ve moved here from Sydney… and some of the daughter’s friends…’ she trailed off. ‘I don’t really know. But they asked if I’d be keen to be on it and I said yes. It’s fun. And they pay me, even on the days I don’t need to film anything.’ She picked up one of the rogue Potato Gems off the floor and pressed it between her fingers. ‘And…’ She paused and smirked.
Rob pepped up. ‘They’re looking to cast a hip, fun local hairdresser – who looks much younger than she is – to also be one of the rich daughter’s friends?’
‘Close…’ Freya nodded facetiously. ‘I was filming with them this arvo. And then everyone started seeing the Byron Karen memes on Instagram. And Heath, one of the executive producers, was talking about how he’d kill to cast you on the show…’
There was no way to even describe the disgusted sound that came out of Aimee’s mouth. But everyone knew what it translated to: No.
It didn’t deter Freya from pressing on with her pitch. ‘And… I may have said that I’m a close, personal relation of Byron Karen…’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And I also may have told him that it would take a lot to get you to agree… And he said he’d pay big to have Byron Karen on The Brats of Byron Bay.’
Freya jumped onto the couch and sat on Aimee’s legs. ‘Come on… I thought you were my cool, glamorous aunt who lives in Byron Bay.’ She started doing the Marcia Brady thumb dance.
‘How dare you use the Marcia Brady thumb dance for evil.’
Rob crawled up onto the couch with them. ‘If Aimee says no, can I be Byron Karen?’ She pushed her shaggy hair out of her face. ‘And I wanna have a catchphrase. All the best reality show contestants have a catchphrase. I’m thinking something like: I’ll have that, with cheese.’
Aimee pointed. ‘Yes. Get Rob to do it. I’m sure Australia would love to follow her life – it’s just too bad the TV cameras didn’t catch her making out with that dorky dad at Music Club last night.’
Rob gagged. ‘Ugh, the weird dad in the beige polo shirt. That was a lapse in judgement. We’ll never speak of it again.’
‘Nope. Charlie filmed you guys making out and that video clip needs to be messaged to me ASAP, please,’ she called over her shoulder to Charlie.
Freya nudged Aimee. ‘You’ve got a big problem. This is an easy solution.’
Rob agreed. ‘Right now I’m reading Matthew McConaughey’s memoir, Greenlights, and it’s all about following the green lights when they present themselves. Admit it, Aimee: Byron Karen is your green light.’
‘Are you really quoting Matthew McConaughey?’
‘It was hard to do with a straight face.’
Aimee sighed. ‘My livelihood may be—’
‘Crumbling?’ Rob interjected.
‘My livelihood has… a question mark over it. But, before succumbing to a reality show that’s ruining my town, I’m prepared to make money another way.’
Rob scrunched her face. ‘So you’re gonna start an OnlyFans?’
Aimee ignored her. ‘I’m selling Mum and Dad’s antiques.’ The others moaned in protest but she raised her hands. ‘They’ve been sitting in Tim’s mum’s garage since I was… what, eighteen?’
‘Firstly, that’s not gonna get you the amount of cash you need,’ Rob said. ‘More importantly: I think you’ll regret it.’
Aimee talked over her. ‘It’s already decided. I’ve booked a stall at the markets.’
‘What if Charlie starts an OnlyFans?’ Rob proposed.
Charlie turned around from the stove and tossed a tea towel over his shoulder while strutting over. ‘I’d totally do an OnlyFans.’ He flopped down on the floor.
Aimee stifled a smile. ‘I’ve heard the noises that come from your bedroom and I have no doubt many people would subscribe to your OnlyFans.’
Rob went back to the Stevie tunes. ‘Dreams’ started playing over the speaker. ‘Hey Aimee?’ Her voice cracked as the intro floated through the living room. She looked up at her best friend and drew circles with her forefinger on the couch fabric. ‘I’ve got a serious question.’
Aimee’s eyes softened. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hypothetical situation: You’re held at gunpoint and told you have to live the rest of your life as someone else. Who do you choose: Christine McVie or Byron Karen?’
NINE
Opening the roller door disrupted the dust that had settled on all the worn timber surfaces of the antiques that filled the garage. The particles clouded the air, floating out around Aimee in the Saturday morning light. She stood in the driveway, staring at all the furniture stacked up on top of each other. There were old pine chests of drawers squeezed underneath farmhouse tables. A long cane daybed. Two or three marble-topped washstands. Mismatched chairs. Curios. Lots of those bluey-greeny glass fishing floats wrapped in old rope nets – the ones that had become very trendy in recent years and added to home interiors in order to give a beachy feel, no matter how far away from the beach the house actually was. Several church pews were lined up next to each other. Aimee had one of the benches in her apartment but couldn’t fit the rest.
Tim reversed his old grey Toyota HiLux into the driveway behind her with ease – not even needing to glance around to make sure he didn’t swipe the brick mailbox or the fence on either side of the tight space. It was the house he grew up in. Aimee remembered the times Tim would sneak her over after school, when his mum would still be at work at her wellness clinic in Bangalow. The low-set seventies-style brick house hadn’t changed. The roller door was still an unfortunate shade of brown. Everything about the house was an unfortunate shade of brown. It had started to look out of place in the cul-de-sac. Neighbouring houses had been getting sold in the property boom. Even ones that weren’t actually for sale. Out-of-towners had just started going around the city and making offers on random homes. There was a rumour in Tim’s street that the owners of the ugliest house on the strip got a call one day from some people in Sydney who offered a million dollars over the phone, just like that. Hadn’t even seen the house. They’d accepted. Like most other recent sales in the area, the property was transformed to look like a weird spaceship house – all steel and glass and concrete.
