Number One Fan. Narrelle M Harris
‘I’m not sceptical,’ Pete protested. ‘I just don’t know why we need a builder of soundproof rooms to close in a veranda. I could close in the veranda.’
‘Peter,’ Olivia mock-scowled. ‘You have many fine skills but I won’t have you and your ex-police friends doing to our veranda what you did with the barbecue and the patio. Now shoo.’
‘You can show it to me too.’ Angela took Milo by the hand and tugged. ‘Soundproofing the nursery might be just the thing this time.’
Milo let himself be led out. ‘You’re pretty much begging for me to show off my guitar collection,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a new Les Paul.’
‘Isn’t that the drag queen?’ Pete’s exaggerated innocence collapsed into laughter at Milo’s expression as the three of them went from the old 19th century terrace house into the modern extension, completed only a month ago.
Olivia swirled wine around her glass as she watched them leave. ‘He’s trying a bit hard tonight.’
‘We had a slightly weird day. The Foundation office is finally set up, so Paolo’s been on his mind. It’s all been on his mind. He had to take the stairs again.’
Olivia closed her eyes and drew in a breath, held it, to keep tears at bay.
‘He has way more good days than bad,’ Frank said. ‘It doesn’t matter that he prefers the stairs. He’s writing songs. He loves the park over the road. He’s madly in love with that new guitar of his. He’s okay.’
‘Are you?’
Frank couldn’t meet her concerned gaze for long. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s all right for you not to be fine, Frank.’
‘I know. But it’s okay for me to be okay, too.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Of course it is.’ She rose and began to clear the table. ‘The house is looking fantastic. You look very settled in.’
‘We’ve had a whole month without builders around. It’s great.’ Frank emptied scraps into the bin and began to fill the dishwasher. ‘We don’t even owe the bank a cent for it. We got enough from the sale of Steven and Kev’s Fremantle place to cover the house, the renovation and the extension. However the new album goes, we’ve got a roof over our heads. Five minutes from Lygon Street, a park right over the road, and walking distance to the city on a sunny day.’
‘Milo grew up in Carlton, you know.’
‘He said. He took me on a tour of all his favourite ristorantes and teenaged busking spots. We did a café crawl and got so wired on coffee shots and gelato I think we almost bid against ourselves at the auction.’
For years, Frank had sat on his inheritance from his mentor Steven, unable to live in the riverside Fremantle house where he’d lived after Steven and Kev had found him, a runaway from a home that didn’t want a queer son. The house where Steven had lived his last days in illness; where Kevin had so brutally died in the madness of ’99. That was long before the horrors that had killed Paolo and nearly taken Milo from him.
Frank and Milo had just been coming up for air, with a promising new album, when the Botanic Gardens serial killings had smashed them all to pieces again. Momentum kept them going for a while, but the wheels came off spectacularly half way through the Ain’t Love Grand Tour.
They’d made the contractually obliged and critically lauded studio album two years later, but touring was right out. Milo still saw his therapist every few months. ‘Just for a top-up,’ he joked. And so what if Milo still couldn’t bear enclosed spaces sometimes? Being tied up and locked in a car boot, waiting to be slaughtered, left understandable scars.
This Carlton house had come at just the right time. It had taken months to get it fixed up – iron lace restored on the eaves and balcony, hardwood floors on both levels. The art nouveau leadlights on the downstairs windows had been cleaned, and so had the etched glass windows and door upstairs. Period plaster details had been repaired, the kitchen refurbished in granite and stainless steel. The tiny garage housed Milo’s Ducati Monster motorbike and Frank’s Kawasaki Ninja. The music room and the back courtyard decking had been added in warm, soothing wood and slate, edged by a small garden bed, ready for planting.
The house was as perfect as Frank could make it. Now Argyle House, overlooking the square of the same name, was their home and their haven. They were safe here.
‘You’ve done a lovely job with the place,’ said Olivia.
‘We like it.’
Laughter heralded Angela, Milo and Pete’s return to the house.
‘But I don’t get it,’ Angela was saying. ‘How many guitars and pianos could you possibly need?’
‘We’ll let you know when we find out,’ Milo promised, tickled by her astonishment.
‘Coffee’s on,’ Frank announced.
‘Mint tea?’ asked Angela. ‘Coffee tastes like muck when I’m pregnant.’
The little housewarming party ended in the front room, on squishy sofas and amid embarrassing stories of childhoods in Perth and Carlton. Pete fessed up to a few of his own, and some precious ones of the son he’d lost long ago.
Milo’s too-brittle energy had dissipated. He curled up with his feet underneath him and quietly encouraged his mother to share the most ridiculous stories of an only child who had charmed half the neighbourhood into letting him do odd jobs so he could buy his first Fender Telecaster.
As everyone was leaving, Milo handed Peter a 15 year old bottle of Glenfiddich to settle their bet, but he’d wrapped it in a tiny Geelong Cats scarf to have the last word.
‘I still win,’ declared Pete, gleefully de-scarfing the bottle.
He sobered suddenly. Curling a hand around the back of Milo’s neck, he planted a quick kiss on his forehead. ‘You take care now, Stepson. And you call me if you ever need me, even if you just want to stick the boot into my footy team. Okay?’
‘The mighty Hawks? More like the mighty Squawks,’ Milo said softly.
‘That’s a good lad.’
Olivia hugged her son hard, then wrenched herself away to hug Frank equally hard while Angela, more circumspect, kissed everyone on the cheek. Promises were made about coming to Cherry Bar on Sunday.
When they’d all gone, Frank stacked the dishwasher and Milo disappeared upstairs. Tidying done, Frank ascended to the bedroom and through the open etched-glass door onto the balcony, where Milo had retreated. He stood behind Milo, arms around his waist, and together they contemplated the silhouettes of Argyle Square’s elm trees against the sky.
‘I said Mum always knows when I’m lying,’ said Milo.
Frank kissed the back of Milo’s neck. Milo sighed and leaned back into Frank’s arms. He began to fiddle with the bracelet. Clack-clack.
‘I am getting better,’ he asserted. ‘I don’t have many days like this.’
‘I know.’ Frank nuzzled at Milo’s hair and kissed his ear. ‘You’re doing really well, babe.’
Milo rested his arms over Frank’s, around his waist. ‘Cherry Bar’s going to be great. And I’ll be fine at the Toff,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take the stairs up. It’s only on the second floor.’
‘Nobody gets in that rickety lift if they can help it anyway.’
Milo didn’t laugh. ‘We might have been famous by now, if I hadn’t gone off my rocker.’
Frank burrowed his nose in Milo’s neck. ‘We might have been dead. It’s not your fault, what happened.’ He kissed Milo’s neck and hugged him close. ‘So hold your ground and look to the