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My leg is jiggling under the table. Above it, I’m flicking a sugar packet back and forth. I’ve counted eleven tings of the bell on the café door. He’s late. Twelve. This time my glance is rewarded. I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Maybe this is a bad idea.
Harry strolls towards the café counter, hands in his pockets, surveying the room. He’s just as hot as I remember, but what’s with the suit again? His tie dangles loosely, à la Rat Pack style. The café’s not huge. It shouldn’t take him long to spot me. It’s noisy though, distracting.
He’s looking in the wrong section of the café. Should I wave? No. This is such a bad idea. I grab my jacket and bag and start to slide off the bench seat. If I’m quick, I can sneak off. That’s if the doorbell doesn’t give me away.
Too late. The grin that breaks across his face is startling, and I suddenly remember something Mum once said: ‘A beautiful smile doesn’t make a beautiful soul.’ She may have been wrong. He’s coming towards me. Nothing to do now but act casual.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asks.
A flush heats my face, and I look away because I’m crap at lying. ‘Just thought it might be a bit selfish to take up a whole booth with just the two of us.’
He eyes my bag. ‘Nah. You were leaving.’
‘No.’ There’s an awkward moment where we both know the truth. I sigh. ‘Yes.’ I slip back onto the bench.
‘I didn’t think I was that late. Sorry. I sent you a text. Didn’t you get it?’
I shake my head, dig my phone out of my bag, and there’s his message. ‘Didn’t hear it. Too noisy in here.’ Let him think that’s the reason I was about to skitter.
He slides onto the bench opposite me. ‘So, I bet you’re wondering if the city has corrupted me? Turned me into a stalker who picks up pretty bartenders in pubs?’ He lowers his voice and leans forward. ‘You can relax. It definitely has.’
‘That’s a relief.’ I hang on the word ‘pretty’.
He laughs. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Nothing, I’ve still got my shake.’
‘Raspberry. Right?’
‘Wow. You remember.’
My sarcasm might be a little much, but he doesn’t flinch. He stands. ‘You’re not going to run away while I go order, are you?’
‘Tempting, but no.’ I screw up my nose in lieu of adding something pithier.
It’s weird, but while he’s standing at the counter, I’m anticipating his return. It’s as though I’ve been warming myself by a fire, then stepped away. Suddenly it’s cold, and I’m yearning for the heat again.
‘So, long time no speak,’ he says when he returns. ‘I didn’t think you were going to call.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘Why did you?’
‘My circumstances changed.’
‘Spell oblique.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘So, riddle me this. Why are you getting about in a suit when you’re a student?’
‘Jazz.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve switched to jazz. It’s goes with the scene, and I kinda like it.’
‘A hipster in disguise.’
He frowns, looks puzzled. I stroke my chin. He does the same with his beard. ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘Convenient. Saves me shaving every day.’
‘Didn’t know laziness was in fashion.’
‘Ouch.’
That was rude. I should apologise. But I’m cranky, confused. It’s not true that old friendships always pick up where they left off – even if ours feels as though it might. Too much time has eaten away at the edges of what was between us. Hasn’t it?
‘So, what made you call?’ he asks again.
I pull out his note and smooth it over the table. The scribbled message reads:
Need a singer. Work waiting. Call me. Harry.
I turn it over. On the back is a class schedule for the Victorian College of the Arts. ‘I thought you might need this ... for school.’
‘Oh? Thanks.’ He folds and slips it into his pocket.
I’m relieved he’s cool enough not to make a big deal of my weak excuse. Especially since I haven’t figured out my own motivations yet.
‘Your schedule looks busy.’
‘Actually ... I’ve decided to take a gap year.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a CD. I don’t recognise the cover, but I know the artist’s name: Josh Maker. He’s on the radio all the time. Harry turns it over and points to the first track listed on the back – Josh’s first hit single. ‘See that? I wrote it.’
‘You did not.’ I grab the CD and examine it closely. There, in fine print under the song title, it says: Words and music by H Carter. ‘Wow. I’m impressed.’
Harry takes the CD back and pushes it aside. ‘Yes, well so were the masses for a while. Now I’ve got to come up with another one.’
A waitress brings over an iced coffee. Harry sips it, then adds sugar. I have no idea what to say next, so I blurt the first thing that pops into my head.
‘I lost my job.’
‘That’s bad luck.’
‘Not really. It sucked. My boss sucked. The whole place sucked.’
‘No more Karaoke Queen.’ He smirks.
I smirk back. ‘At least I won’t have Snap berating me for my pathetic cocktail skills. One bartending course, and he thinks he’s Tom Cruise or ... whoever.’ I can’t think of any contemporary comparisons.
‘He sounds like a character.’
‘He is. He’s ... my best friend.’
Harry doesn’t react. It wasn’t a deliberate barb. It’s just how things are now. Silence hangs between us. He sips. I sip. It’s ridiculous, so I address the white elephant.
‘Sorry I cut you off. Back then.’
He looks surprised. ‘We’re going there already?’
I shrug. ‘No point delaying the inevitable.’
‘Guess not.’
‘So, you’re not going to dob me in?’
‘For what?’
Seriously? I give him a hard look. ‘Let’s not play games.’
‘I’m not a player.’ He says it simply. He means it. ‘Accidents happen.’
‘I’m not going back.’
‘No-one’s making you. Although, Gran would love to know you’re okay.’
I shrug. ‘I’m sure you’ll tell her.’ That sounded sarcastic. I’m not meaning to be ungrateful, Mary was incredibly kind to me, but I don’t want reminders. ‘I have a new life now.’
He nods. Plays with his straw. Tries to pat the blob of ice cream under the milky coffee. ‘Some life,’ he murmurs, then changes the subject before I can respond. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come back for Samuel’s funeral.’
‘Yeah. Me too. Don’t know if I can forgive you for that one.’
I take a long pull of my shake to avoid his gaze, then look out the window. It’s a bittersweet feeling. All this honesty. He reaches towards me, and I jerk away.
‘Don’t!’ I’m shocked at myself. ‘Sorry, but don’t touch me, okay?’
He looks awkward. ‘Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to ... you have something in your hair.’
I’m too embarrassed, too tense to reach up and feel what it is. This is too hard. ‘Well, you look great. Apart from the face wool.’
His expression tells me he’s having trouble keeping up. He strokes his beard. ‘Why? Don’t you like it?’
‘You look like Ned Kelly.’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll shave it off then.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
I laugh, but then he asks how Mum is, and it’s like a sandbag has landed on me.
‘Okay, I suppose. I call to check how she is, but she wouldn’t know who I was if I spoke to her.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘I guess. I try not to think about it.’
He looks contemplative, as if he’s deciding whether to say something. I’m pretty sure I know what it is. I change the subject.
‘So, you’re for real? The music, I mean. It’s all happening for you?’
‘Has happened. Was happening. I’ve got to make it work again.’
‘Uh huh. And what’s this “work waiting” thing? What’s it got to do with me?’
He smiles like I’m so amusing. ‘Talent. Writing one hit song does not a lifetime fortune make. I’m branching into management.’
‘But you’re not even finished college yet.’
‘I’m getting ahead of the pack. I want to move now, while I’ve still got industry contacts from my first song. Besides, you’re here now so why not? I’ve always liked your voice, even if you never appreciated it.’
‘I appreciate it. I just know my limits.’
‘I don’t think you do. I think you’re scared.’
This makes me blush because he’s right. ‘But ... you want to manage me?’
‘I know. Weird huh? There you were on stage after years of no contact. I thought it was a sign.’
I frown. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘Maybe. At the very least, I’ll land you some gigs. I’ve already got a few semi-regular ones myself – a couple a week – pay’s not great, but together we should be able to get more. Pay the rent so to speak.’
‘But what would I have to do?’
He lowers his voice, making it all raspy. ‘Give up a pint of blood, an arm and a leg, and promise your soul to the music industry devil.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly.
‘Spell Quixote.’
‘Spell shut up and drink your shake.’
‘Fork you.’
We both laugh, and it feels scarily good. I look out the window as Harry stirs his iced coffee, spoon clinking on glass. Outside, the hot north wind has picked up. It creates a little eddy of dirt with bits of discarded paper. I think how Harry left in summer, and now he’s back in summer. Random. I turn to him.
‘If we’re going to do this, you can’t tell anyone back home.’
‘You want me to lie?’
‘It’s not lying,’ I reason. ‘You’re just not talking about it.’
‘But at least let my gran know. She’s been worried sick about you.’
This strikes me hard. Poor Mary. ‘She shouldn’t be. I left a message for her, at Mum’s hospice. I said I was okay.’
‘You’ve changed your mobile phone number too, so she couldn’t check. That wasn’t fair.’
He’s got me there. ‘Well ...’
‘Just call her. Nothing bad will happen.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got my reasons. Look, I won’t get all up in your business, you don’t get up in mine. Okay?’
He doesn’t look happy, but he nods.
