Читать книгу Number One Fan - Narrelle M Harris - Страница 3

‘Lachie, turn this one up, will ya?’

The barista making Frank Capriano’s long black dutifully upped the volume, letting the driving rhythm and the staccato lyric swell into the compact coffee shop.

Door locked

Curtain drawn

Gun cocked

False dawn

When the night is closing in

You let the light in

Frank dug his hands further into his pockets and tucked his chin down, simultaneously trying to hide his face and his pleasure at hearing their new song in public. He surreptitiously tried to see who else was listening to it.

The tattooed waitress who’d asked to hear it delivered cappuccinos to the main table where two customers were pouring over The Age’s gig guide.

‘Isn’t this Duo Ex Machina?’ asked the woman with white, spiked hair as her companion spooned up the foam from his coffee. ‘Didn’t they break up a few years back?’

‘Nah, Suze, they did a studio album two years ago,’ said the barista, frothing milk for the rest of Frank’s order.

‘One of them went loopy, though,’ Suze said.

Frank’s grin vanished. He clenched his teeth on a scathing comment, then stared up at the ceiling. A forest of wooden chairs hung from it. He decided to count chair legs until he could resist responding.

The song played on.

You let the light in (light in)

You are the sunlight (starshine)

You let the bright in (light in)

You are the hope in my heart (you’re mine)

‘They didn’t break up,’ said Suze's companion, ‘though I think you’re right about the guitarist going loopy. He got kidnapped by that serial killer, remember? That’s gotta fuck you up, even if you’re the one who got away. Look, though.’ He tapped a column in the newspaper. ‘Duo Ex Machina’s on at Cherry Bar this weekend.’

‘Not-so-secret gig, hey? They used to be good. We should check them out.’

Frank shoved a twenty at the barista and didn’t wait for the change, but found he couldn’t open the door with his hands full.

Someone reached past him to pull the door inwards, allowing Frank to dash out onto Little Bourke Street. He meant to throw a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder, but the chivalrous stranger was following.

‘You’re Frank Capriano, aren’t you?’ said the barista.

Frank didn’t answer. The barista’s eyes lit up in definite recognition.

‘Yeah, you are,’ he said, pale skin flushing pink. ‘I’m a huge fan of you guys. I’ve got all your albums, even the Amsterdam ones from the early days. I love those. That’s Milo Bertolone on lead vocal in Let the Light In, isn’t it?’ The barista nodded back towards the café. Through the glass door, Frank could see the waitress’ lips moving as she sang along while wiping down the espresso machine.

‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘Milo wrote it.’

The barista beamed. ‘He’s sounding great. How’s he doing?’ He asked like a friend would; like someone who knew Milo.

‘Good,’ said Frank tersely, which wasn’t a lie exactly, but the truth wasn’t anybody else’s business.

‘It’s great. It’s great to hear you guys again. I’ve got all your albums, did I say? Even the studio album you did after the Ain’t Love Grand Tour went tits up. I mean, I know the critics said it was dark, not pop really, but I loved it. The new album’s terrific. Sink or Swim yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I love that track. So you’re at Cherry Bar on Sunday?’

Well, the cat had never been in the bag on that one. ‘Yep.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Great. I. Uh. Better get…’

‘No chance of an autograph?’

Frank lifted the trio of takeaway coffee cups still held awkwardly in his fingers. ‘Bit busy, mate.’

‘Shit, yeah, sorry. Better get those where they’re going before they get cold, eh? Next lot, on the house, eh? I’m Lachie. Ask for me and I’ll sort you, okay?’

‘Thanks. Lachie. I’d best–’

‘Yeah, all good. Have a top day, Frank. Can’t tell you how stoked I am you guys are performing again.’

Frank nodded and strode away. Foam spilled out of the narrow mouth of one of the lids, dribbling over his fingers. He kept walking and concentrated on breathing.

When he got to Hardware Lane he shouldered open the door at the corner and stalked to the lifts, then couldn’t work out how to summon it with his hands full. When knuckle, wrist and elbow failed to make an impression on the button, he lifted his foot and kicked the damned thing.

The fire door leading to the stairs opened as he did, and there stood Milo, eyebrows arched high. ‘I’m confident you have the best of motives for abusing our new office,’ he said, passing Frank to clear a letterbox opposite the elevator.

‘Always.’

‘Tell me how it offended you,’ said Milo gravely, ‘and I’ll set my stepdad onto it. Bet it's afraid of hardass ex-cops. Mum doesn't put up with much bullshit either.’

Frank huffed out a laugh. ‘Just grab one of these would you?’ He brandished the cups. Milo tucked the single letter he’d retrieved into his pocket, then took two of the cups from Frank. Frank was finally able to jab the button. The doors opened and he stepped in.

Milo stared into the little space. The mirrored back and sides didn’t give the illusion of space so much as of a too-shiny cage. Milo glanced back towards the fire door. Frank held the lift doors open.

‘I’ll take one of those lattes,’ Frank said, ‘and meet you on the first.’

‘Nah, I’m good,’ Milo stepped into the lift. ‘It’s only one floor.’ The elevator closed behind him before he could change his mind.

Then Milo noticed the residue of foam on Frank’s fingers. He let the lattes tilt precariously as he bent to lick and then suck at Frank’s skin. As distraction techniques went, it was very effective.

‘You can keep licking if you like,’ suggested Frank.

Milo waggled cheeky eyebrows at his boyfriend. ‘I’ll debauch you at home,’ he promised. ‘I don’t want to give our new work neighbours a floor show.’

‘We'll save it for the sex tape.’ Frank pressed his lips lightly to Milo’s just as the lift arrived on the first floor.

They passed the costume shop, walked down a dog-leg to the east side of the building, to a door which stood ajar.

Frank sipped his coffee as he looked around the new office. It consisted of this room and another through a door on the left, which opened, a woman popping out, a screwdriver in one hand and a metal sign in the other.

‘I bring Melbourne’s finest coffee, Tessa!’

‘Best boss ever!’ the woman declared. ‘Let me put this up first.’

Frank held the sign in place while Tessa affixed the sign.

‘Lazy beggar,’ Frank said fondly to the watching Milo.

‘Every artist needs an audience, and hanging signs straight is definitely an art form.’ Milo applauded appropriately when Tessa had finished. She held the door open so they could all admire it.

“The Paolo Cruz Foundation” was etched in black on the silver background. Frank thought that Milo would have preferred something flashier, more in keeping with the Paolo he’d known, but the low-key, low-cost sign had been Milo’s choice. ‘I’d rather spend the money on the kids who need it,’ he said.

‘Phone is going on later today,’ Tessa said between sips of her coffee, ‘and I’ve updated the website with all the new social media stuff. Twitter, Facebook–’

‘Myspace?’ suggested Milo, deadpan.

‘Hell no, that’s on the way out. You don’t want to associate your brand with that. It’s right down there in the prehistoric era with Geocities.’

Frank felt like he was 34 going on 90. ‘YouTube?’ he asked tentatively.

‘We can just link to the stuff from your record company, unless you want a separate channel for the Foundation?’

‘The fundraising songs are separate to the albums, so maybe a separate channel?’ said Milo.

‘No probs. I’ll fix it up this arvo.’

‘You’re worth your weight in coffee, Tessa.’

‘Proper Melbourne currency,’ she laughed.

‘Oh, and this was in the box,’ said Milo, handing her the slightly crumpled envelope from his pocket.

Tessa frowned at it. ‘We haven’t advertised the address yet, have we? Ah, look at this. Not a stamp, even. Someone’s dropped it off. Here.’ She gave the envelope back to him. Typed across the front of it was ‘FROM YOUR NUMBER ONE FAN’. The ink impressions were uneven, so it wasn’t just a computer font. It had been typed on an honest-to-god manual typewriter.

Milo jammed his thumb under the flap. Frank grabbed a letter opener for him instead. With a defiant grin, Milo tore the envelope raggedly open.

‘If I didn’t love you madly, I’d report you for cruel and unusual punishment,’ grumbled Frank.

Milo’s cheeky retort dried up as he unfolded a single sheet of paper. Stuck to its pages were letters snipped out from magazines. The result was ludicrously melodramatic and puzzling.

LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR NEW DUET.

‘Ooookay.’

Tessa plucked the letter from Milo’s fingers.

‘That’s a weird kind of threat. Ominous yet supportive.’ She put it into Frank’s waiting hand, only for Frank to scrunch it up and lob it into the bin.

‘At least it’s not scones,’ said Milo, sipping his coffee.

‘What’s wrong with scones?’ asked Tessa.

‘My mum’s scones? Nothing,’ said Milo.’ Anonymous scones from people who call themselves your number one fan? Absolutely everything.’

‘So if anyone ever sends food, especially if you don’t know the source, bin it,’ Frank added.

‘Bin it?’

‘I don’t care how charmingly home made it looks. Put it in the bin and set it on fire. I’ve heard stories about “secret ingredients” that would curdle your blood.’

‘Ew. Fans are nuts.’

‘Some fans are nuts,’ Milo correct her. ‘99.99 percent of them are lovely–’

‘If a little earnest,’ added Frank, thinking of Lachie.

‘–and most of the .01 are just “ominously supportive”.’

‘It’s that last .001 per cent who shoot presidents to prove their love.’

‘Being famous is weird.’

‘Tell us about it.’

A tap on the door interrupted them.

‘If it’s a free pizza–’ began Milo.

‘Bin it, burn it.’ Tessa nodded as she opened the door to a tall young woman with the same Mediterranean skin tones as Frank and Milo.

‘Gabey!’ Milo said with a sunny grin, pulling her into the office. She would have been taller than him even in bare feet; in heels she towered over everyone in the room.

The woman initial reserve vanished at Milo’s greeting. She beamed and kissed Milo noisily on both cheeks. ‘Milaki!’

‘What does that mean again?’ asked Milo, returning the European double-kiss.

‘You’re her Little Apple,’ teased Frank.

Milo preened like it was the best compliment he’d had all week. Gabey kissed Frank’s cheeks too.

‘Gabey, this is Tessa Defar. She’s managing the Foundation’s office,’ said Frank. ‘Tessa, this is–‘

‘Gabriella Valli.’ Tessa was trying not to look too starstruck. ‘I love your music, Ms Valli. I was so happy to learn you were recording again, and with Frank!’

‘He’s the best,’ Gabey agreed, ‘and streets ahead of my last producer. He’s an exacting but just task master.’

‘And he brings coffee. Shall I get you one, Ms Valli?’

‘Gabey, please. And I’m fine for coffee, thank you.’

‘Gabey.’ The new Paolo Cruz Foundation office manager tamped down her delight, bringing her Professional Person game to the room. ‘Right, I’ll leave you all to it and do a bank run, unless you need anything?’

‘We’re all good,’ Frank said. ‘This is band business.’

‘The duet you guys are doing?’

‘Among other things.’

Frank lead the way to the quiet back room to discuss the finishing touches to Gabey’s new album and the duet’s inaugural public performance.

Tessa closed the main door on her way out.

If Gabey noticed or cared that Frank had left the adjoining door open, or left the seat nearest it free for Milo, she made no comment.