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“It doesn’t work like that.” How scratched his nose, tucking the folded magazine in his back pocket.
“Well, how does it work then?”
“It’s first to say dibs.”
“Sometimes I forget what a dunderhead you are.” Roley deadpanned.
“Toss you for her.”
Roley considered. “Best out of three gets first crack.”
“Wait a minute?” Rand said
“Snooze you lose,” said How.
Rand pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. “Yeah, well I’m awake now.”
There were five people working in and around the broadcast van; camera, sound, vision recording and production specialists. Four blokes and one leggy blonde with a cap pulled down over her face. What were the chances—a billion to one, a trillion?
How said, “I’ve got dibs.”
Roley complained, “No you haven’t. We just agreed to flip.”
Rand punted his apple core into a nearby rubbish heap full of staging woodchips, packaging and other random garbage. “Don’t think it works like that.”
He strode out towards the van, the other two taking off after him. The girl and the beer belly had their backs to him when he drew near. “Harry Young?” he asked, taking his glasses off and trying not to squint.
The beer belly, who was closest, turned and held out a plump hand. Rand took it and the two men shook. “You’re Rand Mainline?”
“Yeah. Good to meet you.”
Beer Belly was pretty much as Rand had imagined. He felt an irrational bump of disappointment in his throat. After confronting Jonas yesterday, and worrying about managing without him despite expressing confidence in Jake, Rand realised he’d concocted the distracting fantasy of a chance meeting with his old school friend as light relief.
“I’m Ted Mason. That’s Harry,” said Beer Belly, inclining his head towards the leggy woman who was bent over an open laptop.
Rand coughed; felt a flutter in his belly. “You wouldn’t be Harriet Young by any chance would you?”
The blonde straightened up and turned. “Nobody calls me Harriet, Randall Mainline.”
He laughed. “Nobody calls me, Randall.”
“Jesus on a stick,” said How.
“Screwed,” said Roley. He made an airplane crashing sound to accompany dashed hopes.
Harry Young sized him up. With his dyed black hair, chipped paint on his nails, tattoos decorating his arms and piercings in his ears and eyebrow, there was barely a trace of the boy who’d been infatuated with her. He grinned and hoped she still liked what she saw. When she flushed, he felt a hard squirm of delight in his gut. He’d never expected to be standing within arm’s reach of her again. And he wouldn’t have been either, had the original series producer not needed emergency surgery. It was pure chance she got this gig. Pure chance he was standing here, looking at the first girl he’d ever wanted to kiss, and would get to keep looking at her for the next sixty days of the tour.
“You’re all grown up. Great teeth.” Rand grinned, tapping his own front tooth.
Harry laughed, then her cheeks pinked as she caught up with his memory of kissing through the steel barbs of her braces. He had a mad impulse to kiss her now, right here in front of How, Roley and the crew.
She hefted her laptop. “It’s amazing to see you. How’s Arielle?”
“I can’t believe it’s you.” Rand snorted. “Nobody calls her Arielle—she’s good.” He waved a hand towards the stage. “You’ll see her soon. I just can’t believe it’s you.”
They grinned at each other and Roley said, “Aw, for fuck’s sake, Rand. Put us all out of our misery and hug the girl.”
Rand laughed. He stepped forward hesitantly. “Can I have a hug, Harry?”
