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‘Where’s this boyfriend of yours then?’ Peaches teases good-naturedly as I set up my sheet music. ‘Today’s the big reunion, isn’t it?’
Technically we saw each other in September—and again last month for the week over Christmas—but this is thebigone. The thing we’d always said we’d do if we were serious about a future together.
‘He’s on his way,’ I mumble as I pull the stool from beneath the piano. ‘There’s a snowstorm in Europe but he made it to Dubai.’
‘If he doesn’t show up, at least there’s booze close by,’ Peaches replies. ‘Anyway, I was hoping we could start with a bit of Frank Sinatra this evening, and I’d love to try an Elvis number . . .’
Gabriel
Every year, I forget how hot it gets in Australia.
Like, I know it’s hot. But getting on the plane in sub-zero temperatures in Paris to be greeted in Melbourne by thirty-eight-degree heat is enough to send anyone loopy.
It’s late, too. Later than I thought, but a snowstorm grounded planes at Charles de Gaulle, and we’d missed our connection in Dubai. I’m overtired, grumpy and my phone’s dead.
‘He can wait a little longer,’ Papa says as I pace back and forth, willing my phone to turn on. ‘Go have a shower. It’ll have some charge by the time you’re out.’
Victor laughs from the apartment kitchen and mutters something that sounds like,Même merde, autre année.
Except it’s not the same as last year. The person who I was a year ago was scared, afraid to say what he wanted or be who he wanted to be. It’s taken a lot—a grand slam title, long conversations with Papa andMaman, time spent away from tour and, perhaps most importantly, the help of a therapist—to get where I am today.
I wash the plane off me, the sour sweat and body odour, and Papa’s right; when I get out my phone’s charged to almost twenty per cent.
‘Leaving! Bye!’ is all I offer them before I’m out the door, navigating the familiar halls to find the elevator. It’s too slow, so I take the stairs. I connect to the wi-fi and order a car, plugging in the address for the Flamingo Bar.
Wait for me, wait for me, wait for me.
The city looks the same. Green trams rattling along their old tracks, the dense streets teeming with outdoor shoppers. Rain comes over in the fifteen minutes it takes the driver to cross Melbourne’s CBD.
‘Typical Melbourne,’ the driver laughs. He slows to a stop at the corner of Lonsdale and Russell streets. ‘Looks like there’s a crash up ahead.’
I check the maps. The Flamingo Bar is only a couple of blocks away. If I run, I could be there in a few minutes. Grabbing my wallet, I give the driver a five-dollar tip and bail out of the car.
‘Go!’ he cheers, but I don’t look back. I’m sprinting down the rain-slicked pavement, weaving through the crowd and dodging umbrella spokes.
The Flamingo Bar is busy. The tables are full of patrons, happy to finish off their pints while waiting out the rain. Music floats down from upstairs; a woman is singing gentle blues. There’s no line, so I rush towards the door, only to be blocked at the last second by a burly man.
‘ID, mate,’ he demands.
Quickly, I fish out my wallet and flash him my passport. He looks at my photo. Then at me. Then back to my photo. Finally, he presses his hand-held clicker once and hands my passport back. ‘In you go. They’re finishing in ten minutes, though.’
I push my way towards the stage, feeling the momentum of the music push me back and forth. On the stage, light dances off the sequins of the woman’s dress, and the effect throws small bursts of rainbow onto the walls, the roof, and the piano beside her. Someone’s blocking my view of the pianist.
‘Excuse me,’ I yell before forcing my way through. Someone spills a bit of their beer on me. I don’t care. I make it to the front of the crowd as the song finishes, just in time to see his back straighten and his eyes slide towards the crowd.
He sees me.
And smiles.
Noah
‘We could have met tomorrow, you know. I would have understood.’ I place a Coke in front of Gabriel.
‘This was our thing. We promised each other. And I wanted to see you play.’ Gabriel looks tired. Deep bags hang under his eyes. I wonder when he last slept, and for how long.
The sincerity of it all makes me laugh. It’s so Gabriel. ‘I’m glad you made it.’
The Australian Open starts in a few days, and he has a charity match on tomorrow night. I’m not going to say he needs to take the tournament seriously—I’m sure his dad’s made that incredibly clear—but after winning the US Open five months ago, he’s got a reputation to uphold.
