Sacrifice. Narrelle M Harris
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smiled, a quick warm smile that belied her European elegance for a moment, before turning to nod a greeting to Selma. ‘Olivia Lockhardt. A pleasure to meet you.’
‘Selma Donahue. Likewise.’
Olivia’s mouth quirked in a wry smile and she transferred her gaze back to Milo. ‘It’s a good thing you called when you did. I was just on my way out.’
‘Oh. Sorry. Did I interrupt something?’
‘Nothing important. And it’s not as though I wasn’t prepared. Frank had the foresight to call a fortnight ago and let me know you were coming.’ She looked back at Selma. ‘He does have this endearing but frustrating tendency to just call out of the blue. He’s like his father that way.’
‘You know Mr Bertolone senior?’ A polite enquiry.
‘Oh. Yes.’ A Mona Lisa smile. ‘I catch up with him whenever he’s in town, or I’m in Rome. Just to see how the old rake’s getting on.’
‘Selma,’ Milo broke in, ‘this is my mum.’
Selma hardly skipped a beat. Her smile became charming, inclusive, and she said, ‘I thought I saw a family resemblance. The eyes, I think. And,’ she turned to Milo, ‘you have her smile.’
‘Yeah,’ Milo agreed, ‘but my talent’s all my own.’
‘The ego,’ said Frank, ‘is also his.’
‘No,’ said Olivia, ‘he gets that from his father too.’ She simply smiled for a moment at Milo’s wounded look before tapping the end of his nose with a discreetly varnished nail. ‘The old coot sends his love, by the way, and wishes you buona fortuna with the album.’
‘Yeah, got an e-mail from him, last week, was it, Frank?’
Frank nodded over the rim of his coffee cup.
Olivia dropped her hand to cover Milo’s. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Colin, sweetheart. He was a nice boy.’
Milo blinked, flustered. ‘I didn’t even know myself until the press conference this afternoon.’ His dark eyes flashed up at Selma. ‘That was a dirty trick that Carter bastard played.’
‘I’ve made a note, Milo, we’re following up. He’ll be barred in future.’
Milo’s gaze shifted anxiously before resting again on his mother’s face. ‘It’s not like I really knew Colin that well, you know. He was just with the crowd I hung out with at uni. But, yeah, he was a nice bloke.’
‘I saw him a few times at functions,’ said Olivia. ‘He was starting to do well for himself in financial circles, until he-’ Her lips pursed in an unhappy moue. ‘Well, word got round that he was positive. They’re such gossips in the finance industry,’ said with a disapproving frown, ‘and pretty soon his clients were all making excuses.’
‘Gordie e-mailed around last Christmas,’ said Milo. ‘Paolo and Col both turned out to be positive, and the three of them started going to the clinic together. Gordie and one of his mates drove them around every week.’ He shook his head. ‘It sucks.’
Olivia stroked the back of his hand with hers, and extended her other hand to Frank. ‘And how are you doing, especially after that dreadful business a few years ago.’
I do not want to go to any more funerals, thought Frank. Not ever. Not for murder, not for accidents, not for AIDS, not for anything. It had seemed for a while that it was all over. HIV was being managed, if not cured, by anti-retrovirals and combination therapy. Even so, he never got used to it. ‘I’m okay, Olivia. It just rakes up old stuff.’ He shrugged.
She stroked his hand too, sympathetic to the fact he was not really okay. ‘Here,’ she opened her handbag and took out a key on an enamel penguin key-ring, ‘this is for my place. If you need a place to get away from it all, help yourselves. I’ll be in and out. You know where everything is.’ She gave the key to Milo, who passed it to Frank, and they both thanked her. ‘I’m sorry, I have to run,’ she told them. ‘Drop by, or give me a call tomorrow, and we’ll organise dinner for tomorrow night.’
‘Lasagne?’ Milo prompted.
She tapped his nose affectionately. ‘I was thinking of Circa here in St Kilda, but if you’d rather your mum’s lasagne…’
‘Yep,’ Milo grinned. ‘And that great salad dressing you do.’
‘So be it. Lasagne and salad, tomorrow, my place, shall we say seven? See you then.’ She dropped a kiss first on Milo’s forehead, then Frank’s. ‘Lovely to have met you, Selma.’ Then Olivia was away, striding in her confident way down Acland Street.
Selma watched her leave. ‘She’s something, your mum,’ she said at last, a hint of envy in the tone.
‘Yeah,’ Milo agreed, ‘she’s great.’
Some chat followed, mostly about the next day’s schedule. Interviews for magazines, newspapers, radio, television. A spot at a major music store in the Bourke Street Mall. Selma had arranged for a crowd of squealing young women, and some muscle men “security” in black T-shirts and shaved scalps. Milo’s grin got wider and he waggled his eyebrows salaciously. He suggested breaking away from the muscle men and starting a street dance with the squeal brigade, an idea which Selma endorsed enthusiastically.
As the discussion went on, Frank became progressively moodier, his brow creasing into a scowl. ‘I’m wrecked,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s get back to the hotel.’
Milo snorted his opinion of that suggestion. ‘Night’s young, Frank, and I have future album-buyers to woo. I plan to party till dawn.’
‘And then perform like a seal through the schedule we’ve just been given.’
Selma tapped on the table top with her red nails. ‘We’ve got to push this album, Frank, and it’s all about exposure.’
‘It’s about over-exposure,’ Frank snapped back. He stood up. ‘Come on, Milo.’
Milo remained seated, leaning back in the chair and propping his hands behind his head. ‘No. I said I’m having a night out. If you’d stop being so tense you could have a bit of fun with this.’
‘You mean like you do. Well, forgive me, I don’t find prostitution fun, okay.’
‘Fine. Don’t come. I’ll call Paolo and we’ll have a night on the tiles, just like the old days. He’s a better dancer than you anyway.’
Frank’s eyes became harder, brighter. ‘Go ahead. Dear old Paolo’s the dancing queen. You’ll have a great night.’
‘Go home, Frank, you’re in a shitty mood,’ said Milo in a very calm voice.
‘Are you coming?’
‘I said I’ll be in later.’
‘Fine. See you then.’ Frank turned and stalked off. In minutes he had flagged down a taxi and disappeared from view.
Milo glanced across at Selma’s frown. ‘Don’t worry about it. He gets like this sometimes.’
‘I hope he knows he’s under contract to make those appearances.’
‘Oh, he’ll be there. He’s Mister Responsible.’ Milo pulled a face then sat up straight, dismissing the whole thing. ‘You want to come clubbing with me tonight? We can head down to The Market in Prahran.’
‘We can do the rounds,’ said Selma. ‘See if we can’t get our pictures into the club round-ups in the street mags on Friday.’
Milo grinned. ‘Don’t you ever stop working?’
‘No. And neither do you, for the next week.’
‘Photo shoots, smooching with the public, glam clothes, all the Evian I can handle.’