One True Thing (22 page)

I slide my fingers across the fret board, ignoring the sting of newly formed calluses as I roll my wrist and manage the walk-down chord change without missing a beat. Got it! I do it again to be sure. Then again and again.

I reach for my phone, send Harry a text saying simply:
I did it!
I'm surprised to hear it
ding
right back, Harry's name appearing on my screen for the first time in ages:
Never doubted it
.

A slow smile creeps across my face. I shake my hands, stretch each finger out, shake my hands again, then set my fingers to position and start from the top. Soon enough I'm making my hand slide and roll without effort, and I start to sing. My words don't even catch at the bridge. ‘Just
Breathe' sounds exactly how I imagined it would all those weeks ago when I first decided to learn to play it. Except something is missing. Before Mummygate, before Kessie and Tyler and even Jake, I would have been squealing and dancing around the room, texting Kessie and posting her pics and maybe even sending her a clip before rehearsal.

My heart sinks at the thought. Right now, Kessie probably wouldn't even read my text, let alone celebrate with me. The thought is so profoundly depressing that I can barely force myself to start again. Everything has changed. It's not enough, I realise, to reproduce this thing I love so much. No matter how I sing it or how I play it, it's not mine.

It's not mine.

The knock on my door takes a second to register and my half-hearted ‘Come in' is supposed to sound discouraging.

And then I'm staring up at Jake D'Angelo from the end of my bed.

He stands at the threshold to my room uncertainly, his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. ‘Hey.'

‘Hey?' My voice lifts in question, though I don't really know what I'm asking.

‘You need to come with me,' he says.

‘Um, what?'

‘I'd like you to come with me.'

‘Where?'

‘I'm not going to tell you where.'

‘This again?'

A thin smile. ‘I want to fix this.' He pulls his hands out of his pockets and shows me his palms as though to explain what ‘this' means.

I sigh. ‘It's fine. I'm not angry anymore. Or I
am
angry but I'm trying not to be.'

He shakes his head. ‘I need more than that.'

I set my guitar aside and study him. ‘Do you.'

He nods.

‘I don't know what you want –'

‘You. Us. To try again.'

I'm shaking my head before he's even finished.

‘Give me a chance.'

‘Jake …'

‘Come with me.'

‘It won't matter.'

‘This is important.'

I have no idea what he could possibly want from me, but I have to admit I'm curious. ‘You have to tell me where.'

‘I really can't. But you'll be happy. Or … pleased.'

‘I can't leave Luke alone.'

‘He can come.'

Now he's really got my attention, though it's possible I'm a little disappointed that my ten-year-old brother is welcome to tag along.

I shrug, then go next door to Luke's room and tell him to grab a jumper for the cold.

The office building is nothing special, and I don't recognise it at all, but when we arrive on the third floor, I see Jake's dad hovering over a receptionist. He's dressed in a suit and tie, and I realise it must be his dad's work.

I stop at the glass doors, tasting acid in my mouth just seeing this man. I reach for Luke, but he's beside Jake, Jake's hand resting on his shoulder.

Jake's dad looks up and sees us standing there. He frowns, clearly not expecting us. He steps forward, then stops and glances back when Seamus Hale appears in the corridor behind him.

Jake opens the door. ‘Mr Hale!'

Jake's dad moves to stand between them but Jake is too quick or maybe his dad is too slow. It doesn't matter because Seamus is smiling at Jake in welcome. ‘You must be Tony's boy,' he says.

‘I'll deal with you later, Jake. Seamus – let's go,' Tony says, just as Seamus's gaze finds Luke. And then me.

Seamus's eyes widen in surprise. He considers Jake again, confused but also curious.

I'm so stunned to see this man up close – not on a TV, not as a photo on a website, or a voice on the airwaves – that I stand there, mute. Somehow, in the process of hating his words, I'd forgotten he was a real, live human being.

‘Jake!' Tony says, almost growling his son's name. ‘This is highly inappropriate.'

Jake laughs. ‘You don't get to decide what's
appropriate
. Not anymore.'

Seamus glances from one face to the next, as baffled by this exchange as I am. ‘Let's go into my office.'

Jake's dad heads towards us. ‘Sorry about this, Seamus. I'll send them on their way.'

‘No, no,' Seamus says magnanimously. ‘Let's all go.' He offers Luke and me a wide smile. ‘Lovely to finally meet in person. Francesca, isn't it? And Luke?'

We both nod. Even Luke has nothing embarrassing to say for once.

‘I assume you know Jake's father, Tony Hatcher. My producer.'

Hatcher.
The Hatchet.
The bloke who kept bugging Harry and Mum. ‘Yes.'

‘Come through,' Seamus Hale says.

When the door is shut behind us, I'm drawn to the TV screens propped high in the corner of the office. Each one is programmed to a different news channel. I turn back to find Seamus Hale studying me carefully.

‘What can I do for you two? Sorry –
three
,' he asks, sweeping his arm to include Jake.

I have my chance to say whatever I want to Seamus Hale, to force him to explain all that toxic waste he's been spewing into the airwaves and the blogosphere, and I'm
lost for words. I open my mouth, hoping something will come out, but Jake steps between us and says, ‘This is all off the record, Seamus. All of it.'

Seamus lets a wry smile curl his lips. ‘You've taught him well, Tony.'

‘This is a bad idea,' Jake's dad says, his cold eyes trained on his son. I'm tempted to wedge myself between them, like Jake just did with Seamus a moment ago, to fend him off.

There's a flicker of uncertainty in Jake's expression but he doesn't bend. He's standing up to his dad and he's doing it for me. I reach for Jake's hand, wrap my fingers around it and squeeze.

Jake glances at our hands, joined there for the moment. Then he pulls himself taller and faces Seamus Hale again. ‘Do I have your word? All of it. Off the record.'

‘You don't even need to ask.' Seamus flashes that same oily smile seeming to undermine everything he says.

‘Yes, we do,' I say.

The smile vanishes and it feels like we've got his full attention. ‘Fair enough. Off the record.' He points to the chairs in the room, indicating we should sit, as he does. ‘What can I do for you?'

I don't sit. I can barely hold my thoughts together or find a place to start. I scramble for the right words and then I hear my brother's squeaky voice pipe up and say them for me.

‘Why?' Luke asks. ‘Why do you say mean things about my mum?'

I blink at my brother and fight the urge to cry. Should he be here? Neither of us probably should be. It's not fair or right, but I'm learning that fair and right have a very little role in these kinds of things.

Unless.

Unless.

‘Yes, Mr Hale,' I say, drawing myself to my full height, grateful I'm still standing. I let go of Jake's hand and step forward. ‘Why do you attack us? My mum, my family – we're people. She's a real person, with real feelings, and …' My voice catches and I look away angrily. Clear my throat.

He waits.

I face him again. ‘It hurts,' I say firmly. ‘All of us.'

‘That's not my intention.'

‘But it's what happens.'

He shrugs and shows us his palms in a gesture that seems to say there's nothing he can do about it, but also that he's had this conversation many times before. ‘Public interest sometimes trumps private needs.'

‘How?'

‘It's news,' Hale says. ‘The Premier's character,' he drawls, making the word ‘character' sound like something slippery and questionable, ‘is as much on trial as her policies are.'

‘Says who?'

He smiles. ‘The voters.'

‘You can change that,' I say.

He shifts in his chair, watching me carefully. ‘Why would I do that?'

‘Because it's the right thing to do.'

‘For who?' He leans forward and waves a hand around his office, which is both luxurious and comfortable and surprisingly tasteful. ‘Not for me.'

‘You hurt people.'

‘Your mother knew what she was getting into.'

‘It's not just my mother, though, is it?'

He nods, almost sadly. He glances at Luke, who is fuming silently, a little overawed. ‘That is, I'm afraid, the downside to all this.'

I stand there, wondering what I can say, wondering how I can make this man change, knowing at the same time that I can't. I'm not even sure why he let me in.

I shake my head. ‘There's no point.'

Seamus gets to his feet. ‘It's just a job,' he says flatly. ‘It's nothing personal.'

‘Do you really believe that?' Jake asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.

‘When you're older, you'll see. It's how things work in the world – in politics.' He glances at the three of us, taking each one in with that patronising smile.

And suddenly I don't care whether I change his mind or not. I just have to be heard. ‘People keep saying it's just
a job!' I say, my voice rising. ‘How does being paid for it make it all right? So, if you're doing it for free, that would be worse? Money means you don't have to care?'

‘It means you have no choice.'

‘You always have a choice.' I step back, needing distance between us to continue. ‘The job, politics, the world – it's made up of
people
. It doesn't happen without us. We let it happen. You let it happen. Hell – you
make
it happen!'

‘That's enough,' Jake's dad says, getting permission from Seamus to start shepherding us out of the room.

Seamus comes with us, though, and I turn to face him in the doorway. Behind him, the TV is showing the photos of Mum and Colin, and old happy-family pics interspersed with more recent ones – us rushing out of the house, Dad crossing the street outside the university, looking distracted and so terribly
alone
. The fallout from Mummygate is playing out on every screen like some awful funeral package you see at people's wakes, running on loop while the dead person's favourite song plays in the background. So much for Harry's two-week rule.

We're all staring at these images of my family, our lives ripped apart in front of us, piece by piece, and even Seamus looks uncomfortable.

Luke lets loose a stifled sob, humiliation and shame darkening his face. There's nowhere to look except there, at my brother, that scrawny body wracked with a deeply private hurt.

‘It's not personal?' I say to Seamus Hale, slipping an arm around Luke's shoulders. ‘How much more personal can you get?'

Jake, Luke and I are quiet on the tram home. Luke's tears have dried now but his colour isn't good, and I worry again that I've done the wrong thing. I need to get him home. I don't ask Jake where he's going or what he'll do now. He looks as worn down as Luke and I feel. So I reach across the seat and take Jake's hand again, like I did in Seamus Hale's office, but this time I don't let go for the whole tram ride home.

In the family room, I give Luke his Milo and turn the telly to
Horrible Histories
– ‘Ruthless Rulers' this time, which seems appropriate given the afternoon. Jake follows me back into the kitchen and I make us both a coffee. We sit opposite each other, words and questions
building in the silence between us, but neither seemingly in a hurry to ask them.

And then our coffees are done, and the silence is becoming something to overcome. ‘You hurt me,' I say finally.

‘I know.'

‘And my mum.'

‘I know.'

I nod, unable to speak.

‘It was a mistake – a huge mistake – but I didn't mean to. Or I did, I guess. But I was trying …' His mouth twists, as though to find the words, but then he shakes his head. ‘I was wrong. I'll spend the rest of my life regretting that.'

I arch an eyebrow. ‘That's a long time.'

He offers a half-smile. ‘That's a lot of wrong.'

‘Your dad didn't help.'

‘No.'

‘What will you do?'

‘About Dad?'

‘Yes.'

‘I have no idea.' He reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘I don't really care about him right now.'

‘I don't know …'

He lets go of my hand.

I take a deep breath. ‘Whether I'm that Frankie anymore. The almost-girlfriend Frankie or the almost-friend Frankie.'

He looks bemused but also vaguely hopeful.

‘A little time?'

‘Yep.' He stands straight, and I know I've hurt him, but when he looks at me, he's smiling more naturally. ‘Better face the music, I guess.'

I feel a stab on Jake's behalf at the memory of his dad's anger. I wouldn't want to deal with that. ‘Will you stay?' I ask, realising that I hadn't thought about this until that moment. ‘In Melbourne?'

He tilts his head, grins that old-Jake grin. ‘Who's asking?'

‘Just me.'

He bends over and kisses me swiftly on the lips, so fast that it's over before I know it. It's almost chaste except it instantly prompts memories that send ripples through my whole body. ‘I'd move mountains.'