One True Thing (8 page)

Jake and I jolt upright, my teeth catching his lip, his arms falling away. I look up to see the familiar wide, pink-frocked shape of Gran Mulvaney standing above us with her hands on her hips. Although she's just turned eighty-five, Gran Mulvaney is the most intimidating person I know. She has my mum's curls, but where Mum's are a warm auburn, Gran's are the brassy-red of supermarket hair dye. Where Mum is cultivated and elegant, Gran is hard and rough around the edges. She's smart, though, and enormous in every way you can imagine.

‘Gran. You're back,' I splutter, my cheeks burning.

‘The least you can do is introduce your grandmother
to the boy attached to your lips. What do you young people call it? Hooking up?'

Dear god, save me. ‘We weren't … We just …' I can't even look at Jake but I can feel him beside me, his whole body heaving with humiliation. I'm about to apologise to him when I realise it's not embarrassment he's shaking with. He's laughing.

Laughing!

I stare accusingly at Gran and glance sideways at Jake, who's still grinning.

‘You always had excellent taste, Francesca,' Gran says with a wink.

Jake brings his finger to his lips, which I would like to believe is a tribute to the power of our kiss, but seems more likely to be about the tiny drop of blood forming where my teeth caught him. He wipes his mouth subtly, but notices me looking and smiles, way too happily. So much for shared humiliation.

‘Where's my hug, Francesca? Or are you saving them all for the handsome one here? I wouldn't blame you if you did. If I were a bit younger …'

Kill me now.

My face must register my disgust because Gran is a picture of innocence. ‘What? I can't appreciate a handsome man anymore?' she asks us both, her hands raised in mock surrender.

I shake my head, caving in to the power that is Gran Mulvaney. There's no escaping her. I learnt a long time
ago that there's no point even trying. I take a deep breath and stand up to face the inevitable. ‘Glad you're back,' I mutter, embracing her.

She envelops me in a suffocating hug, then pushes me back, that wicked glint in her eyes at its shiniest as she studies me. ‘Does Rock Hudson here have a name or are you in the habit of kissing total strangers?'

In any other situation, I'd remind Gran that her hunky Rock Hudson was batting for the other team while Jake is definitely
not
. However, right now I can barely look at Jake, let alone joke about his sexuality. This probably doesn't matter since he's staring at Gran in the way everyone does – with laughter, affection and a trace of fear.

Everyone except Mum.

‘This is Jake D'Angelo,' I say. ‘And this –' I gesture towards Gran, offering Jake a half-apologetic smile – ‘is Gran Mulvaney. She's been overseas but now … she's back.' I cough. ‘Obviously.'

Jake tries to shake Gran's hand, but she pulls him in towards her and plants a very grandmotherly –
thank god
– kiss on his cheek. Jake extracts himself carefully, his cheeks the tiniest bit pink. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Mulvaney.'

The waitress appears again and asks us if we'd like to order anything else. ‘Kitchen's about to close,' she warns.

‘I think we're done, thanks,' I say hurriedly, not wishing to be trapped here any longer. ‘Have you been inside yet?' I ask Gran.

‘I just got here, darling.' She pats my hand. ‘I only got off the plane a few hours ago.'

She should be a wreck. She should be asleep on her feet and speaking in tongues if she were a normal eighty-five-year-old woman. But she's Gran Mulvaney, and despite more than a day and a half's travel by air, the woman looks fit enough to hogtie a small ox.

She wasn't meant to be back yet. I don't know if she told Mum or whether this is one of Gran's surprise returns. I'm hopeful that, in the safety of a noisy crowd, there won't be a scene. Because, wherever Gran is, there's
always
a scene. But she might not stand out quite so much when there are hundreds of celebrating adults wreaking havoc, not to mention a whole studio's worth of TV equipment and crew.

‘I thought you'd still be in Ireland,' I say, trying not to make it a question.

‘How could I possibly miss Rowena's special night?' She sounds sincere, but there's a spark behind her eyes. Some kind of challenge.

Definitely one of Gran's surprise visits.
I glance at Jake, wondering what he's making of this crash course in Mulvaney madness, but his expression gives nothing away.

‘Well,' I say, deciding there's nothing I can do about any of it now. ‘We should go in.'

The crowd has thinned considerably. The media has packed up and left, and the only hangers-on are the old faithful, most of them drunk or still drinking. One look at Mum when she spots Gran confirms that she had no idea Gran was back. I watch her face transform to one that lacks any trace of humour or warmth. Harry is hovering in the background, ready to dive in if need be.

Sarah stiffens on seeing Gran approach, but Christie grins openly, oblivious to the tension in the room. I don't know why Mum's so cold with Gran. I've given up trying to understand it. Dad says to let sleeping dogs lie, and I'm inclined to agree. The sleeping dog in pink would take your head off with the right kind of encouragement.

‘Hello, darling,' Gran says, swooping in to hug Mum. Mum's face barely moves.

‘Mother. You're back,' she says evenly. She glances at me as though seeking confirmation, and I smile apologetically at her, although it's hardly my fault. ‘I thought you were coming back next week,' Mum adds.

‘Just got in, and a good thing, too. I might have missed your special day if I'd left things the way they were.'

‘Still, I'm sure you're tired. Even you feel jet lag, surely?' Mum's voice is a little pitchy, like she's trying to be polite but not trying very hard.

‘You know me. I don't feel things the way mortals do.' Gran laughs that hearty, bone-crunching laugh, and we all smile because she's kind of right.

Mum shakes her head, but she seems to be holding back where perhaps normally she wouldn't. I watch these two women sizing each other up, and I decide right there and then that I've had enough of both of them.

I weave my way through the shrinking crowd. None of these people are serious operators – that lot are busy working on tomorrow's strategy, preparing for the weeks ahead, just like Mum and her team will be once they see off the last few fundraisers.

It isn't long before I spy Jake talking to Harry. He must have disappeared during the Gran-Mum festivities. I watch them and wonder what they're talking about. How did Jake explain his being here? Did Harry ask? Would Jake have mentioned his connection to me? I wonder then how he'd describe me. A friend? A
good
friend? Someone he's just met …

Harry and Jake shake hands and separate. I decide it's now or never. Jake is hovering near an abandoned table of food when I approach him. There's hardly any food left, apart from soggy prawn tempura and a tray of desiccated chicken wings.

‘Hmmm. Delicious,' I say.

Jake startles, his gaze flits around the room, but then he smiles at me and it feels real.

‘You okay?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Anything salvageable?' I ask, examining the platter in front of us.

‘The waiters tried to clear it away,' he says, ‘but I saved you the quality bits.'

‘Wow. You've really gone all out.' I laugh. The shrivelled-up prawn tails resemble sun-bleached coral. Memories of the Northwoods Primary School catering make an unwanted return. ‘You met Harry.'

Jake raises an eyebrow in question.

‘Mum's media advisor.'

Jake smooths the tablecloth beside him. ‘That's who he is? He said something about working for your mum.'

‘Yeah – the spin doctor. He cleans up whatever mess Mum – or more often, her ministers – leave behind.' Silence. I try again. ‘So, what did Harry say?'

‘Nothing, really. He asked if I had clearance to use my camera. When I showed him my pass, he said no more photos.' Jake shrugs. ‘No biggie.'

‘He can be a bit protective of Mum sometimes. Did you tell him you knew me?'

‘No. It didn't come up.' Jake considers the food, then looks up. ‘He was fine.'

‘Harry's a family friend,' I say, because he's much more than Mum's employee. ‘My friend,' I add, a little awkwardly. ‘He's pretty cool.'

‘He seems it.'

We're both focused on the platter again, the silence filling with the unspoken. The almost kiss. Or half-kiss. I don't even know what it was. I just know it felt good.

‘Bummer we missed these in their prime,' he says, holding a torn cucumber sandwich to the light as if analysing a scientific specimen.

I laugh, blush, realise my thoughts are nowhere near his. ‘I'm almost hungry enough to eat one of them,' I say, dipping my head to shield my hot cheeks from him.

‘I figured a hot chocolate wouldn't cut it,' he says quietly. And just like that we're both in that space again. That warm, delicious place where kissing each other seemed perfectly right.

I smile. ‘Not really.'

A waiter passes and asks if we're done. We step back, letting him take the platter, the awkwardness rising like a wall.

Across the crowd, Gran and Mum are deep in conversation, Dad standing some distance away but watching them both. I don't know what they're talking about, but it's intense and Mum isn't happy.

I'm tempted to go to Dad – he looks so alone. Can he hear what they're saying? Does he know or understand? I scan the room and see Sarah and Christie in the corner, talking.

I have no idea where Harry's gone, but at least none of them are worried about me. And Gran has clearly moved on. I turn back to Jake, who's watching Gran too.

‘Any other crazy grandparents likely to leap from the crowd?' he asks.

‘No,' I say. ‘I never knew my granddad, and Dad's parents are long dead. Besides, one is about all I can handle.'

‘Really?' Jake says, moving towards me. He's so close, his lips centimetres from mine. ‘Just the one?'

Thoughts of Gran and Mum and Dad dissolve in an instant. I lean in but he doesn't continue, his mouth hovering just out of reach. ‘I really want to kiss you,' he whispers.

I wait. Air trapped in my lungs.

He hesitates, then stops. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, reads the message flashing across it. ‘I'm sorry,' he says, stepping back. He runs his hand through his hair. ‘I have to go.'

He pauses, seeming to change his mind. Then he brushes my cheek with his lips before he turns and heads towards the exit without looking back.

I lean against the studio wall, trying to force a couple of power chords out of my cold fingers. I press hard against the fret board, my mind still on the events of the launch party. Jake's kiss, not the least of them, but also Gran Mulvaney and whatever issues her face was signalling when she was deep in conversation with Mum. Dad calls it ‘Mulvaney Malarkey' because it rarely ends well and always means trouble. I hope she's not on another of her ‘bring the family closer' kicks that she gives a run every six months or so, usually around Christmas, or when she returns from a visit to Ireland. Though, remembering Mum's intense look, and Dad's lonely figure at the launch, I wonder if one of Gran's family drives might be a good idea.

None of this is helping. I flex my fingers to get the kinks out and refocus. There's a nice little riff Kess and I came up with. Well, I came up with it, but she added a melody that turned a flat bit into something almost magical. I'm really excited about it, though it's just a beginning. I need her here so we can work on it together.

‘Morning, sunshine!' Kessie sings out across the tiny studio, just about perforating my eardrum.

I look up and frown. ‘Cheers, you idiot.'

Tyler comes in behind her. ‘Hey, Frank.'

I glance at Kessie. ‘Did you change rehearsal time? I thought it was just us first, and the whole band in half an hour.'

‘Tyler and I had some ideas for the new riff. She wants to try a different beat – something faster, with more kick.'

‘It's just an idea,' Tyler says, like she's prepared to back out any second.

‘Um …' What do I say? If it's good I want to hear it. But I write with Kessie. Sometimes Van. Sometimes both of them – but never Tyler. And no one ever writes without
me
.

Kessie gives me a cheesy grin. ‘It'll be brill-i-ant …' she says, flashing those mesmerising violet eyes at me, switching to her Hermione Granger accent for effect. ‘Magical!' She waves her hand as if she's holding a wand.

I frown. ‘Are you drowning or waving?'

She lets her hand drop. ‘Just give it a go?'

‘You know, I can come back …' Tyler says, already halfway out the door.

She doesn't get far because Mr Campaspe appears, blocking her exit, his face set to ‘serious'.

I wrack my brains to remember if I'd booked the studio. He's really cool with us coming here, but he's a bit of a booking-form Nazi. ‘Hey, Mr C. What's up?' I say as casually as I can. When in doubt, play ignorant. It doesn't always work, but I reckon it's about sixty–forty for the win.

He nods at us. ‘Girls. How's the set coming along?'

‘Almost there,' Kessie says brightly, lying. We've only decided on one song so far – ‘Love Song' is everyone's favourite and our standout single if this thing ever comes together, though we're still arguing over the lyrics.

‘Yeah,' I say, matching Kessie's tone. ‘Really good.'

I mentally race through the other song possibilities and decide that, apart from ‘Bad Grammar', ‘The Lying Game' is probably the only other solid option. But the lyrics have always annoyed me – I've never quite felt like we'd nailed them. Still, it's upbeat, has a good rhythm and a catchy chorus that stays in my head hours after we've played, which is always a good sign.

‘Is there something wrong?' I ask.

‘Not really,' he says, waving this off. ‘There's some stuff going on – the venue for the audition is a bit shaky. I just want to be sure we're ready for anything.'

I feel a rising sense of dread. We almost missed out on an audition as it was. The dates were tight – only a few months to prepare – and when we first applied the list was full. But Mr Campaspe worked away at it – calling people, writing letters. He really backed us up. It was pretty cool, actually. We wouldn't have earnt a spot without him.

‘What sort of problem?' Kessie isn't goofing around for once. We all want this, even if she acts like it's no big deal.

‘I don't know exactly,' he says, one hand massaging the palm of the other – a trick he's convinced wards off guitarists' carpal tunnel. ‘Apparently the venue's been earmarked for relocation, but they're not sure when.' He smiles tightly and switches hands. ‘They're honouring contracts … I don't know what it will mean exactly but they might have to push back the date.' He shrugs, helpless. ‘Politics.'

I'm shaking my head before Kessie can even speak. ‘Don't start –'

‘Northlink?' she says, cutting me off.

I sigh. Kessie's bugbear. Among her many bugbears.

‘I don't know. I'm sure we'll be fine,' Mr Campaspe continues, forestalling one of Kessie's political rants. ‘We just have to be ready to move things around a bit. That's all.'

I take a deep breath. ‘But you still think it will happen?'

‘Sure. I mean, there's a contract. They'll work something out. We just have to be prepared.'

‘We'll have to tell Van,' I say to Kessie and Tyler, already determined to make this work, regardless of when.

‘Kess, you got a minute?' Mr Campaspe presses his hands together – the last stage of his massage.

Kessie leaves the microphone stand and heads out to talk to him in the hall. I hear snatches of their conversation – something about a different voice arrangement for the chorus on ‘Bad Grammar'.

I look at Tyler. ‘So, what is it?'

‘I … um. Sorry. What is what?' Tyler's all fidgety and her face is blood-red. Even her arms are flushed under all those freckles.

‘The song changes Kessie was talking about?'

Tyler tugs on one of her earring studs. She takes a shaky breath and makes her way to the drum stool. She taps out a rhythm, giving me a nod for when I should break in.

I play the opening chords, struggling to get them right first go, but then I hit the sweet spot and it all comes together. We shift into a smoother pattern, me keeping up with her, Tyler grinning across the drums because we're both feeling it. I hum Kessie's part, doing my best to hit her range. It's not great but I can see the shape it's taking, and Kessie's right – it's much better. We play it a couple of times. It's really just half a song, and I like it more and more.

I stop playing and Tyler follows suit, clutching the sticks in her hand, resting them against the snare.

A slow grin splits my face wide open and I laugh. ‘That really rocks, Ty. I love it.' Her pleasure is so clear and heartfelt that I almost feel guilty. Was she worried I wouldn't like it? ‘It's great.
Really
good. And, hey, thanks for coming on Saturday night.'

Tyler smiles shyly. ‘I wasn't sure if you'd mind …'

‘Seriously, I should have invited you myself. I assume all that stuff is too boring for you guys, you know? Not Kessie, but she's not like us.'

Tyler blinks.

‘I mean, she's actually into all that. She should be Mum's daughter, not me.'

‘Yeah, well, we don't get to choose our parents,' she says with a dry laugh.

‘No.' I smile gently. Tyler's real dad was an arsebag. There's nothing else you can say about him. He was brutal to Tyler and her mum for years until they found a way to escape him, moving all the way from Darwin to Melbourne just to be safe.

Tyler looks away.

‘How's your mum?' I ask. Tyler's mum married Mr Goldstein last year. They both really love him. Tyler even took his surname.

Tyler's whole body relaxes. ‘Good. Great. She's really …
happy
. Dad and her are hopeless together. It's kind of pathetic and cute at the same time. You know, old people in love – like your parents. You'll have to come
around. She keeps asking me to bring my “new friends”.' Ty rolls her eyes at the universally accepted shame of parental uncoolness.

‘Yeah,' Kessie says, returning to the room. Mr Campaspe disappears behind the mixing desk to work on whatever while we set up. ‘Speaking of friends, our Jake showed up at the party, I hear.'

Jesus
.
Are there no secrets?
‘Yeah, I have no idea why.' I don't want to think about it, and he obviously doesn't want to either because there's been no word from him, not a single text or a passing nod in the hallway. Nothing. So I
definitely
don't want to talk about it.

Van walks in, providing the right kind of distraction. Wordlessly, he crosses the room, removes his guitar from its case and slides the strap over his shoulder. He turns to face me, those black-rimmed eyes shy and intense and ready.

‘You good?' I ask.

He plucks the first melancholic chords of ‘The Lying Game' and we take our cue. Crisis averted.

Mr Campaspe counts us in and we launch into ‘Bad Grammar' for the seventh time, but this time, finally, it clicks. Suddenly, the noise in my head disappears. All that exists are the lilting tones of the melody and the way the strings feel against my fingers. I could be the only person
here, except Van's bass is lifting me into the next verse, Tyler's drums are pounding in my chest, and when Kessie hits the crescendo, shivers ripple up my spine. Time stands still. It's just me, my band and the music.

I must have closed my eyes, not even registering that the song has ended, because I don't notice that we have an audience. Jake is standing by Mr Campaspe, watching us through the glass.

I slowly shift my brain into gear so I can function properly. It's a little like being drunk, losing yourself in the perfect song. I avoid Jake's gaze and look at Kessie. She's smiling that proud, private smile we have whenever we know we're on to something special. She gets it. Kessie totally gets it. I nudge her, grinning, then start packing up as Mr Campaspe comes into the studio with Jake in tow.

‘Wow,' Jake says simply. ‘Just …
wow
.'

‘Why, thank you, big boy,' Kessie says, in an exaggerated southern accent.

Jake laughs, but when I look up, he's watching me. Maybe he gets it too. I realise then that I'm not embarrassed because of his compliment, but because he's right. It
was
pretty wow. We're good – we're really good. All this work is paying off. We just need to focus on getting the perfect set together. One great song – even two – won't cut it.

‘Hey,' Van says, shaking Jake's hand.

‘That was incredible, mate.' Jake is grinning at all of us now, a hint of envy in his eyes.

Van disappears to the back of the stage to finish packing up.

‘Hey, Tyler,' Jake says, waiting for her to look up. She's still sitting behind her drums, tapping out her routine, playing with the possibilities one last time.

‘Hi,' she says.

‘Time, guys,' Mr Campaspe announces. ‘I'm on the clock tonight. Have a mountain of essays waiting for me, and COD isn't going to play itself.'

We all laugh. I'm pretty sure Mr Campaspe has never played even a minute of COD, but I know he has young kids waiting for him at home – he's brought them along to rehearsal before. It's kind of awesome that he hangs around for No Politics all the time.

‘We just have to pack up,' I say.

‘Pull the door shut when you leave,' he reminds us on his way out.

We all leave together: Van on my left, Kessie and Tyler beside him, Jake on my right – a safe distance forced upon us by my guitar case. Jake offered to carry it, but
no one
carries my Martin except me.

Van splits off at the gate, heading home in the opposite direction, and then it's just the four of us,
though it feels more like two and two. I can feel Jake beside me, those long legs loping more than striding, slowing so I can keep up, while Kessie and Tyler walk together in an easy silence.

We're nearing the corner where Kessie and I would normally separate and Tyler would catch the tram, but Jake touches my arm and lets the other two go ahead. I watch them continue, talking quietly to each other, completely unaware that we've fallen back. Something small and sharp digs into my chest, something I can't quite name.