grab me a Perrier before I expire.’
‘Could you butch it up a bit there, mate,’ said the photographer, a slender, black-haired androgyne named Corby. ‘Wouldn’t want your audience mistaking you for Naomi Campbell.’
Milo just laughed and leaned his back against one of the famous St Kilda palm trees. He grinned lazily into the camera.
‘That’s it, boyo, the centrefold look,’ said Corby in a friendly way.
Frank shook his head. ‘You’re a shameless tart, Bertolone.’
‘Got that in one,’ said Corby. ‘Here, get in this shot. Turn sideways, look out to sea.’
The backdrops Corby used were St Kilda’s crumbling old apartment facades, trams, the Espy hotel, the café strip on Fitzroy Street, softened by palm trees in the foreground and angled sunlight on their faces. Melbourne had obligingly come up with one of its beautiful autumn evenings. Cool but not cold; clear skies and the slightest of breezes; light jacket weather; great for long walks, lounging outside cafés or raging till dawn.
Corby had worked out early that Frank was a lot less comfortable with the camera than his extroverted partner, so he used the discomfort to develop an aura of aloofness and mystery for Frank, always looking away, or inward, in contrast to Milo’s bold, confident gaze. Corby also managed to place them near each other, not quite touching but partially blocking each other, hinting at intimacy. Both Selma and Corby were pleased with the results so far.
‘Speaking of tarts,’ Milo’s expression brightened, ‘I can hear a cherry strudel calling my name.’
‘Nearly done,’ Corby assured him. ‘Frank, can you just get on the other side of the tree there; lean back, fold your arms. Milo, put yours behind your head. Great. Hold that.’
“Nearly done” turned into another twenty minutes before Selma and Corby were both satisfied with the day’s work. Corby declined the offer of cakes – ‘Someone might nick the van’ – leaving the others to walk along the Esplanade and back to Acland Street. They passed the grassy park where Corby had taken five rolls of film a few hours earlier with the Luna Park rollercoaster struts for a backdrop.
Milo made a call on his mobile phone, while Selma and Frank disappeared into the European to make good on Selma’s promise of rewards for good behaviour. They returned laden with exotic desserts. Selma nibbled around the edges of a mini pavlova, but smiled indulgently at Frank and Milo tucking cheerfully into second helpings. Frank found her proprietorial air amusing and annoying in equal amounts. Milo just thought it was funny.
As they finished a second coffee, a tall, elegant woman strode up to their streetside table. Blonde, cool, with dark brown eyes and slender hands, there was something European about the way she walked, the way she dressed. Her age was indeterminate. Older than Selma, who was in her early thirties, but certainly under retirement age. ‘Milo, love.’ The accent was subtle, but definitely Australian.
‘Heeey!’ He jumped out of his chair to embrace her, then squeezed another chair into the circle. She sat smoothly. Like Milo, she moved like a cat. Selma raised an eyebrow at the intruder.
‘Frank, dear, how lovely to see you. You’re looking so well.’ The blonde leaned across the table and gave Frank a light kiss on the cheek.
‘You look pretty stunning yourself, Olivia.’ He returned the kiss. She smelled faintly of citrus and flowers.
Olivia 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
