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.’ He flung up his hands. ‘Oh, dear God, make the nightmare end!’
Selma prodded him to make him stop laughing at his own pure wit, but they were both grinning when they clambered back into the car and told TJ where to drive to next.
Chapter Four
The final bell sounded and the stragglers left the park. Not many stayed late these days; no families, certainly, and precious few alone. But singles and couples, bolder than the others (or those who didn’t read the papers – or who read them and wanted a thrill) sauntered down the paths and out of the Gardens.
The light was fading fast and a distinct chill was in the air, even this early in autumn. A cool night, but not unbearably so.
The two men snuggled close, unseen by the departing visitors. Nestled among the greenery, arms wrapped around each other, a dark woollen blanket wrapped around them both. No words – nothing to give them away – but soft breathing, hot against skin inside the cocoon. Sometimes they held each other more tightly, or kneaded cool skin to ease the cramps of lying there. They kissed.
The thin one sighed and snuggled into the warmth of the other. He was small, and very slender. A close look in the daylight would have revealed the muscles of a once athletic man whom anxiety was starting to waste, though the lustre in his eyes was the same as it had always been. But wreathed in dark, he was just a little skinny, a little breathless, clinging in the shadows to the solid form with him under the blanket.
It was an hour before they moved, and then only to wriggle further into the growth. Around them the Gardens were coming alive. Lizards stepping stealthily through the undergrowth, the rustling of the bats and the night birds moving in the trees. On the lake there was a splash, and another, then silence.
For a while they dozed against each other. Then, waking, aching (not used to sleeping outdoors on the soil and the leaves), they rose and walked onto the path.
Locked inside the Botanic Gardens after dark. A delicious little sin, a little extra spice to add to the smells of earth and herbs and their bodies. The thin one wanted to hold hands as they walked. The other didn’t, but relented.
They walked, hand in hand, down a moonlit path. Not towards the groundkeepers’ buildings. The police were guarding that place tonight. Further away, quietly, quietly, soft steps on the path. The blanket dragged behind, obscuring the faint prints.
Once, they stopped, and the thin one looked up and said something to the other. The other looked like he might argue, but instead he nodded. The thin one’s shoulders slumped, tension gone. They went to the fence and threw the blanket over, ready to climb. They hugged, and the taller man turned to hold the small one from behind, spooned and affectionate. He pointed out the silhouette of bats flying past the moon. And as one looked up at the silent night, the other took a blade and slid it in, across, out.
A gout of blood, but no sound. A twitch, but no cry. It was over in a minute or less, the sticky blood soaking into the soft earth and the body folding to lie curled on the ground.
And the other looked, his hand still holding the knife, but apart from a slight drip drip drip onto the path, he was untouched by the blood. (That’s why you stand behind, he’d been told, no point getting covered in the stuff. Ruin a good suit. Ruin a good plan. No stains, nothing
