do you call last night?’ said Frank.
Milo grinned wolfishly. ‘A good start!’ He started searching the floor for last night’s discarded clothes.
‘On the chair,’ said Frank, and Milo located the things he habitually dumped in a corner, now folded and placed neatly on a cane chair near the bathroom. Then he ducked through the connecting door to the second room of their suite, trailing trouser legs and shirtsleeves.
Tucking his white cotton shirt back into his jeans, Frank answered the door as the insistent knock started again. ‘Hi,’ he began as Selma Donahue bowled in.
‘Hello, darling!’ A quick air-kiss and she strode inside – all buzzing energy, wrapped up in hair fudge and lipstick. Selma flicked her brightly painted fingernails through her short, steel-blue dyed hair as her blue gaze darted about the room, taking in the papers, the messy bed, and the half-empty tube of lubricant on the bedside table.
Her glance shifted decisively to the young man before her. In his late twenties, just taller than the average, a mop of light brown hair falling across a high forehead; a fine straight nose above a sensitive mouth; brown eyes regarding her with what she was learning was a habitual expression of seriousness. ‘So, you’ve seen the write-ups?’ Her lipstick gloss – Wild Cherry Crush – parted to reveal white, straight teeth in a triumphant smile.
‘Yep.’ Frank hitched himself against the wardrobe and folded his arms, entertained and reassured by her efficiency and drive. ‘They love us.’
‘Yes, they love you,’ she agreed. ‘And they’re going to adore you this afternoon. Everyone is going to fall in love with you both.’
‘Hey, Frank, did Paolo call back this morning?’ Milo emerged from the second room, tousled and fresh from a quick shower, dark hair clinging damply to his forehead. He was dressed in black trousers, but shirtless. He caught Selma looking at his nicely built chest and grinned before he flung last night’s grey silk shirt in a crumpled heap on the floor – making Frank wince – and fetched a black T-shirt from a drawer.
‘Nope.’ Milo, pulling the shirt on, didn’t catch the quickly suppressed terseness in Frank’s voice. ‘I called and left another message earlier, while you were still snoring. In the meantime, Selma wants to tell us how much everyone is going to love us.’
‘Oh, good, I love praise.’ Milo grinned and raked his fingers through his hair, his traditional “final touch” to getting ready for the day. His dark brown – almost black – eyes flashed with amusement at Selma assessing the result. Milo knew he had inherited his mother’s flair for wearing clothes beautifully – that and the graceful way she moved. His dark, good looks and rakish charm he’d mostly got from his Italian father.
Selma saw him looking at her. ‘I was saying,’ she said brusquely, ‘that everyone is going to love you both. If you do what you’re told.’
‘Sounds ominous. You got a script for us?’ Milo grabbed Frank’s coffee leftovers, downed a mouthful of weak, stone cold, black coffee and pulled a face. ‘I have to get some decent coffee before anything else.’
Selma ignored the sardonic edge to his voice and suffered being kissed on her powdered cheek. ‘I’ll get some coffee on the way. And I haven’t got a script. I mean I want you two to cool it in public. Be a bit aloof. I want you to give the impression that you’re single, available and-’
‘Straight?’ Milo’s mouth compressed into a disapproving line. ‘I’m not playing that game, Selma.’
Frank nodded agreement. ‘Definitely not.’
Selma shook her head sharply. ‘No, no, no, of course not. I mean single, available and ambiguous. Look at your demographic. Look at your audience. We want them to love you. We want them to adore you, to want you. Male and female, all persuasions. Not straight, good heavens, no,’ she sounded faintly disgusted at the idea, ‘but available. To everyone.’
‘But we’re not available,’ Frank pointed out calmly.
‘You’re being deliberately obtuse, sweetheart,’ Selma berated him. ‘I didn’t say you were. I said you should give the impression you are.’
Frank and Milo exchanged looks.
‘Are you prepared to stop snogging me in public?’ asked Milo.
‘If you’re willing to stop patting my arse when you think no one’s looking,’ Frank countered.
‘It’s a sacrifice, but hey. That’s showbiz.’
‘You know,’ said Frank, his voice filled with wistful sadness, ‘I used to think people would buy our music because it was good, not because they fancied us.’
‘You can cut the little production,’ Selma said sternly. ‘You are good. But sex sells. I’ve got a car coming around, so I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes. All right? Good.’ She swept to the door, stopped to say ‘Five minutes’ in a particularly stern voice, and disappeared, the door closing emphatically behind her.
‘You know, Milo, I don’t especially like this.’
‘Me either.’ Milo shrugged. ‘But she could be right.’
‘I know. Damnit. Here, better let me snog you now, if I’m not going to be allowed to do it all day.’ Frank wrapped his arms around Milo and they kissed.
The phone rang. Frank sighed. ‘That’ll be Selma.’
‘She doesn’t let us get away with much.’
‘It’s what she’s paid for.’
‘Hmph.’ Milo picked up the phone. ‘Yes, Selma. On our way now. Yep. Promise. Okay. Sure. He’s at the door now.’
Frank stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, grabbed his worn leather coat, picked up the keys and hovered by the door.
‘Yes. Yes. If you’ll just let me hang up.’ He rang off, grabbed his own wallet and jacket and sauntered out the door. He patted Frank’s bum on the way past and laughed at the exaggerated warning look he’d earned as he shut the door.
Chapter Two
The interview was held at the Sofitel, an even flasher hotel in the centre of Melbourne. Actually, it was more a press conference than an interview, with all the music and street magazines invited, along with the mainstream press. Stefanie Royle was conducting the formal part of the gathering, but the floor would be open to questions afterwards.
Selma took Milo and Frank in through the foyer. Milo complained jovially about the dearth of shrieking fans. Selma informed him grimly that there should have been, she’d arranged for some – then flashed a wicked grin that left them wondering how seriously to take her.
A lift deposited them on the second floor, and they entered a small meeting room where they were introduced to Stefanie Royle. The young journalist looked like she got her hair and dress tips from re-runs of Sex in the City, but she didn’t wear it comfortably, throwing off as she did a more Bridget Jones’s Diary vibe.
‘Thanks for the write-up,’ said Frank. He shifted self-consciously.
