Chapter Two
‘So at Cherry Bar, after the duet we’ll announce Gabey’s launch at the Toff in Town.’ Frank scribbled a note into his journal in black, then clicked his four-colour pen to bullet-point in blue notes for the sound guy and roadie on the extra mic.
‘What about my rider?’ teased Milo.
Without skipping a beat, Frank clicked his pen to add a point in green. Jelly snakes for the sugar fiend guitarist.
Milo leaned back in his chair, impishly satisfied. He was stupidly fond of Frank’s lists. One of his favourite things in the whole wide world was watching Frank transcribing lists into his master journal with his four-colour pen, flicking the nibs down with the officious snap of the very organised. Black for the main entry; blue dots, green sub-points, red asterisks beside the time-sensitive items. Frank’s dedication to keeping their little ship sailing efficiently was occasionally crazy-making, but on the happy whole his patience and care were a soothing metronome; the solid framework for their lives.
Click. Frank’s thumb flicked the end of the pen. ‘Anything else?’ He caught Milo’s soft expression and the way his mouth dimpled in the corner. Frank flashed a puzzled but affectionate look back.
‘You two are adorable,’ observed Gabey.
‘What?’ Frank tried to look less soppy, more business-like.
Milo leaned over to kiss Frank’s cheek. ‘Y’hear that? Gabriella Valli thinks you’re adorable.’
‘I’m sure that’s what she looks for in a producer,’ said Frank, mock-dour.
‘It was at the top of my list,’ said Gabey. ‘Right after “prodigious talent” and just before “likes cats” and “doesn’t shout”.’
‘Three outa three,’ crowed Milo. ‘Good work, hot stuff!’ He snatched up Gabey’s hand and gallantly kissed it. ‘Did Danny The Prince make it into the top three of your magnificent lists? No, he did not.’
‘No,’ Gabey agreed. ‘Danny Prince shouted at minions.’
‘The blackguard!’ Milo clutched at imaginary pearls.
‘I wish I had minions,’ Frank sighed theatrically.
‘No you don’t. You have lists,’ said Milo, as though this was better than minions by a long stretch.
‘And a diary,’ added Gabey.
‘You make me sound like an accountant.’
‘A sexy accountant,’ said Milo, with wanton bedroom eyes.
‘You sound like an excellent producer,’ said Gabey, ‘and you are one.’
Frank ducked his head, then looked her in the eye. ‘It’s easy to work with talent like yours. Thank you for giving me the chance.’
For a moment everyone sat in an exquisite silence of slightly embarrassed mutual admiration, before Tessa stuck her head in. ‘Love fest done?’
‘Cherry Bar, tick; Toff in Town launch, tick,’ Milo assured her. ‘Frank’s got the bullet points to prove it.’
‘Frank does the best lists.’ Tessa, indeed, was a fan and had bought a new Moleskin and a four-colour pen of her own, neither of which she’d used past the eighth day.
‘His bullet lists are legendary,’ laughed Gabey, ‘and I’m pretty sure one of the points was “clear out so that Tessa can work”.’
‘I do have a website to update and book-keeping to do. But I can work around you.’
‘No you don’t.’ Frank rose, and the others with him. ‘We’ll take our butts to lunch at that pizza joint round the corner. I’ll bring you back a calzone, yeah?’
‘Best boss’s boyfriend ever,’ said Tessa. ‘I love that place.’
‘You love the soup bowl of coffee they do,’ teased Milo.
‘Zuppa di papa,’ Tessa sighed. ‘Very nearly enough coffee for my morning needs, and those little biscuits! Better than croutons. Oh, before you go Milo – I’ve got a couple of grant requests for you to check and approve. Do you want to do those now or come back after lunch?’
‘I’ll be full of pizza, chocolate bombolone and a strong urge to nap. Better do it now. See you down there! Order for me, babe? You know what I like.’
Gabey and Frank departed and Milo flumped back into his chair to look over the grant requests. Tessa only brought him submissions that fit the selection criteria, then he looked for things he thought Paolo would have liked.
Milo absent-mindedly fiddled with the beads on the braided leather bracelet he wore on his left wrist – a gift from Frank, four years ago. The two beads clacked together faintly. The rhythm was helpfully distracting.
‘For when you want to chew your nails,’ Frank had told him softly that day, tightening the toggles on the thing, then kissing Milo’s fingers, the quicks ravaged with anxious biting.
Milo had been defensive. ‘I can use a pick, Frank. I don’t need fucking fingernails to play.’
Instead of fighting back, Frank had only held Milo’s hands. ‘You know if you never play again, it’s okay,’ he’d said. When Milo didn’t reply, he’d added, ‘Milo, baby, you are literally eating yourself alive. I want to help. But if you don’t want the bracelet, I’ll get rid of it.’
Milo had started crying, like he used to all the time back then. ‘Don’t leave me.’
All of their conversations had been like that, the year after the park murders. All apparent non-sequiturs, all bound by that underlying fear: that they were losing each other.
‘Never. Never. I’m here. I’ll always be here, and I will keep you safe and I will never ever leave you. I love you. Kitten, my sweet Kit, I love you, and that bracelet is my promise. I’m here. Please. Stay with me. Don’t–’
‘Eat myself alive.’
‘Yeah.’ Frank was crying too by that stage.
After the bracelet, Milo had stopped the nail biting and most of the random crying. He was eventually able to sleep again. He started writing music again, using a pick until his nails grew back.
He never took the bracelet off unless he needed to; and he fiddled with it, whenever that urge to bite at his hands came back. The steady clack-clack, clack-clack, a little syncopated heartbeat, kept him focused and out of the dark well that had nearly swallowed him.
Milo had set up the Paolo Cruz Foundation to create a better legacy of his friend than a lurid newspaper headline. Milo’s skin still pricked with dread sometimes when he thought of how and why Paolo had died; how he’d nearly met the same fate – murdered for what some broken man thought was a noble cause.
Most days, Milo was fine. Some days, he wasn’t, and the remembered panic of being trapped in a car boot, expecting to
