seen a few of yours! Brett was so excited to learn the Milo Bertolone would be on the show. He’s such a fan.’ Her smile was suddenly impish. ‘Brett and I met at one of your Esplanade Hotel gigs, though I should confess, I was there for the support act. My cousin played bass in Glory Collins’ band.’
‘Glory Be are great. They’re headlining themselves now. That was the Espy’s Rainbow Pride of St Kilda benefit gig, I think.’
‘That’s the one. That’s my husband, Brett, over in the kiss and cry, by the way.’
‘The…?’ Frank was finding her leaps of topic entertaining, partly because she was so effortlessly friendly, and partly because Mai was softening him up with her big brown eyes, cheeky grin and continued dubious offer of the jelly snake.
‘See over there?’ Jen pointed towards the other side of the rink where a scoreboard had been set up behind plush seating. ‘In skating, the area where contestants go to wait for the judge’s score is called the kiss and cry.’
‘Because of all the… kissing and crying that goes on there?’
‘Got it in one.’ Jen took Mai’s plump little arm and waved it. ‘Wave to daddy, sweetie-Mai!’
‘Daddy!’ squealed Mai. She dropped the jelly snake on the floor and waved both fists across the rink. A handsome Vietnamese Australian man, lean where his wife was curvy, waved back at his family. Jen beamed across the rink, a woman in love.
‘He won bronze in international competition in 2012, and skated in Jungle Book on Ice up till New Year.’ Despite her obvious pride, she rolled her eyes in sympathy with Frank’s incredulous stare. ‘I know, right? Tropical jungle snowstorms are such a thing. But the audiences loved it. He was Rikki Tikki Tavi and then one of the wolves in the Mowgli bit. I can’t imagine Rudyard Kipling ever envisioned someone skating their way through a cobra fight, but that’s my boy. He’ll be dancing with Becca Goldstein for the show.’
‘The sports presenter,’ said Frank, just to show he was keeping up.
‘That’s right. Sorry. I’m babbling.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I am, though. I’ve been stuck in the house for ages – Mai’s just over a nasty cold – and oh my god it’s lovely to talk to another adult! All I’ve done all week is sing The Wheels on the Bus and watch the same six episodes of Ruff and Timble over and over.’
‘My nephew loves that show,’ Frank said. ‘My sister makes us sing the theme tune over the phone at bedtime for him. Milo does Timble the cat, of course, so I have to be the dog.’
‘Timboo!’ shouted Mai enthusiastically.
‘Ruff!’ Frank barked playfully at her. Mai giggled some more, and so did Jen.
‘Oh look! Adam Wills is here.’
Jen lifted her chin towards a young black man in a Hobart Kites jersey entering the stalls. An older white man, hefty and bullish, was at his heels, speaking animatedly. Wills was clearly annoyed.
Nobody could live in Melbourne and not learn about Australian Rules Football, which was less a sport and more a social phenomenon in these parts. Frank didn’t follow it, though he nominally barracked for Milo’s team, the Geelong Cats. But even Frank knew who Adam Wills was – the star Indigenous player hailing from Sydney’s Redfern, drafted to the West Coast Eagles in his first year in the professional league, then traded to Hobart when Tasmania got in on the national act with their first League team four years ago.
Frank still remembered watching Wills in the 2013 Kites versus Cats semi-final – how time and again Wills flashed around the oval and took spectacular marks – leaping up twice his own height, knee in the back or on the shoulders of both teammates and rivals for elevation, to snatch a spinning oval ball out of the air, defying gravity.
Lithe, fast and agile on the field, modest and good-natured off it, Adam Wills was the polar opposite of tall, heavy-set and perpetually-in-trouble Josh Baker. Wills was also proud of his cultural heritage, and the handsome poster boy for good sportsmanship and prodigious talent in Aussie Rules football. Everyone in the country seemed to be absolutely thrilled that he’d won last year’s Best and Fairest Brownlow medal.
‘I wonder what they’re arguing about,’ said Jen.
‘Who is that?’
‘Mick Sampson.’
Frank was none the wiser.
‘The Kites’ coach,’ she elaborated.
Sampson was red in the face and jabbing his finger angrily at Wills’s nose. Snatches of the disagreement were audible, despite attempts to keep the thing sotto voce.
‘…that kind of publicity.’
‘…not like Josh and his bloody drinking…’
‘…he fell…’
‘He told me… ’
Then Sampson’s responding growl got too low and guttural to hear. He made a final point and stalked off, leaving Wills glowering at his back.
‘That’ll be one for the gossip rags,’ Jen said. ‘Coach fighting with his star player.’
‘I won’t tell ‘em if you won’t,’ offered Frank, only half joking. He had no time for the scandal sheets.
‘My lips are sealed, though those bastards will find out one way or the other. These reality show competitions leak like sieves. Ah, looks like the crew’s ready to interview you about your boyfriend. If they ask you something too personal, just swear. They can’t televise it if you call them…’ she covered Mai’s ears and mouthed “cunts” at him.
Frank, who’d been using the technique for years, grinned and nodded. ‘Good advice.’
‘My pleasure. Good luck!’
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