Getting Real

He swam with Rand in the hotel pool. Had a drink at the bar with Roley, How, Stu and Ceedee, and then talked himself into taking care of some long overdue personal business. He didn’t see Rielle which was better and worse. Ceedee said she was hanging out with Jonathan, which was no surprise. By the time he’d see her at the stage inspection it would be three days since the argument on the plane. The thought of apologising made him want to eat his own tongue. He preferred the idea she might simply go cold on him, look through him like a sheet of glass. She had form. He could only hope.

Rand studied the list of names of the television production crew who’d be joining them in Perth and travelling through to Sydney, making a Behind the Scenes documentary on the concert for broadcast on one of the digital music channels.

The name Harry Young jumped out at him. No good reason, it was a common enough name, and it was a pretty sure bet the Harry Young listed as the producer would be male; probably smoked like a chimney, swore like a wharfie and had a beer gut. The Harry Young Rand remembered didn’t let anyone else call her Harry except Rand. She was Harriet to the rest of the world, pretty, blonde, shy and plagued with a determined stutter. She had bony elbows, skinny legs and a fringe that constantly fell in her eyes. She’d been too scared to get her ears pierced and to kiss him with her braces on, but for that once when he’d asked her to the school dance, the year end formal. She’d been excited then, got all flushed and kissed him back a bit too hard.

Rand never got to see Harry in her first formal dress. He never made it to the school dance. He’d spent the night moving between Maggie and Rielle’s rooms in the hospital, propping up Ben, and trying to take in what the doctors were saying. He’d called Harry to apologise, and he’d seen her once again, briefly at the funeral. She’d hugged him hard and cried into his jacket. He’d always wondered what happened to her. She didn’t move in the same circles as the other mates he’d kept in touch with, so she remained this faraway fond memory of a time before things got hard.

He hadn’t thought of Harry Young for years, but being home was dredging up all sorts of memories and seeing that name on the list had triggered this one.

Jake nearly walked past his room. The ‘Do not disturb’ tag on the door handle threw him off. He figured it was something housekeeping must have done. He found Jonas barely breathing—almost choking in his vomit, the near empty packet of Zanect and four drained green Heineken bottles on the floor beside him. He tried to wake him, then rolled him to his side, supported him with pillows, and called an ambulance.

The wait was agony. But the paramedics were efficient and quick once they arrived, bundling Jonas into the back of an ambulance and speeding towards the hospital. Jake followed in a taxi, and waited on a hard plastic chair in a hot corridor, praying he’d have good news to report. He delayed calling Rand until he knew more, but once it was clear Jonas was going to live he dialled Rand’s mobile.

13. Doctor

The Fremantle Doctor was filling the sails of the yachts on the Swan River, giving Sharon, Rand and Rielle something to watch from the balcony of the hotel’s rooftop bar. Jake kept his head down. He was fine sitting in the confines of the snug bar, so long as he pretended there was no balcony edge, and no view. He imagined the yachts were fast and graceful, zipping across the surface of the water, racing each other for the sheer enjoyment of it. The contrasting conversation was stilted, angst ridden and outraged.

They’d said all there was to say. Jonas was being kept at the hospital for observation, and Sharon had him waitlisted for flights back to LA. Rielle had raged, and then fallen quiet, letting Rand make the necessary decisions.

Jonas was out. If he didn’t straighten up, the band would need to hire a new executive producer and stage manager. Meanwhile the Australian portion of the tour would go on with Rand and Rielle sharing EP responsibilities. They’d asked Jake to take on the stage manager’s role.

He was hesitating—pretending a great fascination with his hands. As tour manager, he could stand apart from the ins and outs of the band’s issues. He was responsible for getting them to the stage, but what they did on it was outside of his control. But as stage manager, he’d be responsible for their actions on stage as well. There’d be no escaping them. He’d done the dual role for other tours, but nothing this big, and while he was confident about working with Rand, it was Rielle he was worried about. Especially since their last discussion.

He broke the silence. “I’m flattered you’re asking, but I’m concerned.” He looked at Rielle. “I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

“I said some things too, Jake,” said Rielle, while Rand looked on with a quirked eyebrow and Sharon waved a waiter over for a drinks refill.

He met Rielle’s eyes and held them. “If you’re sure we can work together?”

She gave him her trademark scowl. “I’m not sure. But I’m prepared to give it a try.”

“Rie!” Rand smacked his empty glass back on the table too hard.

Rielle was hunched forward in her chair and turned to look back at her brother. “Well, I’m not sure. This is important. I can’t see any point lying to Jake.”

Jake dropped his head. He wasn’t at all convinced about Rielle and the truth, but he agreed with the sentiment anyway. “I understand. Why don’t we see who else is available locally to step in if things don’t work out?”

Rand said, “That won’t be—”

Rielle said, “Good idea,” their words jumbling on top of each other.

Jake looked to Sharon who nodded, doing her best ‘nothing rattles me’ impression in spite of the tension. “No worries. I’ll see who’s available,” she said. They both knew the likelihood of anyone suitable being available at no notice was low and that they were in for an interesting time.

Rand got to his feet. “I’m going to head into the hospital.” He gave Rielle a nudge, but she shook her head, stood and walked across to the balcony rail. “Fine,” he eye-rolled. “Jake, if you can take on the job we’ll be eternally grateful. And don’t worry about her. She’ll get with the program.” He shot a meaningful look in the Rielle’s direction.

Jake nodded. He could turn down the job. He should. But for the moment at least, he was stuck.

“I’ll give you a lift,” said Sharon, taking a hurried slurp of her carrot and beetroot juice, tucking the paper cocktail umbrella behind her ear and getting to her feet. She gave Jake a pat on the shoulder and left with Rand.

What Jake most wanted to do was have an afternoon swim to clear his head and an early night. Tomorrow was going to be a big day with the road crew arriving, no Jonas, and his new job brief; but there was Rielle, somewhere at the railing, looking out on the river.

He imagined her hair picking up the breeze, long, tangled, red strands of it floating across her back. If they were going to work together, he had to clear the air, but he could barely look at her—anxiety that she might fall through the chest-high, glass balcony wall gnawed in his stomach. All he could do was wait, hopefully she’d come back to the table.

When she did, she took control of the conversation. “Did you mean what you said about me being a fake?”

He groaned. Not exactly where he’d have started their discussion.

“I can’t see any point in you lying to me either, Jake.”