by Nicole Hayes
Yep. I’m losing it too.
Jake leans in to kiss me on the cheek, but it still manages to speed up my heartbeat. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
We avoid looking at each other for – I count them – six beats, and then he says, ‘Shall we go?’
The gallery is one of those tiny mega-cool places in a cellar that leads into one of the graffiti laneways. We wander through several rooms, each slightly larger than the one before it, Jake’s expression seeming to open up with every new image. Near the end, we stop at a wall featuring a single framed photograph that stands as tall as me. The woman’s face is captured in monochrome, with a faint blue tinge to it that makes her seem almost sickly up close. I step back to take in the whole image, and the effect changes completely. There’s a grace to the way she holds her head. Her expression is frank and unsympathetic and yet there is such enormous pain in her eyes. Such honest, open heartbreak. I can’t stop staring at her.
‘Who is she?’ I feel compelled to whisper.
Jake shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the image. ‘I don’t know. Alice someone, if the title means anything.’
‘She’s so …’
‘Beautiful?’
‘No. Well, yes, but it’s more than that.’
Jake nods. ‘Yeah, I know.’
I sit down on the low cushioned seat facing the exhibit. Jake sits next to me. His hand is right near mine, our pinkies almost touching. ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I say quietly, focusing on the woman’s face.
Jake looks at me. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
I point at the photograph in front of us. ‘This one’s my favourite.’
He smiles. ‘I thought it might be.’
We both look at the picture again. Everyone else seems to have moved on; it’s just the two of us in the quiet of the gallery and it doesn’t feel awkward at all.
And then my stomach growls sharply.
‘Subtle!’ Jake laughs out loud.
I blush and laugh at the same time. ‘I guess I’m hungry.’
Jake stands up and takes my hand in his. It feels so natural and right that when we start walking I hold on a little tighter.
Jake and I are sitting opposite each other in a cafe about a block from the studio. It’s small and busy, which I don’t mind, because it takes the pressure off conversation. It feels easy, like we’re friends and we’re just hanging out. The debate is playing in one corner of the room – that’s why Jake picked it. This way we can watch while we eat.
‘So, it’s really about the photographs?’ I ask.
‘Politics is kind of hard to avoid in Canberra,’ Jake says. ‘Journalism too, when your parents are immersed in it. Feels like everyone around you is.’
‘I know all about that.’
‘Front-row seats, hey?’
‘Yeah, but not the good kind.’ I push my empty plate to the side and sip my water. ‘Guess you came to the right school, then. For the inside story.’ I laugh too loudly, hear the echo inside it.
Jake’s gaze narrows. ‘That’s not why I chose your band. Kessie suggested it.’
‘You knew my name, who my mum is.’
‘Yeah. Honestly, though, that was all.’ He places his elbows on the table and shifts forward. ‘If it was all about politics I’d have stayed in Canberra.’
I glance up at the TV. The volume is down low, but we can measure the crowd’s reaction by a graph at the bottom of the screen. The worm at the top shows Mum is doing well. The Opposition Leader has landed a couple of blows too.
‘Do you miss your mum?’ I try to imagine not living with mine, not seeing her every day, or most days. I know it will happen and that’s fine. But to move to a different part of the country? That’s pretty drastic.
‘Probably more than she misses me.’ He holds his glass in front of him, studies the water swirling inside it, then sets it down. ‘It’s like living in a big fishbowl there,’ he continues. ‘It’s all about politics or Parliament. Everyone knows everyone. The journalists are all mates with the pollies – or sworn enemies. Either way, they’re all connected.’
‘Sometimes it feels like that here too. At least, when I’m with Mum.’
‘You’ve got your music, though.’
‘In a way, it’s the only thing I truly own. The only thing that’s all mine.’ I glance at his camera, sitting there between us like some kind of trophy. ‘You have your photography.’
Jake’s face colours, though his expression doesn’t change. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘That photograph of the woman – Alice?’ Even as he says her name, his face transforms, like a burden has been lifted just at the memory. ‘The photographer captured something so pure and so simple. But rich, too.’ He stops abruptly, those emerald eyes dark and thoughtful. ‘Do you ever wonder if you’ve made the right choice?’
‘About what?’
‘Everything.’ He looks away, studies the tablecloth, his shoulders hunched, but when he turns to face me there’s an uneven smile on his face. ‘Just … I don’t know. The important things.’
I almost laugh because, well, who doesn’t? ‘School stuff? Yeah, all the time. My music? No. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’ I move the serviette off my lap, fold it, then unfold it. ‘Even when it doesn’t, it somehow does.’
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve lost myself a bit too.’ I search the ceiling, the floor, his face, wondering how to put this thing that seems so simple in my head into words. ‘I mean that even when I have to do things I don’t want to do, or it feels hard or too difficult, it’s still … true. Still me.
‘I’ve got this new song that just won’t work. It’s driving me crazy. It almost hurts to care about it so much, to need to fix it the way I do.’ I look away, the colour rising to my cheeks. ‘Sometimes it seems easier to just give up. You know? To stop and do something else.’ I lean closer, realising the truth of this for the first time. ‘Except I won’t. Or can’t, maybe. It’s who I am, the bit that matters most.’ I smile slowly. ‘Sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it’s all that matters.’
‘You’re lucky.’
‘I guess I am. Aren’t you? Your photographs are proof you should be doing this. It’s art,’ I say, a little too earnestly. ‘I sound like a tool, don’t I? But it’s so beautiful and real. You’re meant to do it. You feel that, don’t you?’
‘I feel it. My dad not so much.’ Jake seems to almost shrink. He turns away so abruptly that he seems angry, but when he speaks his voice is soft. ‘The light in Alice’s eyes in that photo, the rise of her chin – there’s a story there, a whole life. Sometimes, when I take a photo, when I get the right angle – a particular slant – it feels like I know them and their story. That’s what I’m looking for – people and their stories captured in a single perfect shot.’
‘That seems like a big thing to want.’ I think of the photo he took of me and why it bothered me so much, why it made me blush. It felt wrong because he got me exactly right.
‘Like the photo of you,’ he says, reading my mind. ‘I didn’t want to take any more after that. I’d got it – the story, or a sense of it at least. Of you.’
He’s watching me carefully and it feels like the whole room has been muted. The silence between us is charged and intense.
‘Maybe being here will help your dad understand,’ I offer. ‘A new place, new people …?’
‘It’s hard to start again,’ he says, ‘but I’m finding my way.’
‘What about the piece on the band? How did that go?’
‘They like the pictures,’ he says slowly. A chagrined smile follows. ‘I guess my article wasn’t quite what they were after. But I’ve got another assignment, so that’s something.’
‘Congratulations! That’s great.’
His phone beeps and I see ‘Dad’ flash on the screen. He slides it shut. ‘Enough to get my dad off my back, if I’m lucky.’
‘You said he’s a journalist too?’
‘Is that why he moved to Melbourne?’
‘That’s what he says. More likely he just wanted to get away from Mum.’
The dim restaurant lights cast his face in a gentle glow. So many emotions captured there, but none I can name precisely. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine.’ His knee starts to jiggle. ‘It’s hard to know sometimes …’
‘What?’
He offers a hollow laugh. His whole expression changes, the whimsy and confusion gone, that confident smile in place and the dimples there with it. ‘First world problems,’ he says. His smile softens and he reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. ‘I’m really glad you came. And kind of surprised your mum let you.’ He tilts his head, indicating the TV, the worm telling us that Mum has just landed another punch. ‘Considering.’
I bristle at this. ‘Yeah, well, if I organised my life around Mum’s career, I’d never go anywhere, and I definitely wouldn’t be friends with a journalist.’
Jake flinches the tiniest bit but laughs lightly. ‘Fair enough.’
And then he suddenly sits straighter, his back rigid as though preparing for assault. I follow his gaze and see a tall man built a lot like him striding towards us, a broad smile in place, but one that, up close, has a kind of shadow. Not a shadow. A smoothness, like a TV-commercial smile – the kind they use to sell toothpaste.
‘Jake. You didn’t answer my message.’ The rebuke edges the man’s voice but that cool smile doesn’t flicker.
‘I thought you were working.’
The man barely looks at Jake when he answers. His gaze is fixed on me. ‘Just a quick break, was in the area …’ He has the same startling green eyes, but where Jake’s are warm and full of humour, his are hard. ‘Wanted to see if you needed a lift. I forgot you had company.’
Jake frowns, searching the man’s face for an answer to a question I’m not sure was asked. But the man is still sizing me up.
‘This must be Francesca,’ he says, giving my name an Italian lilt that doesn’t belong. ‘You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful,’ he continues, somehow making the compliment sound like an accusation.
My face feels hot and all I can manage is an awkward half-laugh. I glance at Jake and am surprised to see real anger there.
‘You’re not going to introduce us officially, son?’
Jake’s jaw twitches, the dimples have now vanished. ‘This is Frankie,’ he says, his voice low and thin. He looks at me with apology in his eyes. ‘Frankie, this is my dad.’
I reach out a hand, like Harry has always taught me to do. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr D’Angelo.’
There’s a glimmer of something I can’t identify in his expression, but then it’s gone. ‘Mr D’Angelo is my ex-father-in-law’s name,’ he says. ‘Jake decided to take his mother’s surname after the divorce. Call me Tony.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘No problem,’ he says too quickly.
The silence stretches.
‘Jake was just showing me some of his favourite photographs,’ I say. ‘They’re really beautiful.’
‘Dad’s not a huge fan of art,’ Jake says, using air quotes around the last word. ‘Especially not mine.’
I’m surprised by the harshness of Jake’s tone and even more surprised that Tony barely reacts. ‘Now, now, Jake,’ Tony says. ‘There’s a place for photography. It has a purpose. And potential for a career.’
‘As long as there are words to go with it, or if the subjects are famous.’ Jake leans towards me, effectively cutting his dad out of the conversation. ‘It’s the difference between the Alice photo and unauthorised shots of Kim Kardashian buying lingerie in Brunswick Street.’
‘Come now. That’s not news.’ Tony glances at his watch, then at the TV. ‘Photojournalism is a perfectly acceptable pursuit. A realistic one.’
‘But not my thing.’
Tony flashes straight white teeth. ‘It’s fine to have a hobby. I appreciate art as much as the next man, but it won’t pay the bills.’ He looks at me. ‘As long as it doesn’t get in the way. I’m sure Frankie agrees.’
I laugh. ‘I’m the last person to ask.’
Jake shakes his head, studies the tablecloth.
‘How’s the portfolio coming, Jake?’ his dad asks.
Jake’s cheeks redden. ‘Fine. Do we really need to talk about it now?’
Tony’s expression stiffens. ‘No. I just haven’t seen you much the last few days.’
‘Maybe you should come home more often.’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice,’ Tony says without blinking.
The waiter approaches and asks if we need an extra seat.
Tony laughs loudly. ‘No, no! I’ve got to get back. Glad to have met you, Francesca.’ His teeth almost seem to glint. ‘I’ll let you two enjoy yourselves,’ he says finally.
He leaves as suddenly as he arrived, pausing at the register near the door to wave at us what I presume is our bill, indicating that he’s paid it.
We sit there without talking, the air thick with the unspeakable. What can I say? He seems nice? He seems horrid? I can’t say either. I reach across the table and squeeze Jake’s hand.
Jake looks at me, the tension gradually leaching from his body. I can see relief wash over him like a wave. His hand has unclenched beneath mine and he’s turning it over, his fingers entwined with mine.
Then, just as abruptly, he pulls away. ‘We’d better go,’ he says, waving vaguely at the TV screen.
I watch Mum and the Opposition Leader laugh at something the moderator has said, then Mum says something and the worm goes through the roof. I wish I had my own worm here right now so I could work out what the hell just happened.
As we approach the TV studio, Jake’s steps slow. He’s barely spoken the whole way, and although I made a couple of attempts to get him talking, the heaviness of his tread and the slope of his shoulders was all the information I needed to know there was no point.
Outside the building, Jake stops and faces me. He takes both my hands in his, and I let him. He looks at me for the longest time. ‘At least we’re early,’ he says, half-smiling.
‘Yeah. I can catch the end of it.’
‘I’m sorry about before. My dad is …’
‘I’m getting that.’
He smiles. ‘Thanks.’
I feel the velvet of his lips against mine and suddenly none of it matters. He tastes like mint, his breath is warm and ragged. The kiss deepens and we are so close, his chest pressed against mine, that I can feel his rapid heartbeat. Or is it mine?
We pull away and he looks at me with that lopsided grin. ‘Can we do this again soon?’ he asks. ‘Without Tony.’
I laugh, glad that the mood has eased. ‘Yeah, parents generally aren’t the best accessory on a first date.’
‘You think?’
‘I mean, it was a date, wasn’t it?’ I feel emboldened by those lips, the way his breath caught against my mouth.
It’s Jake’s turn to laugh. ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’
I reach up to kiss him again, feel him groan against my mouth a moment later when he pulls away. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he says, and looks it. For a second he seems to reconsider his words, like he’s said something he shouldn’t, but that vanishes and the smile is both reluctant and resigned. ‘You promised your parents.’
‘Yeah.’ With my head still reeling, I turn and head into the building.
CHAPTER 17
KITCHEN CABINET
I don’t see Jake at school the next day and he has to work all weekend, but he messages me several times and we talk about our next date like it’s no longer a maybe.
The bump Mum got in the polls after her debate victory was pretty solid, tho
ugh not as high as they’d hoped. Mum is barely home – I see her more on TV than I do in person. Luke and I help out in bits, attending meet-and-greets with Christie and Sarah and sometimes Harry, chatting with strangers at various shopping centres, appearing on stage at any event to do with kids and families. Dad comes along to a couple of them, but between his new novel and the stuff he has to do with Mum, he’s almost never home either. Mum swoops in at the last minute at the bigger occasions, stands beside us to play happy families, then is ferried out again to whatever new stunt Harry has devised for her. Other than that, I haven’t seen Mum and Dad in the same room all week. I don’t even ask when she disappears in the middle of the night now. It’s almost a daily occurrence.
By Sunday night, I’m done. Luke is still suffering school-camp hangover, and the few engagements he’s attended have knocked him around. He spends most of Sunday night watching back-to-back Harry Potter movies in bed, letting Dad and, reluctantly, me deliver him snacks and drinks. Gran pops her head in a couple of times, but Mum’s been really cross with her ever since the launch and for once it seems like she’s taken the hint.
I kind of miss her, actually.
The only thing of note that happens the whole weekend is that Kessie was apparently front row at one of the Northlink protests against the women’s shelter that’s being relocated. I saw it on the news – saw her wave her banner and call out to Mum to remember where she came from. Kessie ambushing Mum at a campaign event would usually only drive Harry crazy, but this one seems to have annoyed everyone. I suspect it’s because it involves the women’s shelter and Mum shifting her story to ‘play down the woman issue’.
When I get to school on Monday and overhear Kessie and Tyler chatting about the protest together, I realise Tyler had been there too and then the whole thing suddenly feels like something bigger than just Kessie showing Mum up.
‘Thanks a lot for that, Kess,’ I say when they both turn to see me in the corridor.
‘What?’ Kessie asks, looking genuinely confused.
‘The protest? Yelling at my mum?’ I shake my head and slam my locker. ‘Nice work.’