The Piper's Son (29 page)

“Listen, Will. I’d recommend dinner, flowers, and room service for breakfast.”

Ned makes a scoffing sound. “Oh, the expert. The way I hear it you don’t wait around for breakfast, Tom. So what would you know?”

Ned says, “Listen to me, Will. Frankie’s the type of girl who looks good in stuff. Like undies or something. Buy her undies.”

Now Tom makes the scoffing sound. “Yeah, the expert on what women look good in,” he says. “It’s lingerie, dickhead. Not undies.”

Will is looking uncomfortable. He’s searching over people’s heads for Francesca.

“I’ve got things planned,” he tells them in a flat tone.

“Will, you’re not exactly Mr. Valentine’s Day,” Tom says.

“You’re going to screw this up,” Ned agrees.

Will sighs. He seems a bit doubtful now and looks at both of them.

“Okay,” he says, as if he’s going to try the idea out on them. “When I came back from overseas five years ago, her father wouldn’t let me drive her anywhere. We had to take public transport. Buses, mostly. Bus from Annandale to the city. Bus from Annandale to Central and then the train to Kingsgrove. Bus from Annandale to Concord.”

Tom’s already shaking his head. Ned has no idea where it’s going.

“So I was thinking that I’d try to be romantic . . . you know . . . take her to all the bus benches . . . where we pashed . . . and stuff.”

Tom stares at him. Ned even looks impressed just as Francesca returns to them.

“What have you guys been talking about?” she asks.

“Oh, you know,” Tom says. “We just gave Will a great idea on how to be romantic.”

That night Francesca is back and forth between the bar and their table. She’s too hyper. She’s a meltdown waiting to happen, already counting down the moments from now to when Trombal leaves.

“He’s seen you onstage a thousand times,” Tom says, remembering that Trombal was at every single gig they played during their first year at uni.

“But he hasn’t heard me play guitar,” she says, leaning across the table to show Trombal the list. “Choose any one of them.”

“Whatever you want to play, Frankie,” Trombal says.

They’re looking at each other in a way that suggests that stuff is happening on dimensions Tom has no entry into. Trombal leans over and kisses her. “You choose.”

“When you do that so close to people’s faces, can you refrain from using tongue contact?” Tom mutters.

Stani taps Francesca on the shoulder and points to the crowd at the counter and she leaves reluctantly.

“So . . . it must get a bit wild over there,” Tom says, for no other reason than there is nothing else to say.

Will’s attention is focused on the bar, where Francesca’s serving and chatting with some locals.

“So, have you been to any of the strip joints? I hear that’s what you guys get up to,” Tom asks.

This time Will looks at him. There’s a whole lot of muscle twitching and holding back. He could not have picked someone more different in Francesca.

“I hang out with engineers,” Will says quietly. “What do you think?”

Delivered without a trace of sarcasm. Neutral. Tonight Tom’s going to break Will Trombal.

“Does Frankie know about it?”

Tom’s tone shows insidious intent.

“We’re open with each other.”

“Why? Because you get off on telling her about it?”

Will wants out, Tom can tell. Some guy at the bar is chatting up Francesca and he can tell that Trombal’s not liking it.

“Tom,” he says patiently, “remember that time when you were in Year Seven and I was in Year Eight and your mates decided they would flush my head down the toilet because I was a midget? It ended in tears. Mine, because there’s nothing more degrading than having your head down a toilet bowl, and yours, because I don’t think you were equipped to embrace the dark side. Tonight will end in tears.”

“Mine or yours?” Tom says.

Francesca plonks herself down again. She’s giddy beyond sanity. Tom wants her back in normal mode, organizing the troops and listening to the bad news. He wants to remind her that Trombal will be gone in five days. With her younger brother. One more person to worry about. But Trombal is still looking at him. With the answer to his question in his eyes.

Francesca notices the look and there’s a bit of panic in her expression.

“What’s wrong with you guys?”

Will shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“You aren’t fighting, are you?”

Will shakes his head again. “We were just talking about football.”

“Are you coming Sunday, Tom?” she asks. “Both your teams are playing each other at Leichhardt oval.”

Will is eyeing him. There’s a
don’t even think about it
look on his face.

“I’d love to,” Tom says.

They have a drink with Stani and Ned after Stani closes up and they’ve played Trombal a number in the back room.

“The guitar is a turn-on,” Tom hears Will say quietly when they jump off the stage after playing one of their originals.

“Thanks, Will,” Tom says.

“But I like your voice best,” Will says, ignoring Tom, “and you didn’t need anything more than that.”

Tom wants to stress to Will that when one is paying their girlfriend a compliment, one should put expression in the voice. It can be useful.

Francesca takes Will’s hand and plays with it.

“It was just that stupid guitarist, remember? In the band Justine and I were in when Tom split. And he’d say I was nothing but a good voice —”

“And that you looked sexy in a sundress,” Tom says.

“I didn’t say sexy,” she says, irritated. “Anyway, he’d make us play numbers where there’d be five minutes of him dueling with Justine and all I got to do was twirl my skirt, like June Carter.”

“Beautiful woman, June Carter,” Stani says.

“Remember how he used to stand up real close to me in the middle of a number?” Justine shudders. “And he had the worst breath and when I told him I wasn’t interested, he was . . . just a . . .”

Francesca looks at Will. “What was he, babe?”

Will explains to Tom and Stani and Ned what the guy was, using one syllable.

Tom looks at him with disbelief. “You swear for her? Doesn’t that make you feel cheap?”

“He said we were hard work,” Justine explains.

“Who?” Tom asks.

“The post-you guitarist,” she says.

“If you’re comfortable being hard work, so be it,” Will says.

Francesca looks at him. “So you think we are hard work?”

Will’s shaking his head. “Is this one of those ‘Does my bum look big in this’ moments?”

“So now you’re saying she’s got a big bum and is hard work?” Tom asks.

He’s watching Will carefully because Wonder Boy is just about to walk into dangerous territory and Tom’s loving it.

“It’s that you come with . . .”

“Baggage?” Francesca asks.

“Accessories,” Will corrects her. “A whole lot of them. And
they
are hard work.”

“What he’s trying to say is that not everything has to be . . . solved . . . fixed . . . proven?” Tom says.

“Not what I was trying to say at all,” Will says coldly.

“It’s what they used to do in high school,” Tom continues, looking at Ned and Stani. “
‘Let’s try to fix this and fix that’
and
‘Why can’t we do this and that?’
rather than just enjoying what was around them.”

“Enjoying?” she says with disbelief. “What? The sexism? The lack of choices?”

“Eva Rodriguez never complained once,” Tom argues. “Never. I was in homeroom with her in Year Twelve. Never once did she complain.
‘I’m in,’
she’d say.
‘Sound’s great.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Hell, yeah.’ ‘Let’s do it.’ ‘Yeah, baby!’”

“He’s got a bit of a point there,” Will says. “She was very popular with my year when you girls first arrived.”

Tom’s relieved that Francesca’s attention has shifted away from him.

“Don’t give me that look, Frankie,” Will says. “You know my tongue was hanging out the moment you walked into that school.”

“I know Eva,” Francesca says, ignoring the compliment. “Great girl. Smart as, and I can assure you, she has her boyfriend under her boot heels. The pointy ones. I could imagine the conversation. One year in Indonesia to work on a bridge with a bunch of guys?
‘Oh, sure, off you go, babe,’
I could imagine Eva saying.
‘Have fun. Yeah, baby.’”

“She’d stop him from working overseas?” Tom asks.

“Maybe, and if she couldn’t, she wouldn’t be sticking around.”

“So why do you stick around?” Will asks.

“Because I’m not frightened of hard work, Will,” Francesca says.

“Did I say I was?” he asks.

Tom thinks this is a good time to step in.

“I have to be honest, I can understand Eva not wanting her boyfriend to work overseas,” Tom says. “Guys get carried away, regardless of whether they have girlfriends or not.”

“Guys only?” Francesca asks. “What about that chick you slept with who had a boyfriend?”

“I told you that in privacy,” he mutters, pissed off. “Anyway, it doesn’t mean she loves her boyfriend less,” he adds. “If you slept with someone else, would it mean you love Frankie less, Will? Like, if you picked up at one of those strip joints you go to over there?”

“Thomas,” Justine warns.

“It’s okay,” Tom says. “Will and Frankie have an open relationship —”

“We do
not
have an open relationship,” Francesca says, furious.

“I meant I tell her everything,” Will says, teeth almost clenched.

“What I’m saying —” Tom begins.

“Garbage,” Stani says, looking at him. “It needs to be taken out.”

“It’s not —”

“Now.”

While he’s outside, banished to Garbage Land, he smokes a cigarette, vowing it’s the last time he’s going to indulge in hypotheticals with his new forced friend, Will. But a part of him feels guilty and he figures that he’ll do the right thing and help him out. Maybe give him advice on how to deal with an impending fight with Francesca. With only five days together, his best advice would be to pretend the conversation never happened. There’s nothing worse than Francesca wanting to “talk” or “flesh out” the core of the problem.

He walks in and makes it as far as the bathroom, but steps back instantly behind the piled-up boxes of toilet paper, serviettes, and straws. Beyond the boxes, in the kitchen, Francesca sits on the bench. Opposite her, with a lot of space between them, and a lot of silence, Will leans on the preparation bench.

“What do you always say about me?” Tom hears him ask.

She’s not answering.

“Frankie?”

“That you use calculus to work out whether we should be together or not,” she says.

“I mean when you’re trying to compliment me.”

She hasn’t looked up yet and Trombal waits.

“That you’re the smartest guy I know,” she says finally in a flat voice.

“Which kind of means less to me these days when I think of the guys you hang out with,” Will says.

Bastard.

“Why would the smartest guy you know do something stupid and lose you?” he asks.

She sighs. “Because smart guys have two brains, Will. One in their head and one in their pants.”

“Yeah, well both my brains are connected and one is always reminding the other of you.”

Francesca doesn’t react and even Tom wants her to talk. Or workshop. Or be Francesca in overload. Even he’s stressed by her silence.

“I thought we weren’t going to drive each other crazy with this type of stuff, Frankie,” Will says, frustrated.

“We aren’t,” she blurts out. “But it’s just been the longest year and most of the time I just think of something terrible happening to you over there, Will. But sometimes . . . when you’re speaking strip joints with Tom . . . what was that? Bonding?”

“Yeah, like I’d really bond with that
dick.
Hasn’t anyone explained to him that there’s a big difference between Sumatra and Bangkok?”

“And I’d appreciate if you changed your attitude about my friends.”

“I don’t have a problem with your friends, except for one. Fuck, how do you think I feel, Frankie? You’re either up there onstage with him or in a room with other guys ogling you. You think that doesn’t go through my mind when I’m over there? That you might act on the chemistry you have with people who have everything in common with you in the way that I don’t? Like Mackee. How can I compete with that? While guys I’m working with are telling me their girlfriends back home are screwing around behind their backs?”

“Okay,” she says, determined. “Let’s go back to the part where we aren’t going to drive each other crazy with this type of stuff.”

Tom can see that Will’s still fired up.

“Come here,” she says.

“No, you come here.”

“I said it first.”

“Rock paper scissors.”

“No. Because you’ll do nerdy calculations and work out what I chose the last six times and then you’ll win.”

Will pushes away from the table and his hand snakes out and he pulls her toward him and Tom figures that Will was always going to go to her first. And here he is. Stuck behind boxes of toilet paper, where he’s going to have to sneak back outside and make a song and dance about walking in. Or he can go into the bathroom and flush the toilet and let them know he’s there. Especially if he sees skin. It’s pervy if he sees skin, although he can see skin now because Will’s hand goes up her skirt and it’s bunched up around her thighs. So Tom makes the decision to look away the moment, the
very moment,
he sees anything more than that. The moment he sees a glimpse of underwear, he will be officially in Sicko Land and he will be forced to make some kind of noise. Flushing, coughing, heavy footsteps. Talk to himself out loud. The moment he sees anything that in anyway will be considered a sexual act between . . .

“Stani, the bins are done!”
he yells out.

“What was all that yelling about?
The bins are done. The bins are done,
” Ned says as Stani locks up. The others are already halfway up the street.

Tom doesn’t respond. He’s over the Frankie-and-Will show and it’s only day one.

“Were they making out in our kitchen?” Ned hisses.