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Rand lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The chorus of an old J Geils Band song, Angel is a Centrefold, looped around in his head.
Harry Young. She wasn’t exactly a centrefold but his home-room angel was definitely all grown up; she had filled out and was no longer the least bit familiar with shyness or stuttering. She was smart, driven, successful and slightly scary.
They’d had a late and hurried meal, and then Harry went back to work, setting up for the first Perth show. He’d loved every minute of it. Watching her. The curve of her cheek when she smiled, the play of light in her eyes,
the way her silky hair framed her face. She’d been a cute but painfully insecure sixteen-year-old. She was now a gorgeous, confident woman.
Of course, she knew almost everything there was to know about him. Everything public that is—that was her job. And he knew nothing about her. But she’d been reluctant to play question and answer. The whole hour they’d talked business: the show, the tour, the accident with the rigging, the Jonas issue. She wanted to know what it was like to write hit songs and perform in front of thousands of people. She wanted to know how it felt to be embarking on a twenty-five city, eight month long tour, and to be making millions of dollars.
He didn’t want to talk about any of those things. He didn’t want to spend the spit talking about himself. He wanted to know what happened when she finished school, what she did at uni, how she got into television, if she’d had her heart broken, was married, had kids, was in love. But she steered him away from any personal questions, and she never touched on anything remotely close to their playground history.
But that was all right; they had time, lots of time, and Rand was used to being patient and working at what he wanted, and he wanted Harry. Maybe for what she reminded him of, maybe for what she seemed to promise.
He swung his legs out of the bed, his head filled with the ‘Nah, nah, na-na, nah, nah’ of the song’s bridge. It was going to be a good tour.
In the roadies versus talent and management touch football game, the roadies were up one try with twenty minutes to the bell and a timeout called because Roley got winded in a tripping incident that sent him and Lizard sprawling, and pushed the ball into touch.
“Come on, boys, we’ve got this in the bag,” called Bodge, the roadie team captain.
“They’re all talk,” responded Jake. He was the underdog talent team leader and he wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Half of you lot don’t know the rules.” Bunk said, getting in his face.
“Half of you lot cheat,” Jake said, chest bumping Bunk. Even though that was true, behind him, Rand high-fived Stu.
The roadies growled and there was much smacking of fists in hands to indicate their intention to smash the talent team.
“Rough ‘em up boys, but don’t kill ‘em; they sign the salary cheques,” growled Bodge.
When Roley got to his feet, Jake pushed him down to the grass again. “Stay winded, mate,” he laughed, “we’re all done in.” Roley lay back and groaned in an exaggerated manner that left no doubt he was faking, and the roadie team cat-called their disapproval.
“Pussy!”
“Wuss!”
“Big girls!”
“Oi!” yelled Rielle. “We’ll show you how girls do it!”
She aimed a play kick at Roley who jumped to his feet, yelled, “Rock and roll!” and the game started again.
Since Roley had been in possession and knocked the ball out, Lizard took the tap and the roadie team spread out behind him ready to take a pass and carry the ball forward.
Teflon took the first pass and sent the ball wide to Bunk, who avoided Jake and Rand and flick passed to Neddy. But the ball went over his head and Rielle intercepted it. She scooted between Bodge and Tim. Jake’s talent team erupted, screaming her name as she raced towards the goal and the roadies, caught flat footed, chased after her.
All it needed was a tap to her body and Rielle would have to stop running, but Neddy ignored the minimum contact rule, and made a lunge for her, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her high off the ground where she kicked and screamed.
Jake shouted, “Mongrel!” and raced alongside Neddy and Rielle. Around him players from both sides exploded in shouts of protest and disapproval.
Rand, not far behind him, was yelling, “Foul!”
Rielle was screaming incoherently, kicking and struggling to get out of Neddy’s grip.
“All right, all right,” Neddy said, releasing Rielle, hands held high. “My bad.” He laughed and some of the other roadies sniggered.
Once her feet hit the ground, Rielle reacted. She spun about, drew back her fist and let fly a solid punch that connected with a loud smack against Neddy’s laughing face.
His head jerked back more from surprise than force and he lunged at her. “Little bitch!”
