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She smiles sadly. ‘We both are.’
‘I came to say see you later,’ he says. ‘Gabriel’s got a thing on at eleven, and then we’re going on our trip tomorrow. You can call me anytime, but—’
Margie tuts, brushing off Noah’s concern. ‘Now, don’t you worry,’ she says in the stern but warm way only grandmothers can. ‘Lucy’s staying for a few days. She’s going to take good care of me. Go on your trip. Enjoy it. Relax.’
Noah looks unsure. It must be a lot for him to let this go, to leave Margie in the hospital while he jets off on holiday. It’s easy for me to tell him he deserves it, but it’s harder to make him believe it.
‘I’ll call you on Wednesday, okay?’ he says to her. Then, he looks at me. ‘You’re taking me somewhere with reception, right?’
I nod. At least, I think there will be phone reception.
The taxi ride back to Southbank is quiet. Neither of us knows what to say but I realise that maybe we don’t have to talk; that what’s happened doesn’t need to be gone over a million times. Noah told me enough last night. Maybe he just needs to know that I’m here for him, and will be, in whatever way he needs me.
Papa meets us at the car, his eyes darting between Noah and me, clearly unsure where to start. Finally, he settles on, ‘Gabriel, you need to shower before the photoshoot. They’ve sent clothes across.’
I suppress a groan as I step under the warm spray of the shower; my muscles are clearly telling me they’ll keep me upright today, but nothing more.
There’s a pressed linen shirt and a pair of sage green shorts waiting on the bed when I step out of the shower, along with a pair of buttery-soft brown leather loafers.
‘Wow, fancy,’ Noah says as I step out of the bedroom.
‘Let’s get a coffee, Noah,’ Papa says as we walk the short distance to Southbank. ‘It looks like you could use one.’
Leaving Papa and Noah to sort themselves out, I hobble towards the waterfront where Pejo’s waiting among a crowd of makeup artists, hairstylists and photographers.
‘How do you feel today?’ Pejo asks.
‘Like I’ve torn every muscle in my body,’ I admit. ‘You?’
‘Similar,’ he chuckles. ‘It was a hard match.’
We have our photos taken, pose with our trophies, kiss them, bite them, raise them above our heads (very painful), pose together, pose apart: the whole deal. We stop to do a few TV interviews; get our photos taken by a few other newspapers and pose for our myriad sponsors and their products.
I’ve always pictured doing a media blitz after winning a big tournament and having that ‘famous’ feeling. Now that I’m here, and cameras are in my face, I realise it’s a little bit shit. I’m tired, sore and grumpy. It’s hot, my feet are killing me, and pain shoots through my knee every time I walk.
‘See you in Paris,’ I say to Pejo as we wrap up. ‘Won’t be so easy in my home town.’
Pejo laughs. ‘I have won on clay more times than I can count. Rest up, Gabriel.’
If he wasn’t so genuinely lovely, I’d hate Pejo’s guts.
I find Noah and Papa eating on the balcony of a waterfront café. Well, Noah’s eating—halfway through a breakfast omelette—and Papa’s drinking an espresso. I pull out a seat beside Papa and place the giant silver plate on the seat beside me, as if it is dining with us.
‘No trophies at the dining table,’ Noah chides.
Victor joins us and we all order coffees, sitting and chatting and going over plans—while Noah and I will leave for our break tomorrow, Papa and Victor will return to Paris to rest and begin preparing for the clay season.
‘Monte-Carlo,’ Papa says after a long while. ‘Let’s aim for Monte-Carlo.’
A cool breeze flows off the Yarra River. Trains slip in and out of Flinders Street Station every few minutes, full of busy people on their way to do a million things. People pass us on the footpath, eyes on their screens or talking on their phone, or with their earbuds in. Everyone else is moving. It feels weird to stop.
I don’t remember the last time I stopped.
‘You okay?’
Noah’s thumb brushes mine under the table. I turn to him, embarrassed to have been caught in my own head. ‘Just thinking about our break,’ I say, because it’s true.
We spend the rest of the afternoon in bed. Unfortunately, it’s not sexy. We put an episode of the baking show on my laptop, but it’s soon forgotten.
