And so we ping-pong around the trestle for the better part of an hour.
When I tell everyone Zeke and I went to school with Hammer, there’s this twitter of excitement that we know someone famous. The attention makes me feel elated for five seconds, then grubby as hell for the rest of the morning.
The brunch is chill: everyone’s in good spirits. Kayla and Tenille bought matching aprons for the happy couple and blanked out one of the letters with sticky tape, so the ‘Kiss the Cook’ aprons both say ‘Kiss the Cock’. Curtis and Ahmed take a goofy selfie wearing the aprons by the barbie.
The funniest thing is when Ahmed wheels out not just the leftover pussy cake, but a new penis-shaped gateau he’s whipped up for the occasion.
‘We thought it would be a good match for the vagina cake,’ he declares. ‘A match made in heaven.’
The girls laugh, but Tenille ashes her cigarette and fixes Ahmed with a quizzical look. ‘Ahmed, that’s a vulva, not a vagina,’ she points out. ‘Surely you know the difference?’
Ahmed looks politely astonished. ‘I genuinely don’t.’
Tenille turns to the rest of us. ‘And none of you corrected him?’ Her face falls as she surveys Curtis, Rex, me and Zeke, andrealises we have all learned, in real time, that a vagina and a vulva may not be the same thing. ‘Oh my God! How can you boys not know this?’
‘It’s not relevant to our interests,’ Curtis splutters, before giving a whooping laugh that turns into a cough.
There’s a frenzy of selfies taken with the cakes, during which the girls are even dirtier than us guys. Kayla and Tenille make horrified puking faces at the phallus cake; Reyna pretends to fellate it; and Fatima grabs a can of whipped cream and adds a flourish of cum shooting from the penis, before cackling. I had her pegged as a shy, reserved type, but I should’ve remembered she is, after all, Ahmed’s sister.
After brunch ends and Curtis and Ahmed get ready to open the bar, I’m with Reyna and Brayden on the porch swing out the front, our legs dangling as we rock back and forth.
Reyna’s tapping on her phone, mouth downturned. ‘Ben wants me to come over.’ She shows me a Snapchat message from her on-again, off-again blues singer boyfriend. It’s a ‘we-need-to-talk’ kinda message.
I put my arm around her. ‘What you gonna do?’
Reyna sculls the last of her flute of Moët. ‘Tell him I’m too busy with my friend Charlie.’ She swallows. ‘Don’t wanna deal with this yet.’
I squeeze her shoulders. ‘If you need a cover story, I’m happy to be it.’
Once Reyna bounces, Brayden calls an Uber and begs for me to come with him to meet Xander Sullivan for espresso martinis at The Court.
‘Please, Charlie,’ Brayden begs. ‘Xander’s being so annoying about this AFL crap and I don’t care about it. If you’re there, you’ll be a buffer.’
I widen my eyes comically. ‘Wow, I get to be a buffer? What an amazing offer. Hard pass, dude.’
Brayden wrings his hands. ‘Urgh. What if we come to the Tool Shed instead?’
‘I mean, that’s better, but I’m not a huge fan of hanging out at my workplace on my day off.’
Brayden looks at his Uber, only three minutes away, and looks like he’s passing a gallstone as he finally says, ‘I’ve invited Firetruck, too.’
I shift on the porch swing, dislodging my centre of gravity and nearly falling off.
‘I’m in,’ I say, racing for my Converse sneakers. ‘You had me at Firetruck.’
Brayden wasn’t kidding about Xander being in an annoying mood. When the three of us meet Mason at the Tool Shed just after Curtis and Ahmed open for the day, Xander barrels up to the owners and badgers them to make a statement in support of the Perth LGBTQIA+ community and the importance of Pride Round.
I know Curtis has run gay businesses, shops and bars for decades and he’s always preferred to focus on his community, rather than wading into politics. So when he rebuffs Xander, I’m not surprised.
‘I got opinions, and I’ll tell whoever wants to listen,’ Curtis explains. ‘But privately. You want me to make a statement for every single scuffle? I ain’t a freakin’ politician.’
In Xander Sullivan’s eyes, this is tantamount to waving a white flag instead of a rainbow one.
Ahmed’s response as he takes our drinks order is even less delicate. ‘Xander, of all the things I don’t give a flying fuck about, sports is the thing I don’t give a flying fuck about the most. It’s not on my radar. Sorry not sorry!’
It’s not a great sign after the Xander–Curtis alliance seemed to go so well on opening night.
When me, Brayden, Mason and Xander settle around a table, there’s something heavy in the air. Xander’s now got an axe to grind. Anyone who gets in his way might get cut.
