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The afternoon sun hangs low over Sydney, casting long, golden-syrup shadows across the linoleum floors of the local supermarket. It is a Monday, a rare pocket of stillness in the middle of a skyrocketing career, and Greg Page feels the weight of it in the best possible way. He pushes the metal trolley, the wheels clicking rhythmically against the floor tiles, while Anthony Field walks beside him, far closer than the wide aisles strictly require.
There is a specific kind of domestic magic found in the fluorescent hum of a grocery store when you are twenty-four and quietly in love. Anthony is dressed in a faded denim jacket, his dark curls a bit wilder than they appear on screen, and he is currently debating the merits of different brands of tea with a seriousness usually reserved for songwriting. Greg watches him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Greg is dressed simply, his yellow polo shirt a bright spot against the sterile white of the supermarket shelving. He feels a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest—not the alarming, heavy thudding that sometimes makes him catch his breath during a high-energy performance of The Monkey Dance, but a light, effervescent warmth.
"We need the ones with the extra caffeine, Greggy," Anthony insists, reaching for a box of Dilmah. His hand lingers near Greg’s on the handle of the trolley. "For the early starts. Jeff’s getting harder to wake up, and I think I’m starting to catch his habit."
Greg laughs, the sound rich and grounding. "I think the whole country is starting to catch his habit, Anto." He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Anthony’s knuckles before fully intertwining. It’s a bold move for 1996, even in the quiet corners of the suburbs, but the aisle is empty save for a stack of canned beetroot. "Let’s get the big pack. We’ve got a long week of rehearsals ahead."
They move like this for a while—an unofficial date disguised as a chore. They linger by the deli counter, sampling a bit of Jarlsberg cheese, and Anthony makes Greg laugh so hard he has to lean against the bread rack when he starts doing an impromptu, silent mime of a grumpy butcher. Anthony’s eyes crinkle at the corners, that familiar spark of mischief softened by a genuine, private tenderness. He checks Greg’s pulse occasionally, disguised as a squeeze of the hand or a playful nudge.
He knows Greg’s heart has been acting up—those sudden bouts of fatigue and the skipped beats—and though they haven't made a fuss of it to the others yet, Anthony treats Greg like a precious melody he’s afraid of losing. They are deep into a discussion about whether they need more Vegemite when the domestic bubble is gently prodded. They are in the cereal aisle, surrounded by bright boxes of Corn Flakes and Nutri-Grain, when a familiar, tall figure rounds the corner.
"Found you!" Murray Cook calls out, his red-and-orange patterned shirt a vibrant contrast to the blue boxes of cereal. He’s carrying a basket that already looks precariously heavy. "I thought I heard Anthony’s laugh from three aisles over. You two are taking ages. Did you get lost in the biscuits?"
Greg doesn't pull his hand away immediately; he lets the contact break naturally as he reaches for a box of Weet-Bix. Murray stands beside them, peering into their trolley with a critical eye. "Only one loaf of bread? We’ll go through that by Tuesday morning breakfast."
"We were getting to it, Muz," Anthony says, his voice losing none of its cheer. He steps back into his role as the energetic blue Wiggle, but his shoulder still brushes against Greg’s yellow-clad sleeve.
A few minutes later, as they migrate toward the baking and preserves section, a sleepier presence joins the fold. Jeff Fatt wanders into the jelly aisle, looking as though he’s only half-convinced he isn't still dreaming. He carries a single jar of marmalade as if it were a sacred relic.
"Oh, hello," Jeff murmurs, blinking slowly at the trio. "I fell asleep in the car for a minute. Did I miss the fruit section?"
"Just about," Greg says kindly, patting Jeff on the back.
As they move toward the checkouts, Greg and Anthony’s hands find each other again. It’s a habit now, a tether. Murray notices. He sees the way Greg’s thumb strokes the back of Anthony’s hand as they wait for the lady at the register to scan the tinned peaches. He notices, too, the way Anthony keeps a constant, vigilant eye on Greg’s breathing. Murray exchanges a quick, knowing look with Jeff, who is currently mesmerized by a display of Cadbury Marble bars.
To their friends, it isn't a "scandal" or even a surprise. In the tight-knit world of the band, the lines between friendship and family have always been blurry. They see the handholding and they see the "date" for what it is—a quiet support system for a lead singer whose heart is a little more fragile than his spirit. They don't mind the intrusion into their grocery run; they simply fold into it, turning a private moment into a communal one.
Back at the house, the air is filled with the rustle of plastic bags and the clink of jars. The kitchen is a hive of activity, the four of them moving in a practiced, domestic dance.
"The apples and pears go into the fruit bowl," Anthony says firmly, acting as the self-appointed kitchen coordinator. He holds up a crisp Granny Smith, polishing it on his shirt before taking a loud, satisfying crunch of a bite.
"I'll put the milk and cheese in the fridge," Greg says. He feels a bit tired now, the adrenaline of the "date" fading into a dull ache in his chest, but he keeps his voice steady. He moves toward the refrigerator, methodically sliding the cartons into the side door.
"That ice cream should go straight in the freezer," Jeff adds with uncharacteristic urgency, pointing at a tub of Neapolitan that is starting to sweat on the counter. "We don't want a milkshake before dinner."
Murray is the muscle of the operation, hefting the heavy bags of potatoes and onions. He tucks the dry goods into the pantry with practiced ease. "Vegetables in the rack, crackers on the top shelf," he grunts, sliding a drawer shut. "All done."
The kitchen falls into a momentary, comfortable silence. The chores are finished, the house is stocked, and the sun has finally dipped below the horizon, leaving Sydney in a purple twilight. Greg turns to Anthony. The fatigue is pulling at him now, a reminder that he needs to check in with himself, to perhaps take the Big Red Car out for a slow drive just to clear his head and breathe the evening air without the pressure of conversation. He leans in, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to Anthony’s cheek—a silent thank you for the afternoon, for the tea, and for the way he held his hand in the jelly aisle.
"I'll have to go out in the Big Red Car for a while," Greg says, opening the back door and giving a small, tired wave to the room. "I'll see you later."
Anthony watches him go, his expression a mix of affection and a tiny, flickering spark of worry that he hides well. "Drive safe, Greggy!"
Murray settles into the armchair in the corner of the living room, cracking open a book on music theory. He looks toward the door where Greg just disappeared, then back at Anthony, who is staring at the fruit bowl with a thoughtful expression.
"Where is he off to?" Murray wonders aloud, though his tone is relaxed. He’s used to Greg’s need for quiet moments. "Oh well, I'm sure he knows what he is doing."
Jeff lets out a massive, bone-deep yawn that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "I might have a nap," he announces, already halfway toward the hallway. "Then I'll be ready for the rehearsal this afternoon. Wake me up if we’re doing Hot Potato, I need the energy for that one."
Anthony smiles, picking up another apple. The house feels full—not just with groceries, but with the steady, pulsing rhythm of a life built together. Outside, the engine of the Big Red Car rumbles to life, a steady heartbeat echoing down the driveway.