Mix Tape

by Jane Sanderson

  The scent of garlic and chilli rose provocatively into the night, and Cass said, ‘What’s not to like about Nando’s?’ but only Ali and Stella laughed.

  ‘Beatriz always says we should eat it with our fingers,’ Stella said. ‘But Dad draws the line at that, don’t you, Dad?’

  ‘Hey, suit yourself, Stella, that’s how you go now, isn’t it?’ Michael smiled as he spoke, but they all heard the edge in his voice.

  Ali glanced at her husband and saw his mouth was set in that hard, thin line indicating dissatisfaction. She felt a pulse of guilty responsibility at having asked Tahnee and Cass to dinner when Michael had intended it as a getting-to-know-Moira-and-Greg event, but then, almost at once, her guilt was replaced by defiance. She’d had every right, and if Greg was getting a hard time, well, he was an adult doing a grown-up job, and more than capable of defending himself. He looked perfectly content anyway, tucking into the chicken a little too soon, before everyone was served. Moira had placed only salad on her plate, but she looked happy enough too. No, it was really only Michael who was suffering tonight, and Tahnee wasn’t the cause, nor was Cass; it was Stella.

  ‘You see, I’ve decided not to go to drama school in Sydney,’ the girl said now to the assembled diners. ‘That’s what Dad’s referring to there, when he said “suit yourself” like that.’

  Moira said, ‘Ah, really?’ and looked politely between Stella and Michael, but received no further clarification from either one.

  ‘Travelling in Europe,’ Ali said into the void. ‘It’s a change of plan.’

  ‘It’s folly, is what it is,’ Michael said.

  ‘Italy, France, Spain, Portugal,’ Stella said, ticking the countries off on her fingers, which were sticky with piri-piri sauce. ‘Maybe the Greek islands. Maybe Morocco, actually.’

  ‘Morocco?’ Michael said. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since just now.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Moira said. ‘Fascinating country, isn’t it, Greg?’

  He nodded, feeling, correctly, that it would be more politic to have no opinion about Morocco just at this moment.

  Tahnee said, ‘You’re right to spread your wings, Stella, see the world, experience different cultures. I’ve never been outside Australia.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to change,’ Ali said. She put an arm around Tahnee’s shoulders, and said, ‘Tahnee Jackson, a rare and special songbird. Watch this space, everyone.’

  Moira said waspishly, ‘Oh, Greg’s watching all right,’ which was quite true, and he immediately looked away and grinned sheepishly. But he wasn’t the only one; they all saw Tahnee’s allure, the hypnotic quality that drew and held the attention.

  ‘Tahnee, are you going to sing for us?’ Moira asked.

  ‘She’s a guest, Moira, not a turn,’ Stella said, and Michael and Ali, united by their daughter’s rudeness, both said, ‘Stella!’ and Stella held up two hands in surrender and said, ‘All right, don’t drop your bundle. I’m sorry – sorry, Moira.’

  ‘I’d gladly sing for you,’ Tahnee said, ‘but I’m feeling all sung out from last night’s set.’ She smiled at Moira, who seemed to relax a little under her soft gaze. ‘It was pretty demanding. Another time, though, for sure.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Michael asked, and then felt, suddenly, that he ought to know this, that Ali must already have told him and he – through lack of any real interest – hadn’t listened. Again. But Ali let it pass and Tahnee just said, ‘Oh, I played a little festival out beyond Melbourne. I have a few lined up this year.’

  ‘I wish I’d gone,’ Ali said. ‘Next year, maybe.’

  ‘She won’t be playing little festivals next year,’ Cass said, ‘it’ll be the States for Tahnee, or the UK tour,’ and Tahnee smiled and said, ‘Hasty climbers have nasty falls,’ and Ali said, ‘You’re very wise, my girl.’

  Tahnee blew her a kiss and Michael, watching them, wondered at this surging affection between them, a sisterly connection springing tall and strong out of thin air, Tahnee so comfortable at his table and Ali treating her like a lifelong friend.

  Moira and Greg left early, just before half past nine, clutching a signed copy of Tell the Story, Sing the Song, and promising to look out for Tahnee’s debut album, when the time came.

  ‘Well, they’re sweet people,’ Ali said to Michael, not meaning it at all, because she thought them dull, Moira certainly, nibbling on lettuce and covering her glass with a prohibitive flat hand when the wine came anywhere near.

  Michael just poured himself another glass of red and said, ‘What a shame, then, that they were given the Exocet treatment,’ and Cass, who’d had way too much to drink, said, ‘Aw, c’mon, Mike, don’t be a mardy arse,’ which helped not a jot. Michael picked up his wine and excused himself to make a start on the washing up, and Cass sniffed the air and asked in a stage whisper if anyone else detected a whiff of burning martyr. Ali told her to put a sock in it, then suggested to Stella she should go help her dad and cheer him up while she was at it – it’d be atonement, Ali said, for behaving so badly at the table.

  ‘Not badly exactly,’ Stella said, airily, ‘just controversially,’ but she followed Michael into the kitchen, because all the McCormacks, even the youngest member, were always keen to beat Beatriz to the dirty dishes, and the old lady would be back any time soon.

  ‘Greg,’ Cass said. ‘What a total dill.’

  ‘He was more fun than Moira,’ Ali said. ‘At least he recognised a plate of good food when he saw one. I’m sorry, Tahnee, that wasn’t my best idea, dragging you along tonight.’

  ‘Hey, I was fine,’ Tahnee said. ‘It was … interesting.’

  ‘Did you see her plate?’ Cass said. ‘Two lettuce leaves, a semicircle of cucumber, and a slice of tomato, no dressing. Was that anorexia in action at your dinner table?’

  Ali shook her head. ‘No idea. Looked very much like it.’ She’d delved into her pocket for her phone, and she scrolled through the notifications as she spoke. ‘Serious self-control, at the very least.’ There was nothing from Dan, and by her reckoning four days had gone by since she’d heard from him. It was kind of hard to keep track, given the crazy time difference that made his today her yesterday, but anyway it seemed as if too long had passed without a song, without a reply to the Pretenders, and she was more troubled by this than she dared to acknowledge.

  Cass and Tahnee were chatting now, about the festival, and the others Tahnee was playing later in the year in Sydney and Perth. She had a new management team behind her, a professional machine to carry her career forward in a measured way, a tried-and-tested process. It was weird, she said, years of coping on her own and now there was Donal and Darcy, and cheerful roadies to pack up her kit, and Ali, distracted by the absence of Dan, with only half an ear on the conversation, said, ‘Hmm? Darcy?’ and Tahnee said, ‘Donal’s assistant,’ and Cass said, ‘Donal?’ and Tahnee laughed: ‘My new manager,’ she said.

  Cass said, ‘Girl, you really are the ant’s pants these days,’ then she looked at Ali and saw the shadow of concern on her face. ‘All good?’ she asked.

  Ali looked up from her phone, then slipped it away again. ‘Yeah, sure, sorry,’ she said, thinking, Dan Lawrence, speak to me.

  Tahnee yawned, and stretched like a cat, spreading her arms, arching her back. ‘I’m whacked,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, honey,’ Ali said, and she stood up. ‘You’ve had a long day, it’s home time.’

  Cass, in search of further fun and company, begged a lift to Hindley Street, then Ali and Tahnee drove on in easy silence, westward-bound down the Port Road towards a different world, one Ali had loved since she first came here, of ships’ chandlers, wharf-side warehouses, the ghosts of the city’s maritime past. Ali had always felt at home in Port Adelaide, more so than in the genteel complacency of North Adelaide; something about this place – the industry, the spirit of endeavour – spoke to her urban soul. But Michael had laughed when, many years ago, she’d suggested they buy a place here, something
run-down, something with lofty ceilings and tall windows overlooking the water, something they could restore and make their own. This was before his father and mother died, when sharing the parental home had seemed, to Ali, an unnatural thing to do, a strange, co-dependent, vaguely infantilising existence. In the end, he’d seen she was serious, but he still wouldn’t countenance Port Adelaide, so they’d settled on Norwood, a very different proposition but good in its way, probably better than the port, full of young families and funky cafés and wide streets where Thea and Stella learned to ride bicycles and played skipping games with the neighbours’ children. The house hadn’t been majestic or colonial or expansive, just exactly the right size, and Ali had loved it there, but only for a short while, only three years, because in that time James died, and Margaret began the process of dying, and Michael missed the grand bluestone house, he missed the gracious proportions, the sweeping staircase, the gardens, the pool. Someone must live there, he said, and he didn’t want his brothers to have it, or – God forbid – a stranger. It was closer to the girls’ school, he said, and didn’t Thea and Stella prefer it in North Adelaide, with their own swimming pool and the parklands nearby? Put like that, the little girls had to agree, and Ali, out-manoeuvred, had bowed to the inevitable. They’d sold the Norwood single-storey and trooped back to where Michael belonged, and at least Beatriz had been there, waiting for them with the steadfast patience of a woman who’d known they would come home. And look, it’d hardly counted as a sacrifice, going back to the McCormack family seat; Ali knew she couldn’t complain. She didn’t complain. She would never be so crass, or ungrateful. It was only that sometimes Michael’s rock-solid certainties gave her the sense that she’d led someone else’s life instead of her own.

  Ali dropped Tahnee off at her building, and watched until she was safely inside, then she swept the car round in a U-turn to head back. In the well of the driver’s side door, her phone gave its muted buzz, and she knew it’d be Cass saying Call me right now, so she didn’t rush to check the screen and instead waited until the next red light to pick it up. Dan Lawrence sent you a message, she read. Liquid golden relief washed over her and right through her, startling in its purity, and at the same time she knew she shouldn’t have doubted him; like Beatriz, she thought, she should trust in a higher power, practise the healing art of steady patience. She pulled over and parked to look at his message, feeling good, feeling light and bright, thinking she’d play the song, whatever he’d sent, and let it accompany her home, but there was no link to a song, only a message. Hey, Alison, I’m at the bar of the Exeter Hotel in Rundle Street, saving you a seat xxx.

  The world outside – cars, shops, petrol stations, pubs, people – hurtled backwards into infinity, rushing and streaming away from her like falling water, retreating entirely, until she was quite alone on the Port Road, hands shaking, heart banging, staring with disbelief at his words, but they didn’t alter, they didn’t mutate or melt away to prove themselves a figment of her imagination. They remained exactly as they were and the time beneath the message showed 22.17, and now it was exactly twenty past ten, just three minutes after he’d written them, from a bar stool in a pub on Rundle Street. He was here, in Adelaide, and he was here for her.

  Don’t freak out, she told herself. Don’t freak out, don’t mess this up, don’t hide, don’t run, don’t let him down, don’t, don’t, don’t forget to breathe.

  There was no decision to make, but she didn’t reply to Dan. She sent Michael a text to say she was still with Tahnee, she’d be late, they had stuff to discuss, and this perfectly plausible lie came so easily she knew she should be ashamed, when all she felt was a kind of elated determination. She’d conquered the involuntary shaking, she’d held the steering wheel of the stationary car and made herself take long and steady breaths, she’d checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror, and now she was simply responding to the dictates of her heart and his, filled with resolve, shining with the clarity of her purpose. She was returning home. How Dan came to be here didn’t cloud her mind, the risk he’d taken, the folly of turning up unannounced. No: there was no questioning the ins and outs, the whys and wherefores of an inexorable force, and after all, the world could be crossed in the course of a day and a night, and they had to see each other, of course they did; they had to be in the same city, in the same room, they had to talk and to touch, they couldn’t simply spend the years they each had left trading songs across cyberspace. This certainty sustained her for the twenty minutes it took to arrive at the East End, and to park and get out of the car, but then, as she approached the familiar tatty splendour of the fine old Exeter Hotel she thought: Hang on, Daniel Lawrence is in there, and for a few moments she simply froze, even though her hand was already reaching for the door. She stood there on the step, paused in time like a woman spellbound, and a young guy behind her said, not unkindly, ‘You coming or going?’ then stepped round her and pulled open the door, and Ali could see Dan, saw him at once, knew him at once, although he didn’t see her because there was live music playing and he was watching the band, not the door: watching the band, holding a pint, waiting for Alison, as if he’d been doing this for ever.

  She felt so sure of him. She walked through the open door and up to him where he stood, leaning with his back against the bar, and he turned his head before she spoke as if he’d sensed her there, and he smiled at her. Just that, a smile, but it was so completely familiar to her that she laughed. She was filled with love and wonder. Daniel put his glass down on the bar. They stared at each other, and his eyes roamed her face.

  ‘Look at you,’ he said, and he took her face in his hands, tipping it up towards his so that he could kiss her, very softly, on the mouth, a careful, tender placing of lips on lips. ‘There,’ he said, and drew away to look at her, but she pressed close to him, so close that their bodies connected, and she reached for the back of his head, pulled it towards her until they were kissing again; then, when it ended, she rested her head against his shoulder and inhaled the smell of his warm skin, and he wrapped his arms around her, and there they stood for a while, like survivors, happy just to be alive.

  22

  ADELAIDE,

  3 FEBRUARY 2013

  There was a table in the corner, away from the crush of drinkers. Ali was well known in this pub, she’d been here many a time, and yet she’d stood at the bar and kissed Dan Lawrence as if they had the place to themselves. She scanned the crowd while the barman fetched her a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses, but there were no familiar faces, no shocked or reproachful stares, only the young barman, who winked at her in a cocky, presumptuous way, but she stared him down, then crossed the room to where Dan was waiting, and he said, ‘You look so fucking beautiful, more beautiful than you have any right to look.’

  Ali said nothing, just sat down next to him and looked him over for a while, taking him in.

  ‘You’re the same,’ she said. ‘Older, obviously, as am I, but you wear it well. I’d have known you anywhere.’

  ‘But you’re an Aussie,’ he said. ‘Your accent – it’s like listening to Kylie.’

  She laughed, poured the wine, raised a glass. ‘Cheers, Daniel,’ she said.

  ‘Cheers, Alison.’

  They drank, their eyes locked.

  ‘You came to Adelaide,’ she said. ‘That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

  He grinned and said, ‘Well, look, I was already in Hong Kong for work, so …’ and Ali laughed.

  ‘What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?’ she asked.

  He reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture of ordinary intimacy that made her momentarily sad for all those many other moments they hadn’t had. ‘I knew you would be,’ he said. ‘Knew it in my bones.’

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘But this is sheer madness, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And no.’

&nbs
p; She was sitting in the Exeter with Daniel Lawrence, her first love, the boy who’d known her when she was Alison Connor, her uptown boy from Nether Edge with the Sheffield Wednesday season ticket, the lovely family and a penchant for mix tapes, and this fact, in all its miraculous simplicity, suddenly hit her like a breaker, left her winded and a little disorientated.

  ‘Alison?’ he said. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, echoing him. ‘And no.’

  He looked at her with a kind of gentle scrutiny, letting his eyes linger over her features.

  ‘I thought I’d learned to forget all about you,’ Ali said.

  ‘I was certain you had.’ Dan smiled, put his glass down, folded his arms. ‘You did the biggest runner in history. There was a gig to play, y’know. We could’ve been famous, you would’ve been the Union’s winning ticket, our Chrissie Hynde, our Debbie Harry.’ His tone was light as he teased her with the past, but he’d misread her mood, she wasn’t being playful, because suddenly it was all too much, she’d been ambushed by the familiarity – his voice, his inflection, the way he dipped his chin to look at her, his half-smile, the line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek, the shape of his eyes. Here he was, the other part of her, the missing piece. She ached with relief, but also with sorrow, and although she didn’t mean to cry, the tears came too fast and too stealthily for her to halt them.

  ‘Alison,’ he said, and he took her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I’m an oaf. I do know this is a big deal, it’s bigger than big, and I’m blethering on like an idiot.’ He stopped talking and leaned in to kiss the side of her head. ‘You still smell the same,’ he said into her hair.

  She said, ‘You do too, and I love hearing you again, I love your voice, and the feel of your arms around me. It’s just too good.’

  ‘Alison,’ he said again.