by Tess Woods
12 DECEMBER 1981
Nirvana James-Stone loathed her hippie name and her wild hippie curls so she got rid of them both on a sunny Saturday morning. It was her eleventh birthday.
She took a pair of kitchen scissors and snipped the masses of chestnut ringlets that fell past her waist. Assessing herself in the bathroom mirror, young Nirvana was satisfied with the result — a chin-length bob with just a hint of a wave.
She walked into the backyard where her mum and dad were swinging on their love seat nursing cups of jasmine tea, and cleared her throat. ‘I have an announcement to make. As of today, I’m changing my name to Jamie. Jamie Stone. Nirvana James Hyphen Stone is the stupidest name I’ve ever heard in my whole life.’ Before they could respond, she added, ‘And I’ll be calling you Mum and Dad from now on too. Calling your own parents by their first names is weird. Nobody else at school does it.’ She pressed her lips together and crossed her arms. Just let them try and say no!
After a minute of silence, Jess stood up, walked over to her only child and planted a kiss on the top of her hot little head. ‘Your new haircut suits you, Jamie — you look positively lovely. And of course you can call me Mum. I’d love that. You know that we never wanted to force those titles on you, we’re all equals in this home. But it does make me feel special, I must say, that you’ve made the choice to call me Mum.’
Jamie had to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
‘Now, how about a yummy potato salad for lunch?’ her mum asked.
That’s when Jamie threw the next curveball. ‘No thanks, I don’t want to be a vegetarian anymore. I want to try a Big Mac. Everyone else goes to McDonald’s and I want to as well.’
‘Right, well it’s your body to put what you want into, Jamie.’ Her dad smiled indulgently at her. ‘McDonald’s it is, then.’
So far, so good. And then she delivered the closing act. Opening up a folded piece of paper she’d torn from a catalogue, she passed it to them. ‘And I want to use my birthday money from Grandpa to get these shoes. I don’t want op-shop clothes anymore. I want new things. Nice things.’
Her parents exchanged a look before her mum nodded at her. ‘All right, love. McDonald’s for lunch and then we’ll go along to Myer.’
‘Aunty Maureen said she’d take me shopping after the party tomorrow. She has good taste.’ Jamie instantly regretted her words when she saw the hurt on her mum’s face. ‘You have nice taste too,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s just different from mine.’
Her mum gave her a tight smile. ‘I’m sure Maureen will do a fine job helping you buy new shoes, sweet.’
25 FEBRUARY 1989
Seven years and two months later, on another sunny Saturday morning, Jamie Stone sat at a bustling cafe on Melbourne’s Lygon Street. She’d come from RMIT, where she’d completed the first week of her Bachelor of Education degree. In her satchel was a folder packed to the brim with reference texts she’d photocopied so she could get a head start on the semester’s assignments.
She dug into a steak sandwich, licking the beetroot juice that ran down her wrist. She wore her hair in the same chin-length style she’d had since the day she’d turned eleven, but these days it was blow-waved straight and dyed ash blonde. From her foot dangled a Nine West red pump that she couldn’t really afford. Not that she was technically poor — her record-producer grandfather, Malcolm James, was one of the wealthiest men in the country. But she couldn’t access the trust fund he had set up for her until she was twenty-five. The gorgeous shoes were definitely worth the strain on her present finances.
She shivered, remembering the hand-me-down sandals her parents used to make her wear as a child. They may have had a noble stance against consumerism, but when the time came for her to have children, she’d never make them wear other people’s manky shoes. And she’d have more than one child — at least three or four. The fact she was an only child still saddened her. She’d fill her own home with children. The more the merrier!
Jamie flipped through the pages of Cosmopolitan, another luxury she couldn’t really afford but couldn’t resist. She would have to get herself a proper job soon if she kept up this kind of spending; the money she made from tutoring high-school students wouldn’t be enough.
Maybe she could even apply for a job here, waitressing or as a kitchen hand? It was a busy enough cafe. Perhaps they were understaffed.
Her eyes fell on an article about Princess Diana’s January holiday in France with her two boys. No Charles. Were the rumours true?
She couldn’t get enough of the British royals; she loved the romantic notion of the monarchy as much as her parents frowned upon it. And she was especially enamoured of Princess Di. Her grandfather had been to Buckingham Palace and had tea with the Queen, and he’d even been a guest at Charles and Diana’s wedding. Even though Jamie hadn’t been able to spot him in the crowds when they’d watched it on TV, she’d still had the pleasure of bragging to her school friends that she was related to someone who was invited.
How this kind of thing didn’t fascinate her mum and dad, she had no idea. Her mother had grown up having people like John Lennon and Mick Jagger over for dinner, but Jamie had only found this out through her grandfather. It blew her mind that Jess had never mentioned any of these meetings, even in passing, never displayed photos of herself with celebrities.
Jamie adored her parents, truly she did. They had hearts of gold, the pair of them. And they couldn’t have been more loving or kind to her. But it was as if they were from a different planet — they still dressed as though they were at Woodstock, they smoked pot just about every night and they bored her to tears over vegan dinners with their far left politics. If it wasn’t for her aunts, who were more on her wavelength, Jamie was sure she would have gone stark raving mad by now.
‘You look like her, you know.’ A husky voice broke through her thoughts.
A waiter, notepad in hand, appeared beside her.
‘Like who?’ She looked up at him.
‘Her.’ He pointed at the image of Diana in the magazine and gave her a lopsided smile. ‘But you’re prettier.’
‘Oh, please,’ she scoffed, but she felt herself go pink in the cheeks. She certainly tried to emulate Princess Di; she had the hairstyle down pat, but her budget was somewhat lower than that of the best-dressed woman in the world. Still, she did her best to copy Di’s style; even the crisp white shirt she was wearing, tucked into Levi jeans with a large black belt, was a stolen ‘Di look’ from a recent magazine.
‘Just checking on your meal, is it all right?’ He pulled a short pencil out from behind his ear and scribbled on the notepad.
‘Yes, it’s very good, thanks.’
He ripped off the piece of paper he’d written on, folded it in half and slid it under her saucer. Then he gave her another lopsided smile before walking over to the middle-aged couple seated at a table by the window.
Jamie watched him while he worked. He was a good five years older than she was, at the very least, a little rough around the edges with a scruffy three-day growth, wavy brown hair that was longer than hers and tattoos snaking up both arms. He was dressed like a roadie, all in black. He was too messy, too much of a bogan with those tattoos to be her type. She liked them bookish, suave, like Pierce Brosnan. But she also liked the look of his butt in those jeans. She liked that a lot.
She finished eating and picked up the docket he’d left on her table then lined up at the counter where he was now standing behind the till. She unfolded the bill to see how much she owed.
It wasn’t a bill. It was a note.
Marry me, Princess Di? I’ll treat you like a queen.
Her eyes locked with his across the counter.
‘So?’ he asked. ‘What’s the answer?’
She laughed. ‘Um, the bill, please?’
‘Lunch was on me.’
‘What? No, you can’t do that.’
‘Too late.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not every day I get to serve a princess.’
/> She guffawed as she reached into her handbag and pulled out her purse.
He scribbled another note, ripped the page off the notepad and slid it across the counter to her.
Is that a yes?
‘No!’ She laughed. ‘It’s a big fat no. You don’t even know my name.’
‘You mean it’s not Diana?’
‘Jamie.’
‘Jamie, right. Well, now that I know your name, I can ask you properly.’ He walked around to her side of the counter and went down on one knee.
There was a ripple of laughter from some of the cafe patrons.
This wasn’t funny anymore. Now he was embarrassing her.
‘Oh my God, stop it! Get up!’
‘Marry me, Jamie?’ He pressed his palms together in prayer form.
‘Stand up. You’re making a fool of yourself,’ she hissed.
A hush had descended on the cafe. Every pair of eyes was on them.
He stood and she slapped a ten dollar note onto the counter. ‘That’s for lunch.’
‘Don’t be angry, Jamie. It’s just a bit of fun.’
She stared at him — he looked entirely pleased with himself and not in the least bit sorry. He couldn’t have been any cockier or more annoying or obnoxious. So she had no clue what made her blurt out, ‘My name’s not really Jamie. That’s just what I tell everyone. It’s actually Nirvana.’
He was the first person she’d admitted that to since 1981.
‘No kidding? Really?’
‘Really.’
‘You must have the coolest parents in the world.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, well, they like to think so.’
‘Great new band, Nirvana.’
‘You really don’t give up, do you?’ She found herself smiling. ‘That’s not even a real band.’ This guy was something else.
‘Nah, it’s a real band, my oath it is. Brand-new grunge band from Seattle. Bought their debut single from the record shop up the road the other week. They’re shit hot. Kurt Cobain’s going to be bigger than Elvis one day. You watch.’
She nodded, feigning interest. ‘Okay, well, I’ll remember that I heard it here first. See you later.’
‘I don’t think it’s right that we dismiss the fact that you’re Nirvana and I love Nirvana.’ His dark eyes danced at her, inviting her in. ‘I’ve always had a thing for Princess Di.’
‘You really need to work on your lines. Don’t other girls laugh at you?’
‘What other girls? There’s no one but you.’
‘Oh my God.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s so —’ She didn’t finish. Instead she followed the slow movement of his warm calloused fingers as he slid them over hers where her hand rested on the counter.
He hummed ‘God Save the Queen’. His voice was low and husky and did something to her insides she couldn’t explain. She inhaled sharply at his touch.
Jamie had often fantasised about what it would be like the first time she had sex. She’d imagined it would be with a man she was deeply in love with, that it’d be gentle, sweet and romantic, on expensive sheets, and they’d pledge themselves to each other forever. She definitely hadn’t pictured it to be as intense as it was, and in positions she hadn’t even known existed, in just about every room — against the floor, table, walls — in his tiny flat in Carlton, where their sweaty bodies smashed against each other. She hadn’t imagined sex that hurt, sex that made her cry for more. On that sunny Saturday afternoon, eighteen-year-old Jamie Stone fell irrevocably in love with a man whose name she didn’t even know.
3 NOVEMBER 2017
‘For the tenth time, he wasn’t staring at me!’ CJ laughed.
‘He totally was,’ Mia insisted.
‘Well, where else was he supposed to look? I was singing right in front of him. So don’t turn it into a thing, all right?’
They walked towards their lockers with music folders in their arms.
‘It is a thing! Dude, it’s Finn! He was looking down at his phone the whole time the others were doing their solos. But I swear he didn’t take his eyes off you for your entire performance. I’m telling you, he’s totally into you.’
CJ elbowed Mia in the ribs. ‘You’re so full of it!’ But she felt herself turning pink.
She hadn’t opened her eyes once during her practical music assessment. And she’d been scolded for it by Mrs Baker afterwards. ‘How can your audience connect with you, Charlotte, if you don’t let us see your eyes?’
She couldn’t know for sure if Mia was right. Had Finn Maxwell really given her his attention?
She’d had a crush on Finn since she’d first seen him in music class at the start of the year. He’d come to St Bernard’s in Year Eleven when nearly all the other boys had been there since Kindergarten. His newness alone made him more interesting than the others. He’d also moved to Melbourne from Seattle. The Seattle factor had her hooked right away. On top of that, he came with a deep soulful voice, wrote his own music, had dark broody eyes and a slow sexy smile. Plus, he had the added hard-to-find benefit of being taller than her lanky five-foot-nine frame.
Finn was all kinds of perfect. For the first time in her life, CJ had fallen, and she’d fallen hard.
But he’d never so much as looked at her. He hung out with the popular crowd. It was easy to see why — Finn was impossibly cool. Whenever she stole glances at his group from the bench she occupied every lunchtime with Mia, he was always on the outside of the huddle looking bored. Like he was too good even for them.
She didn’t know much about him. The only class they had together was music, which they shared with twenty-three other students. And of course she’d never had the guts to approach him — what could she possibly say to someone like him? So her crush went under everyone’s radar except Mia’s.
The thought that he might have liked her song, her voice, even her, was too good to be true, which meant it probably wasn’t true. But it gave her tingles all over just imagining him looking at her when she’d played guitar and sung ‘Slave’ — the piece she’d written especially for the assessment.
It had made her nan cry when she’d sung it to her the night before. She hadn’t played it for her mum yet. CJ was worried her mother would look too deeply into the lyrics and question her. Her mum always worried too much.
Mia slammed her locker shut. When she turned to face CJ again she had a smug grin. ‘So it’s not a thing, huh?’
‘What?’
‘Look.’ Mia indicated with her chin.
CJ turned to find Finn walking alone towards them. He smiled when they made eye contact. And she definitely hadn’t imagined that!
Her heartbeat sped like crazy and she was sure her lips were trembling but she couldn’t get the stupid smile off her face.
‘Hey, CJ, hey, Mia.’ He nodded at them both.
‘Hi Finn, I was just leaving.’ Mia smirked and sauntered off, giving CJ a less than subtle wink.
CJ wanted to punch her in the face.
Finn looked bemused. ‘Something I said?’
His twangy accent made her go weak at the knees.
‘She’s just being an idiot. Don’t worry about her.’ She shook her head at Mia’s back.
He raked his fingers through his shaggy black hair and looked off to the side. ‘Oh, okay. It was mostly you I wanted to speak with anyways.’
Anyways.
‘Me?’ Her mouth was suddenly dry.
‘Yeah, I just wanted to tell you I liked your song. Loads. It was . . .’ He paused. ‘It was intense. You’re super talented.’
A smile exploded on her face. ‘Thanks. I really liked yours too. Did you write it?’
‘I did, yeah.’
‘I thought you must have. It was great. I mean, the lyrics were sad but it was great.’ She hugged her folder to her chest.
He nodded. ‘It was about Seattle. I miss it.’
‘I kind of figured that out, when the title was “Missing Seattle”.’
He laughed. ‘Well, there
was that cryptic clue.’
‘Do you think you’ll go back there, or is the plan to stay here?’ She mentally crossed her fingers.
‘I think I’m stuck here. My mom’s Australian. She was homesick, so . . .’
‘Stuck? You mean you want to leave?’
‘All my friends are back home in the States.’
‘But you’ve got friends here.’
‘Nah, not really.’
The silence that followed made her feel awkward, so she said, ‘I’d love to go there one day. To Seattle.’
‘Why?’
‘The music.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah, the music’s cool. Before Seattle we lived in Nashville. The music was kind of different there.’
‘Oh my God, you lived in Nashville?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I would kill to go there! My favourite singers are all country.’
‘I didn’t think anybody here liked country music.’
‘Nobody does. Except me.’ Breathlessly, she added, ‘Did you ever go to the Grand Ole Opry?’
He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Twice, yeah. It was a few years ago now. I went with my folks.’
‘Who did you see? Ugh, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
He rocked back on his heels. ‘Taylor Swift. It was before she started singing pop. And I saw Scott Gunn too.’
‘I literally want to die.’
He laughed. ‘You know, your sound is country. But those lyrics, they were dark.’
The heat prickled her neck. He had paid attention.
‘So was that song about you?’ he asked.
She looked at her shoes. ‘It was.’
It took him a while to respond. ‘So you’ve got no dad? Those lines — “never knew a father’s touch, never was a daddy’s girl” — they’re true?’
She met his eyes. ‘Yep. I don’t know who my dad is.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’ He frowned.
She let out a hollow laugh. ‘Nope. I’ve never been okay with it. But there’s nothing I can do about it so . . .’