About One More Song
Harrison Baxter and Edwina Campbell lead completely different lives.
Much has changed for Harry since he escaped his home town of Yallambah ten years ago, headed for the bright lights of the big city. Now he’s the star of Melbourne’s hottest musical, chasing only the next standing ovation. Why bother going back to Yallambah to visit his parents when his father couldn’t care less about his success?
Meanwhile, nothing much has changed for Edwina in the last decade, which is exactly how she likes it. Eddie adores her career as a nurse and loves the Yallambah community - she can’t imagine living anywhere else. And even if she wanted to, she could never leave her beloved grandparents, who raised her and love her like their own daughter. She’s not going to abandon them in their old age. Not for anything.
So when Harry and Eddie bump into each other on one of Harry’s flying visits home, their instant mutual attraction seems as pointless as it is intense. There’s no way they could ever make it work.
Or is there?
Contents
Cover
About One More Song
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Nicki Edwards
Copyright page
For Chloe. May your life be full of calls of ‘Encore’.
Chapter 1
Everything was quiet when Harrison Baxter entered the stage door of the theatre. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked the time. Five thirty. Earlier than usual. The house wouldn’t go live until seven and the opening notes of the overture wouldn’t start until seven thirty.
‘Don.’ He nodded his greeting to the old guy who had worked the door for forty-two years.
Don smiled in return, the same one he gave every night. He knew better than to wish a performer ‘good luck’, but everyone knew that’s what his smile meant anyway.
‘Have a good one, Harrison.’
‘Will do,’ Harry replied.
Harry scribbled his initials beside his name on the list and noted a few other cast members had also arrived. He waved his goodbye, but Don’s head was already down, his attention back on his daily crossword.
Navigating the rabbit warren of narrow hallways and stairs, Harry headed straight to his dressing room. In most theatres he would have only had to share a dressing room with one or two other performers, but flooding in the theatre twelve months earlier had forced the closure of three of the principal’s dressing rooms. This theatre was one of Sydney’s oldest, and she was on her last legs. Rumour was it might be demolished, which probably explained why the dressing rooms hadn’t been repaired and why six members of the cast were crammed into one makeshift area.
Harry always arrived early. It was one of his superstitions. It wasn’t just so that he could lay out his costumes and get his hair and makeup done before everyone else. He liked to allow plenty of time to prepare himself physically, mentally and vocally. Before the stage manager called the cast to clear the stage he liked to walk around, putting himself in the character space and visualising his performance. He loved that time on his own – the momentary lull before lights up. The theatre was where he felt most at home.
Walking into the cramped dressing room, he wasn’t surprised to see Tim already there, working on his makeup. A seasoned performer and one of the nicest people Harry knew, Tim was playing Jean Valjean, the male lead.
‘Hey, mate,’ Harry greeted him with a smile and a wave. ‘How’s it going?’
‘All good.’
Brittany sauntered in and waved to them both. ‘Hi, Harrison. Tim.’
‘Hey, Britt,’ they chorused.
Harry shoved his backpack under the bench, flicked the switch for the lights around his mirror, pulled out his chair and sat. His little cubbyhole was in the farthest corner of the room. Surrounding him were racks of costumes and floor-to-ceiling shelves containing hats and wigs and props. To the uninitiated it looked like a poorly organised op shop, but to the backstage crew, and Harry, everything was perfectly in order.
On one side of his lighted mirror was a photo of his sister, Claire, and her kids, a bunch of dried flowers – he couldn’t remember who had given them to him – and three deflated balloons in the colours of the French flag. On the opposite side he’d Blu-Tacked a glowing newspaper review from opening night and a ‘chookas’ card signed by the members of the cast. Opening night felt like a lifetime ago. It was difficult to believe their run in Sydney was almost over. He reached up and touched each of his lucky charms, the way he did every night when he first arrived. Like most performers, he had plenty of quirky traditions. His was collecting charms. The latest, a tacky Eiffel Tower key ring, hung alongside a Lego Statue of Liberty keychain his mum had given him when he landed his first professional role in Rent. He always carried it with him and on opening night of every show he slipped it into his costume somewhere. His other charms included a plush toy lion’s head he bought for The Lion King and the set of dog tags he’d worn in Dogfight.
Harry checked his phone again. He had heaps of time, so he scrolled through Facebook and Instagram, then checked his emails and text messages, smiling at all the birthday greetings, some from friends, others from people he barely knew. He groaned at the text from Ashleigh Brennan before deleting it. When would she get the hint? He wasn’t interested in what she was offering and the constant barrage of text messages and selfies was doing his head in. He switched his phone to silent, tossed it in his bag and toed it under the bench.
He hated being rude, but it was the only way to get Ashleigh off his back. His mum may have taught him good manners, but she also taught him to stay away from fire.
Because of his career choice a lot of people presumed he wasn’t interested in women, but they couldn’t be more wrong. He was very much interested in women, just not Ashleigh Brennan. As far as she was concerned, sex was a fun distraction, not a declaration of love or a symbol of lifelong commitment.
Harry wasn’t after a lifelong commitment either – at least not at this stage in his life – but he didn’t sleep around with cast members like it was rumoured Ashleigh did. The simple no-strings-attached arrangement he had with Riley, a fellow singer, worked perfectly and suited them both. The only downside was she was currently performing in London.
Nearly an hour later, with less than half an hour before the curtain went up, Ashleigh floated into the room on a cloud of freshly sprayed perfume. Harry prepared himself for the usual pre-show entertainment.
‘Hi, honey.’ She cooed her greeting, blowing a kiss in his direction before dumping her oversized bag on the floor under her own bench space.
‘You’re cutting it close,’ Harry remarked.
Ashleigh flicked her
hair across one shoulder. ‘There’s plenty of time to get ready.’
‘Andrew was asking where you were.’
‘None of his business.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t want to get on his bad side. Andrew’s one of the reasons you’re in this show,’ Harry reminded her.
‘My singing is the reason I’m in this show,’ she retorted.
‘Meow,’ Brittany called out from the other side of the room.
There was no such thing as privacy among the cast, especially those who shared the cramped dressing room.
‘Put away your claws, Ash,’ Harry said. ‘This is not Cats. I’m just telling you Andrew was annoyed because he wanted to run a scene with you that didn’t work last night and he couldn’t get hold of you.’
She rolled her eyes but prudently kept her mouth shut. Everyone knew she’d stuffed her lines the previous night and the resident director had every right to put her in the ensemble cast for the night and allow her understudy to play Cosette if she didn’t perform well. And if she kept showing up late, she risked being fined.
She plonked down in her seat directly behind him and pulled her hair into a ponytail. ‘Where’s Wendy?’
The long-suffering makeup artist shuffled over and swatted Ashleigh across the head with a blusher brush. ‘You’re late, girl,’ she growled huskily. ‘You’ll have to start on your own while I finish Harrison.’
Ashleigh pouted, but she knew better than to argue. Wendy had been around the professional theatre scene for longer than anyone could remember and knew a lot of people in the industry – even Ashleigh was smart enough to know not to get her offside.
Harry flashed Wendy a grateful smile then worked at keeping the muscles in his face relaxed so she could do the finishing touches, and fix his wig and microphone in place.
‘You didn’t reply to my text, Harrison,’ Ashleigh said a few moments later.
Harry kept his gaze fixed ahead in the mirror. ‘Told you before, Ash. Not interested.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing out on.’
He gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I’ll live.’
‘Well, honey, you know where to find me when you change your mind.’
‘Won’t happen.’
‘Then I’ll have to try harder, won’t I?’
Wendy caught his eye and gave him an exaggerated wink. Neither of them spoke for the next few minutes while she taped the small microphone to his scalp, fixed the wig in place and teased the thick black curls. When she was satisfied he was ready, she gave his shoulder a squeeze and left to help Ashleigh with her makeup.
Harry was finishing his vocal warm-up when Ross, the stage manager, stuck his head in the door. ‘Half-hour call, people.’
Chairs scraped back and the general volume increased as everyone began moving to the green room. Harry stood, straightened his costume and stared into the full-length mirror. No wonder people didn’t recognise him walking down the street. It was one of the things he loved most about being a performer. In less than an hour, he went from being Harry Baxter, kid from country Victoria, to Marius Pontmercy – student of the French rebellion. The magical transformation never ceased to amaze him.
‘And don’t forget it’s Harrison’s birthday,’ Ross called out over the din.
People immediately chorused their best wishes and Harry winced before smiling politely and thanking them. It was nice they cared but in reality he didn’t want anyone making a big deal of it. It wasn’t like this year was the big three-oh. That was next year.
‘There’s flowers waiting for you at the stage door,’ Ross said with a wink as Harry walked past. ‘A secret admirer?’
Harry shook his head. ‘They’re probably from my mum.’
‘Well, happy birthday, mate.’ He slapped Harrison on the back. ‘Sing well tonight.’
‘As always.’
He stared at his reflection one last time and smiled. Time for lights up.
*
‘Not so fast,’ Ashleigh called out as Harry darted down the hall towards the exit later that night. ‘You didn’t think we’d let you get away that easily on your birthday, did you?’
After the show had finished, he’d raced off stage and removed his makeup in record time, skipping a shower so he could get out of there before anyone talked him into going out for birthday drinks.
‘Harrison!’ Ashleigh shouted louder, demanding his attention.
He stopped and turned. It would have been rude to ignore her, and his mum’s voice echoed in his head. Be polite, Harry. That’s what people will remember long after they hear you sing. He’d bet a million bucks she never envisaged this particular scenario when she’d packed him off to Melbourne all those years ago. He shifted the flowers from his sister into his left arm and raised a smile.
Ashleigh was still dressed in her costume, although she’d removed her hat and blonde wig. Her white dress billowed around her legs, the wide sash accentuating her tiny waist. She waved a small gift-wrapped package above her head.
‘Happy birthday.’
‘You didn’t need to get me a present.’
‘It’s nothing much.’ Her eyes fizzed mischievously and his heart sank.
‘Happy birthday, honey.’ Brittany came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist in a quick hug.
‘Thanks, Britt.’
Other cast members crowded around them in the narrow hallway and gave their best wishes, many still in costume or various stages of undress.
Harry examined the gift in his hands. Knowing Ashleigh, it could be anything. He was in no hurry to open it, especially not in front of everyone.
‘Come on, open it up,’ she urged.
He removed the wrapping to reveal a box of condoms and a glossy flyer for an escort agency. He stared at the gold-embossed words as the meaning behind the gift became clear. Annoyance bubbled up.
‘We thought you could do with a night out,’ Brittany said with a giggle.
Ashleigh fluttered fake lashes at him. ‘I know Riley’s away and you refuse to have sex with me, so I figured this is your next best option. Hopefully they can find the perfect girl for you.’ She snorted. ‘If she exists.’
Harry glanced around at his fellow cast members. A few of them rolled their eyes in sympathy. Everyone knew what Ashleigh was like. The gift was in poor taste but he wasn’t going to make a fuss and give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d annoyed him.
‘I thought you’d appreciate some options,’ Ashleigh said, ignoring his obvious discomfort. ‘Jump on their website and choose whichever girl you want.’
‘And why would I want to do that?’
‘It’s called fun, Harrison,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Having a good time. Something you clearly know nothing about.’
Sensing Harry’s irritation, people melted away back to the green room and showers. Just as well. The last thing he needed was an audience for this unrehearsed scene.
He exhaled heavily. ‘Enough is enough, Ashleigh. This has to stop. I’m not interested in you.’ He waved the gift in her face. ‘Or this.’ He wasn’t a prude, but casual sex with strippers wasn’t his thing: he needed someone he enjoyed talking to as well as sleeping with. Just like what he and Riley had. Not that that was any of Ashleigh’s business.
Jeez, he missed Riley. He couldn’t wait to call her when he got home. She’d probably have a good laugh over Ashleigh’s stupid idea of a present and make him see the funny side of it.
‘Aw, come on, Harrison, honey, live a little. It’s your birthday and you’re acting like an old man,’ Brittany said.
He clenched his jaw, then realised it was better to shrug it off. Two of the girls from the ensemble cast approached, hair still wet from the showers, their faces freshly scrubbed and all trace of makeup removed.
‘Happy birthday, Harrison,’ they said in unison.
‘Thanks.’ He stepped back, pressing against the wall in the narrow hallway to let them past.
Harry turned on his heel and walked off down the hallway, Ashleigh’s sarcastic ‘Happy Birthday’ the last thing he heard before exiting the building.
Outside, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the night air. Only four more weeks, then the Sydney season would be over and he could put some distance between him and Ashleigh. Hitching his backpack on his shoulders, he headed for the train station and home.
It was after eleven when he Skyped Riley, which made it midday in London.
‘Hey, handsome,’ she greeted him with a grin and a wave before launching into a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Thanks, Riles,’ he said when she’d finished.
‘You look tired, Haz. Did you go out for drinks after the show tonight?’
‘Nah, I wasn’t in the mood.’
She chuckled. ‘You’re never in the mood. You need to live a little.’
‘You sound like Ashleigh.’
Riley rolled her eyes. ‘What’s she done this time?’
‘She gave me a box of condoms and a brochure for an escort service.’
‘Very classy.’
‘She’s just ticked I refuse to sleep with her.’
‘And jealous you sleep with me,’ Riley said with a smile.
‘That, too.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of which, I miss you.’
‘Aw, sweetie, I miss you too. I’m glad we can chat like this.’
‘When are you coming home?’ he asked.
‘Oh babe, not for ages. You know that.’
He sighed. ‘I know.’ She’d only recently started performing in Wicked on London’s West End and her contract was open ended.
‘Why don’t you come over here for a quick visit?’ she said. ‘You’ll have a decent break between the Sydney and Melbourne seasons.’
‘I wish I could, but I’m going home for Christmas, then I agreed to do a charity concert in the second week of January. Besides, even if I didn’t have things on, I couldn’t afford it. Flights are too expensive this time of the year.’
‘When does the Melbourne Les Mis season start?’
‘Early March. We’ll have rehearsals before then.’
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