“Oh her. I didn’t know they were together. I thought she was just hassling him with text messages.”
“Well they’re together now,” I said with an irritated sigh. “So are you at the Con too?”
Matt nodded and took a swig of beer. “What instrument do you think I play?”
I laughed a little, glancing at his dishevelled ponytail and jeans. “I think you play electric bass.”
He chuckled. “Close. Guitar. But I’m studying composition. Writing your own music is much more rewarding than playing some dead guy’s shit.”
“Some dead guy’s shit?” I demanded, finding a sudden confidence.
“No offence,” said Matt. “You’re a classical muso, aren’t you. Piano, flute or violin. Which one?”
“Violin. Is it a bad thing that I play classical?”
“Nah. It’s just not my thing. I can’t tell you how awesome it is to hear your own stuff being played though. It’s the biggest rush ever.”
I liked the little gap between his front teeth. “I’d like to hear some of your stuff,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too forward. “What do you write?”
“Mostly fusion. You know, stuff combining different genres- Latin rhythms, jazz harmonies, that kind of thing. Sometimes a bit of electronic stuff…”
“Do you write for violin?” I asked.
“I could if you wanted me too.”
The guy from the vodka-watermelon debacle flopped onto the couch between us. His blonde hair spiked out from his head at weird angles.
“Hi chickens,” he slurred.
“Abby, this is Roman,” said Matt. “Roman, Abby.”
Roman smiled drowsily and held out a sticky hand. “Hi Abby. I’m really pissed. How do you know Julian?”
“I know a friend of his,” I said, sure he would never remember me once the vodka wore off. “I’m going to the Con this year.”
He slapped my bare knee. “Good for you! You’ll get to see me every day like the sun. What do you play, chicken?”
I giggled. “Violin.”
“Ah.” He made faint bowing movements with the hand that wasn’t flung over the back of the couch. “Another magnificent string player. I’m a cellist.” His bowing action extended until his hand flew into the air and whacked me across the chest.
“Dude,” said Matt.
Roman sat up suddenly. “Do you want to play strings with me?”
“Sure,” I laughed. “You’ll never remember this in the morning.”
“Yay!” Roman dug his mobile out of his pocket. “What’s your number?” He fumbled with the buttons. “Oh my God, this is so exciting!”
I took the phone. “I’ll put it in,” I said, trying to unlock the keypad.
Clara swanned out of Julian’s bedroom at midday, zipping up her dress for maximum effect. From my sprawl on the lounge floor, I could see bottles and cigarette butts scattered under the couch. Afternoon sun streamed through the blinds and painted stripes across the lounge. The floor was covered in blankets, pillows and empty beer cans. Pink remains of vodka and watermelon dripped onto the kitchen floor. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Morning,” said Matt. “Fish and chips?”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Matt was crouching beside me, a white bundle of chips in his arms. He pushed aside the empty cans and tossed the package onto the carpet. The smell of hot grease took over the lounge. Roman stumbled in from the bathroom, his hair flattened on one side.
“Oh my God, Matthew I could kiss you,” he squeaked, stumbling onto the floor and ripping open the paper. We crowded over the food. I huddled into my sleeping bag and chewed happily. I had hardly slept and drunk too much, but snuggled up with my apple juice and chips, I felt more contented than I ever had before. Matt dropped onto the floor beside me and lay back on his elbows. I pointed to his tattoo.
“What does it mean?”
Matt glanced down at his shoulder as though he had forgotten it was there. “It’s the Kanji symbol for freedom,” he said. Acacia Beach had never seemed further away.
TWENTY-FIVE
I nursed my hangover at the Saint Mary’s pool with Clara.
“Julian said Matt was asking about you.”
“Really?”
She gave a sassy smirk. “He thinks you’re cute.”
I smiled to myself.
“So do you like him?” Clara pushed. “I think he’s alright, but I’d make him get rid of that ponytail.”
I hoped she couldn’t hear how fast my heart was beating. “Maybe. Do you think he’s a bit old for me? He’s going into third year.”
Clara laughed airily. “Of course not. That just means he’ll be more experienced in bed, like Julian. Trumpet players aren’t just better kissers you know.”
I rolled my eyes, riveted as I was to the over-publicised soap opera that was Clara’s sex life. I kicked my legs and water bounced out of the pool. Clara flicked the drops off her red bikini.
“Can you not do that?”
I let my legs dangle calmly again. “Are you nervous about starting uni?” I asked.
“Nervous? Why would I be nervous? I just don’t want these holidays to end. I’ve hardly got enough time as it is for Julian and my violin.”
“I’m kind of nervous,” I admitted. “The Con seems pretty competitive.”
Clara reached a spray-tanned arm around my shoulder. “You don’t need to be nervous, precious. Girls like us from the College have a head-start anyway over the plebs from the normal high schools.” She leant back on her elbows. “I suppose John told you to get a new teacher.”
“No. He’s happy to keep teaching me.”
Clara raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Really? And you’re okay with that?”
“Sure. John’s amazing. Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?”
Clara shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought, maybe…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
I walked into John’s studio on the Tuesday afternoon of my first week of uni. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper.
“One of the string quartets based at the Con is looking for another violinist,” he said. “I think it would be good experience for you considering you haven’t done much ensemble work.”
He held out the page. I recognised the name as the quartet Clara played in.
“I know this group,” I said. “They’re really good.”
“If you’re interested, I can get you the place.”
“Okay.” I tried to gauge Clara’s reaction to my joining the ensemble. “Do I need to audition?”
John shook his head. “You shouldn’t need to. I’ll tell them you’re one of mine, then they’ll probably just get you to do a rehearsal with them. See how you go.”
I rehearsed with the quartet at uni the next evening.
“Abby’s one of John’s,” Clara said pointedly. “That’s how she got this place.”
“One of John’s hey?”
I had been surprised to find the cellist was Roman, the watermelon guy. He laughed as he spoke, but it was a gentle, high-pitched giggle, which made me relax. The viola player was perched on the edge of a stool, drinking a take-away coffee. He crossed one leg over the other, revealing white sports socks beneath his jeans. He was older than the rest of us; probably mid-thirties. His shaggy brown hair was dangerously close to a mullet.
“This is our viola player, Richard,” said Roman. “He’s a techniques tutor at uni.”
Richard chuckled. “Don’t hold that against me.” He tossed his coffee cup in the bin.
“So what’s he like?” Roman asked. “John, I mean.” He wrestled with a screw on his music stand that didn’t seem to do anything.
“He’s great. As long as you do your practice.”
“Here Abby, you play second violin, okay?” Clara placed the music on my stand.
“Okay.”
“Mozart’s D Major,” Richard said reverently. “We’ll be playing this at the wedding gig next Saturday
because Mozart is God.”
I swapped humoured glances with Roman. “Okay,” I said. “Nice.”
“Can we just tune?” said Clara. “I want to hear how our new violinist sounds.”
The Conservatorium choir rose around Jess, who was too engrossed in Cosmo’s ‘What is your shopping style?’ quiz to be bothered with the hallelujahs. I looked at the clock. Only three more years, seven months and forty minutes until I was free of choir forever. I gave a perfectly pitched yawn on a G double sharp and yanked Jess to her feet.
“Mercy,” we sung loudly, trying to drown out the rest of the choir who were foolishly singing ‘justice’.
“Can you believe it?” Jess snorted. “We’re the only ones singing the right words and we haven’t even been to rehearsal for three weeks!”
The choirmaster drew us to a close. “Just a reminder about the error in the score. Bar ninety-eight, altos should be singing ‘justice’, not ‘mercy’. From bar eighty, thank you.”
Jess flopped back in her seat and held out the quiz. “I’m a C-type shopper,” she hollered over the wailing sopranos. “I exhibit signs of recklessness, indiscretion and impulse buying.” She clutched my elbow. “Hey, Matt’s checking you out.”
I looked over to the bass section and caught Matt’s eye. He placed his hand over his heart and bellowed out the words to me. He grinned.
“Oh my God!” hissed Jess. “He is totally flirting with you through song!” She whacked me with her choir book. “Quick! Do something back!”
I panicked. “What should I do?”
“I don’t know. Flash your bra or something. That’ll liven up rehearsal.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Well you can’t just do nothing,” said Jess. “This is the first freakin guy you’ve even blinked at since that whole Justin mess.” We came to the end of the movement. “Now look. You missed your chance.”
Choir ended with a half-hearted A major chord. Jess and I leapt over the seats in a mad struggle for the door. Matt was sitting on a table in the foyer and my heart tripped over itself.
“Hey there,” I said, sounding like a dick.
He jumped off the table. “Did we all enjoy choir?”
“Some of us did,” said Jess. She patted my arm. “Meet you outside, okay?”
I shot a desperate glance after her as she disappeared out the door. I turned back to Matt. “Hey,” I said again.
“What are you doing tonight, Abby?” He dug his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. His maroon t-shirt was tight over his shoulders.
I hesitated.
“Come to my place. There’s something I want to show you. I mean, ask you.”
I frowned. “What is it?”
“Wait and see. So come over, alright?”
I wished Jess or Clara were around for me to ask advice. Matt touched my bare arm. His hand was warm.
“Okay,” I squeaked.
TWENTY-SIX
Matt lived by himself in an apartment above a coin-laundry. I could hear dryers whirring as we climbed the stairs. Squeezed into the tiny living room were a TV and a blue plaid sofa. Heavy white curtains were draped across the windows, covering the apartment in dusky shadows.
Matt took me into his bedroom. His computer sat against one wall, surrounded by a mixing desk and big black speakers.
“This is my studio,” he said. “What do you think?”
Loose pieces of manuscript were scattered across the desk. The floor was littered with coffee cups and empty stubbies.
“It’s nice.”
“Not ‘nice’. ‘Nice’ is how you describe someone’s nanna. This stuff is better than nice.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as he flicked on the computer. The speakers jumped. “Do you want to hear something I wrote?”
I nodded. Matt clicked open a file and adjusted the knobs on his mixing desk. “This is for string orchestra. They recorded it for me at uni last year. It came out pretty good, except you can hear someone snap a string near the end.”
He clicked play. The piece began with driving, African-inspired rhythms as the players pounded on the wood of their instruments. As they began to bow furiously, it built into interlocking patterns. A leaping melody passed through the voices. There was a sudden pause, then the final jarring chord. I stood back from the computer and let the harmonies resonate. I tried to pick out what notes Matt had used. The piece was unlike anything I had ever played.
“Well?” He turned on his desk chair to face me.
“That was incredible,” I gushed. “You’re so talented.”
He pushed his cigarette into a saucer. “You’re not such a hack yourself. Hell, you wipe the floor with Clara.”
I glanced nervously into the speckled brown carpet. Matt took my hand.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked again.
I shook my head, even though I was a little.
“You’re beautiful,” said Matt.
I smiled. No one had ever called me beautiful before. He kissed my thumb and I felt my heart pounding against my chest. I didn’t want to speak in case something moronic fell out.
“I want to write for you,” Matt said, running his finger over the ridges in my palm. “I want you to play my stuff.”
“Is that why you asked me here?” My voice was croaky.
Matt dropped my hand and clicked open another file on his computer. “I’ve got this idea,” he said, scrolling through the first movement. “I want to put together a group that plays only new stuff. None of this classical crap everyone’s heard a million times before. My stuff. And maybe some other new composers as well. But the same group of performers. This is the first piece I wrote for it.”
I looked over his shoulder at the music on the screen. “It’s interesting instrumentation. Rhythm section, vocals and strings.” I glanced at the title. “Standing Waves. What does that mean?”
“You know, it’s what happens when two of the same sound waves go in opposite directions. It’s how music gets made.” He grinned. “Doesn’t John the Magnificent teach you anything?”
I chewed my lip. Matt chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist. He pulled me closer to him.
“This is gonna be awesome, Abby. We can advertise ourselves at the Con and pinch some gigs off all those bloody string trios and stuff. That would give us a chance to establish ourselves as the real deal. And then who knows, we could get some grants, make an album… It’ll really be great. I just need the right people.”
“And you think I’m the right person? I’m a classical violinist remember.”
He squeezed my legs between his knees. “That can be fixed.” He reached up and touched the strand of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail. “You’re a fucking brilliant muso, Abby,” he blurted. “And you respect what I do. I think we’d be good together, you and me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was still talking about music.
He stood up. “What do you say?”
“I don’t know.” I could feel my palms sweating as Matt stepped closer. “I really love your music, but well… I just started playing in this quartet. And I probably should be concentrating on my uni stuff, you know; my classical pieces.”
“Your classical pieces? That’s not going to get you anywhere that a million people haven’t been before.”
“You said I respect what you do,” I mumbled. “Can’t you do the same for me?”
Matt paused. “You’re right.” He lifted my chin with the back of his finger. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I want you to do this so much.”
He leant forward and kissed me. I could taste cigarettes on his tongue.
“What do you say?” His breath tickled my forehead. I wanted to kiss him again, but was afraid of starting something I wasn’t ready to finish. I brushed his lips with mine.
“I’ll think about it.”
Jess had resigned herself to moping on the couch after her super-camp, piccolo-playing boyfriend had unexpectedly c
ome out of the closet. I whole-heartedly took part in the tear-fest, hiring Dumbo, Beaches and The Lion King from the video shop.
Jess wailed into a tissue. “I can’t believe Mufasa is dead… And I can’t believe Cecil is gay!”
I hugged her. “None of us saw it coming. I’m sure it wasn’t you that turned him.”
“Oh my God!” cried Jess. “I didn’t even think of it like that! What if I turned him, Abby? What if I turned him?” She sobbed again, before joining in a tearful chorus of Hakuna Matata.
My phone beeped loudly as a message lit up the screen. I patted Jess’s knee. “Come on, we’re going to Julian’s.”
After the party, Friday nights at Julian’s were becoming a ritual. Every week we would jump on the train carrying too much alcohol and turn into drunken music geeks on the lounge floor. Matt and Roman alternated between refined Conservatorium students (“I love the fourth movement of Haydn’s London Symphony”) and twenty year old boys (“He so got laid the night before he wrote it”) while Julian professed his undying love for us all.
“You guys are the greatest,” he would announce every Friday. “You should move in.”
Even after a cask of cheap wine, everyone knew it was a desperate attempt to find a housemate before his lease ran out and not a gesture of friendship.
Jess walked mournfully into the lounge. Roman was wrestling with Brown Dog while Julian handed out random dickhead points.
“Cecil is gay,” Jess announced.
Roman’s eyes lit up. “I knew it!”
“Surprise, surprise,” called Clara, pushing a frozen pizza into the oven.
“Ten points to Jess,” said Julian.
The dog charged out of the lounge and head-butted its way through the back door. I joined Clara in the kitchen. Red plastic dishes were piled into the sink, caked with old spaghetti. It smelled of pasta sauce, beer and bloodhound.
“Matt asked me to play in his new music ensemble,” I said.
“Oh that,” Clara snorted. “What are they called? Waving or something?”
Music From Standing Waves Page 14