“Of course I do.”
“What do you play?”
“Ysaye. Elgar. Beethoven. Everything I play expresses something.”
“Well sure,” said Matt. “But they’re not your emotions, are they. They belong to whoever wrote the piece. Express what you’re feeling. And do it with your own sounds.”
He stood behind me and nestled his head into my free shoulder. He pointed at the score. “Use the chords as your outline. Then just let go.”
I let my bow fall heavily against the strings, surprising myself at the explosive chord. It was furious and dissonant, nothing like the relaxed jazz Matt had written. Suddenly, my head was full of Nick, of my parents, of Justin. Frustration surged through my fingers, voicing itself with wild double stops and rippling saltando bowing.
When I opened my eyes, Sam and Julian were watching from the kitchen doorway. Matt was grinning.
“Not exactly Latin jazz, but I think you got the idea.” He squeezed my arm. “What do you say? Give it another go?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He placed his hand over my heart. “Just feel the music in here for once. Instead of in your head.”
I wondered if he could feel my pulse quicken in anger. “I always play from the heart,” I snapped. “Just because I play other people’s music doesn’t mean I play without passion!”
He caught my eye. “Hell, Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. You know what an amazing muso I think you are.” He smiled. “Let’s play it again.”
I stayed at Matt’s that night, excited by my newfound skills of improvisation. We had finished rehearsal with a few glasses of red and it had made my eyelids heavy.
Matt’s doona was thick and smelled of soap powder.
“No pressure,” he said, as though Julian’s party had never happened. “Just hold me.”
He wrapped an arm around me as he sat up in bed and wrote lyrics. Closing my eyes, I drifted into a blissful sleep, my fingers resting on Matt’s bare chest. I adored Standing Waves, but for the first time, my dreams weren’t filled with the sound of the violin. For the first time, my love for music had been dwarfed by my overwhelming love for Matt.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Matt and I became one of those loved-up couples that nauseate everyone within a five-hundred-metre radius. We retreated into our own little world above the coin laundry in which the only thing worth getting out of bed for was the new music Matt was writing me. I was his inspiration and he was mine.
I couldn’t decide which I loved more: being in bed with Matt- his hot hands on mine, guiding me, teaching- or getting up to play the music. He kept manuscript on the floor and scrawled down melodies whenever they came to him. I was enchanted by the beautiful pieces that were mine to introduce to the world. For an intoxicating few weeks, my life was as perfect as I imagined it was possible to be.
“This one,” he announced one night. “Is a violin solo. It’s going to be my favourite.” He was lying on his side in bed, scribbling into his manuscript book. His dark hair curled over his bare shoulders. “At our first big performance, you’re going to play this as the encore.”
I lay beside him propped up on my elbow, watching the pencil scratch across the staves.
“You just scribbled that all down in one go,” I said. “You haven’t even heard it yet. How do you know it’s your favourite?”
“I hear it in here,” grinned Matt, tapping his head. “I’m like Beethoven.”
I whacked him with the pillow. “God you’re arrogant.”
He laughed. “Finished. Play it please, my darling.”
I slipped out of bed and hunted around the room for my jeans.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my jeans.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t play half-naked.” I was wearing a bra and undies with bunnies on them.
Matt smiled. “Why not? I like the bunnies. Forget your jeans, woman. Just get your violin.”
Obediently, I knelt back on the bed, my instrument on my shoulder. Matt placed the handwritten music in front of me. The title was scrawled across the top of the page. Stratosphere. I began to play slowly, squinting to make out Matt’s roughly pencilled score.
Playing the violin made me feel both exposed and supremely confident. Exposed in that my music was a channel for every emotion that coursed through my body. I felt that by listening to me play, someone could see inside me; read my darkest secrets and deepest desires. And supremely confident because I knew I was doing what I was made to do.
When I was performing, it didn’t matter that I’d handed in a dodgy techniques assignment, or that Justin had slept with Mia instead of me. It didn’t matter that my parents didn’t want to know me, or that my brother had pissed off with Clara’s money. With a bow in my hand I was able to eradicate anything I didn’t want to think about.
Playing for Matt was different. The emotions were his, the secrets and desires his. It was as though I was playing back a version of himself for him to listen to. It was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. I never felt closer to Matt than when I was playing his music.
Stratosphere moved effortlessly through the modes, rising and falling, zigzagging, soaring. I could never predict where the melody would go, but wherever it arrived it made perfect sense. I couldn’t believe it had just spilled out of Matt’s head like that, flowing onto the page without the need for him to even play the notes. I could barely imagine what other unheard music was swirling around inside his mind.
I paused at the end of the first page. “This is amazing,” I said. “It’s so beautiful.”
Matt smiled. “It’s because I’m happy. You make me happy.”
I thought of wild Ysaye, yearning Elgar, furious Dvorak; all the angsty pieces I had loved in the past. Stratosphere was everything they weren’t. It was music filled with joy. I thought of the notebook I had taken to my first violin lessons. ‘Music gives love a voice,’ read the cover. Stratosphere was pure head-over-arse, lost–track-of-time, jump-you-on-the-kitchen-table love.
Matt turned the page. “Keep going.”
He kept his hand resting on my bare knee. His fingers moved slightly against my skin as though he was subconsciously playing along. In the dusky light of the bedroom, I was acutely aware of the way the notes filled the space, of the sharp angles of Matt’s handwriting, the energy pulsing in his fingertips. Stratosphere heightened my senses.
Matt leaned forward and pushed his lips into the bare skin on my back. My breath shot into my throat.
“If you keep doing that,” I smiled. “I won’t be able to finish this piece.”
“I’ve heard enough,” he said, lifting the violin out of my hand.
I dragged myself out of our love-struck bubble for my Friday lunch shift at the Italian restaurant. I carried, poured and Spray-and-Wiped, but my mind was miles away.
My mobile rang as I was leaving. Juggling my apron, backpack and complimentary bag of stale bread, I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Abby? It’s Hayley!”
“Oh my God!” I stuffed the bread into my bag with one hand. “How you going?”
“Good! I’m in Melbourne visiting my sister. Do you want to catch up?”
Despite my efforts to keep my thoughts out of Acacia Beach, I missed Hayley like crazy. Besides, I was flying so high, I was sure ghosts from the past could no longer hurt me.
“I’d love to,” I said. “Is Andrew here too?”
“Just me. I got a few days off work but Andrew couldn’t make it.”
I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved.
“Are you free tonight?” she asked. “You probably have plans already, but I’m leaving early Sunday morning.”
I nibbled my thumbnail. Julian was attempting to cook roast chicken for us that night and it promised to be comedy gold.
“Tonight would be great,” I said.
I was nervous about meeting Hayley. That day had been the first time we had spo
ken in over eighteen months, despite our promises to keep in touch.
I pulled her inside out of the cold. Her blonde hair was pinned back; a dark red scarf bundled around her neck. I threw my arms around her, my nerves disappearing.
She kissed my cheek. “God Abby, look at you. You’re all grown up.”
At twenty-six, Hayley was all grown up too. Dressed in black with her hair up and her nails short and bare, she was a more subdued, adult version of the girl I had known in Acacia Beach. The big sister I had never had.
A cold wind whipped off the river as we walked into the city. Hayley shivered and buttoned her jacket.
“How’s your sister?” I asked.
“Good. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen her. Plus, it’s nice to have a break from things in Acacia.”
“What things?”
Hayley shrugged. “Just things. Being a mother.”
A flash of coloured light shot out from the bridge and arched across the water.
“Then let’s go get hideously drunk,” I said, linking my arm through Hayley’s. For the first time, I almost felt her equal. “I know the best little bar to go to.” I grinned to myself as we crossed the bridge to Southbank. My last visit to Charlie’s Bar had involved doing the Macarena on a table and dirty dancing with a vending machine.
“What are you giggling at?”
“Just stupid uni stuff.”
“So have you got a boy?” asked Hayley, her heels clicking on the walkway.
I smiled. “Yeah. Matt. He’s a composer.”
“Nice. Is he hot?”
“Very. In a grungy muso kind of way.”
We passed a bar with a crowd spilling onto the footpath. Laughter mixed with the sound of a jazz band. I felt myself stepping in time to the music. A sax solo floated out of the open doors.
“So you’re finally over Justin,” said Hayley.
“I’m over him,” I said frostily. “So over him.”
Hayley raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like I hit a nerve.”
“Sorry,” I said, weaving my way through a group of girls wearing ball gowns and tuxedo jackets. “I just don’t like to think about Justin any more. All that’s behind me. I just want to concentrate on the life I’ve got now.”
“I don’t believe you. He did something to hurt you, didn’t he?”
I shook my head, feeling guilty for lying. “I don’t think about him any more, that’s all. I’m with Matt now.”
“I envy you, Abby,” Hayley said, pushing her hands into her coat pockets. “I envy your life.”
I faced her in surprise. “You envy me? Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re doing everything you’ve always wanted in this awesome city. You’re on your way to making it big…”
“Making it big!” I laughed. “I don’t know about that!”
“Come on,” said Hayley. “Anyone from Acacia Beach that makes it into a music school like you did is making it big as far as I’m concerned.”
I smiled dubiously. “Well, you know I was so jealous of you when I was growing up. I wanted to be just like you.”
Hayley frowned, her eyes glued to the footpath. “Why would you ever want to be like me?”
“Because you’re so gorgeous and confident and you always had such good advice for me-”
“Good advice! I sincerely hope you never took any of my good advice, Abby! Do you know how I spent my twenty-first birthday? Cleaning baby spew off my couch!” She hurried past me into the bar and tapped her fingers on the counter. “Let’s buy expensive champagne.”
We bought our drinks and climbed onto the tall stools at one of the tables. At the other end of the bar, two guys were playing pool while girls in matching white mini skirts tried to pick them up. Hayley slid her jacket onto the back of her chair and smoothed her black halter neck. She filled the glasses. Bubbles overflowed onto the glossy tabletop.
“Here’s to not waiting this long to see each other again.” She clinked her glass against mine. “You should come back to Acacia Beach and visit. Or at least call us some time dammit!”
“I know I should.” I took a sip. My nose always seemed to get in the way when I drank out of champagne flutes. “It’s just hard. My parents don’t exactly speak to me since Nick ran off.”
Hayley nodded. I could tell from her unfazed reaction that my family’s business had become the latest gem of gossip in Acacia Beach.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s awful. No wonder you don’t want to come home.”
I wriggled on the narrow bar stool and hooked the heels of my boots around the legs. “It’s okay. There aren’t a whole lot of people there I really want to see.”
Hayley raised her eyebrows and I said hurriedly: “Except you, of course.”
“What about Andrew?”
I nodded slowly. I was missing Andrew more than I felt I should admit to Hayley.
“He wants you to call him,” she said. “He told me to tell you off for not keeping in touch. In fact, give me your phone. I’m going to put his new mobile number in there for you.”
Hesitantly, I slid my bag across the table. Took a long sip of champagne. “How is he?”
“He’s good. He misses you though. He misses teaching someone with talent.” Hayley handed me back my phone. She traced a circle in the condensation on the side of her glass. “Anyway,” she said mutedly. “I’ll tell him you’re happy. It sounds like you’re having a ball.”
I smiled. “I am. I mean, I’ve made some stupid mistakes, but hasn’t everyone?”
“Of course.” Hayley spun the ashtray in circles. “I love Andrew,” she said suddenly. Her voice wobbled. “I love him so much.”
I took a mouthful of champagne and felt the bubbles shoot back up my throat. “Of course you do.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
I frowned. “Is everything okay, Hayles? Did something happen between you guys?”
She stared into her glass. I reached across the table and touched her wrist.
“What is it?”
“Nothing happened,” she said finally. “We’re fine. Really.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So if I called Andrew and asked him, he would say nothing was wrong?”
“He would say everything was great.” Hayley pulled her hands out from underneath mine and slid the bottle away from her. “I really shouldn’t drink this stuff.”
I graced the chicken dinner at midnight, champagne still dancing in my brain. I sashayed into the lounge room and gave Matt a sloppy kiss. “How was the roast?”
“We had pizza,” Julian said sheepishly.
Jess kicked her legs inside her sleeping bag. “Jules carved it up and it was still raw inside. “Brown Dog loved it!”
“How was your country-bum friend?” asked Clara from her perch on a kitchen stool. “Did you discuss the latest trends in cow manure?”
“Of course,” I laughed, thinking Hayley would probably head my list of the top twenty people who wouldn’t touch cow manure with a ten-foot pole. Well, maybe a close second behind Clara. I slipped off the couch and exploded into giggles.
“You’re so pissed!” laughed Jess. “I thought you were never drinking again.”
“Tonight got a little full-on,” I said.
Matt raised his eyebrows. “It didn’t go so well then?”
“No, it was good,” I said. “Just full-on.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Hey I can’t make quartet rehearsal tomorrow,” I told Clara. We walked out of the Con into the chilly autumn night. Peak hour traffic was banked up along the boulevard.
“Why?”
I chewed over whether to tell her. “I’m rehearsing with Matt.”
“Oh great.” Clara broke into a sudden stride. “So he finally convinced you to play then. Isn’t it funny how sex has so much power.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” I snapped.
“Isn’t his little studio in his bedroom? I bet he doesn’t want you to just
pack up and go home after rehearsal.”
I glared at her. “God you’re a bitch sometimes.” We stopped at the pedestrian lights and I smashed the button angrily. “I just love his music, that’s all. I think the world needs to hear it.”
“Yeah well the world also needs to hear the Beethoven F Minor at this gig on Saturday night,” said Clara. “So you’d better know your part.”
“I’ll know it, okay.”
The lights shot to green. Clara’s leather shoulder bag swung in time with her clicking boots.
“So I guess you won’t be doing the concerto competition?”
I turned to her in interest. “What’s the concerto competition?”
She gave an airy laugh, which reminded me of the froth on a cappuccino. “Only, like, the biggest deal of the whole year for performance students. It’s an opportunity to perform in front of the whole Con. And the winner gets so much exposure they’re basically guaranteed an orchestra gig when they graduate. The cellist that won last year is playing with the Melbourne Symphony now.” She tossed her red plait dreamily. “The MSO, Abby. You practically have to wait for someone to die before a spot opens up in the MSO.” She patted my arm. “I would have thought you’d be entering. But you probably won’t have time now you’re doing this thing with Matt.”
“I’ll find time,” I said quickly.
“Good. You’d be stupid not to if you’re serious about becoming a performer- which you are, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well then.” She flashed me a quick white smile. “It looks as though we’ll be having a little friendly competition.” She pecked my cheek. “Bye, precious.”
She disappeared into the station.
I chose the Dvorak concerto I had heard in Brisbane to play for the competition. An easy decision. Hearing the powerful opening chords on a CD I had borrowed from the library, I was taken back to the night of my first violin performance; the night music had made the decision for me that I would make it to the concert hall.
Music From Standing Waves Page 16