Mad Dog’s climbing onto the balcony railings twenty storeys up, chasing the adrenaline rush from jumping to the balcony next door. I always figured that would be what killed him.
And Callum. Sitting in the corner on the tiny round table, scribbling in a pad. His novels will never be read. His songs will never be heard.
They’re probably stalking me from heaven. Opera. I snort. Heaven will shake with their laughter. Or hell. I grapple two bottles of beer from the fridge and slug them back.
I have to stay in another hotel in England. As we’re already in Europe, the doc talked my parents into another audition at a music school in London. It was last minute, but Doc reckons it’s a better school for me. More than anything, it’s a ticket out of home. Reckon the doc knows I need to get out of Dodge. To do that for me – give up on his teaching time – Doc’s quite a guy. And imagine what my parents’ friends will say if I’m accepted.
Hiding inside a beer-brain fog, my thoughts slide to Astrid; how her expression of awe slipped into fear when she saw the Opera House. That’s what happens when you walk in the footsteps of a famous mother. I wanted to comfort her so badly, but the right words wouldn’t come.
I punch her mum’s name into Google on my mobile and read an article about how Veronika-with-a-K Bell disappeared from the music scene. They don’t say how she died. Next I check Callum’s Instagram account. It’s gone now, same as Emery’s. Mad Dog’s remains, his jaw as square as ever, but the number of followers has dropped to 911. Did people unfriend him because he’s dead?
A text comes through from Harper: In Paris for training. So close, yet so far.
I throw back a couple of shots of vodka and wash them down with Coke, then download some music and hum to myself until I fall asleep on the floor.
14
Astrid
We’re backstage, minutes from my performance, and I’m darting downstairs to the bathroom to throw up. Again. I barely have time to rinse my mouth before running back into the wings. My hair, looped into a fancy bun, lies flat and damp against my skull. The freckles I’d covered with make-up peep through and the tight strapless bodice of Mum’s red ball gown seems to constrict around my chest.
‘Better?’ Jacob asks. When I shake my head, he puts an arm around my clammy shoulders. I droop into him. ‘If you can’t do this, how can I?’ he adds. He’s sweating in his penguin suit and bow tie. When he first put it on he laughed at his reflection, thinking he looked dumb, then argued with Maestro about tying back his hair. Now, it hangs loosely around his face, strands of it sticking to his sweaty neck and jawline.
Ripples of music filter through the thrumming in my head. I peer between the leg curtains onto the stage where a baritone is performing. A slim, grey-haired man accompanies him, striking out a series of chords on the piano. I hold my breath and push back at the nausea. ‘That accompanist,’ I say, eventually, ‘has played for loads of big-name singers around the world. Including my mum.’
‘And now he’ll be playing for the great Astrid Bell.’ Jacob points to the contestant currently on stage. ‘He’s sending everyone to sleep.’
I glance at the judges sitting near the front in one of the rows of red seats. As it’s a contest, it’s much brighter than during an evening performance, and there are no spotlights on the performer. The circular theatre yawns behind them. It’s smaller than I imagined, compared to the Sydney Opera House, but also filled with hundreds of people I hadn’t expected to witness my probable humiliation. I reach out to hold onto something and Jacob grabs my elbow.
‘Should I fetch your dad?’ he whispers.
And then they call my name.
I draw myself up, like shoving a rod through my entire body. ‘Vienna’s calling. The show must go on.’
Jacob squeezes my arm. ‘You can do it.’
I make myself put one foot in front of the other. Fear slips and slides through me, but I keep moving forward and pass my music to the pianist. I’ve been clenching it so tightly, it’s creased in one corner. I wonder if he knows I’m Veronika Bell’s daughter, or if he remembers her. He smiles at me, but I can’t make my face smile back.
My body sways as I turn to face the audience. Fear becomes a bird trapped inside my ribcage, frantically beating its wings and trying to escape through my throat.
The accompanist coughs. When he does it again I turn my head to him. He’s waiting for my nod. But my mouth is dry, my ears throb with my heartbeat, making me dizzy. My gaze swerves back to the audience and over all their heads to the very back of the auditorium. Mum floods into my brain and suddenly I’m her, gazing out at the very scene she once did, wearing this same dress and shoes. What if the judges compare us and are disappointed? I check my feet, half expecting to see her ghostly footprints on the stage from years ago.
The theatre fills with the intro to ‘Summertime’. I count the beats, my body shivering yet hot. On cue, I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. The music continues. Then stops. There’s a prickly hush that snaps me out of the haze I’m swaying in. I twirl to the pianist.
‘Sorry. Would you mind starting again?’ I ask.
The music begins again, but when I look up my oesophagus tightens. I swallow hard and take in a deep breath, but it’s too late. I’ve missed my cue again. I try to catch up to the music yet it’s flying ahead of me. Then someone else is singing. I turn my head and watch Jacob slowly tread onto the stage. The lighting silhouettes him and alters his blond hair into a bright halo. He’s an apparition in a tux.
I feel my mouth stretching into a smile so big my cheeks cramp. I focus on Jacob’s mouth, shaping the notes. He moves nearer, his rich tone sending goosebumps up my arms and spreading a balm over my nerves. I snag Jacob’s hand, in case he’s thinking of leaving me here – he has to be more familiar with the Ella Fitzgerald version. My throat loosens. He times his breath perfectly and I join in. The audience applauds and we turn to them.
My voice does what it’s trained to do, climbing to the heights I ask it to, and Jacob expertly accompanies me in the lower keys. Then our voices soar toward a dramatic finale, and even before we’ve finished holding the final note the opera house boils over with applause and cheers.
Jacob waves his cast and bows while I curtsey. A bubble of happiness bursts inside me.
We retreat offstage and I grab Jacob in a hug around the waist. ‘That was the worst and best moment of my life,’ I shout over the continuing applause which only stops when they announce the next contestant. We clutch each other’s elbows. ‘You were incredible.’
‘You were awesome.’
‘I’ve never enjoyed singing on stage so much. But, oh my god, I’ll be disqualified.’ I pull away, spin in a small circle, and almost trip over a curtain. I turn to Jacob. ‘Maestro’s going to have a kitten.’
‘After that applause? Never.’ Jacob’s smile is unguarded and it’s as if I’m seeing him truly happy for the first time. ‘And I get to do it all over again.’ He slaps a palm over his forehead. ‘Holy coif, as Dex would say.’ He peers through the leg curtains.
We listen to the next contestant, and when they call Jacob’s name he glides onto the stage as though the floor is ice and he’s a professional skater.
Jacob commands every ear to listen; his vibrato rings out poignantly and I brush away the tears as I wait in the wings. I glance around me. Others have tear tracks too. His voice is a tray with his heart laid out on it. His tone sounds so vulnerable you can’t help but let it touch your own heart, maybe even unlock it after it’s been sealed and buried.
He finishes a faultless performance. The audience rise to their feet and continue applauding even after he’s rushed offstage, arms spread wide for a hug. I throw myself into them. He lifts me off my feet and I lean forward and kiss him on the lips. I don’t know why I do it; with the air in the opera house jammed full with an intense zing, it feels right.
But it�
��s as though a needle has been yanked from a record.
Everything stops.
Jacob drops me to my feet, his expression spiked with anguish. With a final pained stare, he whirlwinds away.
15
Jacob
Being a competition, the lights in the auditorium are dimmed only a little. As the pianist begins to play, I can see the expectation on everyone’s faces. It’s distracting, so I place my focus beyond them, at the back of the auditorium, and lose myself in the song. I get back to that place where I was with Astrid moments before, singing together in a way that had made me feel elated for the first time in months – longer.
After a while, I sense people are smiling and nodding. Some have tears that make their cheeks glisten, and some gawp at the person beside them, their faces filled with wonder. They look at me with wonder.
It comes to me, shadowy at first, but then like the dawn sun splashing around the gaps in a curtain, brightening the air so everything in the room gains definition: I know this is the purpose of me in this life. I know the purpose of my voice because it can affect people in an awesome way. It’s like my voice is a cure for the way life can numb you.
I wonder why I resisted Dr Sofia when she steered me toward popera. And that answer comes to me now too, making me smile into the audience: it was what my dad wanted. Plus who ever heard of a surfing tenor? I suddenly don’t care about that. Watching the audience and how they respond to me is so powerful my body fills with emotion like I’m an expanding accordion.
For the first time since the funerals I’m honouring Purple Daze – singing for them, never forgetting them, dedicating my voice to them.
And then the applause comes and the audience is on their feet, cheering. Some clap their hands above their heads. But at the same time that an intense happiness streaks through me, I’m struck by the sense that I’m saying goodbye to the boys, that our paths are forking, and I am leaving them behind.
I smile through bittersweet tears and rush backstage to Astrid. She’s jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. I sweep her into my arms.
And then she kisses me.
My body pulses and responds. Except kissing Astrid means saying goodbye to Harper.
I can’t do it. That’s one too many goodbyes today.
16
Astrid
The next morning when I walk into the hotel dining room for breakfast, Maestro catches up to me, and leans in close. ‘You’ve been disqualified.’
‘I’m not surprised. I’m not cut out for this.’ I choose the nearest table and drop into a chair.
He seems not to hear me. ‘When you did finally sing though, you sounded incredible. I’m not sure whether to be mad or ecstatic, Buttercup.’ Somehow, even after his disappointed lecture last night, he’s in a good mood. He pulls out a chair and sits opposite me, casting around for a waiter.
I’m about to reply when Jacob appears behind Maestro. He perches on the seat between us, rapping his fingers on the table.
Maestro pats his hand. ‘There you are. We couldn’t find you last night, but you were extraordinary. It wasn’t just your voice, but the expressiveness of your face, your ability to project your personality –’
‘Got it, Doc.’ Jacob searches over our heads, then gets to his feet and crosses toward the coffee machine. Maestro doesn’t take the hint and follows him, still wearing his cloak like some sort of villain in a comic book. I watch Jacob go through the motions of making a coffee from the jug on the hot plate while Maestro’s arms gesticulate wildly. He’s still talking when they return to the table.
‘You never let anything hold you back, Jacob.’ Maestro’s glare plunders mine. I need Alice’s ‘drink me’ potion so I can shrink down to the size of a pea, but I needn’t have worried because Jacob doesn’t appear to be listening. He glugs down his coffee, surely burning his mouth.
‘I’m not hungry.’ He stands again, stares at the exit like he’s a trapped animal. ‘I’ll see you at the rehearsal room, Doctor Bell.’
Only then does Maestro stop talking. He frowns at Jacob’s vanishing shape then at me. ‘What’s happened?’ I turn my empty juice glass in circles. He crosses his arms. ‘Astrid?’
I’ve never discussed anything like kissing a boy with Maestro. He thinks I’ll stay a virgin until I’m fifty-five. He probably thinks I have a virginal mind, and the thought of kissing Jacob wouldn’t cross it. And I’m still so confused. Jacob seems angry with me. Why would kissing him have that effect?
‘I really don’t know.’ The words are congealed lumps stuck in my throat.
Maestro stands and with a flurry, takes his cloak off, laying it over the back of the chair Jacob just vacated. ‘Perhaps it’s his band again. It would be hard not to miss them after a night like last night.’
Jacob progresses to the next round and continues to be civil but distant, his smile pinned in place, his gaze never meeting mine. In response, I get a little angry. If he’s not interested in me in that way, he should move on. He’s being childish. Why can’t we go back to how it was?
He and Maestro rehearse for the final, but mostly Jacob eats quickly and leaves and seems to sleep a lot. I stay out of his way, all the while wishing he’d look in my direction.
The night before the final he plays with his food at dinner, cutting the pasta with his fork. He chops it into smaller and smaller pieces and eats nothing. Beside his dinner plate his phone buzzes. It’s a text from his mum asking if he’s won the competition yet. A second text comes in. I can’t help but glance at it and see Harper’s name. He texts straight back but this time puts the phone in his pocket. His elbows on the table, I glimpse the new words he’s written on the cast.
If I become the person they want me to be
Will you let them free?
If I do all the things expected of me
Let them be free
Jacob’s third place is controversial, given there are better singers in the contest, technically speaking. It’s seen as a popularity win – and his actions to ‘save’ me from my onstage faux pas also earned him points, even if they weren’t the kind of points on the score sheet.
When I hug Jacob to say congratulations, he’s stiff and I bang my forehead on his cheek. He excuses himself and goes back into hibernation in his hotel room. No doubt he’s converted it into a replica of his pigsty studio. And he’s surely spending hours talking to Harper on the phone.
A wedge of melancholy slides itself into my heart.
Later, when we’re packing suitcases, Maestro asks if something’s happened between us.
‘Nothing. He’s a bit blue.’ I slip my dirty socks into a bag and take a sip of juice. ‘I suppose it’s Purple Daze.’ My words are muffled as I talk into the glass.
Maestro stops rolling his bright silk ties. My cheeks flame and I keep my head down. I can hear his breath passing in and out of his nose. ‘He is not to be a distraction, or he’ll have to go. He may be a remarkably talented young man, and he may have the X-factor, and the music world would lose something precious if he didn’t continue, but your singing, your goals, are more important to me.’
When he moves away to pack his suit into its carrier, I study him. He’s taut; a clockwork form of him, his face stern with concentration. Where did the softer version of my dad go, the one who sympathised and supported? The one who made up the secret sign for I love you so we could convey it to each other when we couldn’t say the words out loud – mainly at auditions. Nowadays, I can’t imagine Maestro sticking his finger in his ear while pressing his nose like it’s a button. I know how Luke Skywalker felt when he learnt his father went over to the dark side.
There’s no time to celebrate before we fly to England for Jacob’s audition. Maestro sits between us on the plane, for which I’m grateful. The one time my gaze glances off Jacob’s, we’re in the customs line and I’m mumbling the words of a Spa
nish aria to myself.
‘It’s what I do in queues,’ I explain. ‘Helps me remember different languages.’ But he’s texting and not listening.
Getting too close to Jacob feels like I’m opening myself up to a world of misery. He’s too unpredictable. Moody.
In the new hotel at Hyde Park, I steel myself at the prospect of spending hours alone in this room while Maestro and Jacob practise. I’ve feigned a cough to dodge rehearsals. Once we’re home it’ll be easier to avoid Jacob. The question is, how do I avoid Maestro? If Jacob passes his audition, he’ll move to London. Life will go back to how it was before. Just me and Maestro.
The sensation of being trapped in my own body returns. Ants crawl under my skin.
After a sleepless first night in London, I eat room-service breakfast alone. The sun cracks open the skyline and with the early wave of drizzly light, I come to a decision: when we get back to Sydney I’ll tell Maestro I don’t want to perform anymore. I can’t go through that again. I want to be a songwriter. Just as Jacob is moving forward and not letting his guilt and grief hold him back, so must I.
Someone knocks on my hotel room door. It’s probably Maestro, come to talk me into practising. When I complained of sickness last night he completed a thorough check of my temperature and glands, and declared me healthy. Perhaps I should tell him about my decision now.
My pulse shifts up a gear.
I suspect he’ll refuse to let me give up, like he did in Berlin. But maybe if we have this out, he’ll let me continue songwriting too. He’ll see how important it is to me.
Except when I answer the knock, it’s not Maestro.
Jacob bounces on his toes, hands dangling at his sides as if he’s baffled about where to put them. ‘Can I come in?’ he asks. He smells freshly showered, or else he’s growing lime trees in his room.
The Astrid Notes Page 10