The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  I recall how people stared at me with wonder in Vienna, how I knew then that my voice had the power to affect people – make them cry with happiness, or distract them from whatever they needed rescuing from in their life, and maybe Doc just confirmed that.

  ‘Careful, Doc. I might get a big head.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. When you sing, you are truly humble. Vulnerable. You wear your heart on your sleeve. It’s appealing. Charming. I noticed it in Vienna. How did singing the song feel today?’

  ‘Hard to describe.’ I can’t expand. Because it’s the one feeling that is forbidden – I’m in love with his daughter.

  ‘To not nurture that talent would be against the laws of nature. It’s possibly the only reason I’m still coaching you, even though you haven’t severed ties with Astrid as per our agreement.’

  ‘Come on, Doc. With everything Astrid’s going through, what kind of person would push her away for self-gain?’

  The doc ponders me and nods. ‘You’re a surprising package, Jacob Skalicky.’

  For the next couple hours, the doc feels no shame in pulling apart my voice, my technique, my breathing. And then he puts it all back together again. ‘Push down as if you’re going to the toilet’ and ‘relax the soft palate’. He has me sing with a pencil between my teeth to train the sound to go in a forward direction. He breaks down musical phrases note by note, stopping to perfect every tone. By the end of the lesson we’ve made it through one page of music. But it’s perfect.

  ‘Great job today,’ he says, ‘Except I’m running late. Could you pack up my music while I go to the bathroom? And the form you need to declare your chosen music for the Con is in my briefcase.’ Doc points to his case as he strides to the toilet. ‘You need to sign it.’

  I collect the sheet music, remembering the things I learnt. We’ve chosen the audition songs and it’s good to have the decision made. I slide the music into his satchel and open his briefcase, rummaging for a form with the Con letterhead. I’m pretty impressed to find one with the letterhead from the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. As I push it aside, I catch sight of my name on the letter – and Astrid’s. I scan it. An unexpected opening in ‘An Evening with Yolanda Gustav’. We’ve both been invited to sing after Yolanda was honoured to witness our magical performance in Vienna. I clench the letter, check and re-check the wording. The event’s to be televised. Hardly able to breathe, I confirm the date on the letter – two weeks ago.

  ‘You found it.’ Doc gestures to the paper I’m holding.

  ‘No. But I did find this.’ With a rush of anger I shove the letter at him then turn and stride toward the piano.

  ‘Jacob, did you see the date of the event? It’s the same day as your Con audition. Besides, it’s opera, not popera.’

  I slam my fist on the piano. ‘What happened to waiting to decide what sort of singer I am? You should’ve told me. Given me the choice.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d – your audition. I spoke to your dad and he agreed.’

  ‘What the hell would he know?’ I spin around and stop myself getting right in the doc’s face. ‘Why would you ask him?’

  ‘I have an obligation to your father. He contracted me to get you into the Con. I have to respect that commitment.’

  ‘What about your obligation to me?’

  ‘I was thinking of that. And you similarly want to get into the Con.’

  ‘Not over something like this. I mean it’s Yolanda Gustav. There’s no better soprano alive today. You said yourself that performing live gets you places. And this is the frigging Met! And it’s being televised – millions will see it.’ I clench my fists and ram them under my armpits. ‘My dad wants me in the Con because it’s this set, safe path. Like getting a uni degree. He needs me to have a certificate to prove something before he’ll support me. He doesn’t want me wandering the globe without a goal, but he doesn’t understand the music world. You do. This is huge. It could launch a career. How could you do this to me?’

  Doc Bell rubs his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Jacob. I did what I thought was right.’

  ‘What about Astrid? She’ll be fuming about this.’ All I can hear are my unhinged breaths.

  ‘She’s going to attend,’ he finally says. ‘I accepted the invitation on her behalf. I planned to tell her this evening, now we’re sure she’s better.’

  It’s like a tidal wave crashed inside my brain; I can’t take it in. Has the doc betrayed me?

  ‘She has no engagements and she needs to get back into the opera scene. There is no reason for her not to attend.’

  Even though two weeks ago he couldn’t have predicted her voice would be better.

  His words rattle inside my head like coins inside a tin money box.

  ‘No. This isn’t happening.’ I glare at the concrete beams above us. Astrid said something about them being part of the structural support beams of the Opera House. Right now, every kilo of their weight crushes me. With a final scowl at Dr Bell, I leave, determined to never see him again.

  It always seems to happen overnight. The Purple Woods have woken up and as the wind gusts through the trees, flowers drift in the air and paint the ground. A wave of longing for the summers of long ago washes through me.

  When I get to the river I kick at the rocks and fling stones into the water until my arm aches. This time I remember my hands and don’t punch anything, though the effort is like pushing back at a charging bull.

  Jeez, I need a drink.

  I thought Doc understood me. But he’s been running my life as much as he has Astrid’s.

  A couple of beers.

  No-one will ever find out. I’ll chuck the bottles.

  If I start drinking, I won’t stop.

  I take deep breaths of sky then park myself on a rock that juts out into the rushing river. The trees whisper. Blossoms rain from the trees. Some fall into the river and are carried downstream. That’s me – drifting down a river in a direction I don’t want to go. Harper once asked me if it’d be as easy to follow my musical dreams if the studio burnt down. I argued I’d find a way. But I was lying to myself. Because I’m still here, living off my parents when they’re making me unhappy and forcing me to compromise my future. Does the studio have to burn down before I get off my arse and act?

  I think back to Purple Daze’s last gig – how the room was chock-full of screaming girls reaching out for me as I sang. How they’d overdone the stage fog. How I stood in the middle of the boards, my voice magically pairing with the instruments and the backing from the boys; the feeling of belonging and mattering to others. Maybe I’ll form a new band.

  But that future seems as though it’s part of someone else’s life.

  Pushing to my feet I wander along the riverbank, in the opposite direction to the grog. Venus and Adagio, the Hunters’ dogs, have sniffed me out and now jostle at me. The house-sitter must’ve let them out. I bend to hug them. They strain to lick me to death before scampering ahead, circling back now and again. I follow them, listing pros and cons of each of my possible futures; entering competitions like Astrid, submitting demos to music labels. Time blurs.

  Each option has a complication, but everything boils down to whether I’m brave enough to chase my dreams without the advantages my parents give me. Dex doesn’t have a music studio. He has no money, no support, no trained voice coach, but he’s not letting that stop him. Holy coif. I need to suck it up.

  Eventually, abandoned by the dogs, I return to the Mother Tree. Footsteps approach and I remember that Dex was coming over this afternoon. But it’s not Dex who emerges from between the purple blooms.

  It’s Astrid.

  A flash of rage rifles through me. ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘He stuck a knife in my back in the worst way. So did my parents.’ My body heaves with fury.

 
‘I’ve told him I’m not doing it either.’

  ‘What? No! Why?’

  ‘It’s time to spell out that he can’t keep controlling me. And also to show my support for you.’ She walks toward the Mother Tree. Her back to me, she adds, ‘He’s done it to keep us apart. And I won’t let him. He needs to know that.’

  I search for the right words. She can’t let this opportunity go. Long seconds float away with the blossoms.

  ‘And because I’m afraid,’ she adds, turning to lean on the tree. Her face is clotted with worry. ‘You won’t be there to rescue me if I freeze at the Met.’

  ‘I can’t always be there. You have to confront your fear at some point.’

  ‘But this is live at the Met. I’m not ready to test myself there.’

  ‘You’ve always pressured yourself to live your mum’s dream or please Maestro. That’s where the nerves come from. Sing for yourself, rather than them, and the nerves will go. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I could say the same of you with Dex. You’re living your dream through him.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I’m helping Dex chase his dream and it’s the one pure thing I’ve ever done. There’s no reward, no prize, no recognition. It’s untainted by anything else in my life.’

  ‘But you are going to the Con for your parents.’ She gives me the truth as matter-of-factly as chucking stones in the river. I feel the sting of each one.

  I dig my bare heel into the earth, bouncing it until a dint appears in the ground. ‘And that’s why I’m pulling out of the audition.’

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to pull out.’ Her clipped voice softens. ‘I’m simply saying we all do things to please others.’

  ‘And you’re right. I’ve spent my whole life trying to please my parents. It’s got me nowhere. I need to be who I am, and stop walking in some fictional son’s shoes. If it means everyone abandons me, I’ll survive.’

  I’m staggered I said that out loud. Life is like surfing a barrel: just when you think you’ve predicted the wave, set it up, drawn the right line, and you’re gunning through it with laughter busting inside your chest, it closes down on you and you’re crushed into a sandbar. The thing is, my best barrels have always been waves I thought I wasn’t going to make – the ones where I all but shut my eyes and tucked in at the last minute.

  ‘What will you do instead then?’ Astrid’s words break into my thoughts. She’s leaning against the Mother Tree, her white cotton dress clinging to her body.

  I force my attention up into the treetops. ‘I’m not sure yet. But as Dex would say, it’s time to put on my big-boy pants.’ Having made that declaration out loud, I feel stronger. It’s like I’ve been a sand sculpture on the beach for years now, and every day the wind, life, someone, blew pieces of me away. But now I’m solid. I’m concrete. I’m defined.

  ‘Dex will practise by himself today,’ says Astrid. ‘I saw him when I arrived. He told me you might be here.’

  I find a small smile. ‘Thanks.’ But I feel bad for letting down Dex. I’ll make it up to him.

  Astrid’s fingers play an imaginary piano tune on the branch beside her. ‘Maestro said he doesn’t want you distracting me. I suspect what that really means is that he doesn’t want you influencing me. He still wants to manipulate me,’ she says. ‘And that might’ve been part of the reason for his decision about the Met. I think he believes you’re encouraging my songwriting, which he’s dead against. Apparently, my focus is off. He’s like your typical stage mum times a thousand. And he’s also my voice coach, manager and agent. He manages every part of my life.’

  The setting sun halos her body, giving her a nymph-like effect. A crazy need to hold her bowls through my veins. I realise that no matter how many times I get dumped by that barrel, I keep going back for more because the two seconds inside the wave, when the world slows down and muffles and the sun glints on the lip of the water, is so worth it.

  I move closer to her. She pushes herself against the tree. ‘What do you want, Astrid?’

  ‘With my career? I’m still figuring it out.’ Her long eyelashes flutter up to me and flick down to the ground again. ‘Maestro said he’s seen the way we look at each other. And he didn’t think we’d see you again after you stormed off. I knew I couldn’t bear that.’

  My blood instantly heats up. She’s killing me here, with her mixed signals. I’ve never met a girl who’s this hard to read. I take a couple more steps and trail a finger from her collar bone to her elbow. The doc’s out of my life as far as I’m concerned.

  ‘I don’t want to fight this anymore,’ I say, shifting closer. We’re inches part. I touch her cheek with the back of my fingers. She stirs, lifts her face at last. I can trace confusion, fear, longing. I move my mouth closer. ‘I have no doubt I’m ready for this –’ My lips brush hers as I speak and she lets her mouth open slightly. ‘You have to know that now.’

  I tense, knowing her next words could pin my heart to the tree behind us.

  She replies by kissing me. Her arms pull me in and she presses herself against me, lets my fingertips skim down the side of her body to urge her hips into mine. Through her skimpy dress she’s so soft and open to me I have to remind myself to slow down; this is new to her.

  We stay there for a long time, entwined under the Mother Tree, kissing and touching and feeling the cascading blossoms around us like silky snow. When I lift her onto the low branch to the side and sit next to her, my thighs aching from leaning into her, our rough footprints are framed in the purple floor of the woods.

  I point at them and Astrid giggles and flushes, lips swollen with my kisses. I lean in and kiss them again. When I pull away she reaches up and catches a falling flower.

  ‘Let’s climb the tree,’ I say. ‘If you can get to the top, it’s even more amazing. You’ve got to see it for yourself.’

  She canvasses the branches above us. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  I guide her to the next branch up, remembering how I always tried to help Harper, to be a good guy, a gentleman, but she preferred to do it by herself. Not that she was wrong, but was there ever any space for me next to Harper?

  Our progress is slow because every few branches I stop and kiss Astrid.

  When we reach the final tricky part, I say, ‘This is it. When you push up from this branch you’ll be above the canopy. Get ready to be blown away. Not literally.’

  Astrid struggles a little, but when she succeeds I hear her gasp. I push up next to her and our heads bob like buoys on a sea of purple.

  ‘Incroyable. It’s as if we stuck our heads inside a painting. Or we’re somewhere over the rainbow. Alice stepping through the looking glass.’ For the first time it’s Astrid who leans in to kiss me. I smile into her mouth and kiss her back.

  When the kiss ends, I don’t want to spoil the mood with more talk of Maestro. I pluck some blossoms, let them dribble through my fingers. They’ll shrivel away soon, their glory days brief.

  Astrid’s gaze sweeps across the purple haze of blossoms toward the horizon. ‘Here’s a truth for you.’ She bites her bottom lip. ‘I wish we’d made it to Cambridge. I wish I’d met my grandparents.’

  A gust of wind blasts my hair behind me, and Astrid wobbles. I grip her arm to steady her and vow to get my shit together so that Astrid always has someone to rely on.

  30

  Astrid

  Arm in arm we wander away from the Purple Woods under a sky smeared in shades of blush. Inside Jacob’s studio, Dex has already left and Jacob makes cheese sandwiches because he skipped lunch and might gnaw off his leg. I play the piano and sing a new song I’ve written for Dex.

  ‘He’s gonna love it,’ says Jacob when I swivel to him. He finishes the last of his sandwich and beckons me to sit with him on the Lego sofa. My heart curls and whirls, a renegade kite in my ribcage.

  The ridiculously soft sofa pushes us into ea
ch other. My stomach pleasantly jolts. His mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, I want to let go and fall with him to wherever this is taking us.

  It’s as though I’ve been clinging to a sort of survival rule book all my life, living each day in a haze of what I should do and must do according to Maestro. Or according to my own rules of how to keep safe and not get hurt by risking anyone leaving me. I’m ready to throw away the book because what if not following those rules leads somewhere amazing – like when you’re writing a song and play a B instead of a B flat by mistake, but discover it sounds so much better.

  Jacob’s mouth releases mine and moves to my neck, setting off a series of sparks through my body. With every glance and touch, I have to finally admit he wants to be with me, not Harper. I guess I already knew that after he took down her photos and started ignoring her calls and texts, but I wasn’t ready to throw out the survival rule book yet.

  Jacob moans and places tiny kisses across my collarbone. He pushes aside the strap of my dress. His tongue traces along where the strap was. Wanting him to never stop, but a little afraid too, my chest heaves. I arch into him, needing our skin to dissolve so I can merge into him, our bodies cupped together. When he pauses, his smile is lazy and sexy and a hot ache pulses through me. Shaking a little, I undo the top button on my dress, then the next and the next. He watches my fingers, my face, his gaze probing mine.

  At the sound of three poundings on the studio door, Jacob springs off me like a sleeping cat in a sudden thunderstorm. I sit up, pulling at my dress to cover myself.

  Jacob adjusts his shorts, staring at where the thuds came from. ‘I locked it.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ I button my dress, suppress my panic. The pounding repeats.

  ‘It’s not going to be my parents. And Dex would’ve caught the bus by now.’

  I swing my legs round, flatten the creases from my dress. ‘It’s Maestro.’

  ‘You’re ready for this?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Jacob unlocks the door and lugs it open.