The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘I thought my singing helped you get over Mum. But she wasn’t even dead. Were you trying to turn me into Mum?’

  He straightens and studies me. ‘Your singing did help me. I confess that. But not to get over Veronika. It brought joy back into my life. I became possessed by the idea that together we could tour the world’s opera venues. Maybe I could start performing again. I got caught up in this ideal future for us. But it was selfish of me. I’m so terribly sorry.’

  ‘I do understand. We only have each other in this world. But you’ve been holding on too tight. I can’t breathe anymore. I’m asking you to loosen your grip. I don’t want to run away from you.’

  ‘I realise that now. And to show you how sorry I am, and that I’m paying attention and can change, I listened to the songs you wrote and sent Dex’s demo to all the right people.’

  ‘Dex told me. Thank you.’

  His puckered face smiles. ‘You were amazing tonight. The best ever. Jacob is obviously good for you.’ He turns his attention onto Jacob. ‘I owe you an apology, Jacob. You’re old enough to have made the decision about the Met. And I was being manipulative. I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me, though. You are. That became part of the problem. I wanted to be a part of your amazing future, to help you reach the heights I know you will, yet the fear that you’d distract or influence Astrid tortured me, especially with the nerves affecting her so badly. It was a quandary. It was easier to blame you for everything that was happening between us. But you’ve become a big part of our lives and I don’t want that to change.’

  Jacob shrugs, grinds his jaw.

  ‘And congratulations on tonight, young man,’ adds Maestro. ‘You were as extraordinary as I knew you could be. Your parents will be proud and perhaps won’t doubt you anymore.’

  Jacob’s smile slices at his face. ‘Who knows.’

  ‘When I told your father you were in New York, he was furious. He hung up and I called him back. I owed you. Revealing the Met performance was to be televised helped – and the fact you intended to sing opera.’ Maestro studies his feet. ‘I may have glossed over those points when I first discussed the Met with him. It’s unforgiveable. But I’m laying out the truth here. I want us to start again. Can you forgive me?’

  Jacob lugs his serious gaze to me, then grins and jigs his eyebrows up and down. ‘I believe in second chances.’

  He and Maestro shake on it and Jacob pulls the three of us into a group hug.

  ‘Thanks for doing that for him, Maestro.’ I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek.

  ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ asks Maestro. We break apart and Maestro taps the floor with his shoe for a couple of beats. ‘Can you start calling me Dad again?’

  I take his hands. ‘Of course. I don’t remember why I stopped. Dad.’

  His eyes crinkle above his shaky smile.

  ‘What are you up to, Jacob Skalicky? I’m usually going over my lines by now.’ Having said our byes to Dad, Jacob’s still on a mission to distract me before my final performance.

  ‘You’ve learnt your lines.’ Jacob marches ahead of me. I can’t keep up in my heels and stop to pull them off, chasing after him in my nylons. I have spares. I can’t guess where we’re going, but I trust him.

  We step into an elevator and take a flight of stairs, then another, until he pushes open a heavy fire door. We’re on the roof of the Met.

  The building isn’t high. All around us skyscrapers stand tall, their lights blinking. I wrap my arms around myself against the frosty night air, taking in the city view and the sight of Central Park through a gap between two buildings. The low moon appears to perch on a distant skyscraper as if it fell out of the sky.

  Jacob sits on the housing over an air vent. When I join him, he slips his jacket around my shoulders, tugs me against him. ‘The sky is huge.’ He lifts his face to the heavens. ‘We could be up the Mother Tree.’

  ‘Except there aren’t as many stars here.’ There are so few, it’s as though someone individually press-studded them onto the sky.

  ‘And we’re surrounded by skyscrapers.’

  ‘You sent me all the numbered flowers, didn’t you?’

  ‘A plot to distract you. I read that if you can change focus from worrying about the things that can go wrong, you can keep the nerves at bay. And I thought hanging with the backstage workers who come here daily and think nothing of it would help.’

  ‘Thank you. Where focus goes, energy flows . . .’ I nudge his leg with mine. I’m shivering with the cold, but this is the only place I want to be right now. ‘You were incredible tonight, by the way. They loved you.’

  ‘And you. It was as close to perfection as life can get.’

  ‘Life.’ I let out a sigh that creates a cloud of fog in the nippy air.

  ‘Yes, life. Why?’

  I rake over the night sky, light-headed. ‘I don’t want to die anymore. I used to want to. To see my mum and Savannah.’

  ‘I wanted to as well. Except not to see your mum or sister.’

  I elbow him, then remember the first day I met him properly. ‘Like when you went surfing with a broken hand in the storm.’

  ‘Sort of. I was leaving it to fate.’

  ‘Maybe the world doesn’t want us to die yet.’

  Jacob frowns at the skyline. ‘I’m afraid of messing up though, ending up in the gutter or something. Alone and forgotten.’

  ‘Stop it. That’s never going to happen. We’re going to fight fate together.’ I pull back to show him how deadly serious I am. His arm falls from around me. Doubt crouches in his features, but I watch him process this new reality, that someone truly cares about him, and add, ‘I love you enough.’

  His eyes begin to sparkle, then roar with something unspoken. They cradle me. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he says, ‘but your lipstick.’

  I kiss my fingertip, press it to his lips. Then, shoulder to shoulder, we fill our eyes with stars.

  For a moment, I feel euphoric; it’s as if I’m a bird flying across the night sky. Jacob may have opened the songbird’s cage door, but this songbird has finally flown from the cage.

  ‘I’m loosening the grip on – whatever it is I’ve been clinging to,’ I say. ‘A promise. A dream. Someone else’s future? I feel – free.’ Jacob threads his freezing fingers through mine and I lose myself in the muffled clatter and beat of the city below.

  After a while, Jacob brings my hand to his mouth, kisses my knuckles. ‘Check you out.’ He grins down at me. ‘You are Astrid Bell. A star on the rise. You’re strong, brave, hardworking and responsible. Not a single piece of – what was it? – flibbertigibbet inside you.’

  I dwell on the low moon that’s gradually rising into the heavens. Then I inspect the translucent shoes I’m holding in my lap. ‘Yes. I think I know who I am now.’

  Back in my dressing room I begin my warm-up vocal exercises and when the call comes to go on stage, I tell Jacob I need to do this by myself. He doesn’t argue, but his expression is dark with concern.

  When the music for La Traviata’s ‘Violetta’ aria begins, I straighten my back, lift my head and glide onto the stage. I am as brave as Alice stepping through the looking glass into an exciting and unpredictable world. And I’m simply doing a job, like a plumber fixes a sink or a salesman sells a guitar. Except I have the best job in the world – to make people forget the real world, where sickness and death and terrorism exist. And I get to make people feel.

  Silently, I shout out to my biological dad: This is me. This is what you missed out on. I don’t need you because I have everything I need. And I hope my real dad, formerly known as Maestro, sees the smile I send out into the audience just for him.

  My voice balances with the orchestra, my tone buoyant, the transitions smooth. I’m an angel granted a magical gift to sing holy and miraculous sounds. Because music is the only thing in th
is world that’s pure. Music is the truth. And when Yolanda joins me in the final third, our voices have perfect parity and the theatre whirls with enchanted music. It lifts me outside of myself.

  As we hold our final notes, I know that I’m in heaven at last.

  43

  Jacob

  As dawn bleaches away the night, the sun water-colours the New York skyline with lilac. We meet the doc for breakfast halfway between our hotels. On the walk there, I think about how Maestro is changing, as are Astrid and I.

  ‘I reckon people have seasons,’ I say.

  Astrid squeezes my hand. ‘Like opera seasons.’

  ‘No. Like nature. Sometimes people have rough patches when life is empty and dark like winter. Then other times life’s crammed with possibility and inspiration, and that’s similar to spring – like when the Purple Woods bloom. The trick is to remember that seasons pass, so you have to hang in there.’

  ‘You’re a poet. Ever thought of songwriting?’ She shoulder-bumps me.

  At the café, Astrid talks to Doc honestly about her love of songwriting and he applauds us on our work with Dex. He’s excited to tell us about the offers coming in for Astrid, and us – to perform all over the world.

  ‘This is the start of your career, Astrid,’ he says. ‘And I think it’s time I passed on the roles of manager and talent agent to someone new. Someone with updated knowledge and skills. With the Angel Records contract, you’ll need a whole team to support you.’

  Astrid looks at him doubtfully.

  ‘Time to dump that Svengali cape, eh, Doc?’ I quip.

  Maestro bows his head at me. ‘I already have. Besides. It seems I might be quite busy this year. You’ll need to travel alone at times. I’ve been asked to sing at the Paris Opera. I’m considering doing it, now that you’re nearly eighteen.’

  Astrid lets out an unladylike squeak, which makes us all laugh. ‘Dad! You have to do it.’

  ‘I will drop everything if you ever need me to.’ He stares at the diamond ring she’s wearing – the one her mother left her.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. You’ll always be the best dad in the world, but I need to do this for myself. It’s time.’ She catches the doc studying her ring again. ‘I’ll stop wearing it if it upsets you.’

  ‘No, don’t. It’s all you have of her.’

  ‘It feels good to have her taking up less space in my heart, and merely a small part of my finger.’

  ‘You have a brave heart, Buttercup. Unlike me. You will never run away from the things that challenge you.’ The pride spilling from him is something I will never see in my own parents.

  He turns to me. ‘And you, Jacob? Were your parents proud?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ I move the juice glass a quarter rotation. I’m starting to understand that my parents’ negative view of me is wrong. Just as Veronika leaving Astrid doesn’t make Astrid a bad daughter, I’m not a bad son. ‘At the after party, they were more concerned with introducing their debuting son to their friends than congratulating me. The first thing Dad said was, “You haven’t forgotten the luncheon tomorrow?” No doubt, fifty influential people will be there. But it’s not about me. It’s about them. I’m finally that highly desired item they can approve of, but I’m an object for them to bring out and display, like an antique hat stand. I’ve raised their social status, now that I’m at the Met and not the Bridge View Inn.’ I try to laugh.

  ‘And it seems as though performing opera at the Met, and being televised for all their friends to drool over, makes up for the fact he’s not going to the Con,’ adds Astrid. ‘It’s as if the Con was never on the table.’

  ‘Which is why I told my father I wouldn’t be at his luncheon.’

  He’d not been able to make a scene with so many people around us. Before I left, I broke my dad-funded credit card in half and passed them to him as we shook hands goodbye. The look on his face was mostly shock with a tinge of realisation.

  ‘The sooner I earn my own money and break away from them, the better.’

  ‘That’ll happen, son,’ says Doc. ‘With these offers, you’ll both be earning your own money now.’

  Except I will never cut off my parents as Veronika did. I don’t want to live with the kind of lies Astrid’s family have.

  My phone rings. It’s my home number again. Dex. I put him on speaker.

  ‘Jacob. When you dudes getting back? I’m lonely here.’

  ‘A week or so, kid. Hang in there.’

  ‘I’m sick of vacuuming. I’m practically a professional at it now. My new life needs to begin. I’m not going to walk on anything but ironed red carpet from now on. My fans are waiting for me and I’d hate them to die holding their breath.’ I laugh at his banter, as do Astrid and Doc, while Dex continues to tease, adding, ‘What? What I say?’

  Maybe Dex Firebender Brown has hit the nail on the head. He’s learnt what he needs to from this season of his life. As have Astrid and I. Now it’s time to move into the next season. That’s how life can begin again. That’s how we can walk on.

  Acknowledgements

  The acknowledgements page is the hardest page to write. I’ve already poured my heart and soul into writing this novel, yet when I think about everyone who has been there, through the doubt, hard work and long hours, it really is a case of going subterranean: from the deepest part of my humble heart and soul, thank you to these people who held my hand along the way . . .

  Thank you to my agent Tara Wynne who continues to be my rock, and to my agent in New York Katelyn Detweiler who continues to be my sun.

  I can’t express enough thanks to the team at Pan Macmillan: Claire Craig for your wisdom and gentle guidance, Georgia Douglas for your thoughtful edits and uncanny ability to understand what I want to say, even if it’s not on the page. Also Brianne Collins and Sam Sainsbury for your enthusiastic feedback and for helping me write a better book, and Kylie Mason for your meticulous eagle eye. And as for the cover? Thank you to Astred Hicks who nailed it first time; I love it so much I’ll sleep with this book as I did with Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree when I was four. Thank you also to my publicist Hannah Membrey, and to the people who work behind the scenes to get my book on the shelves. Your efforts and enthusiasm are very much appreciated.

  Enormous hugs and thanks to Ella and Eric for understanding how important writing is to me and for helping with the dishes, washing, cooking and cleaning as a way of giving me more time to write. Like Jacob and Astrid, you are still young and striving for that unforgettable life, but you should know this: you will always be unforgettable.

  Thanks to Mum and Dad who bought me my first typewriter when I was thirteen. And Mum, you’re an awesome editor. You should consider a career change! Thank you to Mark for his continued support and faith in me. The same goes for the rest of my family, most of whom are sprinkled far and wide around the globe, but I know you have my back.

  There’s always a writing group, isn’t there? And there should be. An essential part of my writing world is the Stiff Wigs Writing Group (SWWiG), though we continue to swig mostly tea with the occasional gin and tonic. Alison Quigley, Debbie Smith, Brenda Kelly and Sara Hutchinson – we’ve been on quite the journey and there’s more to come! Thank you for reading numerous drafts, especially that last one in which you were embroiled in my publishing deadline and had a week to read. Hanging out with you is a highlight in my life.

  And what would a young adult author do without the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators? I thank you for your support and encouragement, from the bottom of my heart. Even when I toured across the USA, oodles of you came to support me, never having met me. SCBWI rocks!

  There’s more! Thank you to Shelley Davidow, Annah Faulkner, Paul Williams, Cass Moriarty, Rose Allan, Emma Middleton, Tina Clark, Terry Quinn, Kate Foster, Susanne Gervay, Kat Colmer, Ellie Royce and the Electric Eighteens who continue to cheer me on,
to believe in me, and to inspire me. Your friendship and support means everything.

  And finally to my readers. You have no idea how much you make my day, my month, my year when you message me about how my writing has affected you in a positive way. You motivate me to write more books. Thank you.

  About Taryn Bashford

  Taryn is the author of The Harper Effect and currently lives on the Sunshine Coast with a family that includes teen children and a highly strung dog. Taryn’s lived on four continents, meaning her job experience has been varied: an advertising sales rep, a ski chalet chef, a late-night newsreader and the CEO of an internet company, but writing and Australia are her true loves. Taryn is currently working on her PhD in Creative Writing while tutoring undergraduates and writing more novels. When she’s not writing or teaching, she’s training for triathlons in the hope they will compensate for the fact she spends ten hours a day sitting at her computer.

  Also by Taryn Bashford

  The Harper Effect

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  First published 2019 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

  Copyright © Taryn Bashford 2019

  The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.