chapter thirty-four
This morning’s wedding was only a ten-minute drive from Clementine’s house, thankfully, and she knew exactly where she was going, so she wouldn’t get lost. That was the worst part of being a freelancer, the driving to unknown locations.
She’d never been late for a gig, touch wood, because she always allowed time for the inevitable mistakes.
The wedding was at a sheltered little harbour inlet park with huge native figs and an old bandstand. Clementine didn’t enjoy playing outdoors: lugging her cello and music stand around parks trying to find the right place, sheet music flapping about in the wind in spite of the clothes pegs she used to keep it secure, cold days when you couldn’t feel your fingers, hot days when your make-up ran down your face, no acoustics so the sound dissipated pointlessly into the atmosphere. But for some reason this particular spot was always kind to them; the sound of their music floated across the blue sparkle of the harbour and punctual brides posted glowing online tributes after their honeymoons.
Not today, though. Today was going to be awful. There was no point to a harbour view you couldn’t see. Clementine looked at the heavy grey band of cloud pressing down on Sydney’s skyline. The world felt narrower. People walked around sort of hunkered down, ducking beneath the sky. It had been raining steadily all morning, and although it had slowed to a soft drizzle now, it could make a comeback at any moment.
‘They’re still going ahead with it outside then?’ Clementine had said on the phone this morning to Kim, first violinist and manager of Passing Notes.
‘They’ve hired a pop-up marquee for us,’ said Kim. ‘The guests will have to make do with umbrellas. The bride was in tears this morning. She thought there was no way the rain would last this long. I remember when she first booked and I said to her, “What’s your wet weather plan?” and she said, “It won’t rain.” Why do they always say that? Why are brides so deluded?’
Kim was in the middle of a nasty divorce.
Clementine wondered if she was at the beginning of a nasty divorce. Today, as Sam left for the ferry she’d said, ‘Have a good day at work,’ and she was sure she’d caught him rolling his eyes, as if he’d never heard anything so inane, or as if she was the last person in the world he wanted to wish him a good day at work. It had hurt, a sudden sharp sting, like a reprimand, like when her C string snapped this morning just as she’d bent her head and pinged her cheek. That had never happened to her before. She didn’t even know it was possible. There was too much tension in her playing. Too much tension in her body. Too much tension in her home. The sting of the string had felt personal, and she’d sat there in the dark early morning and refused to let herself press her fingertips to her cheek.
She parked her car right near the entrance to the park. She was twenty minutes early because she’d still allowed a twenty-minute ‘getting lost’ buffer just in case. She yawned and studied the weather. The rain might hold off just long enough for the ceremony. If the bride was lucky.
She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Today she had got up at five am and had worked with the metronome on the Beethoven excerpt. ‘Feel the inner pulse,’ Marianne used to say, although then she’d suddenly cry, ‘Too choppy! Too choppy!’
Clementine massaged her aching shoulder. Her first cello teacher, Mr Winterbottom (her older brothers and her father all called him Mr Winter-Bum), used to say, ‘Nobody plays pain-free,’ if Clementine ever complained that something hurt. Clementine’s mother hadn’t liked that at all. Pam had researched the Alexander technique and in fact the exercises still helped when Clementine remembered to do them.
Mr Winterbottom used to tap her knee with his bow and say, ‘More practice, missy, you can’t coast on your talent, because I can assure you, you don’t have enough to spare,’ and, ‘It’s hard for you to put the emotionality in your music because you’re too young, you’ve never actually felt anything. You need to have your heart broken.’ When she was sixteen he’d sent her to audition for the Sydney Youth Orchestra but told her that she had no hope of getting in, she simply wasn’t good enough, though it would be good experience. There was no screen, just the audition panel, all smiling supportively, but after she sat down with her cello, she couldn’t even put her bow to her strings because she was so stricken by unexpected terror. It was like a terrible illness had befallen her. She stood up and walked off the stage without playing a note. There just didn’t seem to be any other option. Mr Winterbottom said he’d never been so ashamed of a student in all his teaching days, and he had a lot of students. Kids lugging cello cases came and went from his house all day long: a production line of cellists learning to self-loathe.
After the audition debacle her mother had found her a new teacher, and her beloved Marianne had said on the first day that auditions were unnatural and frightening and she herself had always hated them and that she would never send Clementine for an audition for which she wasn’t properly prepared.
Why had cancer pointed its cruel, random finger at beautiful Marianne and not Mr Awful Winter-Bum, who was still alive and well and churning out neurotic musicians?
Clementine opened her eyes and sighed as a tiny spatter of raindrops fell upon the windscreen. It was the rain warming up before its big entrance. She turned on the radio and heard an announcer say: ‘As Sydney’s “Big Wet” continues, people have been warned to stay away from stormwater drains and creeks.’
Her phone rang on the seat next to her and she snatched it up to look at the screen. There was no name but she recognised that particular configuration of numbers.
Vid.
He’d called so many times since the barbeque she’d learned to recognise his number, but she never bothered to program his details into her phone, because he wasn’t a friend, he was an acquaintance, a friend’s neighbour, who she never wanted to see again. Erika had no right to give him her number. Vid and Tiffany should have passed on any messages through her. What did he want from her?
She held up the phone in front of her, staring at the screen, trying to imagine him holding the phone in his big hand. She remembered him saying, ‘You and me, we are the feckless ones.’ The feckless ones. She closed her eyes and her stomach cramped on cue. She wondered if she would eventually pay with a stomach ulcer. Was that what caused stomach ulcers? Regret-filled bile?
The phone stopped ringing and she waited for the text message to tell her that Vid had once again not left her a message. There had been only two occasions when he’d given in and left a clearly reluctant message: ‘Clementine? This is Vid. How are you? I will call again.’ He was one of those people who avoided leaving messages and just wanted you to pick up the damned phone. Her dad was the same.
Her phone rang again instantly. It would be Vid again, she thought, but it wasn’t; she didn’t recognise the number. He wouldn’t try to trick her into answering by calling from a different number, would he? It wasn’t Vid. It was Erika’s IVF clinic. They were returning Clementine’s call about setting up an appointment with the counsellor to discuss egg donation.
Erika had given her the number for the clinic this morning, irritably and impatiently, as if she hadn’t really expected Clementine to go ahead and make the call.
Clementine took out her diary from her handbag and held it on her lap while she made the appointment for the day before her audition. The clinic was in the city. She would only just make it back in time for her lesson with the scarily talented little Wendy Chang (grade five at age nine). The lady making the appointment was lovely, she was being so nice to Clementine as she explained about an initial blood test she might like to do now or later, it was completely up to her, and it occurred to Clementine that the lady probably thought Clementine was a kind, altruistic person, doing this out of the goodness of her heart, not doing it to slither out from under the weight of an obligation.
She heard Erika’s resigned voice on the phone that morning: ‘Oh, Clementine, we both know that’s a lie.’ But then she’d immediately got down to business, giving her the number of the clinic, as if she didn’t care that it was a lie. She didn’t care about Clementine’s motivations, she just wanted the eggs.
What had Clementine been expecting? Gratitude and joy? ‘Oh, thank you, Clementine, what a wonderful friend you are!’
She jumped as someone thumped on the driver’s window. It was Kim, her violin case in hand, standing under a giant umbrella and looking miserable.
Clementine wound down her window.
‘Isn’t this fun,’ said Kim flatly.
*
The pop-up marquee didn’t inspire confidence. It looked cheap, like they’d got it from a two-dollar shop.
‘I don’t think it’s going to hold,’ said Nancy, their viola player, scrutinising the flimsy-looking white fabric. It was already sagging in places with puddles of water. Clementine could see the dark shapes of leaves floating in the little ponds above their heads.
‘It’s completely dry so far,’ said Kim worriedly. Their booking contract specified that they be fed and had to be able to keep their instruments dry. They had the right to pack up and leave in the case of wet weather but they’d never yet had to do it.
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ said their second violinist, Indira, who always took on the role of optimist, as well as the role of making sure they were fed. She had been known to put down her violin in the middle of a piece to waylay a passing waiter if she saw something delicious, which was very embarrassing.
‘How’s the practice going?’ asked Nancy as they tuned.
Clementine sighed inwardly. Here we go. ‘Pretty good,’ she said.
‘How will poor Sam cope with school pick-ups and all that when you’re away on tour?’ said Nancy.
‘Nancy. I’m not going to get it,’ said Clementine.
‘I think you’ve got a great chance of getting it!’ said Nancy.
Nancy didn’t want her to get the job. She pretended it was because she didn’t want Clementine to leave the quartet, but Nancy always made Clementine think of that Gore Vidal quote: Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.
Nancy was the sort of friend who was always pointing out slim-figured women to Clementine: ‘Look at her tiny waist/long legs/tight butt. Wouldn’t you just love to look like that? Don’t you just hate her? It makes you feel so depressed, doesn’t it?’ (Because if it doesn’t, it damn well should!)
‘Oh well, if you don’t get it, you won’t have to deal with all the orchestra politics,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s like being part of a big corporation. Meetings. Policies. Personally, I couldn’t stand it, but that’s just me.’
‘You’ll love it, Clementine. The camaraderie, the travel, the money!’ said Indira.
‘Would Sam mind socialising with all the musicians, do you think?’ said Nancy. Nancy liked to mention the fact that Sam wasn’t a musician at every opportunity. It was like she sensed a possible weak spot there, so she kept pushing her thumb against it. She’d once said to Clementine, ‘I could never marry a non-musician, but that’s just me.’
‘He gets on with most people,’ said Clementine shortly.
‘I just thought it wouldn’t be his scene,’ said Nancy. ‘He’s more the rugged, outdoorsy type, isn’t he?’
‘Sam isn’t outdoorsy,’ snorted Clementine. Shut up, Nancy. Nancy was your quintessential entitled eastern suburbs princess. Her father was a judge.
‘Didn’t you once say he was tone-deaf?’ said Nancy.
‘He pretends to be tone-deaf,’ said Clementine. ‘He thinks it’s funny to say that.’
‘He likes eighties rock,’ said Kim fondly.
‘Gosh, your legs look amazing in those pants, Kim,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t you just hate her, Clementine?’
‘I’m actually quite fond of her,’ said Clementine.
‘Oh! By the way! Nearly forgot to tell you. I heard that Remi Beauchamp is auditioning.’ Nancy threw down her trump card.
‘I thought he was in Chicago,’ said Clementine. She felt a numb sort of acceptance. She’d known Remi for years and had always been in awe of his flawless intonation. Even if she got through the first round, the orchestra would ultimately choose him.
‘He’s back,’ said Nancy, and tried to pull her lips down in a sad face. The result was kind of terrifying. She looked like the Joker in Batman. ‘But I’m sure you’ve still got a good chance.’
‘First guests are arriving,’ said Kim. ‘Shall we start with the Vivaldi?’
They all turned to the right page on their sheet music and positioned their instruments.
Kim tucked her violin under her chin, gave them a nod and began to play. Her eyes met Clementine’s and she stepped back on one foot just enough so that she could give Nancy the finger behind her head, a quick, subtle movement that anyone else would think was just her fingers moving on the strings.
As they played Clementine let her mind drift. She didn’t need to think. They had been playing together since before Holly was a baby and they had all got used to each other. Nancy had a tendency to rush, although she disputed this, and believed the others dragged. Now they just went with her.
They moved on to ‘Air on G’ and Clementine watched the poor wedding guests milling about, umbrellas held aloft over rueful faces, high heels sinking into the wet grass, desperate for it to be over.
‘The bride is here!’ A woman wearing a tiny hat suddenly approached. She reminded Clementine of a Mr Potato Head. ‘Start the bridal march, go, go, go!’ She waved both her hands in her version of a conductor. It seemed like she might have already got into the champagne.
Kim always arranged for one person to have the official job of signalling them when to start the bridal entrance music, but for some reason random guests (women, it was always women) took the job on themselves, and were often responsible for making them start too early. Once they’d played the entrance song ten times before they finally saw the bride.
‘Oops! Sorry, false alarm!’ The potato head lady made an exaggerated face of apology.
Brides were rarely early. They’d played at one wedding where the bride was an hour late and they’d had to pack up and go because they had another booking.
Erika had been early to her own wedding. ‘We can’t be early,’ said Clementine, her only bridesmaid. ‘Your guests will still be arriving.’
‘Oliver will be there,’ said Erika. She had her hair pushed back off her forehead, and a lot of smoky eyeshadow. She looked like an entirely different person. ‘He’s the only one I care about.’ It was one of the few times when Erika had been the one prepared to break a rule of etiquette.
Clementine had felt not quite envy but maybe something like it, because she saw that Erika was truly only thinking about her marriage, not her wedding. She didn’t especially care about her dress or her hair or the music or even her guests; all she cared about was Oliver. Whereas when Clementine got married she had cared about all that peripheral stuff. (The hairdresser mucked up her hair, for example, and Clementine had looked like Morticia on her wedding day.) She and Sam had barely seen each other at their wedding because they were too busy catching up with friends and relatives who had come from overseas and interstate, whereas Erika and Oliver saw only each other. It was kind of sickening. Kind of lovely.
She wondered now if the signs had always been there. Sure, she and Sam made each other laugh, they had passion (or they did before kids), they had fun, but their relationship wasn’t strong enough to withstand their first true test. It was a feeble marriage. A shoddy marriage. A marriage from the two-dollar shop.
The marquee swayed. Clementine felt something wet on her face. Was she crying? Or was it rain?
‘It’s leaking,’ said Nancy, looking up. ‘It’s totally leaking.’
The rain suddenly intensified.
‘This is bad,’ said Indira, who had the most expensive instrument at the moment. It was on loan from a retired violinist.
‘We’re out of here.’ Kim lowered her violin. ‘Pack it up.’
*
Clementine was back in her car, her hand on the keys in the ignition, when her phone rang. She grabbed for it when she saw the single word on the screen: SCHOOL.
‘Helen?’ she said, to save time on the niceties, because it was generally Helen, the school secretary, who made phone calls from the school.
Her heart thumped. Disasters loomed now at every corner.
‘Everything is fine, Clementine,’ said Helen quickly. ‘It’s just Holly is insisting her tummy is hurting again. We tried everything to distract her but to no avail, I’m afraid. We’re at a loss and she’s disrupting the class and well … she seems so genuine. We don’t want it to be a case of the boy who cried wolf.’
Clementine sighed. This had happened last week too, and by the time she’d got Holly home her stomach had been magically fixed.
‘Do you know how her behaviour has been today?’ Clementine asked Helen.
According to Holly’s adorable, kind of dippy kindergarten teacher, Miss Trent, Holly had been having ‘occasional difficulties with her self-regulation’ at school, and as a result wasn’t always making ‘the right choices’. Certainly her behaviour at home hadn’t been wonderful. She was going through a naughty, whiny stage, and had recently perfected a brand new seagull-like squawk that she used instead of saying ‘no’. It set Clementine’s teeth on edge.
‘Not too bad apparently,’ said Helen cautiously. ‘The rain isn’t helping. All the children have turned feral. So have we, actually. They say we’ve got at least another week of this weather, can you believe it?’
Clementine looked at the wedding ceremony taking place in the park. The bride and the groom were facing each other, holding hands, while other people held umbrellas over their heads. The bride was laughing so hard she could barely stand, and the groom was supporting her, laughing too. They didn’t seem to care that their string quartet had vanished.
She and Sam had laughed a lot during their wedding ceremony. ‘I’ve never seen a bride and groom laugh so much,’ their celebrant had said acerbically, as though they weren’t taking their wedding seriously enough. Sam couldn’t stop laughing at Clementine’s Morticia hair, which had made her laugh too, and made it not matter.
But you couldn’t laugh your way out of everything. They’d had eight years of laughter; a good run. They’d vowed to be true to each other in good times and bad, but they’d laughed as they said it, because everything was just so, so funny to them. They thought a bad hairstyle was as bad as life got. The celebrant was right to be annoyed. She should have grabbed them by their shirtfronts and cried, ‘This is serious! Life gets serious and you two aren’t concentrating!’
‘I’m minutes away,’ she said to Helen.