Music From Standing Waves (20 page)

I stepped onto the bath mat, my head spinning
from the heat. I wiped the steamy mirror and stared, dripping, at
my reflection. It hadn’t changed. I was just red from the heat of
the bath. I had always thought that having sex would nudge me over
the line into adulthood. I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like a
stupid, slutty child. I awarded myself a thousand dickhead points.
Sighing, I dried myself and climbed into my pyjamas. As I ran a
comb through my wet hair, there was a knock at the door.

“Abby?”

I flicked open the lock and let Jess poke her
head in.

“Matt’s here,” she whispered. “Do you want me
to tell him to go?”

I shook my head. “No. I need to talk to
him.”

Matt was sitting patiently on my bed. As I
walked in, he stood up and grabbed my hands. I felt myself pull
away.

“How come you disappeared like that this
morning?” he asked. “And why is your phone off? I’ve been trying to
call you all day.”

I turned away from him. “Why did you take
advantage of me last night?”

“Abby, I am so sorry,” he said. “I thought
you wanted it. You certainly seemed to last night.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Julian says you’re only
going out with me to see how long it would take to get me into
bed.”

“Yeah well Julian’s full of shit,” said Matt
angrily. “You know me better than that.” He put his hands on my
shoulders. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I wasn’t thinking
clearly either. I was just as drunk as you. You can’t put all the
blame on me.”

“I know,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. This just
wasn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

Matt pulled me into him and kissed the top of
my head. He stroked my hair with long, even movements. “I love you,
Abby,” he said. “If that counts for anything.”

My heart somersaulted. I wrapped my arms
around his waist and pressed my cheek against his thick woollen
jumper. Suddenly, I couldn’t hold him close enough. “It does,” I
told him. “It counts for a lot.”

I went into the street in my pyjamas to kiss
him goodbye. The wisps of hair around my face had dried and he
smoothed them behind my ears.

He held his lips against mine for a moment.
“Come over tomorrow night. We’re having a Standing Waves
rehearsal.”

Suddenly, I didn’t care about Clara’s
quartet, or if I was seen playing the right music. All that
mattered was Matt. Matt who was in love with me. And Matt who I was
pretty damn sure I was in love with too.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

I could hear a low, sultry voice floating
over the groaning dryers as I climbed the steps of Matt’s
apartment. She was singing the piece I had seen on Matt’s computer;
the words of an old Spanish love poem. Matt was plucking out a jazz
progression on the guitar. I let myself inside. Matt put down his
guitar and leapt out of the desk chair. He kissed my lips.

“Hey. I’m so happy you’re here.”

He introduced me to Sam, the singer, then
reached into the drawer and shoved a cigarette between his
teeth.

“Can I see the score?” I asked.

He rummaged through the pile of papers on his
desk, throwing aside unopened phone bills and catalogues of
recording equipment. I lifted the cigarette out of his hand and
held it between my thumb and forefinger.

“You’re going to set fire to something.”

Matt laughed. “Here it is.” He traded me for
the cigarette.

“Leave you guys to it,” said Sam, padding
into the kitchen; her faded red gypsy skirt covering her feet.

I slid the dog-eared pages onto the music
stand and tuned my violin.

“Hell, I’m glad you’re doing this,” said
Matt. He kissed my neck and sent a rush through my body. I lifted
my violin.

“The piece you wrote for me is beautiful,” I
smiled. “I played it all last night.”

“You’ll like this one better.” Matt ran his
finger down my arm and across my poised bow. “You’re my
inspiration.”

Julian and the percussionist arrived half an
hour later. They squeezed their instruments into the lounge room to
sight-read through the first piece.

“This one is really laid-back,” said Matt.
“Sam’s part is kind of free, so just follow her.”

I plucked quickly through my part. Sam began
to sing and the others picked out their lines around her. I tried
to tap my foot to feel the rhythm, but the beat was too
relaxed.

Matt nodded to me. “That was your entry.”

I cursed myself and tried to jump over the
bars I had missed. My part didn’t sit right and I couldn’t tell
where the others were up to. I skimmed over the score to find the
lyrics Sam was singing, but didn’t recognise the Spanish.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I told Matt,
after I’d scrabbled around the score for half an hour. The others
had disappeared into the kitchen. “I suck at following the singer.
And I hardly played at all in the improv section.” I sighed. “This
just isn’t my thing.”

Matt smiled. “Give yourself a chance. You’re
not going to pick it up straight away.”

“But I’m used to picking things up straight
away.”

He laughed. “So you’re being challenged for
once.”

“I think you should get someone else.”

He bent his head a little to look in my eyes.
“Abby, I want
you
. Come on.” He lifted my violin for me.
“Play the last phrase of the notated section.”

I played carefully. My line was smooth and
full of jazzy chromaticism, working in harmony with Sam’s vocals.
Without the others, it was easy to add expression.

“Nice,” said Matt. “Now close your eyes.
Picture yourself playing that line again, then imagine where it
would go from there. Do you want to repeat that motif? Or borrow
from the vocal line?”

I held my eyes closed and tried to conjure up
a melody. All I could hear was someone slamming the fridge.

“This is never going to work,” I huffed.

“You’ve never improvised before?”

I shook my head, feeling grossly
inadequate.

“But don’t you ever play just to express the
way you’re feeling? To get stuff out?”

“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.

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.