But it was immediately clear that Sam didn’t feel the same way. As soon as they’d left, he’d turned on his heel and gone straight into the kitchen to pack the dishwasher. He’d refused to talk about anything except the ongoing administration of their lives: he was taking Holly for her taekwondo class before school, she would transfer some money onto the credit card, they didn’t need to worry about dinner tomorrow night because they were going to Clementine’s parents’ house. Then off they’d gone to their separate beds. It had occurred to her during the long night that she and Sam already were separated. People could legally separate and live under the same roof. That’s exactly what they were doing.
It was a relief when her alarm had gone off and she could give up trying to sleep. She’d got up and done her audition practice, and then she’d had an early morning lesson with thirteen-year-old Logan, who she had been teaching for the past two years and who didn’t want to be there but smiled so politely at her as if he did. Logan’s music teacher had told his mother that he had talent, and that ‘it would be a crime not to foster it’. Logan was technically proficient but his heart was with the electric guitar. That was his passion. As Logan had played that morning, dutifully following every one of Clementine’s instructions, she’d found herself wondering if that was how she sounded to Ainsley when she practised her audition pieces. What was that awful word she’d used? Robotic. Should she tell poor little Logan he sounded robotic? But what would be the point? She bet he didn’t sound robotic on his electric guitar.
Now it was only eleven thirty and she felt like she’d been up for hours.
Because she had in fact been up for hours, she reminded herself as she put up her umbrella to walk through the crowded car park.
‘Where’s your violin, dear?’ asked the head of the Hills District Retirees Association when Clementine introduced herself.
‘My violin?’ said Clementine. ‘I’m actually a cellist but, um –’
‘Your cello then,’ said the woman with a little roll of her eyes to indicate Clementine’s unnecessary attention to petty detail: a cello was just a big violin, after all! ‘Where’s your cello, dear?’
‘But I’m not playing the cello,’ said Clementine uneasily. ‘I’m a guest speaker. I’m doing a talk.’
She had a moment of sudden terror. She was doing a talk, wasn’t she? This wasn’t a gig? Of course it wasn’t. She was doing a talk.
‘Oh, are you?’ said the woman disappointedly. She studied the piece of paper in her hand. ‘It says here you’re a cellist. We thought you’d be playing for us.’
She looked at Clementine expectantly, as if a solution might present itself. Clementine lifted her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m doing a talk. It’s called “One Ordinary Day”.’
For God’s sake.
She felt exhausted. Was there really any point to all this? Was she actually helping or was she just doing it to make herself feel better, to pay her penance, her dues, to even things up on the universal scale of right and wrong?
The community talks had all come about because she’d been trying to redeem herself in her mother’s eyes. A few days after they’d brought Ruby home from hospital, Clementine had been having a cup of tea with her mother and she’d said (she could still hear the reedy, self-conscious tone with which she’d spoken) that she felt she should do something to raise awareness of how easily an accident like this could happen and make sure no one else made the same mistake she had made. She felt she should ‘tell her story’.
She’d meant she should write one of those touching ‘please share’ Facebook posts that would go viral. (She probably would never have got around to doing even that.)
But her mother had been thrilled. ‘What a wonderful idea!’ Clementine could do talks to community groups, mothers’ groups, associations – they were always looking for guest speakers. She could ‘partner’ with a first aid course provider like St John Ambulance, hand out leaflets at the end, maybe offering a discount on a course. Pam would set it all up. She had all the contacts. She had a wide circle of friends who belonged to caring community groups across Sydney. They were always desperate for guest speakers. She’d be like Clementine’s ‘agent’. ‘This could save lives, Clementine,’ Pam had said, with that familiar evangelical look in her eyes. Oh God, Clementine had thought. But it was too late. As her father would say, ‘The Pam train has left the station. Nothing can stop it now.’
She did feel it was the right thing to do. It was just that it was hard to fit the talks into an already crammed life, especially when she was driving all over Sydney to do them in between gigs and teaching and school pick-ups and audition practice.
And then there was the fact that she had to relive the worst, most shameful day of her life.
‘This is a story that begins with a barbeque,’ she said today to the members of the Hills District Retirees Association, who were eating lamb with gravy and roast potatoes and peas for lunch as she spoke. ‘An ordinary neighbourhood barbeque in an ordinary backyard.’
You need to make it a story, her mother had told her. A story has power.
‘We can’t hear you!’ called out someone from the back of the room. ‘Can you hear her? I can’t hear a word she’s saying.’
Clementine leaned in closer to the microphone.
She heard someone at the table nearest the lectern say, ‘I thought we had a violinist coming today.’