‘Well, Erika is your biggest fan,’ said Sam with a faint smile.
That was kind of a joke. It gave her hope for the night that he was making a joke. Sam had been the first man she ever dated who immediately and instinctively grasped the complexities of her friendship with Erika. He’d never reacted with impatience or incomprehension; he’d never said, ‘I don’t get it, if you don’t like her, don’t hang out with her!’ He’d just accepted Erika as part of the Clementine package, as if she were a difficult sister.
‘That’s true,’ said Clementine, and she laughed too loudly. ‘Although she left halfway through.’
Sam said nothing. He looked just to the right of her head, as if there were something interesting going on behind her.
‘How was work today?’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Sam coldly. ‘Same as usual.’
(‘Your marriage is being tested, darling, but the best comes after the worst! Forgiveness and communication is the only way through!’ Clementine’s mother had said all this in a dramatic, passionate whisper to Clementine, as if she were imparting urgent words of wisdom before Clementine set off on some epic journey. They were standing together at the front door waiting for Sam, who had chosen that moment to sit down at the computer and answer an email that was apparently a matter of life and death, while the jarring sound of some terrible pop princess movie blared out from the television. Pam had made a tiny, unnecessary adjustment to the strap of Clementine’s dress. ‘The two of you need to talk! Talk it out! Say what you feel!’)
‘So how’s that “forward-thinking corporate culture” working out for you?’ said Clementine.
Once she could have said exactly those words and made him laugh, but now she could hear the thread of spite in her voice. Two musicians could play the same notes and sound entirely different. Intonation was everything.
‘It’s working out great for me.’ Sam looked at her with something like hatred. Clementine dropped her eyes. Sometimes when she looked at him, she felt like there was a sleeping snake tightly coiled within her chest; a snake that would one day hiss to life and strike with unimaginable, unforgivable consequences.
She changed the subject.
‘I have to admit I don’t really enjoy doing these talks,’ she said. Each time she felt so nervous, but it was an entirely different sort of anxiety from the kind she felt before a performance or even an audition. Her audiences always clapped, but it was subdued applause, and often she sensed an undertone of disapproval.
She looked out the rain-dotted giant glass window revealing a blurry postcard view of Sydney Harbour complete with the white sails of the Opera House, where she’d performed just two nights previously. ‘I sort of hate it.’
She glanced back at Sam. An expression of intense aggravation crossed his face. He virtually shuddered with it. ‘Then stop,’ he said. ‘Just stop it. Why do you keep doing them? You’re obsessed! You’ve got enough on your plate. You should be preparing for your audition. Are you even going to audition?’
‘Of course I’m still going to audition!’ said Clementine. Why did people keep asking her that? ‘I’ve been getting up at five am to practise every day!’ How could he not know that? She knew he’d been having trouble sleeping. She’d wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and hear his footsteps in the hallway or the muted sound of the television from downstairs. ‘Haven’t you heard me?’
‘I guess maybe I have heard you,’ said Sam uncomfortably. ‘I guess I didn’t put two and two – I didn’t realise you were practising.’
What did he think she was doing? Was the sound of the cello just irrelevant background noise to him? Or did he not care enough even to wonder?
She managed to keep the fractiousness she was feeling out of her voice. ‘And I went to Ainsley’s place today to practise in front of her and Hu.’
‘Oh,’ said Sam. He seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘Well, great, I guess. How did it go?’
‘Fine. It went fine.’
It hadn’t gone fine. It had been strange and awful. Hu and Ainsley had argued quite vehemently over her performance of the first movement of her concerto.
‘Wonderful!’ Hu had said as soon as she finished. ‘Bravo. Give the girl a job.’ He looked expectantly at his wife, but Ainsley wasn’t smiling.
‘Well,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You’ve obviously been working really hard. It was technically perfect. It’s just … I don’t know, it didn’t sound like you. If I was behind the screen I would never have picked it was you.’
‘So what?’ said Hu.
‘It was so accurate. Every single note precisely where it should be. I would have guessed it was an arrogant twenty-year-old whiz-kid straight out of the Con.’