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.