29 comments/ 58263 views/ 73 favorites A Stringed Instrument By: Bramblethorn Word of warning: this is a slow-moving talky introspective story. Not all the chapters have sex in them. If you like stories where people are shagging by the fifth paragraph, this isn't going to meet your needs. * By the time I found the place I was pretty sure going to the work Christmas party had been a bad idea. If there's one thing worse than me alone at Christmas, it's me alone at Christmas in the middle of a crowd; after five months at R. J. Churchill Realtors, working as jack-of-all-trades IT support in our main office in Melbourne, I was well aware that I was the odd one out. My colleagues weren't bad people, as real estate agents go, and they tried to be polite to the company nerd. But after a few bland nice-to-meet-yous the conversation dried up as we ran out of things to talk about. And after I'd outed myself a couple of weeks ago... Perhaps I should've kept it a secret. Lord knows, it's not like I had anybody's portrait to stick up on my desk, and nobody expects tech support to dress femme. But I refuse to lie about it to anybody, and during one of my occasional attempts at socialising I'd run straight into Peter, head of our office and resident ideologue, offering his opinions on the day's headlines: "So, I don't want to sound prejudiced because I'm not, I've got nothing against gays, but we shouldn't let the national agenda be dominated by a fringe issue. I mean, take the economy, we're talking about the whole country, every single person in this office cares about that. But gay marriage? Not relevant to a single one of us here." "Actually, Peter, it's quite bloody relevant to me." Pretty effective as a conversation killer. Of course, that just managed to confirm my status as Not One Of Us. Nobody was nasty about it — at least, not that I ever heard — but I couldn't help noticing that since then, the only people who'd dropped by my desk to say hello were the ones who needed help with their printers or email. But the Christmas party? Everybody gets invited to that. And for all that I tried to tell myself I didn't care about fitting in, truth is it does get lonely being a fish out of water, and I'd been told old 
RJ knew how to throw a good party. Most likely I was letting myself in for an evening of making superficial conversation with anybody who felt charitable, watching others having drunk fun, then making my excuses to leave early. But sometimes you have to try things anyway. Who knew, maybe the Christmas spirit would help somehow? And that was why I was walking three blocks from the train station to the Churchill house one Friday evening shortly before Christmas. I'd even put on a nice shirt and dragged out my one and only skirt (at least it had pockets). Sensible shoes, though. I guess if you own a real estate company you get to have a big house. RJ had the biggest in the neighbourhood. Wrought iron gates, manicured lawn with an oversized fountain in the shape of a swan, classical statues that were probably real marble, hedges cut into perfect cubes... you get the picture. Just to top it off, the house and grounds were copiously decorated with flashing Christmas lights in every colour known to man. No doubt he'd saved money by holding the party at his place instead of booking a restaurant (there was probably a tax deduction involved somewhere in that) but when I walked through the door I could see he hadn't stinted on the catering. Three snappily-dressed waiters made sure everybody was well supplied with canapés (or were they hors d'oeuvres?) and I fended off several trays of drinks before I gave in and accepted a glass of champagne, just so they'd stop offering. Remembering why I was there, I circulated, making polite conversation with various acquaintances. Pretty much everybody I knew from work was there. The more enthusiastic young realtors were too busy talking shop to give me more than the briefest possible wave. Peter had his back to me as he discussed something with my line manager Susan; I waved at her over his shoulder and she waved back, looking distracted. Janelle — Peter and RJ's executive assistant — lifted a glass in my general direction and offered a slightly sozzled "Happy Christmas!" Then it was time to face RJ, who was doing the rounds and greeting each of us in person. I'd only met him a few times before; although his office was in our building he was often out, one of those men who prefers to do business face to face. He was in his late fifties, still with a full head of hair that was beginning to streak to a distinguished silver, impeccably dressed in an expensive tailored suit. "Happy Christmas... Yvette?" He offered his hand. "Yvonne. Happy Christmas, Mr. Churchill." I shook it and found something pressed into my hand. "A little Christmas present for everybody." Four fifties, tax-free, as it turned out. "Thank you, sir." But he was already moving on; three more people had arrived behind me. I moved through the lounge room — bigger than my apartment — and gradually drifted toward the garden. It was starting to get crowded inside. Outside, the caterers were lighting the barbecue, preparing a couple of trays of meat. Nobody else was about, which suited me; I walked out, past the pool, into the garden where it was darker. Out here I felt better, able to shed the tension I felt around my work-mates, able to breathe and feel the breeze on a very pleasant summer evening... "Hello there." I hadn't heard her come up behind me. "Hello?" I turned, and didn't recognise her — and I would have remembered if we'd met. She was somewhere around twenty-five, a few inches shorter than me, with classical features framed by an excess of black ringlets. If not for the little black dress and the glass in her hand, a little bit of white make-up would have let her pass for one of the statues in the yard. Maybe not such a waste after all. "I'm Yvonne." "Phoebe." We touched glasses — ching! — and she treated me to a friendly smile. "Avoiding the party?" "Crowds not really my thing. Hey, where are you from? I haven't seen you around." "Oh, I'm not with the company, thank god — sorry, I didn't mean it like that." "No offence taken. I'm not exactly wild about real estate myself. So what brings you here?" "RJ is my dad. I'm staying here for a week, doing the family Christmas thing." "Oh. Nobody told me he had a daughter." "I'm not around much. I live in Sydney and I don't make it down here too often. So what do you do, Yvonne, if you're not selling houses?" "I make the computers go. And you?" "I play cello. Trying to get into the Sydney Philharmonic, but at the moment I'm just in a four-piece band. We do weddings, parties, anything. I give lessons. They call it 'underemployed'." "Oh, a musician! That explains it. I thought you looked too classy for real estate." She flashed me another smile, teeth glinting in the glow of the Christmas lights. "That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me all evening. Say, if you're a computer person you might know..." And we talked about how to choose a wireless router. It was a lot like work but I didn't mind, since the company was better. From there the conversation drifted by way of data plans and downloads into music. As a schoolgirl I'd spent a couple of years scraping at a violin, so I had great respect for anybody who could make a stringed instrument sound good. I felt a little inadequate talking to a professional, but Phoebe put me at ease on that account; alongside her classical expertise, she had broad-ranging amateur interests in modern genres where I could hold my own. Eventually I asked a few questions about the life of an underemployed cellist. Phoebe was candid: she'd set her heart on being a professional musician from an early age, but she was finding it hard to break through and starting to wonder whether she ought to start looking for a more practical career. "Dad says, if I ever want a job with the company, he'll find me something." She looked sour. "I know not everybody gets to have their dream job and I can cope with that, but... I really don't want to be the boss's daughter, you know? " I nodded. "You're not the type for real estate, anyway." "Oh?" She didn't seem to be sure how to take that. "Not an insult. Let's just say, we've been talking, what, twenty minutes now? And you haven't once brought up football, cricket, diets, or Australian Idol. That rules you out of the girly conversations and the blokey ones." "That bad?" "God yes." I swallowed a mouthful of my slowly-flattening champagne; I didn't much like the taste, but once I'm holding a glass I feel obliged not to waste it. "Sometimes I feel like I'm a visitor from another planet, you know?" At that point one of the caterers started ringing a bell. "Ladies and gentlemen! If you'd like to line up, dinner is ready!" I nodded at Phoebe. "Shall we?" "Let's." She took one step toward the barbecue and immediately tripped — a little to do with alcohol and a lot to do with trying to walk on grass in ladylike shoes. As she stumbled she grabbed my arm and I helped her catch her balance, her shoulder brushing my chest. All perfectly innocent no doubt, but I couldn't help thinking that she'd spent longer talking to me than politeness required and she didn't seem in any hurry to let go of me after regaining her feet. Was I picking up signals there, or...? Down, girl. Boss's daughter, remember? By the time we'd salvaged her shoe and made our way to the barbecue, there was already quite a queue forming. Phoebe knew the guy just ahead of us, some friend of RJ's, and while they were saying hello Susan tapped me on the shoulder. "Yvonne?" She dropped her voice. "Can I talk to you in private? Some time later tonight?" "Um... okay?" I thought she might at least tell me what this was all about, but she just turned away. She looked tense and I wondered what it could be about. Although I reported to her, the relationship was purely administrative; she wasn't a techie, just the person who signed my leave slips. So if she wanted to talk to me behind closed doors and she was unhappy... I hadn't been expecting a meeting with her until next month, when we were due to wrap up my probation... Oh fuck. My brain played the variations: "Yvonne, I don't know how to say this, but Peter's made a complaint..." "Yvonne, you know the property market has been weaker this last year and all the offices need to look for cost savings..." "Yvonne, I know Christmas is a really bad time to tell you this, but I thought I should let you know..." Fuck fuck fuck! I tried to convince myself that I was being paranoid, but I had a nasty gnawing feeling inside. I couldn't think of another reason for Susan's behaviour and I really couldn't afford to lose my job just now. And if they wanted to fire me, this was the time to do it, while I was still on probation... "Hey, Yvonne? You okay?" Phoebe touched my arm. "Oh, sorry. Just... trying to figure out something Susan said. Probably nothing." Well, if they want to screw me, I'm screwed and fretting's not going to help. Might as well forget about it and enjoy the company. Easier said than done, of course, but as distractions go Phoebe had potential. And she was still holding my arm. "Well, better look lively or you'll miss your dinner. I've been to Dad's parties before, these people are like piranhas when the food's out. Have some dolmades, these guys really know how to make them." I know what I'd like to have... The thought brought a smile to my face. Seeing it, Phoebe smiled back. Perhaps just as well she didn't know what was in my mind. "Mmm, dolmades..." I picked up a plate and started serving myself. Fetta salad, huge stuffed olives, lamb. "I take it your dad has a thing for Greek food." For a moment Phoebe looked at me as if I'd said something peculiar. Then she laughed. "Ah, of course, you wouldn't know!" "Know what?" "Tell you in a moment. Come on, let's get a drink." The caterers had set up several tables in the garden. By then it was getting very noisy near the food and some of the agents were getting a bit rowdy, so Phoebe and I set up closer to the house and away from the crowd. "Now, what were you going to tell me there?" She opened her purse and handed me a black-and-white business card: Phoebe Karavangelis Cello Performance — Recording — Tuition I looked at it, but my mental gears were grinding too slowly and Phoebe had to come to my rescue. "Dad's parents came out from Greece when he was a baby. When he started in real estate a lot of Aussies didn't want to do business with 'Dimitrious Karavangelis', so he changed it to something British. But only for work, legally we're still wogs." "Oh, right." Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd been passing at work. "It worked out for him, then." "That it did. Some of the senior staff know the deal, it's not a big secret, but I guess it hasn't filtered down." "Not to me, anyway. So do you speak Greek?" "Enough to get by on holiday, but Yaya — Grandma — says I have a terrible accent. I tell her she does too." The bell rang again, this time in Peter's hands. "Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you all for coming tonight. I'd like to welcome our founder and chairman, Mr. Richard Churchill, to say a few words." We all clapped politely as RJ stepped up to the mike. He was looking relaxed and cheerful, probably several glasses' worth of it. "Good evening my friends and a happy Christmas to you all. I like to think of you all as my family and it's good to see so many of you here..." He started out with the usual sort of speech: challenging year, everybody pulling together as a team, contributions valued, et cetera et cetera. I kept an ear out in case there was anything worth knowing, but my eyes drifted toward Phoebe — flicking briefly back to RJ whenever I thought she was about to catch me staring — and with my concentration eroded by a couple of drinks, eventually my mind drifted too. You know, you COULD ask if she'd like to catch up some time. But what happens if she says no? Same thing that happens if you don't ask. And if she tells her dad? She's a grown woman. She likes you, or she wouldn't be talking to you. You really think she's going to go crying to daddy because a dyke makes a pass at her? And weren't you getting fired anyway? Yes, but... no! It's just not that simple! When I wrenched my attention back to the speech, RJ was talking about the early days of the firm: "...of course, back then none of us fellas typed our own work, we had three ladies who did that for us. There was Abbie, Mary and Dorothy, all lovely girls. But then Mary left us to have a baby and we got in a new lady. She could type, but god, so plain, looked like a lesbian, you know?" My colleagues laughed politely. I stood up and turned away from RJ, from my colleagues, from Phoebe. I walked into the house hoping they'd think I just needed to use the ladies' in a hurry. Because suddenly I was shaking with cold rage and the only rational thought I could muster was I needed to get out of there and get my head straight before I did something I'd regret. I didn't know whether anybody had noticed me leave and I didn't fucking care. A couple of the caterers were in the lounge, preparing a big cake. They looked at me oddly as I passed — I'm told I go white in the face when I'm really angry — and I didn't want to deal with anybody trying to help, so I did my best to look like I knew where I was going. I headed along a corridor, expecting to find a bathroom where I could lock myself in, but I'd taken a wrong turn. The only doors in the corridor opened onto bedrooms and I didn't want to walk back past the caterers to try again. So I let myself into the last bedroom — from the size and furnishing it could only have been RJ's — and closed the door behind me, not bothering to switch on the lights. It briefly occurred to me that if anybody found me like this, they'd think I was up to mischief, maybe stealing, but it seemed better than trying to face the world just then. I've grown a fairly thick skin over the years and I don't usually let remarks like that get to me, but the combination of RJ's words — and my loneliness at work — and the threat of unemployment — and more alcohol than I'm used to — had caught me off guard. I leant against the wall, head on my forearm and cried for a bit. Some minutes later, a tap on the door. "Yvonne?" I kept quiet, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. The door creaked open. It was Phoebe, of course. "Yvonne? Are you okay?" She came closer, looking up at my face in the dim light from the hallway. "I'm sorry about my dad. His opinions never really evolved past the seventies. Are you okay?" "No." I tossed the anger around in my head, letting the words tumble out of my mouth. "No, I'm not okay, Phoebe! I don't care if an old man makes some stupid joke. I care that everybody else who should know better laughed at it." "I didn't laugh, Yvonne —" "No, but you didn't call him on it either!" Then I noticed through the haze that in my anger, I had backed Phoebe against the wall, cornered against RJ's walk-in wardrobe. I was looming over her, gesturing with my hands near her face. She had her hands up protectively, as if she expected to be struck. I lowered my hands, took a step back. "Oh, Christ!" I shook my head in frustration at myself, her and the whole stupid situation. "I didn't mean to crowd you." Phoebe dropped her guard, looking up at me apologetically. "Look, you're right, I should have said something, Yvonne. I'm sorry." A heartbeat's worth of silence. My next words came without thought. "Close your eyes." Was it desire speaking at that moment, or revenge? All I know is, my voice was quietly implacable and Phoebe obeyed, face still turned up to mine. Before common sense could intervene I stepped in, took a fistful of her ringlets in my left hand and used it to spin her around to face the wall. Utter silence. Not even the sound of breathing. I stepped in behind her and pulled her hair upwards, drawing her onto her toes, my other hand nudging more curls aside to bare the nape of her neck. Brushed the skin, softly-softly, with my fingertip and I felt her whole body quiver. An instrument, I thought. A stringed instrument. I touched her neck with my lips, breathing in the scent of her hair, and she sighed very gently. My right arm slipped under hers, curving around her chest as I kissed her daintily, tiny little touches falling on her neck and shoulder like a shower of blossoms. Phoebe swallowed and then slowly her arms came up and back, hands on top of mine lightly in her hair. I eased my grip — she sank back against me — and my fingers began to play in her hair, stroking, twining with hers, as my other hand drifted up to her clothed breast. My nails scraped over the fabric, sending sensations through to the warm body beneath, and I leaned forward to kiss her just below the ear. She turned her head toward me and I could feel her tensing to say something. "I have —" "Ssshh." I squeezed her breast, thumb and fingers tweaking her nipple through the cloth. The rest of her sentence was lost in a high-pitched yelp. I tightened my grip, rolling the nipple between my fingers, and she tensed further then slumped in my arms. When at last she drew in breath I guided her face to mine and kissed her mouth before she could speak again. She was delicious, tender and sweet, and as I held her tight I could feel her heart fluttering in her breast. "Mmm." I stroked her face while we kissed. When I broke off the kiss I ran my fingers over her lips, slipping a fingertip into her mouth. I was nipping at her neck, nibbling down to her shoulder, and my right hand shifted to pay attention to her other breast. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 02 Chapter 2. Note to readers: "Yaya" (γιαγια) = Greek "grandma". Phoebe and I kissed good-night in the hallway, after looking both ways to make sure nobody was watching. I would've gladly followed her into her room — I enjoy sleeping with people, not just "sleeping with" them — but she stopped me at the doorway. "There's no room. In the morning?" So I kissed her again and crawled into the guest bed next door. I lay there awake for a while, nerves still tingling blissfully, body very pleasantly relaxed, but I drifted off somewhere around the time the very last of the guests left. The sunrise woke me, maybe five hours later. Most Saturdays I would've turned away from the window and gone back to sleep, but this time I found myself a robe and a towel and headed for the shower to wash off last night's sweat. Even as an invited guest, I felt self-conscious in the boss's house — last night's bravado had evaporated with the daylight — and I was glad that nobody else was up and about. The shower felt very good indeed. As the water splashed, I thought about last night. Well, wouldn't you? I could hardly believe my luck, or my audacity. The way Phoebe had quivered when I took hold of her, the feel of her skin under my fingers... I realised that my hand had drifted down between my thighs and I was halfway to orgasming on the memory of last night's tryst. How long had I been in the shower? Too long, most likely. I rinsed off, dried myself and walked back up the hallway clad only in a fluffy robe. Phoebe's door was open, just a crack, but I hesitated. Was I pushing my luck? What if she'd had second thoughts? Well, I had been invited. If and when she chose to rescind that invitation, I'd respect that. Until then, I'd just have to take her at her word. I tapped on the door softly and waited, counting ten. Then I eased it open, slipped into Phoebe's room and closed the door behind me discreetly. The light was dimmer in here, coming in around the edge of her curtains, and I had to wait a moment for my eyes to adjust. It was the sort of room you see more often in movies than in real life: a teenager's bedroom, preserved long after she'd grown up and flown the nest, kept against her occasional visits back home. (My own childhood bedroom had lasted about a month before my mother filled it with boxes of wool.) I stopped to get a better feel for this woman that I'd met barely twelve hours ago. A desk, decorated with badly-worn stickers that must have been there twenty years. Textbooks: maths and chemistry, schoolgirl Greek and French. Several books of music theory and a child-sized cello stool draped with last night's clothes (oh yes, I remembered those!). School pennants for music and hockey. A few family photos on the wall alongside some moderately good high-school artwork. A dusty Madonna-and-child icon in Orthodox style, redolent with gilt, hanging over the head of the bed. The bed that Phoebe was in. She'd told me the truth last night; it was a narrow bed with barely enough room for one. That one now lay on her side on top of the covers — it had been one of those hot Melbourne nights — wearing only briefs and an oversized T-shirt, facing away from me, fast asleep. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the curve of her back. She'd tied her curls back into a dishevelled pigtail before going to bed and I slipped my hand under that ponytail, ran my fingers through it. It'd been years since I'd been with a woman with long hair and I like to play. As I soon discovered, Phoebe was still quite mussed from last night's adventures. The last thing I wanted to do was wake her abruptly by yanking on a knot. So I made myself comfortable beside her, slipped the elastic out of her hair and started to unpick the tangles one by one. I could see it was going to take a while, but who counts the minutes when they're alone with a gorgeous woman? So I worked through her hair, knot by knot, enjoying the view, as magpies warbled outside. I may have entertained an impure thought or two somewhere along the way. But eventually I got to the very last of the tangles... and just as I pulled it loose, my eyes lit on a black bristly hairbrush on the floor beside the bed. Well, just because I'd dealt with the knots didn't mean I had to stop. I picked it up and started brushing her hair. Slow, languid strokes. Steady and soothing... There's a trick my old science teacher Mr. Jackson showed me, with two pendulums hanging from the same support. You set one swinging; soon enough, the other starts swinging too, picking up energy through the support that connects them. It only works if they're made alike, on the same frequency, but when they are then the smallest connection is enough to conduct that energy. It's the same with people, I think. When you meet someone who fits you — in love, in lust, in friendship, whatever — there's a sort of resonance that happens. What you're feeling and thinking passes from you into them and it comes back redoubled. It just needs the right sort of contact. That could be something as physical as full-on sex, or as nebulous as a phone conversation. Or even brushing somebody's hair. I don't know you, Phoebe. Not well at all. Maybe when you wake we'll have nothing in common. But right now, I feel connected to you by this simple act. Even if this is all that happens, I'm glad I'm here. Phoebe murmured in her sleep and rolled over onto her front. That made my job awkward. Since she no longer had her back to me, I couldn't easily reach her hair from my current position sitting on the edge of the bed, not without twisting around uncomfortably. So I climbed onto the bed and knelt astride her waist. That put me in a good position to reach forward and brush down toward me. At first I brushed lightly, just picking up a few strands on each pass; gradually, as I satisfied myself that there were no knots left, I brushed harder, letting the bristles scrape her neck and (through the T-shirt) her back. Although she didn't wake, I could feel her relaxing, see her stretching out just a little, and I took that as permission to continue. I worked the brush through her curls again, one last time, before I gathered them into a bundle and pulled it to one side, out of the way. Then I set the brush down beside me and started using my fingernails, dragging parallel lines down her nape as lightly as I could manage. That earned a sigh, so I did it again. This time I continued down, both hands fanned out and scratching down her back; when I got to the bottom, I slipped my hands under her shirt and then up to her shoulders, fingernails leaving ten tiny white trails on her skin. Phoebe was starting to get restless; I didn't want to wake her just yet, so I eased off, scratching very gently down her back and straightening her shirt. I leant forward to position my thumbs either side of her spine and began stroking her back and shoulders. Slowly, slowly does it; the best backrubs are unhurried. After several minutes of this she'd settled a bit, but I could still feel a certain tension. Well, I knew something for that... Using my left hand on her back for balance, I slipped my right hand up into her hair, burrowing into her curls. Slowly, thoroughly, I massaged her scalp, from side to side, from the nape of her neck to her brow, using fingertips and fingernails in turn. I felt her melt under my touch and I continued, stroking and scritching her, watching her breathe. I couldn't imagine wanting anything else on a Saturday morning when I could be doing this. Time passed. The room grew warmer as the sun rose and my fingers still worked in her hair. Gradually I felt a slow subtle shift in the tempo of her breathing; she swallowed, paused, inhaled, still facing away from me. "You're a bad girl, Yvonne." But she didn't sound angry. I paused what I was doing. "I'll stop if you want me to." "I didn't say stop." So I resumed. Now she was awake, I could scratch harder. Phoebe seemed to like that a lot. She was practically purring under my fingers and I brought my other hand up so I could use both of them in her hair. As I pleasured her, I could feel her gathering her words. "Well, that was a pretty memorable first last night." "Oh? Never been to the Isle of Sappho before?" "Ha. Yes, but —" She stalled as I scritched extra-hard, melting her brain for a moment, as deliberately as I might reboot my laptop. "Um. Yes, but only literally. You know, that's very distracting." "Is it?" I did it again. "School trip?" "No... when I was eight, Dad and Yaya took me back to see the old country, meet the extended family. One of her brothers had a fishing business on Lesbos, so we spent a couple of days there." "Any good?" Now I was massaging her shoulders and her back, through the shirt. "Hated it. I didn't speak Greek well enough to understand what anybody was saying, didn't want to see historical ruins, didn't want to meet the extended family. Mmm, that feels good." Once again I slipped my hands under her shirt for more direct contact with her skin, then continued the massage. "I just wanted to be home with my friends. Poor Dad, it was just after Mum walked out. He was trying to do something really special for me and I was an ungrateful little shit the whole time." "Dear me." I wriggled back, straddling her hips, so I could work on the whole of her back. Leaning forward, putting my weight on my hands as I stroked up her back. Sitting upright again, hands pulling back down her body, fingernails scoring lines across her ribs. Pushing up again, thumbs ploughing furrows in her muscles. "Uh!" She flinched as I reached a spot below her right shoulder; I eased off. "Too hard?" "No. You can go a bit harder, but slowly, please. I'm sore there." "I can tell, you're really stiff. Cello muscles?" "Yeah. Occupational — ahhhh — hazard." "Okay, let's get the shirt out of the way and I'll see what I can do." Phoebe obliged, raising her torso just enough for me to shimmy the T-shirt up to her armpits, and I got to work on the problem spot. I'm no expert, but I know a few tricks. After a few minutes I had managed to loosen up the problem spot considerably and I returned to what I'd been doing before. "Mmm. You're very good at that." She paused as I stroked, scratched, stroked. "But, yeah, I'm one hundred percent straight. Never so much as looked at a girl before." "Oh?" I sat back, drew back my hands, until just one fingertip was touching her, right at the base of her spine. Silence. Then I rocked forward, trailing that one fingertip up her spine, coming to rest with my lips a hair's-breadth from the nape of her neck. "Well, you're not looking at me now, either." I squeezed her hips between my knees; with the stance I'd been holding, my robe had started to come open at the bottom and I could feel the warmth of her body against the inside of my thighs. I felt her about to say something, but it was lost in a shiver when I kissed the back of her neck. I brushed my fingers over her cheek, stroked her lips, felt her body yielding to my touch as I settled my weight on her. Resonance. I kissed her behind the ear — she shivered again — and I ran my left hand down her side, stroking down to her hip and the elastic of her briefs. "Hush." Was I imagining it, or was she kissing my finger? I crooked it, caught her lower lip, felt her tongue-tip between her teeth. My left hand intruded between us, sliding under her briefs to stroke her arse. She squirmed at my touch, but didn't pull away, and I meandered further down, along the back of her thigh, inside and down... As my fingers reached her labia, she arched her body against me. I bit her on the back of the neck and she gasped. But the position was cramped, with my wrist trapped between us and tangled in her briefs. My robe — by now falling open — was getting in the way. "Off with this, I think." I sat back, extricating my hand from her underwear, and shrugged off the robe. "And off with these, too." I hooked my fingers into the elastic, on both sides of her, and tugged the briefs down as far as her ankles. Then I climbed on top of her and pulled her over onto her back. She lay there, smiling up at me in a lazy sort of way. There was a hint of puzzlement on her face — still trying to figure out how she'd ended up in bed with me? — but I leant forward to kiss her and that occupied her attention for a while. As we kissed our legs intertwined and I stroked her face, crouching over her. Her breasts were flattened against her chest, rising and falling with her breath. I slid down her body and kissed them, lips brushing over her curves, tongue-tip tracing little spiral trails that were always approaching her nipples but somehow never getting there, until she hissed with desire. Then I relented a little, flicking one nipple ever so briefly, then the other, as my right hand slid down between us. Down her belly, dawdling in the tuft of hair below her navel, fingers poised just above her clitoris... Her hips bucked against my hand, but I didn't give her quite what she was after, not just yet. I circled, teasing her labia apart, sometimes brushing over the clit itself. But always too softly, not quite enough to get her anywhere but frustrated. "Please." I circled her nipple with my tongue, pressed my lips around it, sucked it into my mouth. My fingers tickled at the inside of her thighs. "Please." I rolled her nipple between my teeth. My fingers stroked her, harder, but not in quite the right spot. "Oh please." I paused, lifted my head from her breast, looked up to see her looking plaintively back at me. I smiled, slid slowly up her body, my breasts pressed against hers, my face over hers. "Hmm?" My fingers drifted slowly inwards, tantalising. "Please?" "I think something could be arranged." I placed my hands on either side of her face and kissed her on the forehead. I kissed her on the nose. I kissed her on the lips. I kissed her on the chin. I kissed her in the hollow of her throat. I kissed her sternum, midway between her breasts. I kissed her at the bottom of her ribcage, as her breathing shallowed. I kissed her navel, with just a hint of tongue, as she kicked off her underpants. I kissed her mons, light curls tickling my lips, and raked my fingers down her sides, down her thighs. I kissed her labia, opening her with my fingertips. Her knees were bent, the soles of her feet flat against the bed. I caressed her with my tongue and entered her with my fingers. She exhaled, slowly emptying her lungs. Last night I'd played rough, manhandling her (so to speak). This time I was gentle. I lapped at her slowly, softly, fingers stroking inside her and my thumb beside her clit as my tongue swirled. In slow motion: Her left hand in my hair, rhythmically clutching and releasing, as my fingers plunged and corkscrewed and curled, as my tongue flickered and feinted. "Oh..." Reaching upwards, under her knee, to find her right hand grasping the sheet, clenched almost into a fist. Stroking the back of it, until she opened her fingers again and I twined mine between them, our hands locked together and closing the circuit that my lips had begun. "Oh..." Her taste and her heat, my flesh and desire, fusing together, dissolving... "!" A yelp from somewhere at the back of her throat, short and soft, and for a moment time stopped. And another. And another. Then her knees went limp, and she pushed me gently away from her, too sensitive now to bear the slightest touch. "Oh, Yvonne..." And I moved up to lie alongside her. We lay there, holding one another in the afterglow. It was perfect. *** The world never leaves you alone, not when you want it to, and we had to rise sooner than either of us would have liked. She had a lunch appointment with old school friends. Me, I had to brave the shops — on the last weekend before Christmas! — and find something for my parents, who were infuriatingly difficult to shop for. And before that, both of us needed to make ourselves presentable; I would have suggested we save water by sharing the shower, but that would have been awfully hard to explain if anybody had spotted us coming out of the bathroom. Phoebe gave me a lift to the station. Before getting out of the car, I turned to her: "I'd like to see you again." She blushed, lowered her eyes. "This week is hectic, it's when I do Christmas stuff with all my family. But I should be able to swing something... are you free during the day?" "Only tomorrow, I'm still working up to Christmas." "Tomorrow's no good, I'm headed out to Ballarat to see Helen. My mother, that is. And I'm seeing my aunts after that. But maybe Wednesday? If you're not too busy we can have a coffee at lunch and work something out from there?" "Sounds good. How will we —" A horn sounded from up the line. "Shit, that's my train." "Go. You've got my card, text me!" And I ran for it, with butterflies in my stomach and a spring in my step. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 03 Five days after the party — four days before Christmas — I sat in a cafe near my work, watching Phoebe walk in. She was wearing a light blue summer dress, suited to the warmth of the day; it didn't have quite the same zing as the Little Black Dress of the other night, but it looked good on her all the same. And when she spotted me in the corner, her face brightened and that gave me a pleasurable little rush. "Hey there! How was Ballarat?" I passed her a menu as she sat down. "Oh, not bad. Did family things with Helen, visited a winery, came home. What about you? Survived the Christmas shopping?" "More or less. Got my brother tickets to Tripod's new show, but I couldn't find anything imaginative for Mum and Dad, so they get fancy tea and fancy soap." "Good call. Nobody ever said 'I already have a soap, did you keep the receipt?'" "Exactly. And you?" "Stripy tie for Dad. Very real-estate. 'Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest' for Helen, she loves that stuff. Two bottles of red for Scott, that's her boyfriend. And a silk shawl for Yaya." "Uh-huh. You're an only child, then?" She nodded, and the waitress came by to take our orders. When she'd collected my menu I laid my hand back on the table, arm extended, so that my hand strayed onto Phoebe's half of the table. Soon after, Phoebe placed her own hand next to mine, just a hair's breadth away. Tease. Phoebe resumed the conversation. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure they wanted more kids, but it never happened. After Helen walked out... Dad took a long time to get over it. I think he had a few girlfriends later on, but nothing serious. He was pretty busy with the business and trying to figure out how to raise a little girl." I raised an eyebrow. "I'm having trouble imagining him as a single parent." "Oh, don't underestimate him. He's pretty stubborn when he decides to do something. I know he was working twelve-hour days on the business, but he always made it to my music recitals and drama nights. And he wasn't on his own, there was always Yaya." She smiled, eyes distant. "Dad let me get away with anything, but Yaya... not so much. I spent about three years hating her because she wasn't my mother, but really, she did a pretty good job." "Well, I think you turned out okay." "Ha. Let's see if you still think that when you know me better." "Is that an invitation? I accept." And as the waitress returned with our drinks, I straightened my leg so that my shoe-encased toe rested against Phoebe's. "Food won't be long." "Thanks." Phoebe turned back to me. "So, are you having Christmas at your parents' place?" I shook my head. "At my brother's in Richmond. My parents live in M—." It's a country town ninety minutes east of Melbourne. "I grew up there. When I got accepted into uni, I told them I was never going back. Happy to spend time with them, but not there." "Like that, then?" "Just like that." I wasn't being melodramatic. I don't even name the place when I can avoid it. Just talking about that part of my life sends a tiny spike of useless adrenaline into the scared-rabbit part of my brain, leaves me jittery. I hide it pretty well, but Phoebe must have noticed, because her hand moved just enough that her little finger touched mine. Having managed to stall the conversation, it was my responsibility to restart it. "Anyway. if I may be so bold, did you have plans for tonight?" "Sort of." She sipped at her coffee. "Bunch of my old school friends are meeting up in Preston for dinner and a film. I promised I'd join them, but I'm sure they won't mind if I bring a friend. If that suits?" "Sounds good." Although I could think of options I'd have preferred. "Long time since I saw a movie at the cinema. What're you seeing?" I slid my foot forward so my ankle rested against hers. "Oh, we're not THAT organised. The plan was to show up around seven, have dinner, then see what looked good." "I'll just PT straight from work then, I expect I'll be finishing six-ish." Nobody wants to sell a house in January when half the would-be buyers are on holiday, so things get frantic as agents try to close deals before Christmas. Phoebe nodded. "I've borrowed the car from Dad, so I can give you a lift home afterwards." "Awesome, thanks. I'm pretty close to Preston anyway." Then the food arrived and conversation stopped for a while. Halfway through my meal, I glanced up and noticed Phoebe was looking at me with an I-have-something-awkward-to-say face. "Yvonne, about the other night..." Uh-oh. "...I don't want to mislead you. It was lovely and I have no regrets, but it's not the sort of thing I do." "Oh." I felt myself blushing. "Um, I didn't mean to —" She hushed me with a gesture. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying I need some time to process things. But I do like you, I'd like to keep in touch, whatever else. If you want." "Sure." But I didn't know whether I meant it. I'm a fragile being — if you hadn't already noticed that — and if this was just a let's-just-be-friends, I was going to need time myself to figure out how I felt about that. If I hadn't already accepted, I might have made my excuses and passed on the evening's plans, but I couldn't very well back out now. We spent the remainder of lunch talking on safe topics — how busy it was at Christmas, disasters elsewhere in the world — and parted with a "See you tonight!" The afternoon was tech support hell: fixing email blockages (one of our customers had accidentally put our domain in his spam filter), wrestling with an uncooperative printer, trying to patch up our website. I hated the website. It'd been built by a contractor a few years back; it looked good to the customers, but the back end was rickety and unstable. To add insult to injury, he hadn't bothered leaving any documentation for the poor bastards who had to maintain it once he'd collected his last paycheque. My predecessor at RJC had resigned himself to hiring the guy back, paying by the hour, every time the site needed assistance. Me, I'm pigheaded about that stuff; while it would've saved me a lot of trouble, I just couldn't bring myself to reward the guy for doing an incompetent job. So although it was outside my training and outside my original position description, every time the website started to hiccup I'd sit down and stare at a horrible mass of spaghetti code and try to puzzle it out. I'd tried to persuade Susan to send me on a short course in web development, but you know how it is: $3000 for a one-week training course is a very tangible sum of money and the costs of ignorance are much harder to quantify. So I'd taken to documenting every minute I spent working on the site, hoping that a bit more evidence would change her mind. Meanwhile I settled in for several hours of hacking away, oscillating between feeling embarrassed for my feeble web skills and reminding myself that web design wasn't supposed to be my job in the first place... and all the time, trying not to fret about Phoebe. Come six-fifteen I'd ironed out the worst of the hiccups on the website, so I had a clear conscience as I clocked out and got on the first train to Preston. It was a short trip, and although I'd allowed time to find the meeting point — an Indian restaurant a block from the station — I ended up getting there ten minutes early. I sat at the table Phoebe had reserved, nursing a glass of water and studying the wallpaper as I waited for her and her friends. The first to arrive was a small and sharp-looking woman who looked at me askance, clearly not expecting a stranger. "Hello there, I think you might be at the wrong table." "I'm Yvonne. I'm a friend of Phoebe's." "Oh." She looked doubtful. "I didn't know there was anybody else coming. Well, I'm Maria." And she sat down opposite me. Over the next few minutes, three more of Phoebe's old classmates joined us. I ended up sandwiched in between Jill (larger, boisterous, in eye-catching polka-dots) and Ellen (tall and nervy), with Deb (snappy dresser of the group) sitting across from us alongside Maria. Last of all, Phoebe arrived and bid us all hello. I'd expected to feel out of place again, a tolerated outsider, but Phoebe's friends were amiable folk and they made an effort to include me in the conversation. A lot of it was about shared history and mutual acquaintances from their school (expensive ladies' college in north Melbourne) but they filled me in on the background as necessary. Jill had some entertaining tales about her kids, Ellen was giving up smoking and constantly apologising for her withdrawal symptoms and even Maria warmed up as we talked. I decided she was one of those people who just don't deal well with surprises. By the time we split the bill and walked to the cinema, I'd managed to shed the bad mood I'd been in all afternoon. There were four films showing: one spy thriller, one kid's piece about a talking cat, one teen vampire romance and a French-Canadian piece none of us had heard of. I could have done with something simple and cheerful, but Jill had already seen the cat movie twice with her own kids and while babysitting her nieces. Ellen and Maria had both seen the spy flick and Deb refused to watch the vampire film because she didn't like horror. That left us with only one option. The poster for the Canadian film included several four- and five-star reviews, but apart from showing a dishevelled woman's face against a background of flames there was nothing to tell us what it was about. My schoolgirl French got me as far as "adapted from the work by Wajdi Mouawad" but none of us knew who he was and I couldn't get enough signal to look it up on my phone. In the end Phoebe made the call: "If we don't buy tickets soon we're not going to see anything. If it's no good, you can blame it on me." So we paid and filtered into the cinema. I stayed close to Phoebe — not lust, just my natural tendency to cling to the person I knew best — and it wasn't until we sat down that I realised we'd be sharing a double seat. If I'd noticed earlier, I would've tried to avoid it; she'd made it clear that she wanted some space and the last thing I wanted was to give the impression I didn't respect that. But since I couldn't move now without attracting attention, I was careful to keep on my side with my hands in my lap. I'd been prepared for something dramatic and emotional, but this was more than we'd bargained for. I enjoy horror flicks, the sort where somebody goes digging up the past and finds something awful, but when I start to get scared I can always remind myself that evil spirits and ancient curses don't exist. This one didn't offer that consolation. I knew just enough history to recognise the setting of the story in Lebanon's civil war and I'd watched enough of the news to know that things like this still happen to real people. At times it was almost unbearable. Halfway through, I heard whispers and movement to my right. I looked past Phoebe to see Jill and Deb standing up to leave. As I turned, my hand slipped from my lap into the middle of the seat alongside Phoebe's knee. Before I could pull it back, she caught my fingers between two of hers, holding me there as if to anchor... me? Herself? I wasn't sure. I won't recount the rest of the film. All I'll say is that as harrowing as the first part had been, the end still managed to hit me like a punch to the stomach. I didn't regret seeing it — even through the worst of it, there was an enduring thread of goodness and humanity — but it left me feeling empty and very, very quiet. I was glad of Phoebe's touch and it was only when the lights came on that she separated her fingers from mine. The four of us who'd lasted to the end now spilled out into the foyer; Jill and Deb had left before we got out. Maria was talking intently, trying to figure out some detail about the ages of the characters. Nobody else was in a talkative mood, and Phoebe suggested we skip coffee and call it a night. "So, does anybody besides Yvonne need a lift? I've got Dad's car for tonight." Maria had already made other arrangements, but Ellen accepted the offer and the three of us piled into the car. I couldn't help resenting Ellen's presence; I felt mean-spirited admitting that to myself, since she'd gone out of her way to make me feel welcome earlier, but I'd been hoping for a chance to talk with Phoebe on the way. Since it was barely fifteen minutes' drive to my place and Ellen's was nearer Chèz Churchill it was inevitable I'd be dropped first, so I sat behind Ellen and directed Phoebe to my humble abode. Near the end of the trip I thought to ask: "Phoebe, how long are you in Melbourne?" "Only until Monday." "You're leaving on Boxing Day? Next right, then my place is just before the stop sign." "We're playing at a wedding on New Year's and I need to get back and practice before that. So I'm doing family things the next couple of days, helping Yaya cook more Christmas food than we could possibly eat, then I fly out early Monday. Well, here you are." "Thanks so much for the lift. Lovely to meet you, Ellen." I closed the car door and waved them good-bye, but Phoebe had other ideas. "Just wait there, Ellen, I won't be a moment." She stepped out after me and followed me into the doorway of my apartment block, speaking sotto voce. "So you know, I'm not avoiding you. I don't get down here often and family Christmas is a big thing for Dad and Yaya. Every single year since I moved to Sydney, she says 'Bee-bee, I feel it in my bones, maybe this is the last time I'm here to have a chance for Christmas with you'." Her impression of a Greek grandmother was pretty good. "And one of these days it's going to be true, so." "Oh. Well, I — I understand that. Though I'm sorry not to see more of you." She nodded, then leant forward and kissed me chastely on the cheek. "Good night, Yvonne. Stay in touch." I kissed her back — not on the lips, much as I'd have liked it — and unlocked the door. "Night, Phoebe! Drive safe." When I got upstairs to my own apartment, I found my flatmate Aleks sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka. That was normal for him, but the lack of a glass was a bad sign; it meant he planned to finish the bottle. Allow me to backtrack: my apartment is nice, but it's larger than I need. I'm trying to save so that one day, come the property crash my employers dread, I might be able to buy a place of my own. So I put out the word that I was looking for a flatmate and mutual friends introduced me to Aleks. Aleks is a memorable fellow: about six foot four (he'll tell you six-six), skinny as a rake, with a mustache that would tickle his ears if it ever uncurled. He hails from somewhere in eastern Europe — there are several different versions of where he comes from and why he left — and he describes himself as an ARTIST. I don't know if he has a specialty within that. When I asked him, he just said "Photos, poems, sculpture, those sort of things". Once I came home to find him painting a nude lady in the lounge room. ("Aleks, why is there a lady on my sofa with no clothes on?" "Because studio is closed today. Also, you like ladies, isn't it?" End of discussion.) If we saw more of one another no doubt I'd find him infuriating. He's untidy even by my unambitious standards. He's vain and sulks if anybody criticises his work. It usually takes a week of nagging before he'll come up with the rent, because he can't be bothered keeping track of anything as bourgeois as dates. Still, he does pay sooner or later, and we keep very different hours — when I'm up, he's mostly out or asleep — which saves him from wearing out his welcome. And for all his faults, I'm fond of him; he has a good heart, and whenever I lose patience and snap at him he does something outrageously flamboyant to make amends. (It's unlikely to be anything practical, mind. When I blew him up for leaving a mountain of dishes in the sink, he brought me a gift-wrapped jar of marinated herring by way of apology.) "Drinking alone, Aleks? Bad habit." "I am not alone! You are here." "Uh-huh. So, how's Wasim?" Wasim was Aleks' latest infatuation, an athletic Pakistani lad whose parents had sent him to Melbourne to study commerce and would have been appalled to find out what else he'd been learning on their dollar. "Fuck Wasim." He took a long swig. "I don't give shit for Wasim." "Uh-huh. Sorry to hear it." Sorry for Aleks' sake, that is; I'd seen him go through five break-ups and he always took them badly. I wasn't going to miss Wasim, who had a habit of smoking in the flat whenever he thought he could get away with it, and who I'd overheard referring to me as "that bitch" after I'd called him on it. "Don't want to talk about it. So why you so late? You been having fun?" "Sort of. There's this girl..." "Ah! Lucky you." He went for the bottle again, but I took it away from him. "So, you and she...?" "It's complicated. But, yeah, I like her." He nodded and gave me a sad look as I shelved the bottle out of arm's reach. "Look, I think I go out for a while, clear my head." Which meant smoke some pot, but by tacit agreement, I ignored his recreational habits as long as he didn't do it in the flat. Don't ask, don't tell. "Have fun." And I headed off to my room. As I brushed my teeth, I heard the front door close behind him. It took me a while to get to sleep and I'd only just dozed off when the buzzer woke me some time after midnight. I yelled for Aleks to answer it — it's almost always for him — and rolled over to go back to sleep, then blearily remembered that he was out and it would be him at the door. So I crawled out of bed and punched the button on the intercom in the lounge. "Goddamnit, Aleks, don't tell me you forgot your keys again." "...Yvonne, is that you?" A female voice. "...Phoebe?" "Um, can I come up?" "Sure. Yeah." I pushed the button to unlock the downstairs entrance, then ran back to my room to scrounge up a dressing gown. As I pulled it on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'd only been in bed for an hour, asleep for maybe half that, but the bed-hair was impressive. No time to deal with that. I got back to the door just as she knocked on it. "Hi." "Hi. Er, sorry about that, I thought it was my flatmate." There was a fidgety silence and then she spoke, avoiding my eyes. "Sorry to get you up. Look, Yvonne, would it be okay if I stayed with you tonight?" "Sure. No problem." I waved her inside. "Sorry about the mess. Um, I don't have a guest bed, but the couch isn't too bad —" "I mean with you. Look, the stuff I said before, I still haven't worked that out. But after seeing that tonight, I want to be with somebody. A friend." "Um, okay. Well, this is my room." I kicked a small pile of laundry aside. "The bathroom's through there. Here, you can wear these." Pyjamas, faded bunny-rabbit print. "Might be too big but you'll live." "I'm sure I will." She took the pyjamas into the bathroom. While she was doing her thing I put on a spare set of PJs, rearranged the pillows to accommodate two and shifted my laptop off her side of the bed. By the time she returned I was under the covers. "Thanks for this. I feel silly doing this, but..." "Don't be. I know how it is, things bouncing around in your head that you can't switch off." "Yeah, all that." She climbed in alongside me and I switched off the light. I wasn't sure just how much of my company she wanted, but after a moment I felt her wriggling toward me, pressing her back up against my chest. I wrapped one arm around her waist and she snuggled into my embrace. "Mmm. You're comfortable." I felt her relaxing; I wasn't quite sure what this was, but whatever it was, it was nice. After a few minutes her breathing settled and she was asleep. Not long after, so was I. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 03 Somewhere in the night, I drifted back into waking and discovered that while my waking intentions had been chaste, my subconscious had had other ideas. While I slept, my fingers had crept. The buttons on Phoebe's bunny-rabbit pyjamas had come open and I had her breast cupped in my right hand. I couldn't recall how I'd got there, but the firmness of her nipple suggested that it'd been going on for some time. I extricated my hand, trying to work out how to re-button her top without waking her — Her hand drifted up over mine and pushed it back onto her breast. I might have taken that as licence to continue, but then again... "Phoebe?" No answer. "Phoebe?" I shook her with my other hand and she stirred. "Mh." "Your hand. My hand." "Wha?" I could almost hear the gears turning in her sleep-fogged brain. "Oh." She pressed her hand over mine. "'s okay. Nice." "You sure?" But I cheated, nuzzling the back of her neck while she considered her answer. "'m sure." She wriggled back into my arms and ten seconds later she was asleep, if she'd ever been awake. Me, I was awake. And chuffed that she felt comfortable with me holding her. And quite turned on with nowhere to go. I tried to push sexual thoughts out of my mind and go back to sleep. Count sheep. No, something stronger than that. Think of dull cricket matches, stretching out day after day, the steady drone of the commentary... And here comes Tufnell running in to bowl. It's a nice smooth delivery, straight down the line... and Ponting blocks it. And he's not running. Thorpe throws it back to Tufnell. No score. And there's been no score the whole morning. Thirteen overs left before lunch. Tony, do you think Ponting can keep this up? Well Richie, if anybody can he can. He scored two back on Friday but today he knows he has to stay put and not try to repeat that. This is magnificent cricket, a classic display of holding on to her breast and not doing anything with it. That's what the game is all about. Couldn't agree more, Tony. This reminds me of something that almost happened back in 1932... oh, and here comes Tufnell again. No, he's stopped. He's polishing the ball. Look how snugly it fits in his hand. Lovely and warm... and you can see the strain on Ponting's face. You can tell he wants to score, but he knows that's not in the game plan. Must be hoping for rain to cool things off. Well no chance of that, Richie. The weather-man tells me it's going to be sunny and hot all day. Hot and slippery and snug in her bed, it's a wonder Yvonne hasn't already grabbed her and — I cut off that line of thought before it went any further. Even cricket had failed me. So I spent another twenty minutes just lying there, trying not to think about the woman I was holding, before I gave in and tried for a quick solitary single. We were moulded to one another like two spoons, so I had to work my hand in between us in order to reach my clit. Usually I take it slow, but that night I just wanted to come so I could maybe fall asleep at last. Problem: since my right hand was otherwise engaged I was obliged to use my left, not what I'm used to. Between that and the tight space and trying not to wake Phoebe, I only managed to get myself even more aroused, but not — quite — there! I was frigging myself with my middle finger and it was pleasant, but I wasn't getting anywhere, just more and more wound up... "Yvonne?" I froze. I hadn't noticed the change in her breathing. "Yvonne? Is that what I think it is?" "...yeah. I couldn't get to sleep." It was pitch-dark in my room, but I knew I was blushing. "Oh god." A low chuckle. "Sorry. Now I feel doubly guilty for staying over. Well, don't let me stop you." She let go of my other hand and I rolled onto my back, legs slightly apart. That works better for me, and now I had the use of my right hand. But with it, all the embarrassment of having just been caught frigging. I tried and tried, but I still couldn't get anywhere. Eventually I tapered off, still unfulfilled, frustration in every breath. "Okay there?" I sighed. "Um." Enough, I give up. "Could I please beg a favour?" Silence. Breathing. Then something alighted on my side and tiptoed across my body. Two fingertips found my elbow, followed down the inside of my arm to my wrist and beyond, sliding under my hand and supplanting it with her own. I felt her shift beside me, felt her breath in my ear before she spoke. "What sort of guest would I be, hmm?" Her finger, sliding down, circling my clit. I was slightly raw from my previous efforts and she must have felt me flinch. She withdrew her hand, ran two fingers over my lips, and I kissed them and drew them into my mouth, welcoming them with my tongue. Then they returned to their position, slippery and pleasant. "Mmm. Nice." I raised my hips, shimmied out of my pyjamas and undies. She rubbed, up and down, round and round, tracing the edges of my labia before returning to my clit. It felt better now, less raw, and I began to roll my hips against her hand. After a little while she ventured downwards to explore. I was already tingling and when her fingers entered me it sent a tiny ripple through my body, a quiet "whuff" of exhalation. She paused. "Okay?" "Very okay." I ground against her hand. "But I mostly like it a little more up here." Her fingers moved, then withdrew, slid back to my clit, slippery and delightful again. "Mmm, like that." Beyond the sheer physicality of it (as lovely as that was) I was happy, very happy, being the centre of this woman's attention. I already had one hand around her waist and I started to run the other one over her thigh — thinking to reciprocate — but she ever-so-gently grasped my wrist and placed that hand back on my chest. "Not at the moment, dear. Like I said, still need to sort some things out in my head. But happy to do this for you." Her fingers circled, brushed over my clit and sent sparks through me; I arched my back and resolved to lie back and enjoy this. Whatever it was. Soon she found that the position was awkward for her — she had to reach a little further than was comfortable — so we shifted, wriggling around the bed until she was sitting between my legs, both her hands in play. Me, I had my left hand on my breasts, helping stoke the fire in my own way, but I couldn't find the willpower to hold back from touching Phoebe altogether; I slipped my other hand down to rest on the back of hers, as her fingers moved on me and in me, and she seemed willing enough to accept that contact. Oh god it was nice. My body was filled with warmth, nerves firing off one by one in their invisible electric ballet, sensations dancing through me like a kaleidoscope for the skin. I could have taken that for hours on end, if it hadn't been for work in the morning, but after so many false starts I was finding it hard to go that last step over the edge. "Anything I should be doing?" Phoebe brushed my nub with a fingernail and I yelped, trying to work out what was permitted. "Um. You don't have to, but..." "But?" "I want your mouth." "I see." Her fingers paused. The bed creaked as she moved up over my body, kissed me on the forehead, again — closed-mouth — on the lips. Then down. Kneeling between my knees, and she must have untied her hair, because as she lowered her head I felt it settle on my thighs and my belly, feather-light and tickling. "Only because I like you." Her fingers slid into me, as she kissed me. Lips. Tongue. (A hint of teeth.) I bit my lip, stroked her hair, and then a flick of her tongue had me gasping and I gripped her, pulled her against me. While she might have lacked in experience she was a quick learner. Several times she teased me, bringing me almost to the peak and then holding back, denying me that one last lick, that touch of her fingers, that would have finished me. Every time I whimpered and tried to move my hips against her, only to have her pull back and let me subside again. Until at last, when she tried it again, I locked my legs around her, raked her shoulders with my nails, pulled her by the hair, held her breathless and frantically licking until I came like a car-crash. Trembling. Calling out I-don't-know-what. Clasping her to me. Grinding myself against her fingers and tongue, until at last I'd had my fill and I let her up to breathe, guided her hands away from what was now agonisingly sensitive. I pulled her up, kissing her on the lips, eager to show my affection. She didn't open her mouth, but she didn't pull away and her arms wound around me. As the energy drained out of my body I lay back, holding her alongside me. "Thank... you... I hope... I didn't..." She put her finger to my lips. "You're very welcome. Shall we sleep now?" We slept. *** My alarm went off at six. I yawned, stretched, realised Phoebe still had an arm over me. As tempted as I was to call in sick, I have an overactive work ethic. So I slipped out of her embrace and into the shower, where I tried not to worry about whether I'd damaged things between us by asking something she might regret. When I got back she was sitting up, combing out her hair. She treated me to a mellow smile: not too damaged, then. "Sleep well?" "Delightfully. Shower's free if you want it." I was tempted to offer my services with soap and shampoo, but I felt I'd already pushed my luck far enough. "That sounds lovely." While she was showering I dressed, then headed out to the kitchen to get started on coffee and breakfast. (Try the house speciality, Yvonne's Miscellaneous Egg Dish! Sometimes it starts out as an attempt at omelette, sometimes it's supposed to be scrambled eggs, but it always ends up somewhere in between the two.) The shower ran for about ten minutes. Not long after I heard her padding into the kitchen. My attention was concentrated on separating the whatever-it-was from the pan before it could burn, and she took advantage of the opportunity to walk up behind me and slip her arms around me, head pressed against my shoulder. "Mmm. Smells nice." A deep voice from behind both of us, corrugated and hoarse: "Is very good!" Phoebe jumped almost out of her skin, and I turned to glare at the lounge-room sofa. "Jesus, Aleks! Don't scare people like that!" "Sorry Vonnie. Fell asleep out here." Looking at the bottles next to the sofa, I could guess how that had happened. I sighed and switched off the stove. "Phoebe, meet Aleks, my flatmate. Who usually sleeps in his own room. Aleks, meet Phoebe." He staggered to his feet and managed a grandiose tottering bow that didn't quite end in disaster. "Is splendid to meet you." We breakfasted together — I was feeling generous enough to share with Aleks — and he exerted his not-inconsiderable charm in Phoebe's direction. After a few minutes, Phoebe had forgiven him for startling her. Once we'd finished breakfast she offered to give me a lift to work. We made small-talk during the drive, and it was only when we got there that she switched off the radio and turned to look at me. "Thanks for letting me stay. And not making me feel like a silly kid who's afraid of the dark." "I, um... no problem." Pause. In the next street, cars honked. "About last night. Are we good?" Phoebe nodded in an it's-complicated sort of way. "I need to think about stuff. And maybe talk to you later when I'm not so sleepy. But yeah, we're good." She patted my knee. "Oh, good." I'd been holding my breath. "Look, any time you want to ring my buzzer, you're more than welcome." She groaned and punched me in the arm. But not too hard. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 04 "Wog" = Australian slang for Greeks and other Southern Europeans. It used to be a racist insult, but it's been almost entirely reclaimed, and these days it's mostly used self-referentially by Australians of Mediterranean ancestry. * I didn't see Phoebe again before she went back to Sydney. She was doing family stuff. I was racking up overtime fixing a few more glitches in the company website, logging every minute of it, and wondering whether Phoebe thought of me as often as I thought of her. She sent me a happy-Christmas text on Christmas Day, and I sent one back. Then I spent the next couple of days fretting over whether and when to call her. I over-think these things: what if I call at the exact wrong moment? What if I miss calling at the right moment? What if I call in the middle of a performance and her phone goes off and it wrecks the entire day? And so on. I'm sure it sounds neurotic — well, okay, it is neurotic — but in my defence, if you'd dated some of my exes you'd be twitchy about these things too. I'd go into details but trust me on this, you're better off without them. Some people deal with this sort of dilemma by resorting to alcohol for courage. Me, I outsourced: "Aleks, should I call her today? Or leave it a bit longer?" His eyes were more bloodshot than usual. He'd gone to a Christmas shindig organised by like-minded souls, and hadn't come home for two days. Now he was working through an epic hangover. "Just give her damn call already. Today just as bloody good as tomorrow. But if you call today you don't ask me same damn question tomorrow." "Fair enough." Not quite Plato, but it was the answer I wanted to hear and that's usually good enough for me. I slunk back to my room and dialled before I could change my mind but what if she's hoping you won't call — "Hello?" "Hi Phoebe, it's Yvonne." "Oh, I was just wondering when I'd hear from you! How was your Christmas?" "Oh, pretty good. No family dramas. And yours?" "Living the wog stereotype. We'll be eating the leftovers until Easter." "Santa bring you anything fun?" "Couple of books, gift voucher to get my bow re-haired." "Is that good?" "Oh yeah. Mine needs it badly, and that's a hundred dollars right there for a cello. And here I was thinking I'd be on the naughty list for sure." I was trying to come up with a witty response when I heard a tap-tap-tap at Phoebe's end, and she grumbled. "One o'clock already? Sorry. Didn't notice the time, that'll be my student at the door. Look, I've got rehearsals tonight, can I call you back some other time?" "Sure. Bye!" "Bye, Yvonne!" She called back two days later, and we chatted about this and that: work, rehearsals, books we'd read. I wanted to say more, tell her that I wanted to go to bed with her again, but somehow the conversation never drifted in that direction — was she avoiding the subject? — and I didn't want to force it. At midnight on New Year's Eve, having heard nothing further from her, I sent her a message: Happy New Year. Wish you were here! Y. And to you too! All the best - Phoebe. And that was that. I wanted to ask her: Do you still think about me? Do you remember my touch and my taste? Should I just take a hint and leave you alone, straight girl? But without the courage to force things to a resolution I held off, hoping things would resolve themselves some other way. On January 3, I went back to work. Things were pretty dead there with most of the staff still on holiday, and I needed something to take my mind off Phoebe. So I used the time to do some housekeeping. When I'd first arrived at RJC I'd soon discovered that my predecessor hadn't believed in little things like documenting key systems. Maybe that was his idea of job security — they can't fire you if they can't replace you — but it offends my professional pride, and I was glad to have a chance to get stuck into doco without being interrupted every five seconds. Next morning Susan called me into her office. My probation still had two weeks to run, but since she was going to be on holiday over that time we agreed to get the discussion and the paperwork out of the way. It was short and painless; she was happy with my work, and had no reservations about recommending I stay on. I thanked her, and was about to get up and go back to my work when she stopped me. "But this isn't a one-way discussion, Yvonne. I'm happy to have you working here, but are you happy to stay? Is this a job you want to be doing?" I screwed up my face trying to answer that one. "Um... not sure? Look, it's interesting work here, even if sometimes I feel like I'm out of my depth. But I still don't, I don't feel like I really fit in with the people here, do you know what I mean?" She nodded briskly. "Look, Yvonne, I won't lie, I've been here sixteen years and I'm still not a full member of the boys' club. I took time off when I had Zara, and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to come back. But it's better than it used to be. And you might not see it, but you're making progress here; when people come to you with a problem, they know you're going to solve it, not just make excuses for why it can't be done. That gets you a long way." "Really?" "Yvonne, if you want my advice? Hang in another six months and see how you feel then. If you're still not comfortable then, go ahead and look elsewhere, and I'll give you a good reference. If you think you can stand six months here?" "Yes. I can do that." Chalk up another victory for Susan's sales technique. "Good. Now, while we're here... professional development. I've been looking over what you've sent me and I hadn't realised quite how much time you're spending on the website. I agree, if it's generating that much work, it makes sense to get you some training for that. Any thoughts?" "Well. I've looked at a few different options. Let me show you..." I borrowed her keyboard and pulled up a couple of webpages. "These guys are good, but kinda pricey." I might not be a salesman, but one thing I knew, it's easier to convince people they're getting a good deal if you start with a more expensive option. "They do have a cheaper two-day option, but it's too basic. Now, these guys... they have a five-day option for twenty-five hundred, and that looks like it covers everything I need." Susan put on her bifocals and looked at the screen. "Melbourne, Melbourne... February. Hmm. I think I can persuade Peter to authorise the money, but it'll be difficult having you away for a whole week." We had a service agreement with an external provider in case of real emergencies but unless RJC wanted to pay exorbitant callout fees, minor stuff would have to wait until I got back. "Yeah. About that, I was thinking... the one in Sydney is in two weeks. It should still be pretty quiet here, and I've been meaning to visit Sydney for a while." Or at least since last week. "I can cover airfare, and I've got an aunt I can stay with." She shook her head, tut-tutting me like a benevolent schoolteacher correcting my homework. "Oh, Yvonne, it's a good thing you're not in sales. Ask for what you want and don't bargain yourself down, that's my job. Now, if you're staying with your aunt, I think we can cover airfare. It's still cheaper than having you away in February." So we pencilled in arrangements. After that the conversation drifted to friendly chit-chat, and eventually I thought to ask: "So, how's Zara doing?" "Better, I think? Still not sure how her friends are going to react if she comes out to them, but she seems more relaxed since school hols started. We're going camping next week and I hope she'll unwind a bit more then." "Well, good luck with it all, and give me a ring if you need anything." "Thanks." And with that we made our excuses, and I got back to work. On my way home I texted Phoebe: Coming to Syd for work Jan 16-20. Feel like catching up? Sure! Got place to stay? Haven't organised anything yet. Which was true enough; I could usually count on Aunt Penny for a spare room, but I hadn't called her yet. Can stay at my place, if you like? Pokey but clean. I would like. BTW - I have concert on 19th. Welcome to come watch. Sounds fun, save me a ticket. Two weeks later I stepped off the plane at Sydney Domestic, rubbing my eyes, and headed for the baggage carousel. The course started at nine sharp, which meant a six a.m. flight, which meant getting up at hours that Aleks would have considered an early bedtime. The course, well, you're not here to read about that, are you? Let's just say it was a good course, as these things go. For all that my mind was on other things, I learned several useful tricks during the first day. Some of the other students invited me to come along for drinks afterwards; I would have turned them down, but Phoebe had told me she'd be out rehearsing until seven, so I killed time chatting in town and sipping lemon-lime-and-bitters until it was time to go catch a North Shore train. I'd messaged ahead, and as I came through the ticket barrier Phoebe was there to meet me. "Hi there. Have a good flight?" "Oh yeah, not bad." I yanked my suitcase through the barrier before the gates could close on it. "Need help with that?" "Nah, I'm fine. It's pretty light." "My place is about five minutes that way." Phoebe didn't seem to be in a talkative mood, so we walked mostly in silence along a leafy street lined with grand old houses in varying states of repair. It wasn't the cheapest area she could've chosen to live, but I suppose it put her close to private-school kids whose parents could pay for cello lessons. "And here we are." At first I thought she was joking. The house in front of us was much too large for one musician on a budget. But then she led me past the front door, down the side of the house and through a gate, and I realised there was a granny flat in the back garden. "Welcome to my humble abode." She unlocked the door and waved me in. She'd been telling the truth when she said it was pokey; the flat looked as if it had once been a two-car garage, one quarter of it walled off for the bathroom and everything else together in one L-shaped room. In one corner stood her cello, plain and unadorned. To my untrained eye it was quite unremarkable; it could as easily have been a Stradivarius or cheap mass-produced tat. Only the excessively sturdy carrying case suggested that it might be an expensive piece of equipment. I set my suitcase down near the door. As she followed me in, I turned to give her a hello-hug. She returned my embrace briefly, but as I moved to peck her on the cheek she slipped from my arms and moved away. "I don't think that's a good idea, Yvonne." She'd put the kitchen bench between herself and me. "Oh?" I tried not to sound hurt, but I daresay I failed. "I'm confused." "You're confused." She nodded, looking down at the fake marble bench-top, and took a long breath in. "Yvonne. I like you a lot. I don't want to hurt you, but I've done something stupid." "If you're not interested in me, please say so." Please don't. "You, um. When I met you, I had a boyfriend." Uh-oh. "We'd been together three years. I broke up with Luke on New Year's Eve." "Oh, crap. You should —" I checked myself. Now that I thought about it, I hadn't given her much opportunity to mention it before dragging her into the wardrobe. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to —" "Don't beat yourself up." She was quiet, still avoiding my eyes. "We should've split a year ago. I just didn't want to admit that things weren't working. I never thought I'd be someone to cheat on a boyfriend." "Phoebe, I started it." "Yes, and I let it go on. I should've told you at the time, I should've told you afterwards. I just... um." She was fidgeting, fingertips grasping the bench. "It's been so long since I felt desired. Being held by somebody who wanted to hold me. I didn't want to spoil that. Selfish of me." "Oh. Um. I do desire you, Phoebe." "I know... look, I don't know how to say this." Her fingertips had turned white, the blood squeezed out of them. "When I was at uni, I was a bit of a slut. I went to bed with a lot of guys, didn't mind who, as long as they wanted me. Because I like to be wanted. And I like sex, I do." Her hair had fallen down, shielding her face. "But if I'm with somebody, it should be because I want them. That person, somebody unique, not just a pair of arms to hold me and lips to kiss me. It's not fair to lead them on just because they want me, and I don't think it's good for me." I was hurting, but I could hear her voice on the edge of cracking, and I forced myself to be gentle. "And that's what I am? A pair of arms and lips?" "I... I don't know." She looked up at me, and I could see her eyes were bright with unspilled tears. "I wasn't kidding before. I've always seen myself as straight. Teenage crushes, daydreams, it was always some guy or other. George Clooney, or the neighbour's boy. So... you're fantastic, I really like you, but I don't know if I'm just enjoying the attention. And if I am, that's not enough. God, I'm messed up right now, I just don't know anything. Yvonne, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invited you here, it was selfish of me." She was trembling. I couldn't bear it. I stepped around the counter and hugged her, and this time she didn't protest. "Please don't beat yourself up. I'm not angry with you. Look, I'm happy to sleep on the sofa. Or call my aunt and stay at her place. But before you decide about that, can I give one piece of advice?" "What?" She'd stopped shaking but still sounded miserable, her shoulders pressed against my chest, arms wrapped around herself. "Have something to eat first." There were a couple of take-away menus on the fridge, and I steered her toward them. "Pizza? My shout." "I'm not hungry." "I know. But trust me on this, eat something anyway. Things like this always seem worse on an empty stomach. Now, since I'm ordering a pizza for you whether you eat it or not, what sort of pizza would you like?" A drawn-out sigh. "Potato and rosemary. Small. And I'll pay." "Fifty-fifty." I looked through the menu. "Pumpkin pizza? Is that a thing?" "Uh-huh. It's okay if you like pumpkin." I dialled, still holding her, and ordered. When I'd finished on the phone, I let go of her and put the menu back. "Half an hour. Look, I'm sweaty, would it be okay if I used your shower while we wait?" "Yeah, go ahead." Weary and flat. I took my suitcase into the bathroom — dressing in front of her would've been awkward — and stared at myself in the mirror while I tried to mentally decompress. I had reason enough to be angry with Phoebe; I don't handle surprises well, and I'd come a long way in the hope of staying with her, only to learn that she'd been lying to me by omission. Even now, seeing a second toothbrush by the sink gave me a twinge of resentment. But let's be honest: I've danced with the fuckup fairy more than a few times on my own account, and I try to make allowances for human frailty in others. So I stepped into the shower and let the water run until I'd talked myself down from the temptation to soothe my own feelings by hurting hers. As I stepped out of the shower and reached for my towel, the music started in the next room. There aren't many classical pieces I can recognise by ear, but thanks to David Bowie I know Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 moderately well. On this occasion it was being played too fast and too loud, and more than a little erratically. I dressed and walked out of the bathroom. Phoebe was sitting on a stool with her back to me, attacking the cello, and from the set of her shoulders I could guess what she was about. When I'm upset I like to switch on the computer and kill orcs until I'm feeling calm again, and that was the attitude she projected just then. As I watched she came to the end of the Prelude with a forceful and off-key chord. I took a step toward her, intending to make my presence known, but she launched straight into the second movement without a break. So I sat down on the sofa to watch and listen. She started the Allemande as she'd finished the Prelude, dissonant and rough. But as it progressed I could hear her style coming together, mellowing until the notes were clear and flowing smoothly, and the set of her shoulders was less about tension and more about technique. I'd never heard her play until now; as I've said, I'm not a great classical buff, but whether it's needlepoint or Bach there's something enthralling about seeing an artist absorbed in her work. From there she glided into the Courante and onwards. As she started the Sarabande, her stance reminded me of something: right hand around the cello's torso, left high on the neck, and I thought: I wish you were holding me like that. And last of all, after the Minuet, she summoned a burst of energy for the Gigue, and yes: I wanted to feel that passion, that focus, directed at me. And with perfect timing, as she played the last note, footsteps crunched outside and the pizza man knocked on the door. Phoebe turned around slowly, and looked surprised to see me there behind her; from the look in her eyes, she wasn't quite back on the ground yet. I rose from the sofa. "Um, I'll get that." "Oh... thank you." She sounded embarrassed, as if I'd been watching her naked. Which I suppose I had. I paid him and set the boxes down on the table, then hunted out a couple of plates for the two of us. Apparently Phoebe had worked up an appetite; she scarfed two slices before uttering another word. "Yvonne, how long were you listening?" "Almost all of it." "Then I apologise for the beginning. Nobody should have to hear me scraping like that." "Oh, I don't know. It was quite expressive." "Ha." She devoured half of another slice, then nodded at me. "You were right about the food. I do feel a lot better after that." "I'm glad. Now, if you think it's better that I don't stay here, I can make other arrangements. It's okay, I promise." She patted my hand. "Look, I think it'll be okay. You can have the bed tonight, I'll take the sofa." "You sure?" I looked doubtfully at the sofa, which was well past its prime. "I don't mean to kick you out of your own bed." "I'll be fine. I've slept on it before, plenty of times. Now —" she looked at her watch "— it's only seven. What would you like to do? Still got time to head into town and hit the nightlife if that's your thing." "Nah, not really." And from the look on her face, not hers either. "I've had enough travel for one day. You know what would really hit the spot?" "Oh?" "Just you and me. A friendly evening in, no sex." She raised an eyebrow. "And..." I walked over to pick up an object I'd spotted earlier on her bookshelf. "A pack of cards." "Sure. Why not?" We started out with cribbage. I was a little rusty and Phoebe narrowly won the first game, but by then I'd gotten back into the groove and just pipped her in the second. She made a couple of silly mistakes in the third, and when I finished twenty-two points ahead she shook her head ruefully. "At least I'm not playing for clothes this time." It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "College days. First time I'd lived away from home. I was always terrified Dad would find out what I'd gotten up to and thrown a fit." "And your grandma?" I picked up the cards and started shuffling as Phoebe cleared the board. "Not so much, actually. On my fourteenth birthday she took me aside and told me all about safe sex. Nothing I hadn't already learned in school, but still." A Stringed Instrument Ch. 04 "That's... unexpected." "Oh yeah. But I figured it out a couple of years ago. See, when I was twelve I did a project on my family history for school... hang on a moment, I think I still have it." Phoebe got up, pulled a plastic storage tub out from under her bed, and rummaged until she found what she was after. A faded exercise book, labelled in a girl's neat handwriting: My Family History, Phoebe K, 7H. "I found this when I was moving, and noticed something interesting when I reread it." She handed to me, and I flipped through it. It was what you'd expect from a school project: a family tree, followed by short biographies of her family, one per page. Pasted-in photographs of her grandfather's war medals (mechanic in the Greek Air Force) and a Greek newspaper clipping about his brothers, who'd done something or other in Macedonia during the war. By comparison, the entry on her mother was very terse — looking closely I noticed the schoolgirl tricks, larger handwriting and bigger spaces to fill the page — and I could see why a disappointed teacher had red-penned that page with "Is this all?" I skimmed to the end (more red pen: "Interesting stories, B+, but would have been an A if you'd taken this a little further") and looked back at Phoebe. "So what am I missing here?" "Check the family tree." I turned back to the front page and studied it more closely. Phoebe: only child, born 1987. Her parents Helen Stephanopolous (b. 1961) and Dimitrious Karavangelis (b. 1953), married 1984. Helen: middle of three sisters, a year younger than Gia and seven years older than Chloe. Dimitrious: one younger brother, Achilles (b. 1955, d. 1961). Dimitrious' parents Achilles senior (b. 1930, d. 1990) and Kalliope (b. 1936), married 1952... "Ah." I did some mental arithmetic. "Married at sixteen? Was that legal?" "Only under a special license. But keep looking." She tapped her finger on two dates: the wedding in November, and her father's birth in... "Oh. My. Quite a premature baby there. Only six months after the wedding night." "And yet so very big and healthy. I've never quite been game to ask her about it, but from things she's said, I get the impression she was quite an adventurous young lady before she miscalculated and had to marry Grandpa. So she didn't have too many illusions about what to expect of a teenage grand-daughter." "Well, well." I handed the book back to her and dealt the cards for the first round of game five. She picked hers up, discarded, and then looked back at me. "So, that's our colourful past. What about you, Yvonne? Get into much trouble at uni?" "Ha!" I discarded, breaking a perfectly good pair in order to hang onto a promising five. "Look, from age twelve I knew I was interested in girls. But coming out, at my school... no way, no how. I got stuffed in lockers more than once because my parents were teachers. Or just because I read books for fun. So the only person I ever told was my brother John. The plan was I'd keep my head down for six years, finish high school, get into uni and never come back." Well, that was Plan A. I'd had a Plan B for those insecure moments when I thought I was going to fail my exams and be stuck in that place for the rest of my life. But I'd been spared that extremity, so I didn't feel the need to burden Phoebe with that. "So then I'd get to uni, meet lots of university lesbians, we'd all be great friends, I'd have lots of torrid sex to make up for all the lost years, then I'd find my princess, fall in love and live happily ever after. That was the plan. Problem was, when I got there..." I was losing, thirty-eight to fifty, not that I really minded. "Turned out my gaydar didn't work. Couldn't find a single dyke in my classes, not so much as a crew-cut. Eventually I joined a gay students' group but it turned out to be a Marxist-Spartacist political collective. They were too busy smashing capitalism to notice me standing at the back. Didn't help that I'd spent ten years of school working on being invisible, and it turns out that's not something you can just switch off." "Really? I never had any trouble seeing you." "One of your many good points. Anyway, long story short, two and a half years of nothing, nearly failed my mid-year exams, decided to give up looking and just concentrate on studying for the end-year exams. Very next week after that I went to a sci-fi con, ran into a girl who'd been my comp sci tutor the year before. She offered me a lift home, we chatted on the way, she made a pass at me. I thought she was teasing at first but eventually I said yes, and we ended up sleeping together for almost three years. She helped me get out of my shell, taught me a few things I needed to know. But it was always a pretty easy-going relationship. Eventually she met somebody else and they got serious, and we'd never really been in love, so..." I shrugged. "No hard feelings. We still keep in touch. Anyway, that's the sordid tale of my university days. Failed slut, really... oh, shit, that was stupid." I hadn't been concentrating on the game, and I'd managed to deal out six cards to each of us before noticing anything. "Don't stress it." We fixed up the deal and played another hand. This time it was Phoebe's turn to make stupid mistakes, leading a five. Rarely a good idea in cribbage. When I made fifteen from it, she replied with a six that set me up for an easy thirty-one. After tallying our hands, I'd caught up most of her lead. She looked pained. "Ouch. You know, I'm not sure I have the brain for this tonight." "Me neither. Shall we play something simpler?" So we pushed the scoreboard aside, leaving the game unfinished. Since we couldn't think of anything else that was easy for two tired-stupid ladies to play, we settled on Snap, and it turned out we were in just the right mood to enjoy playing a pointless children's game. After a few rounds Phoebe suggested a variation: Psychic Snap. "How does that work?" "Same as regular snap but you don't turn the cards over. You just go on intuition, call 'snap' when you feel the two top cards are the same." "So then you turn them over and check?" "Nah. Honesty system." "Okay then." We played that for a while, staring at cards and calling "Snap!" any time our non-existent psychic powers twitched, until we'd worked ourselves into a state of ragged silliness. It was then that Phoebe upped the ante again: "Zen Snap." "Do tell." "Same as Psychic Snap, but without the cards." You probably had to be there, had to be in the fretful-friendly-sleepy-buzzing state we were in, to understand it. Two grown women sitting on the floor, staring at nothing and sporadically yelling "Snap!" then falling over giggling. And it was in that spirit that I went against my better judgement. "Ever played this one for clothes?" Phoebe looked up at me, startled. "Not yet." "Would you like to?" Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desire shoving prudence aside, ignoring everything she'd said that night. "I." Her lips moved, voiceless. She looked down and closed her eyes. "Yes. But I shouldn't." I knew how little it would take to overcome her resistance. She was tired, she wanted me, she was mine for the asking. One kiss — one word — and I could have her tonight. But in the morning... "Then we won't." I stood up and almost toppled — god, most of my leg had fallen asleep — and I shook it out before offering a hand to help her up. "Phoebe, it's almost midnight. I'd better get to bed if I'm going to make it through class tomorrow." "Okay... damn, I forgot to make up the couch. I won't be long." Just a little? Please? "Tell you what. It's late, you need to get to bed too. If you trust me we can just share for tonight. I promise I'll be good this time." We did. And I was. I took my pillow to the other end of the bed, and we slept head-to-foot. I fell asleep with my back to her; when I woke the next morning, she had her arms wrapped around my ankles, and it was all I could do to extricate myself without waking her. When I came out of the bathroom she was busy in the kitchen. "Morning, Yvonne! Do you like pancakes?" "Love 'em." I ambled over to watch the chef at work. She'd just finished the first pancake, and as I got there she tipped it onto a plate, poured another dollop of mix into the pan, then turned around and wrapped an arm around my waist. "Thanks for a lovely evening. I used to have games nights all the time with Ellen and Deb when I lived in Melbourne, I've really missed it since I moved here." "You're very welcome." "Now, this one's yours." She handed me the plate. "Toppings on the table. Should be a couple more for you when you're done with that one. Eat up." Strawberries on the first, honey on the next. They were good enough that I didn't say much more until I'd finished the third, and looked up to see Phoebe looking at me. "Yvonne? Thanks for not pushing me last night." "Uh-huh." That didn't seem like much of a reply. "I wanted to." "I know. Me too. But I try not to make major decisions when I'm not in a state to know what I'm doing. It's not fair on anyone." I nodded, thought it over. "And now?" She said nothing. The silence dragged out, and I could feel tension building... "Phoebe, can I start this conversation again?" "Um... okay?" "Hi, Phoebe, I'm Yvonne." I stuck out my hand and she shook it by reflex. "I have to go catch a train soon, but I like you and I'd like to ask you on a date. Tonight if you're free. I'm a grown woman and I have no expectations of you beyond the pleasure of your company. Here's my number." I scribbled it down on a notepad by the phone and handed it to her; of course she already had it, but that was beside the point. "Think about it and give me a call if you're interested." "Uh. Okay." She looked about as flustered as I felt, so I grabbed my satchel and made my exit before things could get awkward again. For the rest of the morning I tried (not very successfully) to avoid fretting about Phoebe and concentrate on the course. The morning was about security: validating users, protecting against DDoS attacks, that sort of thing. Less of an issue for me than some of my classmates — we don't handle money through the site, so we're not as attractive a target — but better safe than sorry. During the morning break I got to talking with some of the other geeks. Some of them were web masters looking to sharpen skills. But most were like me, jacks-of-all-trades just trying to stay afloat, and the pros were happy enough to give us tips and argue with some of the course content. Five minutes after we went back in, my phone buzzed. Call me when you're free? I tried to wait until the lunch break but after half an hour I realised I wasn't absorbing anything the teacher was saying, so I made my excuses and ducked out. "Hello?" "Hi, Phoebe?" "Hi. Yes. Yes to the date, I mean." "Oh, good!" The thump-thump in my chest said: better than good. "Would you like to come into town, see a movie? Dinner?" "I don't know yet. Um, Luke's coming by my place this arvo to pick up some stuff he left. I don't know how that's going to go. Can I call you afterwards?" "Sure." I returned to class mouthing apologies to the teacher and trying not to bounce too much. At lunch I considered calling her again, but as I was about to dial I thought better of it; I wasn't sure what time Luke was visiting, and phoning while her ex was there might be poor timing. So I spent my time looking up movie options for the evening. She texted me again just before the afternoon-tea break, and I called her back. She picked up on the second ring. "Heya." "Hey Phoebe. How're you doing?" "Oh... been better, been worse. Gave Luke his things back. Talked a bit. Feeling like a heartless bitch. But yeah, did you say you wanted to see a movie tonight?" "I did, but are you feeling up to it? You sound a bit down." A long sigh... "I'm okay. Just feeling like a bit of a hermit tonight." "Well, if you want space, I can —" "I didn't mean you! I want to see you. No, I'll be okay, I can come into town and meet you." But she didn't sound too enthusiastic about the idea. "Tell you what. What if I bring the movie to you? You have a DVD player, right?" "Okay! Yes, that would be nice. What are we seeing?" "Surprise." I hadn't the faintest idea, but I'd think of something. "Tease. Now, I have a rehearsal until five, and then a student from six to half-past. See you after that?" "Deal." By the time class let out for the day I'd figured out my plans for the evening. I stopped by a large record store and found what I was after without too much difficulty, then visited a couple of other shops for supplies and caught the train out to the North Shore. I got off the train a little after half-past, and I knew I was at the right station when a teenage boy with a cello in tow shoved past me to board. After a short walk to Phoebe's place I let myself in at the side gate and knocked on her door. There was no answer, so I counted ten and then knocked again. "Coming! Just a mo!" And after some further delay, she opened the door. "Good ev— oh, my." "Since you were sweet enough to ask me on a date, I thought I'd dress for the occasion." That was putting it mildly. A gloriously scarlet dress, slashed at the knee to show just a hint of leg, lacing up at the front to good effect. Black lace-up boots. A necklace of gleaming hematite around her neck. And just a hint of lipstick. I don't dress up much myself, but I can still appreciate it in others, and Phoebe knew how to make an impression. "Now I feel underdressed." I was still in my work clothes, and it takes a highly-trained expert to tell them apart from my casual clothes. "Don't. I needed an excuse to doll up tonight and you provided it. Come inside." She took me by the elbow and drew me across the threshold. I thought I saw a trace of redness in her eyes; she might have been crying, but not recently. "Rough afternoon?" "Yes, and we're not going to talk about it tonight. Instead, I plan to have a delightful night out with pleasant company." "Well, then." I showed her to a seat at the table. "Make yourself comfortable while I get some things together." I'd visited the deli on the way home, and soon we were sharing a platter of cheese and biscuits and a half-bottle of white. We chatted a bit about my day's training, and when most of the biscuits were gone I leaned forward. "And now, a movie?" "That would be delightful. What's showing?" I moved around to take her arm and walked her to the sofa. She sat in one corner, smiling up at me demurely, as I walked back to my bag to retrieve the case. "Black-and-white classic. 'Kind Hearts and Coronets'." "I don't believe I know it. What is it?" "Murder. Romance. Comedy. Joan Greenwood, Dennis Price, Alec Guinness. Bit of everything." "Sounds intriguing!" I set up the movie, dimmed the lights, and sat down beside Phoebe on the sofa — leaving a bit of space between us, it was a big sofa and I didn't want to crowd her — as the opening titles rolled and Miles Malleson waxed rhapsodic about the privilege of hanging a duke. Phoebe turned and gave me an amused look, then sat back and watched as the story unfolded. It's one of my favourites, although it sits oddly in my video collection: I've never been a connoisseur of black-and-white, but as a teenager I discovered this one by accident, flipping channels late at night, and I fell in love with Joan Greenwood's voice. A few years later I found it again and fell in love with the writing, genteel politeness masking vicious barbs. As the narrator explained his family history, I remembered the other thing I'd brought for the evening: "Popcorn, Phoebe?" "Yes please!" I microwaved a bag and brought back the contents. "For you, mademoiselle." "Mmm. Just like being at the movies." "I aim for realism. That'll be seven dollars, please." "Wha— oh, bite me!" And she bounced a piece of popcorn off my chest. I looked her in the eye, took her by the hand, and raised it to my mouth. Her eyes widened as I drew back my lips to bare my teeth, then bit down on her forefinger ever so softly. "Like that?" "Not fair," she whispered. "Never said I was." And I kicked off my shoes and sat down at the other end of the sofa again, setting the bowl on the empty cushion between us, and we watched the movie. Every so often, one or the other of us would reach into the bowl for popcorn; every so often, both of us would reach for it at the same time, and our fingers would brush against against one another before parting again. By the time young Louis Mazzini had begun to work his way closer to the dukedom there wasn't much left in the bowl except a litter of unpopped kernels at the bottom. I rummaged, fumbling for one last morsel of corn, but Phoebe had had the same idea. Somehow, instead of finding what we sought, we ended up with our fingers intertwined. We stayed like that for a little while — still looking straight ahead, eyes fixed on a funeral service full of Alec Guinness — and then I reached between us with my free hand and set the bowl down on the floor. Without a word we wriggled toward one another so that we were sitting side by side, hand in hand. "This is a very wicked film," Phoebe murmured. "But so polite. It's like The Homicidal Adventures Of Jeeves." "Indeed." I clasped my right hand over hers, extricated my left, and slipped my arm behind her shoulders. She snuggled into my embrace and I squeezed her hand as Louis started to get himself into real trouble with Sibella. Phoebe's hair tickled my face. I exhaled softly, my breath carrying the loose strands away to expose the smooth curve of her neck and the gleaming black stones that adorned it. Then as Louis and Sibella started to seduce one another on screen I brushed her bare skin with my lips — how could I not? — and she sighed, her fingers opening and closing in my hand. "Phoebe? Kiss me." She turned, and our lips met, and whatever barriers might have existed last night seemed small and insignificant. Then she turned back to the film. But she reached up behind her to sweep the curls clear from her neck, and I nuzzled her neck lightly and at length, and she pressed back against me. At some point sitting became inconvenient, and without ever breaking contact we ended up sprawled lengthwise along the sofa, propped up by the padded arm at one end so we could still see. My right hand rested on her hip; my left arm had come around under her, fingers toying with the cool heavy stones at her throat, and her hand was at my wrist to complete the contact. I had found the spot behind her ear that made her shiver with delight, and I was teasing her with my lips and breath and sometimes my tongue... ...but not too much. For, you must understand, I didn't want to distract her from the movie altogether. It's a fine piece and deserves respect, and I wanted Phoebe to enjoy it as much as I did. Besides, it had its own understated passions, dark and dangerous, and they fanned ours. So I kept Phoebe just short of boiling over, fingers and lips striking sparks through her, never quite enough to overwhelm. As Dennis Price brought things on screen toward a lethal conclusion we slowly melted into one another, fingers sliding and clothes shifting. Well before the story came full circle to the condemned man awaiting his over-awed executioner, Phoebe's bodice had come unlaced. She was cooing softly from somewhere in the back of her throat as my left hand stroked her breast. Meanwhile, the skirt of her dress had drifted upwards and my right hand had intruded through the slash at the side, roving over her belly and her hips and thighs. Tracing the line of her briefs and just occasionally running between her legs, feeling her heat through damp cotton, dodging away again when her hips bucked against me. She reached back behind her head, fingers in my hair, inviting me to keep my lips at the nape of her neck... A Stringed Instrument Ch. 04 I knew, of course, just when the film would end. Phoebe did not, and when the final music played she froze for a moment, watching intently — would they, wouldn't they? — and then let go of my hair, rolling onto her back to look me in the face. She was flushed, lips parted, and I told her: "I want you. So. Fucking. Much." "I want you too — ah!" For as she spoke I'd pounced, my weight on top of her, my knees prying hers apart. I took a fistful of hair and pulled her head back to bare her throat and went for her, biting and sucking, as the side of my hand shoved upwards between her legs. I didn't want her naked. I wanted her dishevelled, breasts spilling from her bodice, skirt hiked up around her waist and briefs shoved to one side to expose her to my desire. I bit her lip, bruising, and my hips slammed against hers knocking the breath out of her. Missionary, you could call it. "Oh god." She clawed at my back and my arse — she would've drawn blood if I hadn't still been fully dressed — and I ground my hand against her, feeling slickness spreading through her folds. Her arms closed around me, one hand sliding into my slacks to stroke my backside, the other coming up under my T-shirt to my back. So I let go of her — another sharp thrust of my hips, to keep her distracted a moment — and rose to my knees just long enough to yank off the shirt, unclip my bra, unbutton my pants, and then I was on her again. No teasing now, no thought of holding back to prolong the pleasure, just rough urgency. Her lips were wet with my saliva, my nipples slid over hers, her knees rose around my hips as my hand sawed urgently at her sex and she fumbled at mine. And my other hand clamped over her mouth, just as I wracked an orgasmic groan from her, and another and another, until she subsided into little whimpers of pleasure. I took her by the hair again, made her look up at me as I reached into my own knickers, pelvis positioned so my knuckles ground against her clit and made her feel every movement as I rubbed myself, pressed my breast to her mouth and made her suckle me as I came to a sharp and very satisfying climax on top of her. I ebbed. Memory becomes a mellow blur. And in time we were lying side by side in a languid exhausted embrace, music on the DVD menu looping over and over, and her body shook as she chuckled. "I don't know what the ushers are like in your neck of the woods, but they'd never have let us get away with that at the cinemas I go to." I nibbled at her earlobe. "Paid them off. Sent them home early. So we wouldn't be interrupted. Um, I wasn't too...?" "Too rough? I'd tell you." She found my hand, squeezed it. "Although I think perhaps I should wear a high collar to rehearsal tomorrow." I glanced at her neck. "Oh. Er, yes, that might be best." I'd marked her more than I'd realised. The sight of it gave me a pang of guilt and a pleasurable buzz; the buzz won out, although I was too shagged out to make anything of it. Neither of us wanted to break off from cuddling, but once the adrenaline had worn off we began to notice that with two people sprawled full-length the sofa was getting cramped. And both of us were still mostly-dressed. So eventually I struggled to my feet and helped Phoebe up afterwards. We took turns in the bathroom (the other toothbrush had vanished) and changed into pyjamas, and got into bed with no more talk about making up the sofa. We were nestled together like spoons, her chest against my back, and I was just beginning to drift off when she spoke. "Thank you for a really lovely date. What is the etiquette? Can I ask you on one now?" "Let me think about that yes. What did you have in mind?" "Hmm." Her toes wriggled against the back of my ankle. "Hmm. How about something involving heavy breathing and ropes?" "You surprise me." "There are still things you don't know about me, Yvonne. So is that a yes?" "Yes indeed. Sounds exciting." And so it turned out to be, but not in quite the way that I'd expected. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 05 Phoebe was sleeping soundly when my alarm went off on Wednesday morning. I slipped out of bed, showered, and was about to head for the train when she woke. "Morning, you." "Morning. I didn't want to wake you." Phoebe gave an elaborate yawn. "Should get up anyway." She padded over to me in her PJs (blue with yellow hedgehogs, if you were wondering) and stood on tiptoes for a good-morning kiss. This close, I could see the bruises from last night. "Got a lot of rehearsal before tomorrow." "Oh, yes. So what is this gig, anyway? "We're supporting Jane Lamont." Seeing my blank look, she elaborated. "Scots new-wave folk singer. Did a few songs with Billy Bragg, that sort of thing, decided to do a one-woman tour out here. Derek got wind of it and managed to get us the support gig." Derek being their band's unofficial leader. "It's at the Black Sow, pub near St. Leonard's. I'll put your name on the list." "Cheers. So, about tonight...?" "Yes?" I waited, but Phoebe was being deliberately obtuse, so I went on. "What do you have in mind?" "Well. Something an old boyfriend taught me at university. Maybe a little bit scary, but I think you'll enjoy it if you give it a try." "Do I have to interrogate you to find out?" "I don't know." She tilted her head, eyes adorably wide. "Do you?" So I spent several minutes questioning her. It was very enjoyable but I can't honestly say that she gave me any information. Eventually I had to admit defeat — it was that or miss several hours of training, which would've been hard to justify on the company tab — so we parted, both rather hot and bothered. After napping on the train, I spent a very slow morning trying to fake an interest in the collection and analysis of user metrics — not that it's inherently a dull subject, but the lecturer seemed to be running on decaf that day. When the session ended, half a dozen of us went for lunch together and we talked shop until an enthusiastic bearded puppy-dog of a man named Mark suggested we all get together in the evening at a nearby bowling alley. The others agreed, and attention turned to me. "I'd love to, but I'm already booked." No, that sounded too stiff, unfriendly. "Date tonight." "Oh!" Was that a hint of disappointment? "Who is he? I thought you were from Melbourne, not round here?" "I am. We met at a Christmas party, she was down visiting family." "Oh, I see." I watched his face, counting in my head until I saw the flicker as he noticed the pronoun I'd used. But since I wasn't trying to discomfit the lad, I pretended not to notice. After lunch we spent the afternoon coding, trying out some of the tricks we'd been learning. It was a hot day and the air-conditioning was struggling to keep up with a room full of computers; throw in a couple of sneaky bugs that took ages to discover, and it wasn't until half-past five that I finished up and made for the train. I got off where Phoebe had said, a couple of stops before her station, and she met me on the platform. She was in a T-shirt and shorts — well, she had the legs for it — and carrying a gym bag. "Hey there!" We hugged, and then I followed her down to the underpass and out to the street. As we walked I peppered her with guesses about where we were going. "Is it a play?" "No, though that's a nice idea." "Opera. Ballet. " "Around here? Dressed like this? Nope. I said rope, that should be a clue." "Hellfire Club?" "No, I think that's in King's Cross. But there are knots involved." "Scouts. You're a scout leader." "Not quite, but warmer. And time's up!" We'd arrived at a big old brick building that had once been a factory of some description. Now it had a small sign out the front: "Rockwall Climbing — Safe Fun For All Ages!" "This is what I do for exercise. Ever been climbing?" "Nope." I was trying not to let my feelings about heights show in my voice or my face, but I don't think I succeeded. "You'll be fine. You've got a good build for it, better reach than me." We signed in at the desk. Phoebe paid, I signed a lengthy waiver, and they fitted me with a safety harness and rubber-soled shoes that felt too tight for comfort; Phoebe assured me that this was the sign of a good fit. She pronounced my jeans and geek-slogan t-shirt acceptable for climbing, and once I'd crammed my feet into the shoes and tightened the harness to her satisfaction we stowed our bags and went over to the beginner class. A scrawny guy with a "Rockwall Climbing" T-shirt explained how the gear worked: you have a rope that attaches to your harness and runs up above you to a pulley at the top of the wall, then down to your partner who's belaying from the ground. They use the belaying gear to take in the rope while you climb, brake it when you stop, then lower you to the ground when you're done. If you come off the wall and they're not paying attention, well, the floor stops you. It's padded, but not enough to matter if you fall from twenty metres. With that cheerful thought I clipped myself in and tied my back-up knot, Phoebe and I checked one another's gear, and then I started to climb. The beginners' wall was easy: great big handholds like jug handles, and lots of them. It was like climbing a five-metre ladder — but less wobbly, and with a safety rope — and I made it to the top easily enough. I tapped the pulley to show that I'd made it, like the other climbers were doing, and I heard Phoebe below me call out "Safe!" I looked down to see her holding the rope securely in brake position. From here, I figured, I could probably survive a fall even without the rope. So I opened one hand, let go of the wall, grabbed the rope. Opened the other hand, let go of the wall, grabbed the rope and held on tight. Still no help at all if the rope failed me (or the pulley, or Phoebe at the other end) but it felt better holding on to something. Without my hands keeping me on the wall, my centre of gravity shifted backward and I came away from the footholds to dangle in space, slowly revolving in the air. Phoebe paid out the rope she'd taken in, and soon my feet were on solid ground again. "Not bad. Now you try belaying." So we switched places. Belaying was harder than it looked; you have to take up the slack as your partner climbs, so they're not going to fall too far if they come off the wall. But you can't do that with the rope in brake position, so you have to be quick about it, returning to brake every time you change hands. Phoebe was climbing much faster than I had, and I had to discipline myself to stick to the five steps they'd shown me and not cut corners. Just a little inattention is all it would take. She reached the top and slapped the pulley. I watched, waiting for her to do something more, and then remembered my line: "Safe!" Without hesitation she came away from the wall and I felt the rope tighten. I thought: if I was distracted, not handling this properly, you'd be falling. But I had it safely locked, and once she had her feet positioned I fed the rope back out and she descended to the mat, bending at the waist to brace against the wall with her feet instead of spinning as I had done. "Good work. I'll get you to leave me a little more slack next time, just so the rope doesn't pull me away from the wall, but you did fine." The instructor marked me off as 'completed safety training', and then Phoebe and I went out to explore the room. The walls were studded with fake rocks, different colours for different climbs; some were big and juggy like the ones I'd used before, some were just large enough to hook a few fingers over, and some... "People actually use those to climb?" "They do. Bit past my abilities, but if you've got strong enough fingers you can pinch them tight enough to hang on." "Good lord. I've held nipples that were bigger than that." Phoebe snorted, then slapped me on the arm. "Behave. Do you want first go?" "I — oh, the wall. Okay, sure. What do you recommend?" "Let's start you on the blue five here, that should be nice and easy." We clipped ourselves in, checked one another, and I started up the wall. Physically it wasn't much harder than the previous one, but it was a lot higher, about fifteen metres. I made it about a third of the way before I started to feel really uncomfortable about how far I was off the ground; I pushed myself to halfway, but by that stage it was getting too much for me. I looked down, and saw Phoebe looked up at me questioningly. "Getting tired! Coming down now." "Safe!" But I couldn't quite find the nerve to let go of the wall and trust to the rope. Instead I climbed all the way back down, one hold at a time. At least it was easier coming back, but I felt very sheepish by the time I got there. Phoebe was kind enough not to look judgemental. "Not bad. One tip, let your legs do more of the work. Don't pull yourself up by the arms more than you have to, they'll tire much faster." I nodded. "I was getting a bit tense up there. Just didn't want to fall. Shit, I get the shakes just climbing a ladder to change a light bulb." She patted my arm as we unclipped. "Tell you a secret... I feel that way every time. Letting go of the wall isn't natural, it takes some getting used to, and it's much harder if you're not in the right state of mind. Tension makes you tire out much faster. Just do as much as you're comfortable with, don't push yourself." I needed a couple of minutes before I was ready to belay again, so we stood back and chatted. Phoebe told me how she'd gotten into climbing: "Exercise bores me. I don't mind the work, it's just that swimming laps is so dull. But climbing, it uses the mind as much as the body. Figuring out what's the best way to reach a hold, learning just how far you can flex... the only problem is you can't do it solo." I wasn't sure whether to ask, but I asked anyway. "Was Luke your climbing partner?" "Sometimes, yeah. Him and a couple of our friends, but... they were his friends before they were mine. I don't think we're going to be climbing together again." "I'm sorry." "Enh. It happens. Well, if they're done —" she pointed at a pair of climbers who'd just walked away from the wall "— I'm going to grab that one. Ready?" "Ready." I took in the rope as Phoebe went up a tricky-looking climb. For the middle stretch she had to make her way up an underhang, and I wasn't sure how she was supposed to do it; as far as I could tell her centre of gravity would be tipped back too far to stay on the toeholds she needed to use. But she proved me wrong. I couldn't figure out all of what she was doing, but I could see enough to catch a trick here and there: working her toes behind a hold to pull her into the wall while her other foot found better purchase further up, switching from one foot to the other to get a different angle on the hand-hold she needed, reaching around a corner to use a hold she couldn't have seen from her position (had she picked it out from the ground?) By hook and by crook, she made past the underhang and continued to the top. "Coming down!" I took up the last of the slack I'd been leaving her. "Safe!" Phoebe was still on the underhang, so as she peeled off the wall she swung backward and bobbled to and fro like a pendulum, until she managed to hook an ankle around my end of the rope and steady herself. I brought her down faster this time. She was panting a little, and she rested one sweaty hand on my shoulder for balance as she separated herself from the line. "Whoof. Been a while since I did that one. Wasn't expecting to make it all the way." "Nicely done. I didn't know you were that flexible." "Heh. Comes with practice. Easier in shorts than jeans, but mine wouldn't fit you. Next time you can bring some." We shared a bottle of water, and then it was my turn. We found another climb, same difficulty as my previous one, and geared. After Phoebe checked my knots she gave me a quick hug. "Remember, just do what you're comfortable with." I did better this time. My muscles were a little tired from my previous climb, but my technique and confidence had improved under Phoebe's coaching. I didn't grip the holds quite as hard, and when I saw a foothold that seemed just out of reach I tried anyway; to my surprise I was able to make it after all, and that got me a couple more feet of height. I was nearly halfway up when I reached a spot where I had two good footholds and decided to take the opportunity to rest my arms a little while. I called down to Phoebe: "Just resting a moment!" "Okay!" But as I looked down, I saw two people standing under me, facing her. From the position and their stance, they had to have been talking to her. Not strangers. The climbing buddies she'd mentioned, then? Luke's friends? It occurred to me that I'd left several rather obvious hickeys on Phoebe's neck. Her T-shirt wouldn't hide them in the slightest. Anybody who noticed them could hardly help coming to certain conclusions. If not about my role in things, then at least about Phoebe. Awkward. And as I rested, dependent on her to bring me back to the ground once I was done, I wondered how much that consideration might prey on her mind. "Phoebe, I'm beat here! Coming down!" "Okay, you're safe!" But once again, I couldn't find it in me to let go of my handholds. I clambered down, and although I jumped off the wall near the end, it was an empty gesture; from that height, I could've done it without the rope, without risking so much as a twisted ankle. By the time I got there, the couple who'd been talking to Phoebe were nowhere to be seen. "Feeling okay? Had enough?" "Oh... not quite in the right mindset. I think I can do one more, in a bit." "Okay." We shared a bottle of water, and then I belayed her on another climb. This one was a straighter climb than the last, but with further between the holds. I could see she was having difficulty reaching, and she was pausing more and more as she planned her moves. On the wall, thinking time isn't free; the longer you hang there, weighing up your choices, the more fatigue builds in your muscles and your core and the harder those choices become. Eventually, a few metres from the top, she stretched for a distant hold, slipped, and came off the wall. I felt the jolt at my end of the rope. She caught hold of the wall with one hand, turned, and yelled down. "Let me hang a minute!" "Okay!" So I held her there as she shook out her arms and legs, tried to recover her strength, and then pulled herself back onto the wall. She attempted the same move again, and again she reached the hold, but didn't have the strength to keep it. After a few more minutes she shook her head. "Nope. Bring me down!" As she unclipped herself she looked tired, and frustrated. She'd come so close to the top, but not quite made it. "Bleah. Okay, I think that's my last for the day. One more for you?" "Yeah." I looked at a climb marked out in grey stones. It should have been easy, even easier than the last, but... "Sorry, give me a moment. Just really not coping well with heights." "Uh-huh." She hugged me, sipped at her water. "Tell you what, there's something we could try." "Okay, fire away." She went off to where we'd stashed our bags and came back with a square of fabric: a large handkerchief. "Blindfold." "Whatnow?" "You wear it, I'll call out the holds. But you don't have to if you're not comfortable." I didn't see how blinding myself was supposed to help, but... at least if my courage failed again I'd have a better excuse. So I clipped myself in, we cross-checked, and then I turned to the wall and Phoebe tied the handkerchief snugly over my eyes. "Ready when you are." I groped for two firm handholds, felt around with my foot until I located a foothold, and started. "Bring your other foot up. Little bit more. Out to the right, there." I planted my toes on it — I'd almost forgotten the discomfort of the shoes by that stage — and straightened my leg, pushing myself up. My other foot was now dangling in mid-air; I kicked around a bit but couldn't find anything. "Move your hand up first, there's a good hold about a foot above you." "Which hand?" "Left, sorry!" I found it. With both arms outstretched, I was making a sort of Y-shape. "Now bring your foot up and out. Further out a bit, just a small one..." It took me a few tries before I found the toehold she meant, but once I was there, I was able to brace off that foot and lift the other. And so we continued. She called out holds to me, and I found them; occasionally I fumbled around and located my own before she could communicate where I was supposed to look next. To my surprise I discovered that the blindfold really was helping; unable to see what was above or below me, it left me with no option but to focus on the next hold, and then the next. But I knew I was getting higher because her voice was getting fainter. The gym had music on, and the playlist had just rotated to Bob Marley. I wouldn't have thought of it as climbing music, but I guess "Iron, Lion, Zion" was more soothing than the "AAH! FUCK! I'M GONNA DIE!" that'd been running through my head earlier. The place would have been loud enough even without the music. The hard walls echoed every slam of body against walls, every call of "Coming down!" or "Safe!" and sooner than I'd expected, I reached a point where I couldn't understand what she was saying. "... left ...!" "Can't hear you!" "Can't ... louder ... from here!" So I went on alone, finding my handholds by touch. I could have taken off the blindfold, but I was doing okay by touch. A few of them felt like they might belong to a different route — maybe the smaller yellow ones I'd seen from the ground, in between the big grey lumps that were mine — but I wasn't going to fuss about that. I pushed upwards one step at a time. The sounds around me had turned into a blur of noise, and the only meaningful contact I had with the ground was the occasional slight tug of the harness that reminded me I was still attached to a rope, and at the other end of the rope was Phoebe, my anchor. But I was getting near the end of endurance. My arms were hurting, my fingers were weakening, sweat was trickling down my face. When I leaned on my right foot, I could feel my leg starting to shimmy. No way I was going to be able to climb back down this time... "I'm done! Coming down!" And I steeled myself to let go of the wall. This time at least I'd be able to hold my head up; my body might have given out, but my courage hadn't. Phoebe's voice, indistinct: "... you ...!" "What?" "TAKE! OFF!" I pushed the blindfold up with the back of my hand and looked up. Less than two metres from the top. Maybe three more holds. Oh, sod it. First hold. Tried to pull myself up, sweaty fingers slipped, had to wipe them on my shirt and try again. On the second try, I barely clung on. The movement dislodged the blindfold from my head. I imagined it fluttering away, falling fifteen or twenty metres and touching down in silence. I thought about how quickly a human body would fall, how hard I'd hit. What noise I'd make. Second hold. Pushed up off my left leg, strained, grabbed with my left arm... fingers going to slide off, need more support! Drew my right leg up, scrabbled around desperately, found footing off to one side. High (good) but too high, bending my knee uncomfortably. Awkward, and the tremor there was getting worse. But taking some of the load off my arm for a moment. Looked up at the last hold, just below the pulley and way out to the right. Stretched for it with my right hand, but it was a few inches out of reach. Need a plan, before energy runs out. Other people do this, how do they do it? Quick. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 05 Need another two feet to make the hold. Need to hold on when I get there. Inventory? Left leg: fully extended. Nothing from there until I find a higher foothold. Right leg: off at angle, tremor getting worse. Still got some power but going to push me out to the left, away from the hold. Left arm: hanging on, not for much longer. Might help pull me to the right, counteract the knee? But not enough power. Not going to catch me if I fail and need to come down again. Right arm: strength fading. Need it to hang on to the last hold, long enough to get a foothold with my leg. But not going to take the jolt if I have to hang on hard. Need control. Core: Exhausted. Flashing "low battery" warning. Launch from leg? Probably miss the hold. Not enough control, even if I catch it I won't be able to keep it. Find another hold? Nothing good nearby. Crappy little tiny things for super-climbers. Change the problem? Swap hands? Swap feet? No, tips me too far off-balance. Only one thing to change. In an instant: I bore down on my right knee, pushing up with as much power as I could muster. My hip spasmed, threw me off-balance, and I went out to the left, away from the last hold, away from the wall. But I wasn't aiming for the hold. I arched back, out into space, and groped blindly above me as my left hand slipped off the wall. Apogee, weightless for a moment at the top of my leap — it must have been the tiniest leap I'd ever made — and my searching fingers brushed the bottom of the pulley. Then gravity took me, and I fell, and the rope caught me. Phoebe caught me. Brought me back to earth, unharmed. I tried to land on my feet, but my legs were limp and I folded into a pile on the floor, not far from where the blindfold had landed. "Did you touch it?" "Just." I had to take a couple of breaths before going on. "If that counts." "Of course it counts!" The look on her face, well, it was worth falling off a wall to see that look. I sat there for a little while before I felt like moving, and Phoebe had to help me take off the safety line. I was as weak as a kitten and couldn't undo my own knots, nor work the spring on the carabiner. She helped pull me to my feet and I stood there a little while until I felt like I could walk. Soon enough I started to shiver. On the wall I'd been hot, burning through energy; now I'd stopped, and I was standing in an air-conditioned gym in a T-shirt soggy with sweat, my body still flooded with adrenaline. "I — I could do with a shower." "Me too. I brought you a towel." We signed out — it took me some work but I managed to get the hired shoes off my feet and the harness off my body — and staggered to the shower. Phoebe opened the cubicle door for me, then hesitated. "Will you be all right in there, or do you need help?" "I can manage." I put my things down on the bench, and my brain caught up with my mouth. "But I wouldn't say no." She grinned and looked quickly around the change-room — nobody was nearby — then slipped into the cubicle with me, closing the door behind her. We stripped, and I turned on the water, and just as I was about to step in Phoebe surprised me: she put one arm around my waist, stuck out her tongue, then moved in and licked my neck daintily. "Mmm. Salty." "Not surprised. I'm sweating like a pig." "That's the idea." Phoebe moved around me, stepped back into the water, pulled me after her. "So, how do you feel?" I was naked, my hands clasping her hips, my breasts bumping against hers. "Exhausted. But great. If I had any energy at all I'd have pounced you already and pinned you to the wall. And then I'd grab you by the hair and make you go down on me right here." She blushed, dropped her eyes. "You're such a bad girl." "Mmm." I leaned forward, whispered in her ear. "And I want you. As soon as I have my strength back, you'd better watch out." I flicked her earlobe with my tongue, felt her shiver. Phoebe stood up on tiptoes, whispered in my ear. "Looking forward to it." And one hand squeezed my butt briefly, before she went in search of the soap. While we were towelling ourselves off I thought of something. "Were those Luke's friends? Earlier on?" "Oh, yeah. Apparently not impressed with me." She sighed. "Fuck 'em." "Well, I like you." "Yes, but you're a sweetheart." She kissed me on the cheek. "I'll be okay. Just wish I'd handled things better. They'd probably still be pissed at me but at least I wouldn't be wondering if they were right." I couldn't think of anything helpful to say so I hugged her instead, which seemed to work. "Come on, let's get our clothes on and find dinner. I'm starving." "Me too." Phoebe had packed a spare T-shirt for me and a pair of track pants; both were a bit on the small side for me, and the legs were a couple of inches short, but they were wearable. There was a Chinese place nearby, and since the summer evening was pleasantly warm we sat in the garden gorging ourselves. In between dumplings, we talked. "Now, tomorrow night." Phoebe snared a dumpling between chopsticks, held it over the dipping sauce. "We're rehearsing in the afternoon and then going straight to the venue, so you'll have to make your own way there. I've asked them to put your name on the door, and after we're done we can hang around and watch the main act." "Sounds good." I yawned. "Oh dear. Early night for me, I think. Big day tomorrow." "Me too." Phoebe devoured the dumpling and hunted out another. "Now, I keep meaning to ask, when do you go back?" "My flight's booked for Saturday morning. So I was going to do most of my packing on Friday." "Uh-huh. You know, you're welcome to stay a little longer if you like." "You sure? I don't want to wear out my welcome." But I figured she meant it. Her toe was nudging my ankle under the table. "Nah, it's —" And suddenly our conversation was shattered by a bouzouki orchestra. I was tired and startled enough that I looked around for the band before realising it was Phoebe's phone. She held up one finger to me, smiling as she picked up. "Yeia sou, Yaya! How are you?" A pause, then: "Yes, it's okay... no, because I'm with an Aussie friend. You know how I feel about that." Phoebe covered the mouthpiece for a moment and whispered to me. "She gets cross if I don't talk Greek to her. But she'll live." A tinny voice from the other end of the phone, then Phoebe again: "Yes, I've been climbing, but we rehearsed for three hours today. Yes, it's tomorrow night. Saint Cecilia? Oh, thank you!" "...yes, I will. But maybe not until late, is eleven okay? Good." "...well, yesterday I saw a movie with my friend Yvonne. It was — no, you haven't. She works for Papa, she's visiting here." "...no, it really isn't dangerous... no, I liked him too, but these things don't always work out. I know, I was sad about it too." A long pause this time. Whatever was going on at Yaya's end sounded quite involved. "...uh-huh. Well, if they keep barking, you should talk to council about it. No, I don't believe that, if anybody's going to be afraid they should be afraid of you." "...mmm. I should go now, I'm in a restaurant, but I'll call tomorrow night after the show." "...you too. E agapo, Yaya." She put the phone away, looking apologetically at the other diners, who mostly didn't seem to care. Then she chuckled. "Yaya gets very excited when I have a performance. She tells me Saint Cecilia will be watching to make sure it all goes well. And I am to call her afterwards and let her know." "Aww. That's sweet." "I used to get really cross at her for showing up at my school music recitals dressed up like a Greek peasant grandma. I got teased for it. Now I think... sometimes you don't realise how lucky you are, you know?" "Mmm." I finished my last dumpling, brushed my fingertips against hers. My luck hadn't been so bad lately. After dinner we caught the train back to Phoebe's place, and I rebooked my flight for Sunday night. I'd have preferred to make it Monday morning, but that would've meant going straight to work after a very early start, and I just can't get away with that like I did in my twenties. I wanted to be rested (at least a little bit) when I got to grips with the week's backlog. By the time the confirmation email arrived my eyelids were getting heavy and I realised the evening's exertions had caught up with me. I said good-night to Phoebe and crawled into bed. She was going to stay up "just a little longer" to check her own email, and that's the last thing I remember before my alarm woke me on Thursday morning. I woke up sprawled across the bed, sore and stiff all over. Aches in my shoulders and elbows, aches in my gut, aches in my knees and thighs, aches in muscles I'd never even noticed before. I spent several minutes reviewing my aching muscles before noticing just how sprawled I was: Phoebe was curled up on the sofa, leaving me with the whole bed to myself. What was that about? But she was already beginning to stir, roused by my alarm. She yawned prettily and rubbed her eyes as she sat up. "Morning. How are you feeling?" "Very sore." "I'm not surprised, you worked hard. There's Nurofen in the bathroom cupboard, and a hot shower might help you." After I'd had my shower she rubbed my shoulders. "Poor dear. Will you be okay for your course today? Or should you be staying in bed?" "It's not as appealing without you in it." "Ha." She paused the massage and started to give a more serious answer, but although she was talking with her hands it took a while before her words caught up. "Um, I, not sure whether we're two people who sometimes sleep together, or two people who sleep together. If that makes sense." "Uh-huh. I'm trying to work out that one too." She resumed the massage. "Anyway, I have to get up soon and go get my act together. Got to iron my dress for tonight, and I've got a student coming at eleven." "Probably for the best, alas. I really shouldn't miss today." As much as I would've liked to spend the day in Phoebe's company, I couldn't really have justified calling in sick; it was my own fault, and besides, I'd gone to a lot of trouble to get into this course. So after a quick breakfast I waved her goodbye and hobbled off to class. My obvious discomfort got some odd looks from the lads, especially the ones who knew I'd been on a date last night, but I played oblivious and let their imaginations run wild while I focussed on the minutiae of Content Management Systems. At lunchtime I went down to the mall and spent sixty dollars to get worked over by a small masseuse with fingers like drill-bits. It hurt like hell, but at the same time it felt good, and even better when it stopped. By five o'clock I was moving much less gingerly than I had been that morning, and I made it to the train station easily enough. The gig wasn't due to start until eight, but I didn't have anywhere else I needed to be; besides, I needed to study for the test at the last day of the course. So I headed for the Black Sow early and found myself a quiet corner booth where I could read through a fat folder of notes. You know how some people make a fake "antique" by building a shiny new piece of furniture and then belting the crap out of it to get that weathered look? That's the vibe I got from the Black Sow, a new place trying a little too hard to look old. Heavy wooden beams alternating with exposed brick, concert posters for bands that broke up years before this place would've been built, '70s-pattern floor tiles that hadn't been around long enough to get scuffed. But I'm not an authenticity snob. All I really cared about was that they served a decent lemon-lime-and-bitters and the seats were comfortable. I nursed and worked through my notes, tuning out the buzz of after-work conversation around me. Once I'd finished my homework I allowed myself to connect to the cafe's wi-fi, and that was me settled until the back room opened at seven-thirty. I filed in as soon as they unlocked it, nursing the tiny glow that came from being able to tell the doorman "I'm on the list". It was a good-sized room with a few seats up the front and standing room around the back and the sides. My muscles didn't feel like they'd cope with sitting still too long (besides, I've always been shy about being up the front) so I found myself a niche against the wall, not too far from the stage, and waited as people trickled in. At five past the curtains opened and a beardy guy with a Black Sow t-shirt walked onto stage with a microphone. "Good evening to you all! Thank you all for coming to the Black Sow, and we've got a great evening in store for you! Later on we have Jane Lamont from the USA, but first I'd like to welcome... NERO!" (As Phoebe had said to me a couple of weeks back: "We have a fiddler and we couldn't think of anything better to call ourselves.") They walked onto stage together. A big fellow who looked more like a medieval blacksmith than a musician — I recognised him from Phoebe's descriptions as Derek, who sang and played flute and glockenspiel (not at the same time) when he wasn't trying to find them paying work. Sophie, an intense-looking lady with a fiddle. Marty, an impressively mustachioed gentleman (although not quite up to Aleks' standard) with a couple of drums and an assortment of rattles and sticks hanging off his belt. And Phoebe, carrying her cello. In the same scarlet dress she'd worn the night of our movie date, hair immaculately coiled and pinned, with a wispy scarf around her neck. She smiled at the audience. I saw her look around for me quickly, but there was a pair of lip-locked students in the way, and her gaze went right over me without spotting me back in the shadows. Then she took her seat, and without further ado they began. I'd like to tell you they were the next Beatles, or the flute-fiddle-percussion-cello equivalent; that would be nonsense. They knew their instruments, they worked well together, they played with enthusiasm... but it didn't have that sort of spark, not that I could hear. They were the sort of band who can give you your money's worth for an evening, not the sort anybody will be playing in ten years' time. You know, if you're not hanging out for the next Mozart or Freddie Mercury, you can have a hell of a lot of fun listening to a band like that. Who gives a toss about ten years from now? The point is to enjoy it here and now, and I did: stood back, half-closed my eyes, let the music fill my ears, and entertained pleasant thoughts. They played a mix of stuff. Phoebe's background was mostly classical but she'd told me the others had brought their own influences, jazz and folk and a bit of rock. (One of the reasons I didn't see them storming the charts: they hadn't really settled on a sound, and probably never would.) About half of it seemed to be their own composition, some ideas working better than others; the other half was covers, most of them at least vaguely familiar to my ears. I saw Phoebe looking out at the crowd anxiously between numbers, and at the end of the third — a jolly traditional Scots piece about ravens eating somebody or other's true love — she finally spotted me, and perked up as I waved, just before they launched into a sombre number about a retired hangman. After that we made eye contact during the breaks. The audience had been moderately lively, clapping but not exactly fanatical about it. That changed when Sophie and Derek launched into a long and difficult-sounding musical duel, the sort that gets faster and more intricate until one player can't keep up. After the first couple of exchanges everybody else was hooked, cheering them on. But Phoebe, sitting back in her chair with her bow set aside, glanced in my direction. Certain that nobody was looking at me, I blew her a kiss, and she smiled a quick subtle little smile. All the while, her fingers were busy; it looked as if she was retuning the cello, although if she was playing any notes they were too soft to hear over Derek and Sophie. Eventually the duel fell apart, both players losing it more or less simultaneously, and after a healthy round of applause Derek returned to the mike. "And thank you all for listening to Nero tonight, I hope you have a wonderful evening with Jane. To take us out, we're going to play a little something from Germany..." While he talked Phoebe was finessing her tuning. I was waiting for her to pick up the bow, but I'd forgotten that there's more than one way to play a stringed instrument; instead, she leant forward with her left hand up at the neck of the cello and her right down near the bridge. When her bandmates were ready and the audience had hushed she began: low and slow, measured notes plucked from the strings, coming like slow footsteps. Some songs you forget; some you recognise; some are engraved in memory. By the third note I knew it, Einstürzende Neubauten's "Sabrina", before Marty came in tapping two sticks together, clicking softly just behind her beat. By the time Sophie began a high shimmering vibrato and Derek started to sing, my eyes closed and I was transported. Back to my last year of university, staying up to watch music videos long after I should have been in bed, listening to that melancholy bass circling and returning obsessively to the same place. When I'd just discovered for the first time that even bookish invisible Yvonne might be attractive to somebody after all. When my ex-tutor Beth, gothed-up to the nines, had taught me that 'melancholy' could be sexy as fuck. And when I'd started to believe that some day, with somebody, it wouldn't just be about the sex. I didn't open my eyes until the audience started to applaud, and when I did Phoebe was looking straight at me. But before I could blink she rose to take her bows with the rest of the band, and then they were gone from the stage. There was a fifteen-minute break before Ms. Lamont was due on stage. I figured Phoebe would be a few minutes at least, so I hit the ladies'. It was crowded, and so I was delayed; when I got back, the place was packed, and I had to elbow through the crush before I spotted her near the place she'd seen me last. I slipped up behind her and touched her on the waist. "Hello gorgeous." "Hello!" She half-turned and kissed me on the cheek. "Thought you'd escaped." "Just visiting the facilities. Are the others around?" "Derek is. Over there." She nodded across the room. "He's giving us a lift home after. I think Sophie's out for a smoke and Marty will be finding excuses to hang around her. I'll introduce you to them later, if you like." "Sure, that'd be great." There was a lull in conversation, and then she cleared her throat. "So?" "Huh?" "Now you've heard Nero. What did you think?" "Before I answer, do I get to ask which ones were yours?" My hand still at her waist, I felt rather than heard her chuckle. "Oh, I don't think so. Don't worry, I'm not going to bite your head off if you didn't like it." I always say tact is overrated. "Let's see. I think some bits worked better than others. The hangman song... I really wanted to like it, it really sounded like it came from the heart, but it wasn't coherent enough. Too rambly, ending felt sort of weak." "Uh-huh. You would not be alone in expressing that opinion." "Is that an original?" "One of mine — oh, don't worry, it's quite true. Some day I need to tinker with it and see if I can fix it up." We discussed the other numbers one by one. I offered my inexpert opinions and Phoebe told me the inside story: songs that were in the lineup because one band member or another had begged for them, songs that had to be rewritten after Derek's car was stolen with several instruments inside it ("not my cello, thank god"), songs that would've sounded a lot better if certain people had had the sound balance right. But mostly, songs they'd enjoyed performing. And so we came to their last song. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 05 "'Sabrina'. That was my favourite." "Ah, you can thank Sophie for suggesting that one. But I did second it, so I'll take partial credit." "Sounds fair. Remind me some time to tell you what that song does to me." And then we hushed, for it was time for the much-vaunted Jane Lamont. For some reason I'd expected a petite Guitar Chick and so I was quite unprepared for the solidly-built lady who strode out from the wings looking like she was ready to go five rounds with the world. There was indeed a guitar, but there was also a real live set of bagpipes ("livin' the Scots stereotype") and a tambourine, all in support of a voice best described as 'memorable'. Take the power of an operatic soprano, combine with the vocabulary and accent of a Glasgow fishwife, and you're pretty close. She was good, too. Although folk's not really my thing, I could see why the room was packed. The music was rough around the edges — it was rough all through the middle, come to that — but it had soul and enough energy to start a riot, had she wanted. It was probably a good thing that Janey seemed to like everybody. (At least, everybody in the room. When it came to politics she had views, and wasn't afraid to share them.) There was a lot of singing along and a fair bit of dancing. Phoebe and I swayed and bounced together, more or less in time, hip to hip. Once I slid my hand up her back, meaning to rest it on her shoulder, but she caught it, steered it back down to her waist, and held my fingers there. Less visible to bystanders, I suppose, but still a pleasant sort of contact for all that. It was an excellent performance. All the same, it was crowded and getting very stuffy — hot summer's night and a couple of hundred people packed into a confined space — and it went on long enough that I was a little relieved when Jane brought things to a close, promising that she'd be back. Phoebe and I sheltered against the wall until the crowd had thinned to manageable levels. Then she pulled me over to her bandmates, convened near the bar. "Guys, this is my friend Yvonne." She let go of my hand and waved at her comrades. "Derek, Marty, Sophie." We said hello, chatted briefly about the performance, and then Derek started to yawn. "Sorry to pike, but I have to work tomorrow. Pheebs, if I'm giving you a lift, it'd better be soon." So we loaded Phoebe's cello into the back of Derek's new-old station wagon and headed north. Phoebe and I sat side by side in the back seat; she and Derek spent the whole journey talking about the gig, but whenever his attention was on the road our hands skirmished in the buffer zone between us. It was a short trip, and soon enough Derek dropped us outside Phoebe's place. The lights were off in the main house. "Better not wake them," Phoebe said, "they go to bed early, get cranky about noise after ten." So we picked our way along the darkened side lane, trying not to bang the cello case into anything. It was very dark in the shadow at the side of the house, and I muttered: "Wait a moment." Putting down my bag. Phoebe stopped, looked back at me. "What is it?" Wham. Me against her, her against the wall, and a little surprised "whuff" from her lungs. Hips against hips, my hands all over, touching, demanding. A startled moment before she responded, mouth yielding to mine, one arm embracing me (the other still holding her cello). A hard thump in my chest, feeling outrageously alive. I whispered in her ear. "I'm feeling much better tonight." "I... noticed." She was breathing heavily. My hands on her, tugging at the ribbon on her bodice, might have had something to do with it. "So what does that involve?" "Well, straight girl." I yanked her bodice open, pale breasts exposed in the dim light, until my hands covered them. Skin warm in the night air, tacky with sweat. Squirming under my touch, twisting from side to side as I mauled her. "It involves you doing things that straight girls don't do." I paused, slid one hand up to frame her face, thumb under her chin lifting to face me. "Tell me, do you do those things, straight girl?" And I leant forward to nip at her earlobe, kissing down the side of her neck. "I told you, I'm straight." A hiss of breath from her as I licked a wet stripe across her breast, cooling quickly in the breeze. "But if you made me do them, I wouldn't have a choice, would I?" "Put that down." She obeyed, leaning the cello against a drainpipe, and then I caught her hand and pulled it to my belt buckle. "Get to it." I gave her nipple a meaningful twist, and she pulled the belt tongue loose, and those graceful fingers dimpled my belly as she unbuttoned my slacks. Then I wound my fingers in her hair and pushed her down to her knees. Guys have it easy. They want a little impromptu action, they just have to open their flies and whip it out. Me, I had to shimmy my pants down to my ankles, get my knees apart (muscles still a-twinge from yesterday's adventure), and maintain some sort of authority over the situation whilst trying not to lose my balance. I just hoped the darkness would help protect me from absurdity. But when her cheeks touched my thighs, when her tongue lapped at my vulva, I stopped feeling self-conscious. Her hands curled around behind my thighs and steadied me, pulling me against her, breasts squashing against my knees. I ground my hips, gasping as a lick of her tongue sent a flicker of electricity through my pelvis, purring as her fingernails dug into my buttocks. Oh, I could get used to this. I tugged her hair and she flicked her tongue between my thighs. But it wasn't quite working: although shorter than me she was still a little too tall for the position, and just to make contact at all she had to bend and twist in a very uncomfortable way. Before long she had to pull back, whispering "Sorry... not THAT flexible, sweets!" The best I could manage was to yank my left foot (still shod) free of my slacks, hook my leg over her shoulder, and lean forward, propping myself with one against the drainpipe. Well, against the cello case propped against the drainpipe. That worked. It was a stretch, and any pervert with night-vision binoculars would probably have been laughing himself silly at the position I was in, but it was far less cramped for her and it oriented us... just... right. Contact, slick and hot. Her tongue found its groove, and I whimpered with need. She pulled back, just enough to speak. "Gotta be quiet." I bit my lip and thrust against her, my left hand at the back of her neck imploring, and she redoubled her efforts. Rippling against me, warm wet spasms flickering and dying, but each one lasting a little longer and running a little deeper, and a steady heat building underneath. In the middle of the crowd at the Black Sow, I'd wanted her so badly. I wondered how many others there had seen her beauty, wanted her, daydreamed of taking her home... and alone in the dark, I had her, and it was sweeter than any of them could have guessed. I was already on the way when she started stroking my arse, catching me unawares, and it sent me tumbling over the edge of orgasm with a yelp, quickly suppressed. And a start. And a crash, as I knocked the cello over. Phoebe jerking back in fright. My body pulsing as a window squeaked open above us. "Who's there?" A quavering female voice. Mercifully, no light. Me, still coming, trying to pull my pants back on over my shoe as Phoebe stumbled to her feet. "Hi, just me!" One hand across her chest, trying to cover herself, as she stooped. "I dropped my cello, sorry!" "Do you want the side light on?" Panic. I grabbed my bag with one hand, pulled my pants up with the other, and started shambling for cover as quietly as I could. "No thanks! I'm okay, just tripped. Sorry to wake you." "Goodnight then, Phoebe!" And the window closed with a heavy thump. Phoebe was shaking with barely-suppressed laughter. "Oh god, we... oh!" We made for her flat as quickly as we could — she clutching her bodice, me holding up my pants — and I looked nervously toward the house as she fumbled with the key, taking three tries to get the door open. We tumbled inside, I yanked the door closed, and both of us dissolved into fits of giggles. "Oh, I'm sorry, Yvonne. But the way you hopped when she mentioned the light!" "Huh. You jumped a mile... um, I hope your cello's okay?" "That's what the case is for. You know how many times I've knocked her over by accident?" But she lost no time in opening the case and looking it over. "Yeah, she's fine." "Oh good." I walked across the room to the bed — my body was still buzzing — and sat down facing her. She was in a very fetching state of dishabille with her dress rumpled, neatly-coiled hair beginning to come undone, and her face still flushed from our previous efforts. It seemed a shame to disrupt it, but... "Phoebe?" "Yes?" "Undress." She opened her mouth, then thought better of it, and brought her hands up to her throat, pulling off the scarf. After that she finished the work I'd started, unlacing the bodice altogether; then she shrugged off the shoulders one by one, leaving her naked to the waist, and looked up at me uncertainly. "You're utterly gorgeous." She smiled — I'm not sure she believed me entirely, but enough to smile — and stooped, unlacing her boots and slipping them off her feet. Then she straightened and reached behind her, never taking her eyes off me, and unfastened the hooks at her back. Her dress slid to the floor, pooling around her feet, and she stepped out of it wearing only briefs and stockings. "Go on." She stooped again, shed the last of her trappings, and stood before me. I remember how she looked: the lines of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, the subtle strength and grace of arms that could master a sheer wall or a musical instrument. The human imperfections: a gravel-scarred knee, a touch of fat at her belly, two moles on her hip, a slight asymmetry in her breasts. The anxiety in her eyes, slight tension in her hands — did she want to fold them, cover her chest and the black curls between her hips? — and I wondered what she saw when she looked in the mirror. "Come here. Please. I want to kiss you." Phoebe came to the bed and I pulled her down into my embrace. Kissed her mouth, clasped her to me and ran my hands over the smoothness of her back as she lay atop me. "I had a lovely evening. And I don't just mean after we got home." She propped herself up on one elbow, peered down at me through a veil of hair. "You're an odd sort, Yvonne. Why are you interested in me?" I reached up and brushed the hair out of her face. "I had no choice in it. A wizard waved a wand at me." "...a wizard?" "Must have been. Can't think of any other reason why I'd be interested in someone who's smart, fun to talk to, good-hearted, and sexy as hell." I was stroking her behind the ears, a spot that made her half-close her eyes with pleasure. "Hmm." And the discussion trailed off as we kissed again, bodies twining, skin sliding against skin, shedding my clothes. There was no hurry about it; she'd taken the edge off for me already, and although I felt like returning the favour at some point, we had all night. Well, I had an exam the next day, but I probably didn't need sleep for that. Still, there was something that nagged at me... "Phoebe?" "Mmph?" She was suckling on my breast, with a delicious hint of teeth, and I didn't really want to interrupt that. But... "Did you need to call your grandma?" "Oh, shit, yes! Thanks. Sorry, I got distracted." "No problem." As she rolled over and reached for the phone on her bedside cabinet I tickled her arse, and she swatted my hand away. "Be good." I blinked, mustering my most convincing innocent expression as Phoebe, still stark naked, selected the number and put the phone to her ear. Ring, ring... ring, ring... A voice on the far end, and Phoebe replied. "Yeia sou, Yaya! ... Yes, very well! I just got home." Which was stretching the truth a bit, but some things you don't tell your grandmother. I didn't want her to feel like she had to hurry the call, so I snuggled up against her back, arms wrapped around her chest. "No, no, Luke wasn't there. Really, we're... yes, I know... no. No... I know, Grandma, and it's sweet of you, but I'm the one that broke it off. I'm doing okay, I just don't feel like talking about it now." I could feel her tensing up, and I gave her ribs a soft squeeze and felt her relax again. There was a patch of silence, and then Yaya asked something else. "We don't have another gig booked yet, Derek's working on it. But I'm expecting the teaching to pick up once the school holidays end... oh, that's sweet, but I should be okay." The conversation went on for a while, partly in Greek and partly in English. From what I could hear Grandma was worried about Phoebe's finances, and Phoebe was trying to reassure her. I wasn't sure I believed her myself; it didn't sound as if teaching was bringing in enough to pay the bills. Phoebe was getting prickly again — clearly this wasn't her favourite topic — and I decided that I might as well be a helpful guest. I began to work on soothing her, stroking her hair, rubbing her shoulders like I'd done on the morning after the party, scratching up and down her back. She arched backward, pressing into my fingernails, and tried a diversionary tactic. "But enough about me, Yaya, what mischief have you been up to?" I grazed my fingernails over her hips, nuzzled at her wrist. "Oh, that's good. Still playing bocce?" I pulled her over onto her back, perched astride her, stroking her breasts — I adored the way they flattened against her chest — and smiled down at her as she smiled up at me, face adrift in a black curly sea, phone pressed to her ear. Yaya's voice, telling some lengthy story. "Well, that's a shame. If it isn't getting any better, you should see a doctor. Or a physio." I drew back until I was sitting upright, forefingers circling her nipples: gramophone needles measuring out a song you wouldn't hear on the radio. Let her read my lips: I want you. Her lips parted, and she closed her eyes as I leaned forward again and covered her breasts with my hands, her bush tickling my thighs. But her multi-tasking abilities were impressive. "No, no, you don't know that, Grandma. There might be something they can help with." I sank down on her, my breasts pancaked against hers, Yaya at one ear and me at the other. Caught her earlobe in my teeth, traced the whorls of her ear, felt her breathing shift. Her free hand came around to rest lightly in the small of my back. "Well, remember when I did my shoulder? ... yes, but the physio really helped." I squeezed my hand between us, compressed between my belly and hers, sliding southwards. Phoebe's eyes opened abruptly, legs squeezing together, and she held the phone away and pressed it into the pillow as she hissed into my ear: "Bad girl! Bad!" I whispered back: "Open your legs." Tightened my grip on her nipples, then added: "Or I won't fuck you." A tiny 'oh' sound and she yielded to my hand, let me run my fingers down between her labia, bumping over her nub. My knees sank between hers, and she brought the phone back to her ear. "Sorry, I didn't hear that... say again?" Yaya, loud enough that I could make out the odd word: something about an elderly friend. Me, whispering at the same time: "I want to feel you come. Want to make you squeak." Phoebe, shuddering, as I worked two fingers into her. Just to the first knuckle. Trying to concentrate, she was. "Oh... poor thing... yes, of course. I'm sure he'd love that. You're not... sweet on him, are you, Yaya! I won't tell if you are!" Or perhaps it was "ah!", for I'd just slipped my fingers in deeper, and begun to rub around her clit with my thumb. A chuckle from the phone, and something I didn't catch. But Phoebe did: "Oh, Yaya, I very much doubt that." Hips beginning to rock against my hand. I whispered: "Want to fuck you," and her hand tightened at my back. Then I slid down her body, friction touching off a thousand nerve endings, fingers still inside her. Lowered my mouth and met her, swimming in her musk and the salt-sweat of the day, fingers curling, feeling her smother a gasp as she spoke some words of encouragement. To me or to Yaya? I wasn't sure and I didn't care. I lashed her with my tongue and fingers, tossing her about like a lifeboat in a storm, feeling her muscles begin to flutter, the boat closer and closer to capsizing. But I needed to see her. And so, at the last I pulled back, sat upright between her knees, watched her as I played her with both hands, inside and out. Watched her face, eyes imploring me, cheeks flushed. Watched her body heaving silently, breasts rolling, her free hand clawing the pillow as I strummed her. Until at the last she let the phone clatter to the floor and turned sideways, smothering her cries in the pillow. "oh! oh! fuck! oh..." Eventually she came down enough to retrieve the handset — "Sorry, Yaya! I banged my funny-bone and dropped the phone!" — but she wasn't quite done, and I made her gasp and whimper a few more times while they talked. At last when Phoebe's body had nothing left to give, I lay down beside her, pushed the phone aside, kissed her deeply. My muscles were starting to remember how sore they still were, but it didn't seem to matter much. She hugged me to her, then turned aside, back to the phone. "Yes, that'd be lovely. I'm planning to come down for Easter, so you can show me then. But I really should get some sleep now, it's been a busy day." She squeezed my arse. "Yes, I will. Love you too, Yaya." Then she put the phone away, and whispered to me: "You are a very bad influence." "And you're a temptation." "Mmm." We fell asleep in one another's arms. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 06 Friday reminded me why it is that I hate Sydney summers. Sydney doesn't get any hotter than Melbourne, but it's a horribly muggy kind of heat. I was already getting sweaty by the time I got to the train station, and the forecast looked ugly: thirty-eight degrees, ninety-eight percent humidity. I was glad to get into the cooler air of the conference centre. The coordinators started with a short recap of the week's material and then went straight to our final exam. No drama there; although I was short on sleep, I'd done more than enough study to get me through. We wrapped up around noon, with assurances that our certificates would be in the mail, and went out to celebrate at a nearby Turkish restaurant. It was only two blocks' walk, but I could feel myself getting sticky again on the way. I'd switched off my phone for the exam, and I didn't remember to switch it back on until I was halfway through my salad. Not long after a message came through from Phoebe. Mmm. Still blissed out from last night. There was a missed call notification as well, stamped a couple of hours ago. I made sure my screen was out of view of my classmates — I needn't have worried, half of them were checking their own messages — and tapped in a reply. Sorry, had phone off for exam. Turned on now. The phone also. You're incorrigible. What time do you finish? Depends how good you are... oh, class? Just out now, having lunch. Call you soon? Sure. I finished lunch and said my good-byes to my classmates, then found myself a quiet corner to make the call. "Hey Phoebe!" "Hi! How was the exam?" "Not bad. Pretty sure I passed. What's doing?" "Coming into town to pick up some sheet music, thinking we could meet up and grab stuff for tonight?" "Deal." I followed her directions to J. Lochowitz Fine Music and waited inside, out of the heat. Although my knowledge of music is on a par with my knowledge of cheese (know what I like, no idea how it's made, fond of blues) it was obvious even to my naïve eyes that this place was Serious Business. The shop was bigger on the inside than it had looked from the street, and it was full. Rack upon rack of instruments, from violins to flutes, drums to trumpets, small rattles to a concert grand. Most of the selection was classical, but here and there were a few concessions to the twentieth century: a display of electric guitars and basses, some synthesisers, and in a glass case something that might even have been a theremin. What they didn't have was anything cheap. This wasn't the sort of place you'd visit to buy one of those crappy plastic recorders for little Johnny's music class; aside from some of the smaller percussion instruments I couldn't see anything under two hundred dollars, and many of the tags I checked (all handwritten) were well into four figures. I'd arrived well before Phoebe, and on my own I felt like like an interloper. After a brief look around I positioned myself in an alcove and picked up a brochure for protective camouflage. I'd been there about five minutes and had just started reading about the basics of pipe organ restoration when I felt a presence behind me. "Can I help you, madam?" He must have been at least eighty, a wizened little man in a natty brown suit, with a trace of something European in his accent and mild disapproval in his countenance. "No thank you, I'm just waiting for my... friend." Was that the right word? I really wasn't sure. "She's coming for some music." "Oh. Very well, then. If you require any help, I will be here!" And he gave me a small but formal bow and trundled back to the register, the gait reminding me somehow of a Christmas beetle. A few minutes later I heard the door jingle, and then the old man's voice. "Hello Miss Phoebe!" "Hello Janos! How are you?" "Very well, thank you. Is this young lady waiting for you?" "Yes, this is my friend Yvonne from Melbourne. Yvonne, this is Mr. Janos." This time he smiled at me and bowed a little deeper (only a little); apparently Phoebe's introduction had marked me as somebody unlikely to leave sticky fingerprints on the merchandise. "Janos, did my music come in?" "Upstairs, Miss Phoebe. Rachel will see to you." And he turned to deal with a scruffy young man who'd just wandered in and was breathing too heavily on the violins. As we climbed the stairs, Phoebe filled in the blanks. "Used to work here while I was doing my degree. Still fill in once in a while when somebody's sick or on holiday, and Janos sends teaching business my way if anybody asks. He's had this place almost forty years, built the business up from nothing." "He seems a bit... intense?" "Oh yes. And very highbrow views on music. Disapproves of almost anything past the 1920s." "But they sell electric guitars here, don't they? And synths?" "Oh, he doesn't disapprove quite enough to let his principles get in the way of business. He knows enough about rock music to sell a good electric guitar, he just doesn't like it. You should have seen his face when some guy came in to try one of the guitars and started on Mötley Crüe. I thought Janos was going to throw holy water on him." By that time we'd passed a locked store-room and reached the smaller room on the third floor: sheet music, books, and accessories. Phoebe introduced me to Rachel, a young lady who nodded politely at me before rummaging through a drawer behind the counter. "The Glass concerto?" "That's the one." Phoebe paid, tucked the score into her bag, and we started back downstairs. "Something to experiment with in my free time. And an excuse to visit my secret crush." "Er, what?" "I'll introduce you!" Before I could make sense of that, she'd taken my hand and pulled me over to a display in the back corner. "Isn't she beautiful?" At first I wasn't sure what I was looking at. It made me think of a wizard's staff, or a sci-fi weapon: gleaming whiteness, a long central shaft complemented by curved side pieces. It had buttons and what looked like power and data ports, and after a while I noticed the strings... "Is that an electric cello? I didn't know they made those." "Oh yes. They make electric everythings these days." "Does your cello know you're looking at other cellos? Won't she be jealous?" I slipped one arm around Phoebe's waist — nothing improper, just two good friends together — but she politely nudged it away with a softly-spoken "Not here." Then, as if nothing had happened: "Nah. Beneath that conservative wooden exterior, she has some very modern notions. You should hear some of the things she and I get up to when nobody else is around." "Oh?" "Jazz." "Disreputable." "Show tunes." "Appalling." "Pop music." "Scandalous!" I attempted my best outraged look. "And she understands I have... needs. Needs that can't always be met the old-fashioned way." "Do tell." Oh, how I wanted to touch her at that moment. Just a fingertip on her throat would send shivers through her... "Perhaps I should show you." She turned toward the register, where Janos stood leafing through a catalogue of some description. "Janos? Do you think I could...?" He put down the brochure. "Of course, my dear. You are always welcome to play anything here. You know how an instrument should be treated. Though why you'd keep playing that when you have such a beautiful one of your own..." "I want to show Yvonne what it's like. She's never seen an electric cello before." "Well." There was an implied kids these days. "Use these, if you would? I have to make a phone call." He brought over two sets of headphones and an adaptor, and Phoebe set up in the corner while I pulled up a seat. When he had returned to the register she leant forward under the pretext of plugging things in, and whispered to me. "He thinks she's not worthy of me. But there's more to her than he sees." She plugged in one set of headphones, put them on, tinkered with the buttons and then tested and tuned each of the strings in turn. It was odd to watch. I'd become familiar with those motions, albeit on a different instrument, and every time she drew the bow over the string I expected to hear the notes, vibrant and loud. But without the resonance of the wooden chamber there was almost nothing. "I have to be careful when I play with milady. She has a tendency to wake the neighbours. This one, on the other hand..." When the strings were tuned to her satisfaction she nodded, and passed me the other set of 'phones to wear. "I can play her, and nobody else in the world knows what I'm up to. Except you." She began, playing the Bach Prelude that I'd heard the other day. Last time she'd been upset and distracted; this time she was composed, and I could hear it in how she played. To me, no great audio buff, it sounded just like a real cello as she danced through Bach's arpeggios. Perhaps a minute in, I realised the music had changed. She was still playing arpeggios at the same tempo as before. But she'd drifted away from Bach, and one note at a time those arpeggios had mutated into something that I couldn't place but which sounded maddeningly familiar. She had a wicked look on her face, and occasionally she'd look over in Janos' direction to make sure he wasn't close enough to catch her out. Then, without breaking time, she touched a button and the sound changed from cello to something like an electric guitar. I could have kicked myself for not recognising it: 'Sweet Child O' Mine', guaranteed to be playing every hour of every day on somebody's overpriced car stereo. I mouthed: "Bad Phoebe!" She stuck out her tongue. Then her gaze shifted, over my shoulder, and by the time I heard Janos coming up behind me she'd already shifted back to the Prelude. Afterwards, on the train back to her place, we talked about cellos. "So, what would you do with an electric? Are you planning to work with different sounds?" "A bit of that. And to be honest, it'd be nice to have something cheaper and sturdier than my regular cello, so I can haul it around and busk sometimes and not have a heart attack every time somebody bumps it. " "Cheaper? How much does a cello usually cost?" "Basic electric, decent quality, about two or three thousand. The one I showed you is a bit more because it's a very good model, excellent sound and a lot of extra functionality. You could simulate just about any sound you like on that, or load in a recording and play cello karaoke with it. Classical cello... a reasonable beginner's model will cost you about fifteen hundred plus accessories, and at least twice that for a pro." She wasn't quite making eye contact, like there was something she didn't want to mention. And besides, I'd seen the price tag in Lochowitz Fine Music: not much change from six thousand dollars. If that's still the cheaper option... "If you don't mind me asking... how much did yours cost you?" A sigh and a resigned look. "Okaaay. Let me tell you about her. When I was in school, I had a crappy rental. I told Dad I wanted to be a professional cellist, and I needed something better. He said the rental was good enough to see me through exams, and after that we'd see about getting me a cello of my own. So I practiced hard, came top of the school in music by a long way, and when I got accepted into my Bachelor of Music he told me he had something special for me. Took me into the lounge room, made me close my eyes, and when I opened them again... there she was. Utterly beautiful. Imported from Italy, he must have been planning it for months. He wouldn't tell me how much he paid, won't even let me see the insurance, but from what I know of cellos... probably about fifteen thousand dollars." She said fifteen thousand dollars without any kind of emphasis. As if she'd practiced saying it to herself, trying to make it sound normal. I winced inwardly when I thought about how I'd knocked over that instrument the night before. "Guilt present?" "I don't think so. No, he just wanted to do something really nice for me. So he went and talked to my teacher about cellos and got me a very good cello. And he got his money's worth. She looks beautiful, she sounds superb. But..." She was twisting the strap of her bag between her hands. "I walked into my first class at the Conservatorium, and I had a better instrument than the teacher. I heard one of my classmates talking about 'that spoiled little dilettante' when she didn't think I was near. After that I kept imagining what else they must be saying behind my back. When I was playing well, it's only because my dad bought me an expensive instrument. Playing badly — 'she doesn't deserve that cello, it should be with someone worthy'. "It's stupid, but I made myself really miserable over that for two years. Practised incessantly, but I still felt like a five-thousand-dollar cellist with a fifteen-thousand-dollar cello. Slept around with guys I didn't even like, drank too much. Tried coke a couple of times. Probably would've ended up one of those rich girls in and out of rehab, but Jill and Maria caught me out early on and gave me a talking to. I decided the best thing was to change my situation. Took a six-month break, then transferred and finished my degree at Sydney. "So, yeah. I love my cello, I'll always love playing her, and it means a lot that Dad gave her to me. I don't ever want to replace her. But sometimes I want to be able to sit down and play something that doesn't have that baggage. Something I've earned and paid for with my own money. Does that make sense?" "It does." The carriage had almost emptied and nobody was near us. I leaned forward and kissed her on the lips; she looked surprised but not displeased. "Phoebe?" "Yes?" "When we get back to your place, I would like to kiss you some more. A lot more." She reached out and squeezed my hand. "I'd like that very much." It was close to forty degrees when we got off the train, and although it wasn't a long walk my armpits had started to squelch by the time we got to Phoebe's place. I was eager to get inside into the cool air; after a shower and a change, the two of us could figure out some way to end the afternoon. But when we opened the door, it was hotter inside as out. "Christ, don't tell me the air conditioning's packed in. Not the day for it." "The microwave's off too. And..." I flicked the light switch by the door: nothing. "Your power's out, that's what's happened." I located the fuse box at the back of the main house. The whole of the granny flat was on one circuit, and the breaker had tripped. But when I switched it on, it went straight back off again. Even when we unplugged everything in the flat and switched off all the lights, the breaker wasn't having a bar of it. "Sorry, but I think the breaker's broken. You're going to need an electrician." "Shit." We were both at that tired-hot-cranky stage where everything seems too hard and too complicated. "Time to call the landlords." She tapped on her phone. After a few rings I heard somebody answer, and Phoebe replied. "Hi Alistair, it's Phoebe... are you home? Yeah, my power has gone out. My friend looked at it, she thinks it needs an electrician... yeah, please. Thanks." And she hung up. A couple of minutes later, I heard the back door slam and Alistair Taylor appeared, a gruff-looking man in his sixties with a military bearing. Phoebe introduced me as a friend visiting from Melbourne for a few days. I explained what we'd done to check the power, but he insisted on repeating it all: flip the switches, try the breaker, unplug everything, try the breaker again. "Hum. I'd better call the electrician." He looked at his watch. "Though I don't fancy he'll come out today. S'pose I'd better run an extension out for your fridge. Pity the aircon's wired into the circuit directly or we could do that too." Phoebe nodded. "Do you think I could park my cello in your house? This heat isn't good for it." "Yes, of course. Tell you what, you should come sit in our lounge room until it cools off." That sounded better than broiling, so we followed him back to the main house where he and Phoebe introduced me to his wife Maggie. She looked a few years younger than Alistair, and her manner was friendly but shrewd. "A pleasure to meet you, Yvonne. So you're Phoebe's mystery guest." "I suppose I am." "We thought perhaps she had a gentleman friend visiting." "Oh no," Phoebe replied. "Yvonne is certainly not a gentleman." Then, before anybody could make too much of that, she added: "She's up from Melbourne for the week for a training course." "I thought you must have somebody staying." Maggie turned to me. "Usually she practices five hours a day. If the weather's nice I leave the dining-room door open so I can hear her better." The look on Phoebe's face told me this was news to her, and I suspected I wasn't the only person suddenly thinking of just how much noise we'd been making of late. "...But this week, it's been so quiet in the evenings." I couldn't tell whether Maggie was being truthful or diplomatic, but it seemed like time to say something. "Speaking of which, sorry about the clatter last night. I was helping Phoebe in with her cello and we took a tumble." No, Yvonne, rephrase! "Oh, that's perfectly all right, dear. I just thought at first it might be burglars. You know, you're still looking flushed" — blushing, more like — "would you two like to use our shower?" That seemed like an excellent idea. Phoebe fetched a change of clothes for us both and we showered (separately, alas) while Alistair set up the extension cord and chased up an electrician. By the time I got out of the water and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts I was feeling much more human. Alistair harrumphed as he put down the phone. "Best he can manage is tomorrow afternoon." "Well, dear." Maggie put down her crossword and looked at Phoebe over the top of her spectacles. "Why don't the two of you stay for dinner? Patrick and Kate will be here, and I've more than enough food for extras. I daresay nobody will be eating much in this weather." So we stayed. Over dinner I got to know the Taylors better: Alistair was indeed a retired Army colonel, Maggie was an ex-headmistress who kept her hand in with relief teaching, their son Pat and daughter Kate were both in Customs. Pat worked the IT end of things, so we compared notes on our jobs. Afterwards, as we helped clear the plates, Maggie asked: "Phoebe, Yvonne, would you like to join us for a round of Scrabble or two?" I looked questioningly at Phoebe and she looked right back at me; I had other ideas, and I could see she did too. But it was hard to think of a polite excuse. Besides, our previous conversation with Maggie had made me uncomfortably aware of just how close Phoebe's flat was to their dining room. "Sure, why not?" Since we had too many players, Alistair volunteered to sit out and read his newspaper while the rest of us crowded around the board. I like to think I'm a reasonably good player, but the Taylors treated it like a blood sport, and it wasn't long before Phoebe and I were trailing badly. Halfway through the game, after Pat had scored eighty-five points in one play (how long has 'ST' been a word?) I surreptitiously slipped out my phone and texted Phoebe, who was sitting across the table from me. If we were playing this one for clothes, we'd both be naked by now. About a minute later, while Phoebe was considering her own turn, her phone buzzed. By that time I had both my hands in plain sight, fiddling with my rack (of tiles), and at first she looked annoyed at the interruption. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 06 "Who's that, Phoebe?" asked Kate. Phoebe didn't give anything away as she read the message and tapped in a reply. "Oh, just a friend up to mischief." "Like you can talk," I replied. "After what you got up to at the music shop today." My phone was vibrating, but I didn't want to give us away by checking it just yet. Maggie looked curious. "Oh? What have you been up to, Phoebe?" "Well." She laid down her word: 'CASTOR'. "Sixteen points..." The others were looking at the board, probably weighing up the openings she'd just given them, so I took the chance to sneak a look at her message to me: You make that sound like a bad thing. "...I was showing Yvonne the electric cello. Now, Mr. Janos doesn't approve of rock..." A touch on my ankle. Phoebe's bare toe, rubbing against my skin, hooking around to tickle at the back of my calf. "...so I started out playing a nice bit of Bach..." Sliding upwards. "...he's heard me play that one before, he knows it's one of my favourites..." Up and down, stroking. Don't think about being ticklish! "...but we were wearing headphones this time, so he couldn't hear it..." Behind my knee. I could feel myself starting to blush. I slipped my hand below the tablecloth and caught her by the ankle, rubbed her calf with my thumb. "Your turn, Yvonne." Maggie might be listening to Phoebe, but she wasn't going to let it distract her from the battle in front of us. "Oh, um." I laid out QAT: not too impressive, but at least it would save me from getting stuck with the Q, and it was short enough to play one-handed without attracting notice. "Twelve points." And as Phoebe finished her story, I trapped her heel between my knees, ran fingernails all over her foot and watched her try not to squirm. She glared at me, but to no avail, and I started toying with her toes. Kate, working to catch up to her husband with MAXED and XI: "So, Yvonne, you're here for the weekend? What do you have planned tomorrow?" "Well, I was thinking of going to Scotty's Market." Under the table, I took Phoebe's big toe between my fingers and wiggled it side-to-side. "But it's been a hectic week, I might end up being lazy and just staying home." At which point I wiggled her second toe all around, eased it away from its big neighbour, and slid my forefinger between the two. Try it some time. You might be surprised how sensitive a lady is between the toes, especially after a good shower. I felt her calf muscles tense, saw her inhale a little harder than normal before she replied. "Um. Scotty's is overrated, if you ask me..." I explored that little sensitive spot. "Yes?" "I... if we don't have aircon tomorrow, my place is going to be horrible. I was going to ask, have you visited the Blue Mountains?" Stroke. Tease. Her toes spread apart, my fingertip busy between them, another finger curled round to caress the pad beneath. "I've never been. Sounds lovely. By the way, Phoebe?" "...yes?" "I think it's your go." "Oh. Sorry!" Was that a hint of a blush? She frowned at her tiles and ran fingers through her hair, eventually managing to squeeze CODA into a tight spot. That gave her the last two tiles from the bag, but she never got to play them. Maggie pounced, using Phoebe's word to play PANICKED, and that was game over. I was left with too many points in my hand and not nearly enough on the board. I released Phoebe's foot and excused myself to go use the facilities. After doing my business and washing my hands, I opened the bathroom door to find Phoebe standing there waiting for her turn, with her back to me. Before she could turn around I grabbed her and pulled her in, closing the door behind her, holding her tight and kissing her hard. "I want you, Phoebe." "Oh god. I, yes, but not here!" She pushed me back. "Need to be discreet." "Then you do the talking. If we have to sit through another massacre like that one, I'm really going to molest you under the table." I slipped my hand between her legs, felt her squirm. "And if you come that'll be your problem, not mine." We returned to the table, where the Taylors had already dealt out the tiles for a new game, and Phoebe made our apologies: we'd had a long day, and she was still headachey from the heat, and thank you that's very kind but she didn't need a Panadol, and we probably shouldn't stay for another game, not if we're heading up to the mountains tomorrow. 
From the back door of their dining room it was a very short walk (too short!) to Phoebe's flat. The evening breeze had picked up, pleasantly cool. By tacit agreement, at her door we stopped and listened: yes, we could hear the Taylors' conversation over the gaming table. Not clear enough to make out the words, but enough to make it clear that we'd better be quiet. If that cat wasn't already out of the bag. Alistair had run the extension cord through Phoebe's front door, which meant we couldn't close it enough to latch. As soon as we were inside I took her by the waist and pulled her in for another kiss, like I had in the bathroom. This time she didn't resist, not when I kissed her on the lips, not when I kissed down the side of her neck, not when my fingertip ran down along her throat and into the 'V' of her blouse, and flipped open her top button. "I have a new game," I whispered, fingernails grazing her sternum, nudging the door almost-closed with my foot. "Oh?" She nipped at my lip, released it. "How do we play?" "If you manage to stay quiet, you win. If you don't, I win." "I think we've played that one before." "That's not 'quiet'. You lose." I caught her nipple through the bra, squeezed, twisted. She gasped, and I leant in to lick her earlobe. "Want to play again?" An intake of breath. No answer. "You're learning. I'll take that as a yes." I kept hold of her, backed toward the bed (not quite tripping over my suitcase on the way), sat down with her standing in front of me. With the door almost-closed and the curtains drawn it was very dark, but I had no difficulty working by touch. My hands slid down her front, popping her buttons down to her waist. As I worked she began to run her hands over me, sliding under the hem of my T-shirt and dragging up my sides. I circled her belly, fingertip spiralling in to lodge in her navel. "I'm pretty sure Alistair and Maggie and Pat and Kate will be playing their game for a while yet." My other hand slipped down past her shorts, stroked her thigh, slid between her knees. "Do you know what would be happening if we were still in there?" Above me, I felt her shake her head. "I'd be sitting next to you." Fingers sliding up, inside the leg of her shorts, moving inwards. "And you would be trying to keep a straight face and concentrate on the game." Finding the gusset of her underwear, feeling her heat through the fabric, hearing the shift in her breath. Her hands pulling my T-shirt upwards, pausing at my breasts. "Trying not to let them know that I've got my hand in your shorts and I'm touching you." Nudging the gusset aside. "Do you think you'd be able to hide it when I slipped my fingers inside you?" And I did it, and felt her bend at the knees, and even as a sigh escaped her lips she shook her head again. "No, I don't think so either. Or I would've stayed." Deeper in, heat engulfing my fingers, my other hand moving down to stroke the sensitive spot at the back of her knee. "But now we're back here —" slickened fingers, in, out "— we can do what we want. Can't we?" Her hands on me tightened. "Come on, sweet thing." And I rose to my feet, finished undressing her, let her do the same for me. Her fingers were clever and gentle, and paused in all the right places. When it was done we stood face to face, hip to hip, breast to breast, warmer than the night air. I folded my arms around her and stroked her neck, and I felt her fingers on my buttocks. "Let's go to bed." And we rolled onto the bed together, running hands over one another, in no particular hurry; just the friction of her body against mine was delicious. I kissed her throat and her breasts, and I eased her onto her back and crouched astride her kissing her mouth. That was the moment when a soft male voice spoke from under the bed in a creepy sing-song: "Daisy." If I hadn't been there, I think Phoebe would have hit the roof. As it was she started, banging her chin into my lip, ramming it into my teeth, and scrambled backward into the corner against the wall, "Jesus!" I clutched my mouth and tasted copper, too dazed to respond to her. There was a sound of heavy breathing nearby and a hissing noise behind it. And then the voice again, lower this time, sing-song: "Daisy." "S' okay," I managed to mumble through a mouthful of blood. "It's just —" "...give me your answer, do." "— my phone. Low battery alert." "I'm half crazy, all for the love of you...." And the voice trailed off, dropping to an inhumanly low pitch before petering out altogether: HAL's death scene, from '2001'. "God, Yvonne! I thought there was a burglar in here!" She sounded quite upset, and I hugged her, feeling her trembling. But after a little while it turned into a quavering sort of giggle. "Well, I guess I lost that round." "Not... part of my strategy." My bottom lip was starting to throb, and the 'p's and 'm's and 'f's hurt coming out. She must have noticed the oddness of my speech: "Are you okay? I didn't mean to whack you like that." "Just my lip. Bumped it a bit." I reached for the switch by the bed, but of course the light wasn't working. "Got a torch?" "Top drawer. Are you okay?" "Yeah." I liked that word; it might not be one hundred percent true, but I could pronounce it without using my lips. I pulled open the drawer, fumbled around until I found something cylindrical, and pushed the switch at the end. Buzzzzzzzzz. "Oh. Yeah. Um, that's not the torch." She reached past me, brushing against my shoulder in the darkness, and scrabbled about. "Here." Then there was light, dazzling at first. Phoebe pointed the torch at me and examined my face anxiously. "Oh, poor dear, I'm SO sorry." She pulled out a handkerchief from under the pillow and used it to dab at my face. "Let me get something for that." She went to the freezer and brought back an ice-pack wrapped in a dishtowel. I sat on the bed with my back against the wall and held the pack to my lip. The cold was unpleasant, but it helped dull the ache, and I hoped it would reduce the bruising. After a couple of minutes: "Feeling any better?" "Uh-huh." I took the ice away for a moment and wobbled my lip tentatively. "Going to bruise a bit, but it'll be okay." "I don't usually maul people like that. Really." "Hope not. Like to think I'm special." "No fear." She patted my shoulder. "Aw, you're shivering!" So I was. The night air had cooled off a little, but not that much; most of it was the cold of the ice-pack, and the adrenaline that comes with an unexpected smack in the teeth. "So come warm me." She switched off the torch and climbed halfway over me, kneeling astride my hips, and we held one another while I warmed up again. It was very effective, and it wasn't long before I started to think less about my lip and more about the proximity of a naked woman. Comforting embraces turned into something more sensual: her fingers running down my spine, mine stroking her thighs. I sat, leaned her backwards, and kissed her throat, her chest. It was too dark to see, but I imagined I was leaving bloody smudges on her breasts; it's not something I'd thought to sexualise before, but that evening it was a powerfully arousing image. "Let me try something." I shuffled her back until she was sitting between my legs facing me, her own legs stretched out over mine. Then I pulled my right leg in, rescuing it from under her, and hooked it over the top instead. Now we were symmetric: face-to-face, her right leg up over my left, and mine over hers, holding one another close together and touching in all sorts of interesting places. It wasn't a relaxed position — it took a bit of muscle strain to keep us there, and my legs hadn't entirely forgiven me for the other day's climbing session — but it was no less enjoyable for the tension it created. As we fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position where neither of us was in danger of falling over, every movement gave us both little flickers of pressure on overexcited nerve endings. Not orgasmic in itself, but very very pleasant all the same. And once we'd made ourselves as comfortable as we were going to get we settled into a slow rocking motion, arms clasped around one another, Phoebe very gently kissing my blood-salted mouth. Our movement was very slight, and a voyeur might have seen only two women locked together like a statue, clasped as close as hunger and desire. But in the middle of that embrace the sensation was delicious. I could feel it pulse in my own flesh; I could feel that pulse mirrored in Phoebe's flesh, in the tempo of her breath and the pressure of her arms on me. It felt like we were there for hours. But eventually my hip started to twinge and I knew we were going to have to finish some time. I reached back behind me a moment, then slipped my hand in between our bellies and downwards through our tangled curls... Buzzzzzzzzz. I held Phoebe's vibrator with the head squeezed in between us, right where it needed to be. It was only a little one, but it felt like all the bones in my pelvis were humming in sympathy. Since my hip was already complaining I let Phoebe do the work, bucking against me and the vibe, grinding. I came first — perhaps because I was handling the vibe — and perhaps second as well, depending on how you count these things. But she was close behind. When she was done I switched off the vibe and put it aside, and we sat there breathlessly in one another's arms until my leg could stand it no longer and we had to disentangle. Afterwards, as we lay caught up in lassitude, wrapped up in one another, she said: "Thank god you're not a musician." "Hmm?" "I'd be forever measuring myself against you. Feeling threatened and inadequate if you were good enough to notice my imperfections, or feeling sorry for you if you weren't." "Hm. No, I'm happy with this instrument." I ran my fingernails lightly down her back: five parallel lines, a clef that would be gone before the light came. She wriggled against me. "Mmm. You play beautifully." "You're not so bad yourself." And somewhere not long after that, we drifted off. On Saturday we fled the heat of Phoebe's flat and the din of Chinese New Year, and visited the Blue Mountains. We got up early, took the train up to Leura, browsed antiques and bookshops and admired the view: the city sprawled out below us, eucalyptus forests and huge sandstone gorges around us, and in the distance the blue haze of evaporated eucalyptus oil that gives the mountains their name. It was cooler and much less humid than down in the city, pleasant enough that we went for a walk along one of the tourist tracks after lunch. I had thought of taking advantage of the solitude, but the walk was popular that day, and we scarcely had a moment to ourselves along the way. The most I managed was a quick kiss stolen in a short lull between Japanese tourists and a noisy pair of German backpackers. It was getting dark by the time we got back to the station, and it was a long trip back, almost three hours altogether. Phoebe and I sat side by side and eventually — tired out by an early start and a busy week — we fell asleep leaning on one another, holding hands under the jacket draped across our laps. When we got back to her place the power was back on; the electrician had been and gone. We tumbled into bed and slept. No doubt I could have tempted Phoebe in other directions, but that night I preferred to just hold her and sleep with her; as good as the sex had been, I wanted to remind myself (and her?) that it wasn't just about the sex. My last day in Sydney flew by. We both slept in, and by the time I was up and packed it was time to start thinking about my flight. Phoebe accompanied me into town and we shared afternoon tea at a cafe. We chatted for a while about inconsequential things, and then I said what was on my mind. "Phoebe, I've had a lovely week here with you. I don't just mean the sex." I mouthed the word 'sex' without speaking it aloud; the cafe was crowded and I didn't want to embarrass her. "Are you, can we... would this happen again? Or is it a one-off?" Not the most articulate speech in history, but enough. "Um." She looked down, not meeting my eyes. "I had a lovely time too. Seeing you again is awfully tempting. But I'm at an odd place right now. Still on the rebound from Luke. It's like... going on holiday to a place that's beautiful and lovely, but not knowing whether you could actually live there?" "Oh." She still didn't look up, but she touched the back of my hand with one finger. "That's not a 'no'. I'd like to keep in touch and... see how things go? I'll be down again in a couple of months, Yaya always likes to have the family together for Easter, and maybe we could meet up then? That's Wog Easter, it's the weekend after the long weekend." "Okay." Although that would depend very much on where things were by Easter. I could feel a great big crush forming in my belly. After I'd gone home, if Phoebe were to decide the last week had just been a vacation from heterosexuality, I didn't think we would be staying in touch. I'm not cut out to be a holiday destination. Our awkward moment was interrupted by a burst of operetta from Phoebe's phone: "Fo-or he himself has sa-aid it — And it's greatly to his cre-e-dit!" "Dad." She picked up: "Hi, Dad, how are you — what? Oh, oh no. Oh dear. Well, has she — okay, that's good, at least." A long pause. "Should I come down? I can probably get something tonight, but I'll need to borrow — okay then, well, let me know if she does want me to come. Give her my love, and let me know when she's okay for a phone call. And look after yourself, Dad. I love you too. Bye." She put away the phone, and I waited until she spoke. "Dad's taken Yaya to hospital, he thinks she's broken her arm." "Did she fall?" "No, she was just digging in the garden with a shovel and it went... they'll know when they get an X-ray, but it sounds like osteoporosis to me. She's not young, and I've been encouraging her to get checked for it for years, but she doesn't like doctors." "Oh dear. Will she be okay?" I gave her hand a comforting squeeze, and she reciprocated. "Hope so. She's stubborn as hell, the main problem will be forcing her to go easy on it long enough for it to heal." It was almost time, so we paid the bill and wheeled my suitcase to the station. Phoebe was headed in the opposite direction, but first she accompanied me to wait for the airport train. "Safe trip back, Yvonne. Text me if your flight gets held up or anything." "I will." A breeze building in the tunnel: my train coming in. "And look after yourself. Best wishes to your grandma." I'd have said: feel free to stay at my place if you need to visit. But of course, she'd be staying with her dad. "Thanks." The train squealed to a stop, and the doors opened. "Look after yourself, and I'll see you at Easter. Text me tonight so I know you've arrived safe?" She hugged me goodbye, and I hugged back. Then I got on board, and as the train pulled out I got to thinking about how long it was until Easter. But as it turned out, I was to see her sooner than that. It wasn't osteoporosis. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 07 75-year-old female, pathological fracture of the humerus with suspected osteosarcoma. Which is to say: Phoebe's yaya Kalliope, cancer growing in her arm, eating away at the bone until it became weak enough to break as she dug out a garden bed. Phoebe called me on Monday afternoon. I'd just sat down for a catch-up with my manager Susan, having spent the morning clearing the backlog after my week away, and ordinarily I would've ignored my phone. But it wasn't like Phoebe to call me at work, so I apologised to Susan and hurried off to a store room where I could talk without being overheard. That's where she told me what she'd heard from her father a few minutes earlier. "Shit. Oh, Phoebe, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" She sounded like she'd been crying. "They'll need to do a biopsy, but it sounded like they were pretty sure. Dad hasn't been able to talk to the oncologist yet, he's going to call me back later." "Oh, sweetie." "I just... I... She's always been so healthy. She's been saying her arm was hurting, I told her to see a doctor, but I just thought it was arthritis or something." A wet sniffle. "But she wouldn't go. She doesn't like doctors or hospitals." "Not your fault. Phoebe, are you okay?" A sigh: "Not really. I've got a student in fifteen minutes, too late to cancel. I'll manage." "Is there anything I can do here? Cats to feed? I can get to..." I realised I didn't actually know where Yaya's place was. "No, last one died a couple of years ago. I don't think there's anything you can do just now, but thanks." "Well, let me know if there is. But I wish I was there to give you a hug." "God, yes. I could do with that. You give good hugs... um, I'm sorry, I didn't think, are you at work?" "Yeah, but it can wait. Happy to talk as long as you need me." "I want to, but... if I talk now, I'll get all wound up again, and I need to have it together for my student. I should go. Call me later tonight?" "Definitely." *** Susan gave me a concerned look as I returned to her office. "Everything okay?" "Friend had some bad news. Sorry about that, didn't want to leave her hanging." "Not a problem. So, how was the course?" I told her what I'd learned in my training course. When somebody spends money on you it's politic to let them know they got their money's worth, so I'd spent the flight back making a list of things from the course that might be useful to us. After that I reassured her that I was getting through my backlog, and then we drifted into social chat. "And did you have a good trip? Did you get to do anything besides work?" "Oh yes!" It came across a little more enthusiastic than I'd intended. "Um, yes, Sydney was very nice." "And how's your aunt?" "My — oh, yeah, I didn't end up staying with her." Susan looked at me, eyebrows raised, until I felt myself starting to blush. "That good, eh?" "Um..." "Well, I'm glad you had a nice time. No reason why you can't enjoy a business trip, as long as the work gets done." I was spared further embarrassment — at least for a few minutes — by a knock on the door. "Come in!" It was Peter, holding a sheaf of papers. "Afternoon Susan. Yvonne." A tiny nod in my direction. "Susan, have you seen RJ around?" "No, what's up?" "I need to talk to him about the Redmond deal. He was supposed to be in this afternoon but I haven't seen him, and his phone's switched off. Janelle doesn't know where he is." "Sorry Peter, I haven't seen him either. I hope he's all right. I'll let you know if he does show up." I was vaguely aware of the Redmond Barry from office buzz. It was a pub near Southern Cross Station that had been sitting derelict for almost twenty years, owned by a string of businessmen who'd been content to wait and watch their investment as the land value went up and up (and occasionally down). But recently it had fallen into the hands of a developer who planned to knock it down and build a residential tower on the space. Eventually they'd want somebody to find tenants or buyers. Say close to a million per apartment, ten apartments on every floor, forty floors, and even at a one percent commission (plus incidentals) that's good money. Word had it we were putting in a bid for the job, and maybe Peter's business really was urgent. So after Peter left, I closed the door and told Susan, "I don't think RJ's going to be in today. His mother's in hospital, he's there with her." "Oh dear! Where'd you hear that?" I couldn't blame her for sounding surprised; I'm usually the last to know the gossip. And there was no sense in being evasive; that would just get her suspicions. "That was Phoebe that called me before." "Oh, RJ's daughter? You know her?" "Yeah, we met at the Christmas party." "That's right, I remember you were talking to her. Doesn't she live in..." And then she gave me a sharp look, and I felt a twinge of oh-fuck in my gut. "Yvonne, am I right in supposing...?" She didn't need to finish the question; my silence was all the answer she needed. Softly: "Be careful, Yvonne. You might be playing with fire there. RJ doesn't know, does he? He's not a bad sort, but he's a bit old-fashioned. I don't know that he'd handle it well, not with his daughter involved." "Yeah, I gathered. I didn't exactly plan it, it just sort of happened." "Well. You're both adults, and he's certainly not going to hear about it from me. Just be careful." There was an uncomfortable so-enough-about-my-sex-life sort of silence, and I decided to change the subject. Looking for diversions, I noticed a framed photo on the desk: Susan at some holiday park, standing in between a goateed man who I assumed was her husband Danny and a teenage girl who hadn't yet lost her puppy-fat. "I meant to ask, how're things going with Zara?" "Oh, not too bad. She relaxed a bit when we were camping. She's not the outdoor type, but I think she was glad to get away from things for a while. Still not sure whether to come out to her friends. What do you think?" "Hard to say. I didn't, but maybe she has better friends than me." Although if there's one thing I learned from school, it's not to depend to heavily on the good nature of schoolgirls. "But I hope she understands, once she tells her friends, everyone else in the school knows too." "Yeah, that was my worry." She glanced at the clock. "Well, I've kept you a while, better let you get back to things. Don't work too hard!" *** After getting home I had dinner, checked my email, and then called Phoebe. "Hey." "Hey there, gorgeous. How're you holding up?" "Oh... coping. Better than Dad, anyway." "Want to talk about it?" "No. Maybe later. Right now I just want someone to hold me and say nice things to me and make me feel okay." "I'm someone." "I noticed. So say something nice." "Well. There's a lady I know. She's beautiful. Sexy. Talented. Charming." "Oh, at first I thought you were talking about me." "Shut up and take a compliment, woman. Where was I? And she worries a lot, because she doesn't want to take the easy path in life. And that's part of what makes her interesting to know, and not just some snotty little rich girl. She plays the cello beautifully, and she's pretty good at cribbage too. But she has one really big flaw." "What's that?" "She's not in Melbourne. If she was in Melbourne I'd be able to hold her so tight. I'd cradle her head in my lap, and I'd stroke her beautiful long hair for as long as she wanted. And while I was doing that, I'd have a nice warm bath running." "That sounds nice. Are there bubbles?" "For you, I would organise bubbles. And then when you were ready, I'd take you into the bathroom and undress you." "I was going to say. If you spend too long stroking my hair, the bath will overflow." "It's a very big bath. Big enough that I can sit behind you and scrub your back with a scratchy sponge." "Mmm. That would be nice. Do you have soap?" "Plain and fancy. The fancy one smells of chocolate and it has little bits of glitter in it. I think I'd use that one on you." I did indeed have sparkly chocolate soap. I don't usually buy that stuff for myself, but they'd thrown it in as a freebie when I was doing my Christmas shopping. "I'd soap your back and your sides. Nice warm water." "Mmm. Leaning back into your arms." "Snuggling you tight. Whispering nice things to you. Lips on the back of your neck." "I miss that. I wish I was there." "Soaping you all over." "All over?" "Unless you stopped me." "I wasn't complaining. Yvonne, right now you can do anything you want, as long as you're kind to me." "Lots of soap, then. Making sure your front is clean." "Mmm-hmm. Where are your feet?" "Stretched out either side of you. Probably over your ankles, why?" "I think I'd like to stroke them. While you wash me." "You can do that. I'd be running a cloth over your chest. Soapy and warm and a little bit scratchy. Especially on your nipples and your areolae." "Mmm. Fancy words. Snuggled back in your arms and purring." "Still rubbing the cloth over your breasts. Dunking it into the water to keep it warm. Arms enclosing you." "Bliss." "Fingertips stroking your throat. Lifting your chin." "Bringing my hands up to cover your other hand on my chest." "Tugging on your chin, drawing you around until our lips touch." "Kissing you. Hands tight on yours." "And my fingers tightening on your breasts, squeezing and scratching. Pressing your knees between mine. My right hand letting go of your chin and moving down to stroke your belly." "Kissing you so deep and slow. My hands on yours." "My lips warm and wanting you. Right hand twisting back to catch your fingers between mine." "Caught." "Lips coming back to kiss your neck and the curve of your shoulder. Then at your ear. Heat of my breath. One hand still pressing the washer against your breasts and the other slipping below the waterline. Taking yours with it." "Mmm." "Guiding your fingers down between your legs, and my hand slipping out from under yours and catching your wrist. Whispering in your ear." "Oh." "Bringing your hand between your legs. Telling you what I want." "Yvonne. What do you want?" "I want to feel you come while I hold you. Wrapped in my arms and the lovely heat of the water." "Mmm. Running a finger over my lips. Over my clit." "Water lapping at your sides and your belly. My voice in your ear telling you how utterly beautiful you are." "I want this so much. Feeling calm and safe." I could hear her breathing, just slightly faster and shallower than normal. "Cloth running over your breasts one last time. Then I let it go and continue with just my hand. Kissing the nape of your neck." "Oh, yes." A catch in her throat. "Don't stop. You're so fucking gorgeous when you come." "You should... know." Her voice disjointed, interrupted by the rhythm of her fingers. "Tell me again... what you want." "I want you to come in my arms. Want to feel every shiver and gasp." Little gasps, building and building... "I'm holding you." Only ragged breathing at the other end of the phone, faster, faster, and then the sounds tumbled out. "Ah! ah! Oh!" Her breathing, slowing again as I listened, curled up on my bed. "Phoebe..." "Oh, Yvonne... mmm. That was so nice. Now I miss having a bathtub... you know, that brings back memories." "Oh?" "Used to have an eight a.m. class at the Conservatorium. Hated getting up early on cold winter mornings. I'd run the bath as hot as I could... lie back in the water half-asleep... set myself... off." "Phoebe?" "Yes?" "You sound like you're fading." "I am." A badly-stifled yawn. "Bed for me." "Good night. Sleep tight. Think of me holding you, and I'll talk to you tomorrow." "Night-night." After that we talked most evenings. On top of the lessons she taught, Phoebe was practising two hours in the morning and another three at night in preparation for an audition with the Philharmonic, so she'd call me around ten when she was done for the day and we'd lie in bed and chat. Sometimes we flirted, or went beyond flirting. Often we just chatted about our days and our enthusiasms, but now and then she'd tell me how things were going with Yaya. The doctors had put a brace on Kalliope's arm, to stabilise and protect it until they could deal with the cancer and allow it to heal. The plan from here was a couple of months of chemo to shrink it down and get it manageable, then surgery, then more chemo in case they'd missed anything. "The oncologist told Dad, usually what they do is take out the tumour, and put in a pin or something to strengthen the bone. Sometimes they have to amputate if there's too much damage to the bone, but the X-ray wasn't too bad so they're hoping to avoid that." "Brr. Even so, that's a lot for anybody, let alone at her age." "Yeah, Dad said they suggested just doing the surgery straight away and skipping the chemo, because it can be almost as dangerous as the cancer for somebody her age. But Yaya is... look, Grandpa died of lung cancer. I was only three and I don't really remember him, but from what Dad says it was pretty horrible for her. She quit cold turkey after forty years of smoking. And this one, they said if it spreads, it often spreads to the lungs. I talked to her yesterday, and she said she doesn't care what she dies of as long as it wasn't drowning, fire, or cancer." "Fair enough. So how's she bearing up?" "Okay, I think. They let her go home for now. Dad's paying for a live-in private nurse, and he visits most nights too. She starts chemo tomorrow and they're going to keep her in hospital a while for that, but if she's well enough between cycles she'll be happier if she can be in her own place." "Not moving into your dad's place?" "No, he suggested it, but he must be the only Greek guy in Australia who can't talk his mum into moving in with him. She's lived in that house fifty years, and she loves it too much to move. Especially the garden. When I talked to her, she spent half the time telling me how angry she is about the weeds she can't pull out with her arm like it is. Hey, I was thinking..." "Yeah?" "I'm planning to come down on the eleventh —" that was a Saturday, about two weeks away "— and stay for a few days. Spend time with Yaya and try to beat the garden into shape. See if it helps cheer her up. How do you feel about —" "Helping out? Love to. I need to get outside more anyway." "Great. So you know, I probably won't be able to stay with you while I'm down, but I want to see you. We'll figure something out." "I'd love that." And so I counted down two weeks. Yaya started chemo; as Phoebe had expected, she spent a couple of days in hospital before they let her go home again. RJ was back in the office, and if anybody but Susan and myself knew why he'd been away, I didn't hear anything about it on the grapevine. Most of the talk in the office kitchen was about the Redmond Barry deal. RJ and Peter were keeping quiet about what we were planning to offer, but the rumours were enough to induce salivation in anybody who got paid by commission. Susan explained a little of the economics to me: every time you sell a house, you have to do the work of selling that particular house. Talk to the vendor about what they want. Take photos that make it look like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Write and pay for an ad tailored to the individual property ("musty smell" becomes "authentic heritage charm", "noise pollution" becomes "close to all facilities"). Show up for a month of Saturday mornings to host half-hour inspections before rushing off to some other house two suburbs over. And so on, all for maybe ten or fifteen thousand in commission and the chance to offer finance to anybody stupid enough to bid on a house without already having a loan approved. The next time you want to sell a house, you have to go through all that work all over again. If you're selling four hundred apartments, all brand-new and most of them identical, you don't need to do those things four hundred times. Nice work if you can get it. And for those of us who get paid on salary, well, RJ had a reputation for giving decent bonuses when he was in a good mood. So I spent my spare time at work making a few tweaks and fixes to our website — wouldn't do to have it looking shabby should the developers feel like checking us out — and checked capacity to make sure we could handle the load of advertising several hundred new properties. At home, I nagged Aleks about the housework and hung out online. The time passed slowly, and sometimes I chafed at how long it felt. But every time, I remembered the real reason Phoebe was visiting and felt selfish, and then consoled myself with the thought that she'd call soon. But she never called early, never before ten o'clock on a weeknight. So I was surprised on the Tuesday night before her visit, when the phone rang at eight. "Hello?" "Hey, little sister. What have you done?" My brother's favourite running gag. It was corny, but I'd become fond of it. "John! Oh, I'm sorry, I've been horribly slack. I haven't called you in ages. How are you and Cat?" Cat was a new girlfriend who'd come into the picture just before Christmas. I'd only met her once, and for all I knew the whole thing could have fizzled since I'd talked to John last. But I was spared the embarrassment. "Doing really well. We went bowling yesterday with her and some of her friends, had a great time. And how are you? How's work?" "Busy, but not bad. Mum and Dad?" "Oh yeah, they're good. Listen, Yvonne, I can't talk long tonight, got things on the stove, but do you want to come over for dinner on the weekend? Just me and Cat?" "What, this weekend? I'm not sure, I may be booked." "Film buddies?" I had a small group of friends from uni days and previous work; now and then we'd get together to watch the most awful sci-fi or horror movie we could find and mock the hell out of it. A couple of times I'd dragged John along when he was at a loose end. "No, it's... there's this girl coming down from Sydney." "Oh. Seeing someone?" "I think so. Yeah, I guess I am." "Well, now you've decided that, do you want to bring her over?" "I'd like to, but not sure she's ready for that. And this weekend might be busy, her grandma's sick and I said I'd help in the garden." "You, gardening? Voluntarily? Fuck me, this must be serious. Is she nice?" "Yeah. Yeah, she is. Look, I'd love for you to meet her, but she's got a lot going on in her life right now and I'm not sure she's ready yet. I'll have to take a rain check on that." "Well, okay. Tell her I'm looking forward to meeting you, and if the weekend's no good... what about this Thursday instead?" "Deal." "Deal. Gotta run now, catch you later sis. Bye!" "Bye!" *** Two hours later, talking to Phoebe: "My brother John said I should bring you over for dinner some time." "You told him about us?" "Yeah." Silence from the phone. "Well, I told him I was dating someone. And that she was nice. That's about it. I didn't tell him your name, I didn't tell him how I knew you." "Oh, okay. Sorry, I just thought —" "Phoebe, he's not an idiot. Even if I had told him who you were, he's not going to go shouting it all over Melbourne." "Okay, okay. Don't mind me, just overreacting." "Um. Something else you should know then, Susan at work figured it out. My manager. But she knows better than to talk about it." I explained how it'd happened. "Well." Another long silence; I imagined her at the other end of the line, frowning. "Well... can't be helped. I hope you're right about her. But we need to be careful from here. I've got enough drama in my life just now without looking for more, and I don't think sleeping with the boss's daughter is going to help your career prospects." A Stringed Instrument Ch. 07 "Yeah, Susan said the same thing. Anyway, what's the plan for the weekend?" "Well, I get in Saturday morning, Dad picks me up from the airport, we head straight over to Yaya's. Feel free to show up whenever, just because I'm getting up early doesn't mean you have to. I don't know if we can finish in one day, we might have to come back on Sunday." "When do you go back?" "Monday morning. I'd like to stay longer, but I have a couple of lessons on Tuesday, and I can't be away too long or I'll start losing students. I'm staying with Dad, and we'll probably be doing family stuff most of it, but I'm going to try to find some time with you. Maybe Sunday night? Don't know if I'd be able to stay over, but I should at least be able to get out for dinner and a movie?" "Thanks. I'd really like that. But I understand your family have priority." "They do and they don't... I want to be there for Yaya and Dad, but I need a shoulder to lean on myself sometimes." "Always happy to oblige." And the conversation drifted onto other things, quietly affectionate, and so on to drowsy good-nights. *** On Thursday I went over to John's place for dinner. If you'd just met the two of us, you'd never pick us as brother and sister. I look and talk like what I am, a professional geek who spends most of the day staring at a screen and then goes home to spend her evenings staring at a different screen. John, on the other hand: tall, tanned, tattooed. Although his job description is 'civil engineer', he's more comfortable out on a construction site in his safety boots and helmet than he is sitting behind a desk. But we've always been close. At school I always felt a little safer when he was around. When I told him at age fifteen that I preferred girls, he just said "no shit, me too". After he finished high school, he took a year out working for a local hardware barn; while he said it was a chance to spend some time in the real world before he moved away to start on his engineering degree, I've always suspected it was more about staying close until I was old enough to leave town myself. And he has good taste in women. As teenagers we'd go to films together and compare notes on the leading ladies afterwards. All of his girlfriends that I've met have been lovely, and Cat was no exception. She didn't blink when John started asking me "about this lady you're chasing..." and the three of us had a good talk afterwards about nothing in particular while doing the dishes. I was feeling more relaxed than I'd been in some time, and I'd have stayed longer, but after seeing the way John and Cat were looking at one another I thought I'd be a generous sister and give them some quality time together. So I thanked them both, wished them a good night, and made my way home. Friday was hectic. Peter's printer broke down; he was doing SECRET CONFIDENTIAL TENDER STUFF, so he didn't want to use the general office printers, and I spent most of the day chasing up a repair tech after determining that it wasn't something I could fix myself. After that I had a backlog of minor things to fix. I got home late, fixed myself dinner, chatted with Phoebe to wish her a safe flight, and got an early night. I'd set my alarm for nine, but I was woken an hour earlier by my message notification: Just left airport with Dad. OMW to Yaya's. I got there around eleven. My first impression of the house was just as I'd imagined it: an old brick place in Brunswick East, roses at the front fence, and behind them a large fruit and vegetable garden that almost completely concealed the house. Phoebe must have been looking out for me; she was there to open the front gate as I walked up, standing just a whisker closer than a friend should stand, talking just a decibel too loud. "Yvonne! Thank you so much for coming!" "Don't mention it. I need the exercise." I kissed her on the cheek, a little longer than a friend ought. "Come on in." She led me into the garden, where RJ was busy with a large set of pruning shears. "Dad, you know my friend Yvonne, of course." "Of course." He pulled off a glove and shook my hand. "So kind of you to come for my mother." "Don't mention it." "Grandma's in the lounge," said Phoebe. "I'll introduce you before we get started." And she showed me inside. The place was clean but very cluttered. Evidently Grandma had a fondness for cardboard and plastic boxes, piled high all along one side of the corridor. Some were open, and I caught glimpses of books and clothes; most were sealed. Kalliope was in an old leather armchair, with a male nurse beside her taking her blood pressure. She was watching a video, something in Greek with no subtitles. But as we approached, she paused it and turned around in her chair to see who was coming. "Yaya and Hamish, this is my friend Yvonne. She's come to help with the garden. Yvonne, this is my grandmother Kalliope, and this is Hamish. He's looking after her." Hamish nodded a "g'day" at us. "Thank you for coming." She still had a strong Greek accent, but there was no hesitation in her English. She gave me a searching look, dark eyes moving sharply in a weathered face, and I thought: One day, Phoebe will look like this. I tried not to stare at the brace on her arm, or the cannula in her wrist. "I made this whole garden myself, front and back. Forty years. Dug, planted, picked, everything. All myself, her grandfather did nothing." She looked and sounded sour. "Now my arm is broke and I can't even look after myself. But when it's fixed I will keep my garden again. You're a good girl to help." Then she turned to Phoebe, asked something in Greek, nodded at Phoebe's reply. "She said we should take some water out, it'll be thirsty work." Phoebe found an empty glass bottle and we filled it, adding some ice from the freezer. "Yaya, we'd better get back to it, before it gets any hotter." "I will come out later. When I'm feeling better. These drugs they give me, did you know they make you piss red?" I was alarmed by that, but Hamish just nodded. "They do. It's okay, it's not blood." "Okay for you maybe," she growled. "You're not pissing red!" He didn't attempt to argue. Phoebe kissed Yaya on the cheek, and we returned to the garden. Apart from the roses, there was nothing ornamental in the garden. Everything else was for food: tomatoes, beans, lemons — lots of lemons — and countless others. Most I couldn't identify, but for a man who usually hired others to do that sort of thing for him, RJ turned out to know a surprising amount about gardening. I suppose as a child he must have watched his mother at work in this same garden. It was in sore need of work now, much more overgrown than I'd have expected from two weeks' neglect. Phoebe and I both suspected that her grandmother's arm had been hurting much longer and much worse than she'd been willing to admit to anybody, and had been letting things slide while she avoided dealing with the issue. Although there were three of us working on it I could see we weren't going to finish in a day, not in February heat. The fruit trees shaded me from the worst of the sun, and Hamish brought out bottle after bottle of chilled water, but I was still dripping with sweat within half an hour. We soon settled into a routine: Phoebe pulled weeds, RJ pruned, I picked up the green waste and trundled it to the compost heap in a barrow. RJ and I shared more words that afternoon than we'd done in all the six months I'd been working for him. Social chit-chat: how far had I come today? Where was I from? What did my parents do for a living? Was I married? Apparently not everybody in the office had heard about me outing myself a couple of months earlier. While Phoebe stood behind RJ trying not to look alarmed, I held up my hands — look boss, no rings! — and he nodded, and we moved on to safer topics. Eventually Kalliope came out to the front porch, and she sat in a wicker chair giving directions until we stopped at one. We sprawled in the shade panting like dogs, while Hamish stretched his job description enough to go and fetch us all pies from the corner shop; as soon as the pies were gone, we got back to work. As often as I could, I found opportunities to work near Phoebe. We exchanged glances and smiles, and occasionally I brushed past her on the way to the compost. Beyond that things were strictly business; with two generations of Karavangelis blood looking on, there was precious little room for flirting. I was close to dropping when RJ called a halt at five. I've never in my life been so glad of a cold shower, or of a sweat-free change of clothes. RJ must have seen how exhausted I was, and I was relieved when he offered me a lift home. Leaving Hamish to prepare Kalliope's dinner, we flopped into RJ's car. I sat in the front passenger seat and Phoebe sat behind; now and then, when RJ was focussing on the road ahead, she and I touched hands in the space between my seat and the door. By mutual agreement we stopped at a Chinese place near my apartment. Phoebe and I were alone together only once, when I ducked into the ladies' before our mains arrived and came out to find her waiting outside the door. We kissed hard — although it felt like it was over before it began — and she spoke in a low voice. "I've missed you so much." "God, me too." I checked that we were unobserved and hugged her tight. "Tomorrow night." "Oh yes." And then I went back out to enjoy crispy duck in plum sauce at RJ's expense. I felt I'd earned it. *** About an hour after they'd dropped me off at home, just as I was settling into bed, Phoebe called. "Hey sweetie. Long time no see." "Hey there. So, you up for another day of gardening tomorrow?" "Just gardening?" "No, I was thinking if we work hard we can be done by teatime, and if you're not too hot and bothered by then we could find something else to do with the rest of the day." "Oh? What did you have in mind?" "Well, I was thinking we could head over to your place for a bit. I ought to get back to Dad's before midnight, but I'm sure we could think of something to do until then..." She went on to suggest several things we might do, and I contributed a few ideas of my own before we said our good-nights. The weather was cooler on Sunday, and we had an extra volunteer. His name was Leon, a Greek gentleman of about Yaya's age who knew her through their church and had passed up Sunday service to come and help. I had my doubts about how much he'd be able to do — he looked like his better years were well behind him — but he threw himself into the work with such vigour that by eleven o'clock the sweat was in danger of boiling off his face and we had to make him rest before he did himself a mischief. While the rest of us continued, he sat on the porch next to Yaya and the two of them talked enthusiastically in Greek while they supervised our work. I'm not a great fan of manual labour, but it does have a way of eroding barriers, and RJ and I had become quite chatty. "You know," he said as I scooped up his clippings for the wheelbarrow, "I don't think that fellow's here for the gardening." Phoebe, weeding nearby, chimed in. "Oh no. He and Yaya have been seeing quite a bit of one another. I understand he was coming over for dinner twice a week before the..." "Really? I never saw him." "She probably didn't think you'd approve." "Phoebe, your grandmother has never in her life allowed that to influence her decisions." "Wait," I said, "you mean to say this fellow came here today just to play sweethearts? What a scoundrel!" RJ chuckled along with me, but behind him Phoebe was giving me a look of warning, so I didn't push it any further. At lunchtime Hamish brought out cold drinks and sandwiches for everybody, and we sat and stood around on the porch catching our breath. I took the opportunity to take stock of the garden: there really wasn't much left to do. Kalliope had come to the same conclusion. Turning away from her conversation with Leon, she caught Phoebe's arm. "Bee-bee, you've done so much today. I think you'll be finished very soon. What do you do after?" "Well, Yaya, I was going to go visit Yvonne's place." "And what do you do there?" "Oh, nothing much. Just... have dinner, hang out." "Well then. If you don't have anything to do, you should have dinner here." She waggled a finger at me. "And you too, Yvonne, you should let me say thank-you. I make avgolemono for you." So we were very neatly caught in a trap of our own making. True, it was nice to be invited to dine with the family — even if they weren't aware of my exact role in Phoebe's life — but it was very much a consolation prize. That's the problem with being invisible; it's so easy to get stepped on. I decided I'd just have to make the best of it. Leon came back to assist, and with four of us working we were able to finish things off by three o'clock. I pulled off my gloves, stowed the wheelbarrow by the side of the house, and strode back to the porch with a certain air of dirt-encrusted triumph: job done! But just as I'd helped myself to a heavily-iced glass of water, I caught Phoebe's eye and saw her looking pensive. I drifted over and bumped glasses with her. "You okay? You don't look okay." "I was just thinking. This isn't going to last." She turned to look out over the garden, taking a few steps away from the others, and I followed her. "It's going to be months before she can do any of this again. If she ever can. By that time, it'll be a jungle again." "I know." I touched her arm, nothing too demonstrative, just enough to say: I'm here. "But she's happy today. That's worth something." "Yeah, I guess." She turned back to me, but her eyes were bright, and she looked away again before anybody else could see her on the verge of tears. I touched her arm again, and then before anybody could read too much into our behaviour I drifted back to the others. Leon was making his apologies: his own granddaughter was visiting that afternoon (with his first great-grandson!) so he needed to get home for them. RJ agreed to drop him home and pick him up again at dinner time — he needed to stop by the office anyway — leaving myself and Phoebe to keep Yaya and Hamish company until dinner. I'd wondered how Kalliope was going to cook for all of us with one arm out of action. It turned out that when she said she'd "make dinner", what she really meant was that she'd direct me. Of course Phoebe would have been better at it — she told me afterwards they'd made this soup together dozens of times — and Hamish was at her disposal. But I suppose teaching me a recipe was her way of saying thank-you, and that's why she sent Phoebe to the shops for eggs instead, and Hamish to do the cleaning. "This is a soup from Greece. My mama used to say, you take everything you find on a Greek island and put it in the pot, and that's avgolemono. Chicken, eggs, rice, lemon, so good for you. That pot there, fill that with water. And this is my last time to eat it." "Oh." I've never been good at platitudes, and I didn't know how to reply to her sudden fatalism. But she caught my tone of voice and rapped me on the shoulder. "I don't mean dying, I mean it's last time before Lent. Next Friday I'm back in hospital and after that I don't eat meat. Not until after Pascha." "Oh! Sorry, I misunderstood." "Don't worry about me, Yvonne. I'm not dying yet, I've been sicker than this. When I caught the whooping cough..." While she told me that story, I prepared the chickens and set them on the stove to simmer; once that was done, there was nothing for us to do until they were cooked. Kalliope was feeling tired, so she retired to her chair in front of the TV and left me to watch the pot. Buzz. A message from Phoebe: Stopped to call airline and change flight, going back early Tuesday. Hope you didn't have anything planned tomorrow night. I do now. She came back from the shops just as the chickens were starting to look ready. "Yaya, do you want to check the taste?" "No good, I can't taste properly since these drugs. You do it." "Yum." She tested a spoonful of the broth and smacked her lips. "Mmm, salty, but not quite there." After tinkering with the seasonings, she tried again, and nodded approvingly. "Yvonne, would you like a taste?" "I'd love a taste." She held out a spoonful of broth to me. I took the spoon from her — stroking the side of her finger in passing — and raised it so I could make eye contact with her as I licked, tongue extended. First around the edge of the spoon, then lapping daintily at the middle to catch the salty-steaming broth, and at last wiping it clean with an elaborate swirl of my tongue. As Phoebe was spluttering silently, I smacked my lips. "Delicious. If you don't watch out, I just might finish mine first and then help myself to yours." Phoebe gave me a look. "We'll see about that. Anyway, as long as we're both satisfied, it's time to strip." She reached for a pair of long-handled tongs. "The chicken, that is." We took one chicken each and worked side by side on the bench, picking off the meat with forks, tearing it into small pieces, and dropping it into a bowl to be returned to the pot. Well, most of it went into the bowl; it smelled so delicious that a certain amount was diverted for testing purposes along the way. Then Phoebe offered me a piece of hers, which I caught with my teeth. Then I gave her some of mine. And then as the action on the TV reached a melodramatic climax Phoebe sucked my fingers into her mouth and did something very suggestive with her tongue on the webbing between them, and I had to go wash my hands and splash water on my face before I could continue with the chicken. (We probably could've gotten away with it — it was all going to be brought back to a boil later on — but I'm fussy about food hygiene, especially when cooking for somebody whose immune system had been knocked around by chemo.) Eventually the chickens were reduced to skeletons and the meat returned to the pot, along with a generous amount of rice. "Yaya, do you want us to go on cooking now, or wait a bit? What time do you want to serve dinner?" Silence. "Yaya?" Phoebe went over to the chair, stooped: "Ah, she's just snoozing." She picked up the remote and switched off the TV in the middle of the musical finale. Suddenly it was very quiet: just the distant Sunday-afternoon traffic, and the faint whirr of Hamish vacuuming at the other end of the house, and the hum of the air-conditioner fighting the February heat. We looked at one another, and came together, and we kissed. Despite our recent banter, it wasn't a steamy sexy sort of kiss at all. We barely touched our lips. And yet it left my heart hammering in my chest, so hard I barely noticed when the vacuum cleaner stopped, not until Phoebe broke off. "I think we'll leave the soup a while and let Yaya sleep. We can wait 'till Dad and Leon get back before we start on the rest of it. Looks like it's not going to cool off for a while yet anyway, don't want to start dinner too early. Tell you what, we can juice the lemons and separate the eggs." We picked about a dozen from the garden and squeezed them one by one. It was a slow process; just one small lemon was enough to clog the juicer with pulp and seeds, so we had to keep cleaning it out again. That gave us plenty of time for idle conversation. I asked: "So what did your grandparents do? What made them come out here?" "Well, Grandma's parents put up the money for them to emigrate. I've never been exactly sure what that was about, but I think it might've been politics. There was a civil war after World War Two, and I get the impression Grandpa was a bit too close to the KKE for comfort." Seeing my blank look, she added, "Communist Party. So you're a respectable businessman and your daughter gets pregnant to a political undesirable... maybe they decided it'd be easier to ship them off down under." A Stringed Instrument Ch. 07 I wondered how a former Communist would have felt about his son's success in real estate. "Grandpa worked around here as a car mechanic. I think the garage is still full of his stuff, Yaya doesn't go in there if she can help it. Once Dad was in school she sold fruit and veggies at the market." "There was a younger brother, though?" I remembered seeing his name in the school history project she'd shown me, and the dates: 1955-1961. She glanced over at Kalliope to check that she was still asleep. "Yes. I had no idea until I started doing that project. I started drawing Dad into the tree as an only child, and she took the pen from me and drew him in. It's the only time she's ever mentioned him. One of those things that just doesn't get talked about. There are a couple of old photos with him and Dad, cute little kid, but I don't even know where he's buried." "Not with your grandpa?" "I don't think so. He's not on the inscription, anyway. All a mystery, and if she and Dad don't want to talk about it..." A shrug. "Of course I'm curious, but I don't want to stir up painful memories. I can live without knowing. So, tell me about yours." "Nothing as exciting. Well, maybe Grandad Ponting. He was a country-town dentist, died when I was twelve. One day before retirement. Quite unexpected." "Oh dear. What happened?" "Turned out... you know how dentists use nitrous oxide for anaesthetic? Well, it goes off or something, so if it gets past its use-by you have to get rid of it. So Grandad used to get together with the local doctor and they'd have a little nitrous party. Day before his retirement, the doctor's out of town... you can guess the rest." "Hm. Okay, yeah, that's a different way to go. I guess he would've died happy." "Guess so. Rough on Granny though. Well, rough on everybody, I really loved him and I was pretty upset. But his insurance wouldn't pay out until the coroner ruled it was accidental death —" Before I could continue that story, we were interrupted by the doorbell: RJ and Leon were back. Phoebe nudged Kalliope awake, and then we got on with the business of separating and whipping eggs. (They go into the soup, along with the juice: it makes for a lovely sort of foam on top.) Although it wasn't a substitute for a Sunday night with Phoebe, dinner was entertaining. The soup was well worth the trouble, and Leon had an endless stock of funny stories. Phoebe and I sat next to one another, and played ankles under the table when we could get away with it; I was almost sorry when it was time to call it a night. Once again RJ and Phoebe dropped me at my place. I'd meant to stay up long enough to talk to her once she got home, but two days of gardening had left me exhausted, and I had plans for tomorrow night. So I messaged Phoebe — Going to bed, call me in the morning — and lay down to find out what the next day had in store. Avgolemono: 1 chicken Handful of salt (I don't usually salt my food but this recipe needs it) 3 cups rice 6 eggs 1 cup lemon juice (fresh if available) Seasonings: cumin, garlic/garlic salt, onion salt, whatever seems good Rub the salt into the skin of the chicken, then simmer for about 40 minutes, until the flesh comes away from the bones easily. Add seasonings to taste. Take out the chicken and draw off a mug of stock -- you'll want this later. Add the rice to the pot to cook. If you're using white rice you can switch off the heat at this point and just let it cook in the residual heat, brown rice may need a bit more cooking. Strip the meat from the chicken, tear into bite-sized pieces, return to the pot. Separate eggs and break up the yolks. Beat the whites until stiff peaks form, then stir in the yolks, then the mug of stock, then the lemon juice. Bring the pot back to the boil, stir in the egg-lemon-stock mix, and serve. Normally I'd only make this in winter, but it works as comfort food too. The initial prep takes a while; after you've stripped the chicken you can throw everything in the fridge overnight and then finish the process next day. You can freeze leftovers, but you'll need to add more water and lemon juice when you reheat -- the rice really soaks them up. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 08 Talking to Phoebe on Monday morning: "So what did you tell your father? About staying over, I mean." "I just said I'd been feeling sad about Yaya, so I was going to catch up with Jill and Elen during the day, then you and I were going to have a girls' night out and take my mind off things." "Uh-huh." "Hey, it's true, as far as it goes. So, Yvonne, what do you want to do? Hit the movies and see what's showing?" "What time do you have to be home?" "I don't. Told Dad I might be staying at your place. I need to be up at six for my flight, but that's it." "Well, then. I can probably finish work at five... let's try to meet up in town for dinner at six, then catch a movie. Or movie first and dinner after, whichever. And my place after that." "It's a date." But our carefully-laid plans were derailed at 4:55 when Janelle called on me, looking more than a little upset. "Yvonne, I need help with a document." "Sure, what's the problem?" The problem, as it turned out, was our tender for the Redmond Barry deal. Peter had drawn up our bid, all eighty pages of legalese, and had gone out for the night with his phone switched off leaving instructions for Janelle to tidy up the bid for a final draft. "But I can't get it to open. It just sits there." "Let's have a look." She took me into Peter's office, unlocked his computer and showed me. Just as she'd said, when she tried to open the document, nothing happened. At least, nothing useful: I could hear the telltale sounds of the disk drive spinning like a berserk hamster, but the word-processor just sat there stubbornly refusing to load. More than that, the whole computer was sluggish; when I moved the mouse and tried to click on anything, it took a couple of seconds just to respond. "Okay, I think there's something wrong with this computer. I'll see to that later, but for now let's go use your PC, pull it up from the network drive." But even as I suggested it, I started to smell trouble: Janelle wasn't stupid, and if she hadn't tried that already, there was probably a reason why not. "It's not on the network drive. Peter said it was safer to keep it on his own C drive, so nobody else could access it who wasn't supposed to." "Oh, f-for goodness' sakes..." I've never had a problem working with people who know nothing about computers; it's the ones who think they're experts who drive me nuts. One thing my predecessor did right was setting up a network drive. Everybody gets their own personal folder — nobody else can access it without the right password — and it gets backed up every night. Everything work-related is supposed to go there, so we can recover it in an emergency. From what Janelle was telling me, Peter had saved the tender on the hard drive of his office PC. Which meant that if that drive got corrupted or he accidentally overwrote the document, there was no way to recover it. But apparently Peter, being the sort of control freak who spends too much of his time looking over his shoulder for enemy action, had decided that this was a small price to pay in order to protect it from our rivals. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. Just let me make a phone call first." Janelle backed off and stood in the corner, radiating fretfulness, while I phoned Phoebe. Her phone went straight to voicemail — probably on the train, in an tunnel — so I left a message. "Hey sweetie, just have to fix something at work, I might be a bit late. I'll let you know when I'm done." And I hung up. Janelle came back and stood beside the desk. "Your boyfriend? Er, girlfriend?" So the gossip had made it that far. "Yep." "Know the feeling. I told mine he needs to be home by six-thirty, we've got a dinner date tonight. He's going to sulk if he's home by then and I'm not." "Well, we'll see." I hit Control-Alt-Delete and muttered at the computer: "Tell me what you're doing." Quite a lot, it seemed, but none of it useful. The CPU was running flat out, there were dozens of unfamiliar-looking processes running, and the word-processor was still spinning its wheels. All in all, not a healthy-looking machine. "I take it you tried rebooting already." "Yep. No luck." I tried rebooting anyway, and soon regretted it. The machine took a good ten minutes just to boot up, and it didn't behave any better than last time around. "Janelle, when do you need this by?" "Tender deadline's six pm tomorrow. I don't think there's a lot to do on it, but Peter and RJ will want to check it over before they submit it." "Well." Shit fuck bugger damn poo. "I'll see what I can do, but this isn't going to be quick. You might as well go to dinner. Give me your phone number so I can let you know how I go. If I can get you the document by tomorrow morning, is that enough?" "I think so. Are you... what about your girlfriend?" "I'll sort something out." Although I wasn't sure what. My job description included out-of-hours support work 'as needed', and this certainly qualified. Besides, Janelle was looking miserable and stressed already, and she was likely to be Peter's scapegoat if this fell apart. But to let Phoebe down, after she'd changed her tickets just for me... "Look, no promises, but I'll see what I can do. Go have fun, but keep your phone handy so I can call if I need to." "Oh, thank you, Yvonne. You're a lifesaver." After she was gone, I spent five minutes trying to clear my head and figure out a plan of action before I called Phoebe. I half-hoped she wouldn't pick up so I wouldn't have to tell her in person, but she answered almost immediately. "Hey, just got your message." "Hey sweetie. Look, this is a real mess here..." I explained the situation as best I could, telling her it could take several hours to fix, telling her how rotten I felt about it, bracing for her disappointment. "So, when were you planning on having dinner?" "I don't — look, you're going to have to eat without me. I'm really sorry." "Uh-huh. Or, if you tell me what you like, I could bring it to you." "What?" "Takeout. But you'll have to pay me back, I'm nearly broke." I felt like I'd just stepped into a lift shaft and somehow found it stuffed full of marshmallows. "You're on. I owe you bigtime for this." "Yeah yeah. So tell me what you'd like to eat." It was six-thirty when she showed up with a suitcase in one hand, emergency caffeine and two boxes of noodles in the other. By that time the office was empty; everybody else was finished for the night, or gone out to do evening showings for prospective buyers. "I really am sorry about this." "Shush. It's okay." She kissed me gently. "So what exactly is the problem?" I sat back in Peter's executive chair — real leather, never intended for proletarian butts like mine — and started on the noodles, talking with my mouth full as I told her what I'd figured out so far. Peter's computer was thoroughly and comprehensively maggoted, infected with at least three different viruses. Since I didn't know exactly what they might do, nor how much other important stuff he might be hoarding, my first priority was to back up everything. After that, even if they managed to trash Peter's PC irreparably at least I'd still have a chance of recovering his files. "So, I've booted it in safe mode and I'm copying everything to this." I gestured at the backup drive I'd plugged in. "Probably take another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. I've set up a scan on the other machines to make sure it hasn't spread, so far so good, so really there's nothing to do until that finishes. I'm afraid this is going to be the most boring date night of your life." "Uh-huh. I'm sure we can find something to occupy us." She walked over to me, and as I stood she folded her arms around me. "Been missing this. Going to bed all alone, wishing you were there." "Me too." I brought my hands up behind her back, ran them through her hair. "We're going to be here a while. We might as well get comfortable." And I pulled her in close, kissed her earlobe, nibbled and licked and sucked until I felt her beginning to melt. Then we fell back into Peter's chair, Phoebe sideways in my lap with her legs sticking out over the armrest, me with my arms around her protectively. Her hair had fallen over her face and I nuzzled it aside to kiss her throat. Ever since I left Sydney two weeks ago I'd had a physical craving for her, but for the time being I just wanted to hold her close. Evidently she felt the same way; we kissed one another, and hugged cheek-to-cheek and quiet for a long time, and caressed one another. But the clothes, although rumpled, stayed on. I don't know how long we would have lasted like that if we hadn't been interrupted by Phoebe's phone playing a familiar Gilbert and Sullivan number. "It's Dad. Sorry, I should get this." She wriggled out of my lap and grabbed the phone from her bag. "Hi Dad, what's up? ...she is? Should I come? ...okay, hang on a moment." With her hand over the microphone: "Heart flutters. Hamish said she should go to hospital overnight for observation. Dad's with her, he says they don't think it's serious." Then back to the phone: "Okay, thanks for letting me know. No, I'm not, I'm actually at the office with Yvonne. She had to work late. Problems with, she said there was a contract? Yeah, she's right here, I can put her on if you want." She handed me the phone and climbed back into my lap while I told RJ what he needed to know about the situation. I didn't dwell on Peter's role in causing this crisis; I wasn't about to make trouble with my branch head before I'd had time to think it over. RJ was anxious about the tender but to give him his due, he sounded more distracted by his mother's troubles. "So you can recover it?" "I hope so. If I can't, do you have a fallback?" "I have an old draft Peter sent me. We can revise that if we have to, but it'd be a lot of work. Let me know when you know." "Will do." "Yvonne, I appreciate this. You're getting overtime?" "Sure thing." "If you need to get a cab home afterwards, put it on the card. I'll let you get on with it... oh, and make sure to keep Phoebe out of mischief. Tell her I said she can't be left in the office unsupervised." "Um... I'll try. Okay, I'll put her back on now." I handed the phone back and hugged Phoebe as she finished up the conversation. When she was done and had put the phone away, she hugged me back. "Sorry. I had to take that." "Quite understand. All okay?" "I think it'll be fine. The chemo sometimes causes it, so they might look at cutting back the dosage, but it doesn't sound serious. Dad okay with you?" "Yeah. Oh, he said something odd, said you weren't allowed in the office unsupervised." "Huh. I don't know... oh, that." "Oh?" "He took me into one time when I was seven. School holidays, just after Helen walked out, and for some reason Yaya couldn't babysit that day. So he told me to play quietly while Daddy worked. They had a sales board. Big whiteboard, everybody's names and sales figures for the year. Best performer of the year gets a bonus. You know the sort? Probably got one here?" "Sort of. It's all electronic now." "Back then it was a whiteboard. Lots of coloured markers and an eraser. Twelve big egos competing on that board. Small girl with nothing to do... well, he'd told me what the board was about. I thought it'd be funny if I changed the numbers." "And was it?" "Seems I caused a huge shitfight. They didn't notice for a couple of days, when they did they thought somebody was trying to cheat. I mentioned it to Dad a week later... he's never smacked me in my life, but I came pretty close that day. I came in ten years later, and some of the guys still remembered it." "Naughty, naughty. No wonder he told me to keep you out of mischief." "I'm much more responsible now. You can trust me." "Uh-huh." I licked her earlobe again, whispered. "I had specific instructions. From my boss's boss's boss. To keep an eye on you." I tightened my arms around her. "So that's what I'm going to do." "Mmm? So how are you going to keep me out of trouble? You can't hang on to me forever. Not while you've got work to do." "Good point." Out of her sight, I reached into my work bag and checked. Yes, I had what I needed, three plastic zip-ties originally intended for tidying network cables. I set them beside me on the chair and then turned my attention back to Phoebe, nibbling her neck and stroking her hair and trailing my hands down the sensitive skin of her elbows. Down along the insides of her wrists. "That tickles." "Mmm-hmm." I circled my fingers around her wrists, formed an 'o' with my lips and exhaled warm breath against her neck, as I drew her wrists behind her. Felt her grow tense as she started to realise where this was going. "I think I can keep you out of mischief." I drew her wrists together, held both of them with my left hand to free her right. She could easily have pulled them free — I knew her arms were stronger than mine — but she seemed lost in my touch, succumbing to my lips on her neck as I bent the first tie around her right wrist, threaded the tongue through the eye, and pulled it through so it locked. Zzzip. Not tight — I'd left her a finger's worth of wiggle room, peripheral neuropathy's no fun — but enough that she'd have difficulty slipping out of it. "Tools of the trade. But useful for other things too." The second around her left wrist (she flinched a little): bent, threaded, locked. Zzzip. The third linking the first two. Bent. Threaded — — with my teeth at her neck I caught a fold of skin, and she exhaled slowly — Locked. Zzzip. "Now," I murmured, one finger coming up to stroke her exposed throat, "I think I might be able to keep you out of mischief. Don't you?" "...yes." I eased her around so she was lying across my lap again, hands trapped under her, lips parted as I bent to kiss her. "Mmm." I stroked her face, ran my fingers through her hair, grasped it and tugged her head back so I could kiss the exposed skin of her throat. "Quite at my mercy." I nipped at her throat and my hand traversed her breasts, settling between them to play with the buttons of her blouse. "I think I'll strip you." Phoebe whimpered a little as I did it, one button at a time, pausing after each to slip my fingers into the newly-made gap and explore her skin. One button at a time, until I reached her waist, and only inertia now held her blouse closed. "I'll strip you," I whispered, fingers sliding down to find the fastening of her skirt, "and I'll have you." At that she closed her eyes and sighed, a sigh that ran all through her body. I opened her skirt so it lay spread out beneath her like a blanket, ran my fingers along the bareness of her legs, drifting down from her knees toward the small white triangle of her briefs. As I drew near she settled in my lap, thighs shifting apart, and I knew she was completely under my spell. "Phoebe?" I whispered, fingers brushing against her gusset. "Yes." Eyes squeezed shut, expression hungry. With her arms pulled behind her, her chest was pushed forward, and her blouse was beginning to fall open on its own. "The backup's finished. I can look at restoring that document now." And I sat her up in my lap, scooted the chair closer to the desk. "You — oh, you teasing BITCH." "Such words from such a lovely mouth. Be careful now, I'd hate to have to gag you." I squeezed the chair in so she was caught between me and the desk, and I reached past her to pop the backup drive. "You're not seriously going to do tech support with a half-naked woman on your lap — hey!" I'd slipped one hand up under her bra, making her wriggle in my lap. "Sweetie, don't you get judgemental about my bucket list." With her breast in one hand and a mouse in the other, I started to explore Peter's computer. "Bah, that was stupid of me." "What?" She leant forward, pressing her breast against my fingers, and looked at the screen. "I don't remember where the file was supposed to be. Not to worry, I can find it." I pulled up the search pane and ran a search: files edited in the last seven days. It took a couple of minutes to run and produced many more hits than I'd expected. Hundreds upon hundreds, in fact. Most of them were in a folder named "Documents/Scanned Receipts/2009" and had names like "ahvk2083.jpg" or "pladventure_03.avi". I only meant to scroll down the list — honest I did — but as I clicked the mouse Phoebe fidgeted and jostled my arm, and instead of scrolling I accidentally opened one of the files. I already had a pretty good suspicion what was in there, but Phoebe was taken unawares. "Oh wow. Not scanned receipts then." "Nope." "That's a whole lot of porn there." "It surely is." Out of morbid curiosity I opened another one, and another. "Looks like I owe Peter an apology. I always thought he wasn't a friend of lesbians." "Looks like he's a pretty big fan." She peered at something that was equal parts fake tan, fake blonde, and authentic tacky. "Though now I look at these, I'm not sure you're a lesbian. I've never seen you look that bored during sex." "If I ever do, you have permission to smother me with a pillow and tell the cops it was a mercy killing." I opened one more. "Ugh. It's a deal." "Well, this answers one question. Betcha he switched off the AV when it got in the way of porn surfing. Anyway, fascinating as this is —" I closed the images before they killed my libido forever "— I should be looking for something." And my left hand wandered down toward her lap. "What sort of something?" "Well, it's small." My fingers slid down the bottom edge of her briefs, down between her legs. "And it might be quite well-hidden." Pushing under the fabric, in amongst her curls. "But I know a lady who's going to be very happy if I find it." "Mmm." She tipped her head back on my shoulder, opening her legs a little to accommodate my hand. "I'll bet she will. I'm sure you can find it." I worked my fingers down, finding her folds, already a little damp, using my other hand to scroll the search results. "I hope so. I'd hate to disappoint." Opening, nudging inwards, entering her with one finger. "By the way, how are your wrists? Not too tight?" Her hands, pressed between her back and my belly, balled into fists. "They're fine. I'll tell you. You've... never... disappointed me... oh." Another of my fingers had just joined the first, working deeper. Warm and wet and secret. I scrolled down another couple of pages as I toyed with her. "Do you think it's around here?" "Could be... ah... but I think it might be up a bit?" "Let's try that." I slid my fingers out, climbing just a little way, and found a very responsive little bump. "Somewhere round here?" "Might... be..." I stopped. "You're right. There it is." "What?" She wriggled against my hand. "The tender, rbcontv7.doc. I'll bet that's it. That's what we're here for." "Oh, you're a beast. A teasing horrible beast. You shouldn't even be thinking about that when I'm here in your lap all helpless and wound up." "I can't help it if I'm good at multi-tasking. Now where did I put that thumb drive?" I stroked her lightly, and she shivered. "Please, Yvonne. You can do that later. Don't be mean." "Hmm. What's in it for me?" Stroke. Pause. Stroke. "I'll be nice to you." "I'm considering it. Keep talking." My fingers paused, just a light pressure reminding her of what I could offer her. "I will." Her fingers were twitching in frustration. "I will go down on you and give you the best head of your life. With both hands tied behind my back." "Promise?" "If I don't, you can grab me by the hair and make me. I, uh, I love it when you do that." A Stringed Instrument Ch. 08 "You have a deal." And I let go the mouse and thrust my hand under her bra, shoving it up and out of the way as my other hand slipped back into her, drew back out, spread the moisture around her clit. As I squeezed and circled and stroked, I whispered to her. "Lie back." "As you command." She fell back into my arms, one foot braced on Peter's desk and threatening his paperwork, the other on the floor. And I played her, fingers and teeth and tongue tormenting her. Taking her to the brink, letting her subside a little. Pushing her closer again and then backing off, winding her up a little further every time until she tumbled over the edge... When she came, it was in a slow wave that rolled through her body: her toes curled, her thighs squeezed, the air went out of her body in a series of sighs. "Oh, oh... oh." "You okay, honey?" She blinked twice, opened her eyes wide and gave me a dazed smile. "Oh yes. I needed that. Last couple of weeks have been... really shitty." "I can see that." "Except for the bits with you." I cradled her while she caught her breath. Somewhere along the way her briefs had come off and ended up under the desk, along with her shoes. I made sure to hook them with my foot and pull them out before we could forget them; some things can't be explained away. (I knew one guy in IT who got fired for having sex on the boardroom table... but that's another story.) "Mmm. I believe I owe you one, but I need to sit and bliss out for a bit first." As she sat up, there was a series of popping noises. "Hey, was that your back?" "Yeah." She wriggled her shoulders experimentally, and there was another pop. "Been locked up all week. You really know how to relax a girl." "All part of the service." I stroked her back, leaned forward to share a kiss. "I really should get on with this, so I can let Janelle know not to panic. And then we can get on with something more interesting. You want these off?" "Yeah, would you?" I got out a pair of snips from my bag and cut Phoebe's ties. She shook out her arms, then recovered her clothes and dressed while I worked. I copied the tender document onto my thumb drive along with a couple of earlier versions I'd noticed, then plugged it into my laptop and scanned the files. As I'd expected they were all infected, but for once we were in luck; my AV software was able to clean them up without destroying them. Once that was done I opened the last one and skimmed it, checking that it wasn't obviously damaged, and then started an email. "So that's it?" "Mostly." I turned to look at her as I typed. "Going to mail copies to Peter, RJ, and Janelle. That way Peter can't fuck it up too badly. Then I just need to clean Peter's PC and scan it, and we're done." I turned back and checked the message I'd just typed, making sure I hadn't said anything likely to get me in trouble, then hit send. "Hey, did you type all that without looking at the screen?" "One of my many talents. You're not the only one who can play by touch." "Show me again." She came over and stood behind me. I started another email, and she covered my eyes as I typed. When I was done, she lifted her hands and I looked at what I'd written. note to self: talk to Peter about virus protection, why not to disable it, find nice way to tell him to follow our policy about non-work-related use. And why he should use network drive. Change passwords in case of keystroke loggers. "You weren't peeking? At all?" "Nope." "Okay, that's impressive. Let's see how you do with more distraction." She came around between me and the desk. "Can you reach the keyboard past me?" "Bit of a stretch, but yeah." "Okay then. 'The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.'" She kissed me, completely blocking my view, while I tried to think about typing: click clicky clicky click, clicky clicky click clicky click. After a good length of time we broke off, and both of us looked at the screen. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. "You should have been a pianist. Okay, one more. 'I'm not the pheasant plucker, I'm the pheasant plucker's son, and I'm only plucking pheasants 'till the pheasant plucking's done.'" She kissed me again, harder this time. I typed briefly — click, clicky, clicky — and then let go of the keyboard, hands on her back as I returned the kiss. My heart was fluttering with something approaching panic, and I held her as tight as I could until eventually she broke off the kiss, frowning at me. "That was lovely, but you can't have finished. That wasn't enough letters." "Look for yourself," I said, with my heart in my throat. So she turned, and saw. "Oh. Yvonne." I love you. She hugged me fiercely, head pressed against my chest. "I love you, too." And a jolt went through me, the feeling of leaping from a terrible height and being caught safe and sound. We held one another still and quiet, and perhaps Peter would've found us there the next morning, but that my bladder eventually began to protest. I ducked out to the ladies', and on my way back I remembered that we still had two anxious people waiting to hear from us. RJ's phone was switched off, so Phoebe messaged him and I phoned Janelle. She was effusively grateful, and when she started commenting on how late I'd stayed to fix this problem, I started to feel quite the charlatan; I couldn't very well tell her that it hadn't all been work. By the time I managed to escape Janelle's gratitude and finished repairing the last of the damage to Peter's PC, it was half-past ten. "And done. Finally." I powered it off and collected up my things. "Well, then. I believe I made you a promise." "You did. But not here, let's go home. I've been here fourteen hours already today and I miss my bed." When we finally made it into my bed, at the other end of a cab ride and a hot shower for two, we both succumbed to fatigue. I agreed to take an IOU on her promise. Instead, we cuddled up together, very much content with one another's company and contact. After she fell asleep I lay there a while, listening to her breathing, wondering how on earth this had happened, until I too drifted off into a calm and dreamless sleep. We rose much too early — Phoebe had a seven-o'clock flight, which from my place meant a 5:30 cab — and we said our bleary goodbyes still half asleep. I escorted her down to the front door and kissed her on the doorstep, but I couldn't quite find the courage to repeat the words I'd spoken last night. It all seemed too unlikely and unreal, and I was afraid that if I tested my good luck it would suddenly unravel in the harsh light of day. So I waved farewell as she carried her bags to the taxi, and then I trudged back inside, second-guessing myself. I switched on my PC and spent a couple of hours distracting myself with the Internet before gulping down breakfast and heading into work. I was just starting on my agenda for the day, wondering whether caffeine would help wake me up, when my phone buzzed and my heart jumped two gears. Hey gorgeous. Guess what I completely forgot? What? Happy valentine's day. ILY - P. And so it was. I'd seen the ads, of course, but I'd been so wrapped up in my own concerns that it hadn't even registered that the day after February 13 would be February 14. I was still grinning like an idiot when Janelle stopped by my desk with a box of thank-you chocolates. Author's note: I don't intend to turn this into a safety tutorial, but please note that cable ties have the potential to cause serious injury if misused. With any form of bondage, but in particular with this one, you should do your homework first. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 09 "Skip"/"Skippy" is slang for Anglo-Australians, used mostly by Australians of Mediterranean background. Greek Orthodox Christianity uses the Julian calendar for calculating Easter dates, which means it often falls later than the Western dates. * Even with the Redmond Barry deadline behind us, the next few weeks were hectic at work. The market had picked up again after the Christmas lull and my real estate agents were busy: breaking mice, running out the printer ink, spilling coffee into keyboards, all the little annoyances that kept me gainfully employed. I suppose they sold a few houses along the way. I ran around fixing it all and I did it with a smile on my face and a spring in my step, because I was smitten. Every night after work Phoebe would call me, once she'd finished the evening's cello practice. We'd talk to one another as new-found lovers do, puppy-like, eager to keep chatting just for the sound of one another's voices: music, or memories of school plays, or favourite books, it didn't really matter as long as we had an excuse to stay on the phone. And there was plenty to talk about; the difference in our ages and upbringing was enough that we each had a different piece of the world to describe, and yet we were close enough to understand one another. She'd barely made it back to Sydney before we started planning when we might see one another again. She wasn't going to be able to make it back to Melbourne for a while; the lessons she gave were barely paying the bills, and she'd already raided her electric-cello fund to pay for her February trip. "Besides, love, I need to get stuck into practice for a while. I ought to be getting a good five or six hours a day between now and June, and I have to keep my mind on it. No good letting the mind wander while the body plays on autopilot. And as fond as I am of you, you can be very distracting." "I'll take that as a compliment. Hmm... if you're very good for the next month and do your five hours a day, do you think you could take the Labour Day weekend off? I could fly up and take you somewhere nice? But only if you've been good." "It's a date." And so it was that the Saturday afternoon before Labour Day found us in the Hunter Valley, in the shop at one of the local wineries. It turned out that Phoebe knew a great deal about wines; me, with my eyes closed, I can reliably tell the difference between a red and a white. Perhaps that's for the best. Somebody had to drive, after all, and it's not like I was really missing out. Where there's wine, there's inevitably good food. So while Phoebe did the tasting and picked out a Verdelho and a Shiraz, I foraged for cheeses, quince paste, olives, and other delicious goodies to make up a picnic for Sunday. Although I could happily have spent all afternoon browsing their wares, we didn't want to dawdle. I'd picked a bad weekend to visit; there were storms forecast, and as we carried the shopping outside, rain was already starting to speckle the windscreen of our little rented hatchback. As I started to reverse out of the car park, Phoebe remarked: "That's the problem with having a rich dad." "Oh?" "Expensive tastes in wine. Most of the other stuff I can live without, but places like this really test my resolve about not taking his money." "Heh. Of course, when you think about it, he's still paying for this weekend." "How — oh, your wages? That's different, you've earned it, you can spend it how you like. I'm okay with it when it comes through you." "Like the reindeer and the mushrooms." "What?" "Oh, in Siberia or somewhere. There's a hallucinogenic mushroom, only it's deadly poisonous to humans. Reindeer eat the mushroom, and when it passes through their kidneys, it filters out the poison but it's still got the hallucinogens. So the local shamans..." I trailed off, unsure whether I really wanted to finish that explanation. After a short silence, she replied: "'Vonne... you're weird, you know that? I think it's part of why I love you." I shifted up to fourth and put my hand on her knee. "Love you too, babe. Now, where am I turning?" She unfolded the map; we'd gone over it that morning and marked the places that looked interesting. "Right in about five k's, if you want to do the cider place." "I do, just not sure about the time. We've still got a way to go, and I don't want to be too late at the B&B." I'd booked us a room in a bed-and-breakfast; on the website it'd looked rather pretty and not too expensive, and it was only after booking that I'd checked the address and realised it was a good forty kilometres out of our way. "Oh? You have plans for the evening?" My hand slid up her thigh. "I certainly do. Dinner first and then... oh, blast, can you get that?" My phone had started to ring. She picked it up and answered it: "Hello, Yvonne's phone, Phoebe speaking... yes, yes, we are. Hang on a moment." To me: "It's Keith from... 'Chambers'?" "Yeah, that's the B&B." "Right, he wants to know what time to expect us." "Let's see... four-thirty now... say half an hour to the cider place, half an hour there, then another forty k's... let's say around six, six-thirty? That gives us time to drop our things and then look for dinner?" Chamber's was out in farm country, but it was less than half an hour's drive from a town where we should be able to find something for dinner. "Hi Keith, probably around six, six-thirty... sorry, what? Oh." Silence for a while, as Keith explained something to her. "Yes, um, purple please. Thank you! See you then, bye." Then, to me: "He wanted to know which colour room we wanted." "Which colour?" "Well... I think he was trying to be tactful. He said they had two rooms to choose from, one painted yellow that faces south and has two single beds, or one painted purple that faces east and has a double." "Ha. Yep, definitely purple." "Hope they don't have a problem with that." "They'd better bloody not, I've already paid the deposit." By the time we got to the cider house it was beginning to get dark. The sun wasn't down yet but it was hidden behind grey clouds, and there was a nasty-looking mass of black scudding in our direction. I felt it would be safer to get back on the road as soon as possible, so I passed up the opportunity of a tasting. Instead I just picked up a couple of bottles that sounded interesting, and a bag of dried apples for the car, then got back behind the wheel. Although we'd only spent a few minutes inside, the rain had already picked up by the time we got out, and I had to cut my speed. Not long afterwards the rain picked up, increasing to a solid patter that obliged me to slow down and switch the wipers on high. As soon as we got back to the highway, we ran into heavy holiday traffic that slowed us further; what would usually have been a 100 zone was crawling along at 30. I asked, "So how's your grandma doing? You haven't mentioned her lately." "Not great. I mean, she's okay, but the chemo's knocking her around. She's pretty tired and sick, and — well, you've met her, she's not the sort who likes having to rely on somebody else to wipe her bum. Sounds like poor Hamish is earning his money, she's been pretty rough on him. But Dad said the last lot of scans were looking good, the tumour's shrunk so they're looking to operate in April." "How are you doing?" "Oh yeah... holding up, love. Yaya's been a bit short with me lately, but I just keep reminding myself that she's having a crappy time and it's not going to be like this forever." "Indeed." I squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. "And is Leon still on the scene?" "Oh yes. Dad says he's there almost every time he visits. Helping her tidy the house or something. Well, whatever makes her happy — oh, that doesn't look good." "Ah, drat." We'd just come over a hill, and up ahead of us was a long line of tail-lights going nowhere. As I slowed I switched on the radio in search of information, but after several minutes of band-hopping with no success I gave up and left it tuned to a local rock station in the hope that they might run a traffic report later. The cars ahead of us weren't moving at all, so I shifted into neutral and put on the handbrake, and there we sat as the traffic built up behind us. The local station had a good selection of music, and soon enough I found myself tapping my fingers to a classic of '80s Aussie pub rock. It was only when Phoebe started stroking my wrists that I realised I was tapping my fingers on her knee. "Well," I ventured, "there are worse people to be stuck in traffic with." "I could say the same." She leant over and kissed me on the cheek, but I caught her by the shoulder and turned for a proper kiss. She smacked her lips: "Mmm. I've missed that." "Me too, sweetie. I can see I'm going to be racking up the frequent flyer points." I was stroking her leg again, dragging her skirt up to expose her knee. "I would love to help you earn those points." She leant over again, and her tongue did some very interesting things to my ear. "How long do you suppose we'll be stuck here?" "You know, I've never done it in a car. Well, not all the way." Sad to say, I wasn't about to break that streak. Even with the handbrake on, there's only so much I'm willing to do while in control of a motor vehicle. And even in the dark and the rain, there were limits to what either of us were willing to do with a dirty big SUV parked on our tail and halogens glaring in through the back window. So we stayed in our seats, and our clothes stayed on, but there was a great deal of kissing and hands a-wandering. By the time the lights in front of us started to move, we were both quite hot and bothered, and I had to wipe the fog away to see where we were going. "Phoebe, how hungry are you?" "Moderately, why?" "When we get in, I was thinking of postponing dinner and starting with the bit where I tear your clothes off." "Mmm. Yeah, that sounds good to me. Dinner can wait. Oh, but I should call the B&B and tell them we're running late." "Good thought." It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the cause of the delay: a three-car pile-up, partly cleared but still blocking half the road, with a couple of very soggy-looking police controlling traffic. No sign of an ambulance, and I hoped nobody was badly hurt, but some panel-beater was going to do well. Once we'd passed the accident, the traffic cleared again. I tapped my fingers on the wheel as they played another '80s hit I hadn't heard in years; it wasn't until the final notes that I realised Phoebe had been quiet for a while, and when I turned to look she had a contemplative look on her face. "You okay there, love?" "Oh yeah, just thinking. You know, when I was in year ten, I did a research project on those guys." "Really? So do you know what the lyrics are about? I never could make sense of it." "Not that sort of project. No, mine was finding out what happened to them afterwards. Turned out to be quite depressing." "Oh? Rock and roll suicides? ODs?" "No, nothing that spectacular. No, they just kinda fizzled out. They had three weeks at number one, then they had a follow-up that barely made the top twenty, then nothing. Even if you're careful with the money it's not enough to live on, so... let's see. Singer became a manager for other groups, didn't do too well. There was some suggestion he was taking more than he ought from their earnings, it fell apart, nasty court case, he ended up on the dole. Bassist had some sort of mid-life crisis, went a bit bipolar, spent most of his share on some concept album that never got finished, I think he's running a crystal dolphin shop in Nimbin these days. Guitarist... god knows. The only one who'd done well for himself was the drummer." "Did he have his own band? Can't remember the name, early '90s..." "No, he dropped out of the business and went back to being an electrician. Quite a successful one. I read an interview and he said it was easier for him because he never wanted to be a rock star. Said he didn't even like music that much, just wanted to be famous for a few weeks. Go to parties, get free drugs, sleep with a few dozen women, and then... once he'd had his fun, back to making a living." "Oh. I guess that works." She was silent for a while, and the only sound in the night was the slosh of my tires and the DJ's chatter. Then: "Not for me. I don't want to be a star. I just want a nice quiet life, playing music for a living. I don't want to be famous for a day and then spend half my life looking back at it wishing I could have that time again." "That's very... level-headed?" "Don't get me wrong, darling, I have my melodramatic phases. God, when I was fourteen I heard about Jackie du Pré dying of MS and I wanted to be like that. Tragic heroine of her generation, records the definitive performance of everything, dies lamented by the musical world. Then a couple of years later I read 'The Alien Corn' — do you know it?" "I don't." We'd turned off the highway now, onto a windy country road, and the night was a mess of flickering tree-shadows and the dazzle of my own headlights scattered by the rain. "Somerset Maugham. Year ten English class. Young man, rich Jewish parents pretending to be English nobility, he wants to be a concert pianist. You can see why it struck a chord with me. Long story short, he decides if he can't be a master pianist then he'll kill himself. I thought that was very romantic, at the time. And somewhere in there I wanted to be David Helfgott, except better dressed." "And now?" She patted my knee. "Death's overrated. If I find I really can't make a career out of music, I'll cope. I'll find something to do from nine to five to pay the bills, and then I'll go home and play cello anyway until the neighbours bang on the walls. But I don't want to miss out just because I didn't try hard enough." "So, is Nero part of that?" "Nah. It's fun being in a band, but Nero is just a bunch of friends mucking around. We're all going in different directions musically, I don't see us lasting. But this audition... do you know what a position in a major orchestra means? It's seventy or eighty thousand a year, it's regular hours, it's tenure. Once you're in, unless you really screw up, you've got a job for life. The catch is, there aren't a lot of openings, and you have to be bloody good to get in, ahead of all the others trying for the same slot. Cello, you'd be lucky to have one opening a year. So that's why I'm stressing out about this audition." "Is this the first time you've auditioned?" "No, I've tried for just about anything that would let me support myself. Last one was a spot with the Brisbane Symphony in October. I went up for that but... wasn't in the right frame of mind for it. Couldn't get to sleep, then when I finally did get to sleep, I had this nightmare where the audition panel was full of my bitchy classmates from the Conservatorium. So I went in tired and jittery... well, you can imagine the rest." "Poor thing. I hate job interviews even without that kind of thing." "Didn't help that Luke wasn't exactly being supportive, either. So, yeah, I really don't need to screw up again. None of their other cellists are near retirement age, so if I miss this one... you know, this is depressing. Can we get back to the bit where you were going to tear my clothes off?" "Phoebe?" "Yes?" "I love you. I really do. Do you know you make my heart beat faster? Every time my phone beeps, I hope it's you." "Oh, sweetie." Something in her voice made me ache. "You're going to melt me if you're not careful. A little puddle of melodramatic cellist all over the seat." "Don't worry, I brought a towel. Hey, can you check the GPS? I think we're near our turnoff." She peered at it. "Yeah, there's a left in about two k's, then five more and we're there." We were doing fine until the puddle. Between two kills, the road dipped and water had pooled at the bottom. Although it didn't look more than a few inches deep, I didn't want to take chances, so I slowed down a little and angled the car so I could go straight through without steering. There was a mighty sploosh of water, and then the wheels regained their grip on the road... and about ten seconds later the engine died. No fuss, no grinding or smoke, she just ran out of steam so quickly that I barely had time to turn on the hazard lights before we'd coasted to a halt. "Well, crap." I tried turning the key. I could hear the motor turning over, but it refused to catch. Neither of us fancied being wiped out by somebody speeding in the wet, so we got out into the rain and pushed the car safely onto the shoulder. "So, Yvonne, how much do you know about cars?" "Not as much as I ought." There was no point in popping the hood when neither of us knew what to look for, and we were already getting damp, so we got back in and thought for a while. There was a manual in the glovebox but it didn't have anything helpful. I'd have gone online to look for advice, but out here between the hills we didn't even have phone reception, let alone internet. "I'm guessing water got into something." "Let's give it a bit and maybe it'll dry out." We sat in the car for five minutes, keeping an eye on the road in case anybody was coming, and then I tried the engine again: still no luck. "Give it another five minutes?" I suggested. "Sure." "Might switch off the electrics meanwhile. Don't want to run down the battery." I pulled the key, and switched off the hazard lights, and we were alone in the dark. Not completely dark — once my eyes adjusted I could see the moon showing dimly through thick cloud — but darker than it ever gets in the city. "Well," I offered, "I know a few good ghost stories." "Don't you dare." She leant over and gave me a pinch on the nipple that made me yelp. "If you're going to be like that..." I thrust the palm of my hand against her breastbone and pushed her back down into her seat. "Maybe I won't wait until we get there... oh, honey, you're shivering!" "I'm sorry. Got a bit wet when we were pushing the car. Should've put my coat on." As I ran my hands over her, I could feel it. She was wearing a jumper, but it was thin and had soaked up quite a bit of water in the short time that we'd been outside, and without the heater the air inside was already getting cold and clammy. "Better get you somewhere warm." I tried the engine one more time, muttering imprecations to the gods of tech support, but no luck. "I think we're only about two k's from the B&B. I can walk it, I'm sure they'll have a car. And I think the rain's easing off." "I'll come with you, then." "Sure? You can stay here and keep warm if you want." "I'm cold anyway, I'd feel c-creepy sitting here on my own. Maybe walking will warm me up." I looked sharply at her. I'd heard the shiver in her voice, but I didn't argue. Truth be told, I didn't much fancy the idea of either of us being alone if another driver came along. So we locked up the car and walked. We'd put on our raincoats, but we hadn't planned on a long walk in pouring rain, and they weren't adequate for the job. Mine didn't quite reach my knees, leaving much of my legs unprotected, and now and then a gust would blow rain into my face to creep in around my neck. Phoebe's wasn't much better, and I started to suspect she was colder than she was letting on. She stumbled a couple of times, until I took her by the elbow, and we made the last stretch of our walk hand in hand. Although it was no more than half an hour since we'd left the car, I was very glad to see the light of the B&B up ahead. According to the website 'Chambers' was an old two-story brick and timber building that had once been a farmhouse, but in the dark all I could make out was the shape of it looming against the grey-black sky, and the glow from the windows. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 09 The place had a heavy wooden door with a huge brass knocker: a grinning satyr's face holding a heavy ring between its teeth. I knocked twice, and was greeted by a high-pitched and enthusiastic barking and the sound of footsteps approaching. As the door opened we were greeted by a slender and sharply-dressed gentleman in his sixties, and at his heels a small grey terrier who must have been about the same in dog years. "Oh you poor darlings! You're utterly soaked! Come inside, come inside!" And he ushered us in, whisking our coats away and hanging them by the door. The air inside was warm and smelled of cooking. "I'm Keith, the little fellow is Kirby, you must be Yvonne and Phoebe. We've been worrying about you... come on, sit by the fire and warm yourself!" We were very grateful to follow him into the dining room, with Kirby trotting along behind us as I explained about the car. There was an old fireplace in the corner, and both of us made straight for it, squatting on the stone flagstones as close as we could get to the flames. Having done his duty as a watchdog, Kirby stretched himself out on a cushion nearby. Behind us, Keith called out "Iain, our guests are here!" A gruff voice replied from what must have been the kitchen: "Well tell them they're late!" "Iain, don't be horrible. The poor lasses are soaked!" Keith came back to us and crouched down beside us. "Have the two of you eaten?" "No." And now I'd started to warm up, I was beginning to pay attention to the growling in my belly. Then I took in the state of the dining room: two dirty plates stacked neatly at the end, two used wine-glasses behind them, and a half-empty bottle of red. "Are you clearing away? We didn't mean to inconvenience you." "Nonsense, don't you ladies worry about a thing. I'll tell the cook he's back on duty. Leave it with me." He patted my shoulder and went off to the kitchen, where I could hear him talking to the mysterious Iain. Beside us, Kirby had started to snore. Phoebe was holding her hands up to catch the heat, fingers splayed, and I threaded mine between them. "I don't think the double bed is going to be an issue." "Huh?" She squeezed my fingers, then released them again, still trying to soak up the heat. "What do you mean?" "Just a wee bit on the camp side, don't you think?" "Oh, I didn't really notice..." She sounded quite out of it. Tired, cold, hungry, I wasn't sure which. I decided it was time to get her fed and to bed as quickly as possible. Keith returned from the kitchen with Iain in tow, still wearing his washing-up gloves. Iain looked to be a few years older than Keith, a tall and solidly-built fellow with a pencil moustache far too small for his round and reddish face. "Iain Matheson, owner and proprietor of this establishment. Keith tells me I'm feeding you ladies." "That would be very kind. We were planning on getting here much earlier and going into town, but..." "Not without a car, and the town is terrible anyway. Well, I suppose I can do you a basic omelette, but don't expect much." I nodded eagerly. "That would be awesome, I'm famished." Beside me Phoebe murmured assent. I put my arm around her and held her tight. Once Iain and Keith had left I asked her: "How you holding up there, sweets?" "Very tired. Sorry." "It's okay. We're here now, let's just get some food into you and then you can fall asleep." Keith returned with two dressing gowns. "Sorry love, this one's going to be much too big for you, it's Iain's". After changing I helped Phoebe into hers, and then put my arm around her. She stood there, propped up against my shoulder, until Iain arrived with the omelettes and I guided her into a seat. They might have been 'basic' by his standards, but I'd happily have paid for them in any restaurant: mushroom and cheese, done just right, warm and filling. As we ate, Iain asked, "Do you need to get anything from the car tonight? I can drive you there if it's not far." "That'd be great, if it's not too much trouble. I think I should put my girlfriend to bed first, though. And then steal her gown, so I'm not dragging yours through the mud." Keith showed us upstairs to our room. Phoebe had mentioned 'purple' but I hadn't expected quite so many shades of it: magenta carpet, lavender and gold wallpaper, plum-coloured curtains, and in the middle of the room a king-sized four-poster bed made up in a purplish paisley. "It's too big for the room, and the pattern is ghastly. But it belonged to a very dear friend of ours. He left it to Iain when he died, and we didn't have the heart to get rid of it. If you shut your eyes it's really quite comfortable, and I put the electric blanket on so it should be warm." I separated Phoebe from her gown, tucked her in, and kissed her on the forehead. "Going to get our things from the car, love. Won't be long. I love you." She mumbled something incomprehensible, and I left her to sleep. It was a short drive. Too short for my tastes; the rain had almost stopped but the road was still wet, and Iain's approach to cornering bordered on the reckless. But we made it without accident, and the rental was just as we'd left it. "Want to show me the problem?" I turned the key, and this time she started without a hitch, purring into life. "Well, that's embarrassing." "Probably water in the alternator. You just have to unscrew the cap and wipe it dry, or you can wait. Well, if you take her home, I'll follow behind and make sure she doesn't misbehave." To my relief she behaved all the way back to Chambers. On my return I found Keith had already taken our wet clothes to be washed and tried, and Phoebe was fast asleep, peaceful and beautiful. As I climbed in beside her she did not wake, but she snuggled into my arms. It'd been a long day for me too, and I was asleep before I knew it. *** I woke in the morning with a ticklish feeling on my face. Phoebe's hair had come loose in the night, and a couple of strands were draped across me. My right arm had fallen asleep, caught under her body, and as I brushed away the hair and extricated my arm I felt her stir. "Morning, beautiful," I whispered, unsure whether she was awake enough to hear me. "Mmm. Morning, lover." She rolled to face me and yawned, sliding an arm around my waist. "What's the time?" It had to be well after sunrise; there was a sulky grey light in the sky where the curtains joined. I checked the bedside alarm. "Nine o'clock. Hope you had a good sleep." "Oh yeah, I feel much better. Sorry to crash out last night, I haven't been sleeping well the last month. S'pose we should go have breakfast, if we haven't missed it already." And she half-rose, but I caught her by the hair and pulled her back down. "No." "No?" I lifted her hair and began kissing the back of her neck. "Nobody else staying here today, so Iain said we could have breakfast whatever time we liked." I felt her squirm as I worked my way down between her shoulder blades. "He said the later, the better. You're not going anywhere until I'm satisfied." "...oh!" And she twisted around in my grasp to kiss me on the lips, tongue darting into my mouth, arms circling my waist. "You know how much I've missed you, this last month?" I reached around to stroke her back, fingertips light and secret under the quilt. "About as much as I've missed you?" "That much." She kissed me again. "And just what are you planning to do with me?" "Hold you safe and keep you warm. Kiss you as often as I can get away with it." I kissed her again. "Love you." "Mmm. I love you so much, Yvonne." Our legs intertwined, and we rolled under one another until she was on top of me, her hair running rampant and shrouding both our faces. "You know what would be fun?" "Mmm?" I scratched her behind the ears, felt her sigh. "What's that?" "Do you remember the deal we made last time?" "The deal?" I cast my mind back, trying to remember what she was talking about. "At the office. I promised to do something nice for you." She slipped down to kiss my breasts, shaping them between her hands, tongue exploring the roughness of my areolae. "Oh... yes. Yes, I believe you did. I think I'll take you up on that offer now." I stroked her hair and nudged her downwards, but she resisted. "My hands...?" "Ah. Well, if you're going to be like that..." I looked around for something to use, and my eyes fell on Keith's dressing gown, hanging over the foot of the bed. The cord was just what I needed, soft and broad. "Sit up, lover." She did as I'd asked, bringing her hands together behind her back without being told. My pulse quickened as I took her hands in mine, taking my time, kissing her shoulders and down the middle of her back, before picking up the cord and winding it around her wrists. One last tug to make sure the knot was tight, and then I caught her by the chin and turned her head to kiss me. "Lie back," she said. "Lie back and let me see you." So I stretched out at full length on the bed, one hand on my breast, the other on my hip. With four weeks of pent-up desire smouldering inside me, just my own touch felt wonderful. I could easily have satisfied myself without assistance, but I knew Phoebe had something better in store. Her hair was a mess, medusa's coils spilling out all over, and I could see it annoyed her. She tried to shake it out of her eyes, and then to blow it away, but it wouldn't cooperate. So I reached up and brushed it away from her, my fingertips lingering on her face before I tidied it back behind her shoulders as best I could. "Thanks, love. Think I'm going to need some brushing later." She kissed my fingertips, then lurched and wriggled so she was standing on her knees; I put my hand out to steady her, but her balance was good. "Just lie back for a moment." So I lay there with an idiot grin on my face as she climbed over me, straddling my hips and settling her weight on me. Even with her hair untamed and her hands bound she had something regal in her look, a princess surveying her new domain. Then she laughed and tossed her head back and forth, side to side, until my work on her hair had been completely undone and it hung down in front of her, almost masking her from my view. "Lie still, love." I wasn't sure what to do with my hands, and so I rested them on her knees as she leant forward, hair hanging down, brushing my face and throat like feathers drawn over my skin. Then she moved downwards, a thousand strands of hair sliding down my throat and to my breasts. She swayed from side to side, the touch setting me a-tingle, nerve endings kissed into wakefulness, and then she moved back further and down to my belly, a waterfall of black curls hiding her face from mine. "Yvonne, do you remember the first night we slept together? Not at Dad's, I mean your place." "I'm not likely to forget it..." "When you said you wanted my mouth." Drifting back up, that teasing touch on my breasts and my throat again, making me shiver. "Do you know how that made me feel? I think I knew, when I asked to stay over, I think I knew you were going to say that." "And you were going to say yes." I reached through the curtain between us, fingertips grazing her breast, up to stroke her lips. "If you asked me." She kissed my fingertip twice. "But it couldn't be because I wanted it. Only from politeness." Her hair tickling my face again, and I was under the veil and could see her eyes. "Because I'm not gay. I'm still not, you know." "Mmm." I ran a fingernail down to her belly, dallied in her navel, down to the beginning of her curls. "But you did want it, didn't you?" "Oh god, yes." "And you still want it." My fingers slid down, traced her labia almost as softly as her hair falling on my chest, and I heard a plaintive "oh..." "So much. I want to taste you and stroke you and feel what it does to you." "Mmm-hmm." I brushed upwards past her clit, pretending not to notice it, toying with the edges of her labia. "Still not gay, though?" "No." She shifted her hips ever so slightly, bringing my fingers back in contact with her labia. "Definitely not." "But you want to make love to me." My fingers rubbed her, in slow small movements, and she shifted her hips again to press harder against my hand. "Yes. That's different." She was over my breasts again, and I couldn't see her eyes. "I'm complicated. Am I allowed to be complicated?" "Oh, yes, lover." I needed her, I was burning up. "Phoebe?" "Yes?" "I want your mouth." "Do you now?" Tickling down to my belly again. "Well, I'm terribly sorry, but nice straight girls don't do that sort of thing... so I hope you remember the rest of our deal." I tried to think, distracted by the sensation, no end in sight to her teasing. Then I remembered the rest of what she'd said a month ago, and smiled, and reached up to run my hands through her hair. "Darling, I said I wanted your mouth. I didn't say I was giving you a choice." And I sat up, grasped her by the hair, and pulled her down between my knees. How should I describe it? My lover's tongue, concerned only with my pleasure, by turns clever and eager and tender. Her face, sweaty and smudged, smiling up at me whenever I let her up for air. And me, resisting the rising tide of arousal as long as I could, stroking her hair, whispering "Oh, Phoebe, I love you, oh," before at last she overtopped the dam and the flood came rushing through me, battering down all my defences, until I was so sensitive I had to pull her off because I couldn't bear her touch any more. I released her wrists and clung to her, breathless and speechless, hoping she could feel my delight. And then, when I was somewhat recovered, I whispered in her ear: "Phoebe?" "Yes, love?" "I'm hungry again." And I guided her back down. "This time you can use your fingers too. Let me show you what I like..." By the time she was finished I felt as if she'd stolen my bones and replaced them with warm jelly. We lay alongside one another, me cuddled up in her arms, and I was close to falling back asleep when she spoke. "Yvonne, darling?" I opened my eyes and smiled at her sweet face. "Mmm?" "Are you satisfied?" "Mmm. Lovely." "I'm so glad. I love knowing I can make you happy." She smooched me on the forehead. "So, what were your plans for the morning?" I yawned. "Suppose I should get moving, have breakfast..." And I started to roll toward the edge of the bed, but she caught my shoulder and pulled me back. "Oh, no, no, sweet. I didn't say I was done with you yet, did I now?" *** We breakfasted very late, and neither of us could entirely hide our satisfied smiles from Iain, who kept dropping catty double entendrés as he fed us: "Would you like some butter for your toast, Yvonne? Or have you already been buttered today?" And so on. But it was all in good nature, and I was more concerned with another of our hosts: Kirby was sitting by my side, looking up at me with a piteous expression that would've earned Oliver Twist a second helping. It took all my willpower to resist feeding him bacon scraps, and as soon as I was done I gave him a good ear-scratch by way of apology. After breakfast we drove out to visit some of the local attractions. The rain had settled in for the duration, so we cancelled our picnic plans and mostly stuck to indoor things: a cheese factory, a historic cottage, another winery. We made an exception for an alpaca farm, because petting fluffy animals seemed like a romantic thing to do. And indeed it was, despite the drizzle and the mounds of alpaca poo. The owners didn't seem to mind that we couldn't afford any of the expensive alpaca scarves and jackets on sale, and they let us feed the beasts and pat their woolly heads. By the time we left the farm it was starting to get dark. Phoebe's dad called as we were driving back to the B&B. The call lasted several minutes, and she didn't say much more than "Yes" and "Okay" and "All right then". At the end of it she put her phone away; I had my mind on the road and it was a couple of minutes before I noticed she'd stopped talking. "Everything okay?" "I think so. Dad said Yaya wants to get the family together before her surgery. Probably on the Easter weekend — Skip Easter, that is." "Special occasion?" "She wants help getting the house in order. Supposedly so she'll have less stuff in the way while she's recovering from surgery." "Well, let me know if you want another helper... wait, 'supposedly'?" "Dad said she wanted Helen to come along. That's... well, Yaya's barely spoken to her since she walked out on us. Only thing I can think of, Yaya doesn't expect to make it through the surgery, and she wants to talk about wills or something." "Ah." I patted Phoebe's hand. "You all right?" "I think so. I'm guessing she's just tired and depressed from the pain and the chemo. And if not... well, I'll deal." She gave my elbow a gentle squeeze. "But thanks for asking." "Speaking of grandparents, what's the deal with your mum's parents? I don't think you've ever mentioned them." "Not much to tell. You have to understand, I barely saw Helen after she left, let alone the rest of that side. Most of them were in Adelaide, still are, and it was a long trip for a kid. Grandpa Stephanopolous died a couple of years later anyway. Grandma S... I liked her. We kept in touch writing letters to one another for quite a while, then she sort of trailed off writing. I didn't think much of it, I was fifteen, busy with school and discovering boys. Found out later she'd started to develop Alzheimer's and that was why she didn't write any more, poor thing. I visited her a few times, but... once she got to the stage where she didn't know who I was, there wasn't much point." "Ah, that's rough. I take it you're seeing more of your mother now than you used to?" "Wouldn't be hard. When I was growing up, most of the time I didn't even know where she was living. I think she did a lot of travelling, spent a few years up in Cape York or somewhere. These days she's settled in Ballarat, at least it's easier to get to. I try to make it over once a year or so, and sometimes she visits me. Birthdays, that sort of thing. I stayed with her and her partner for a couple of nights just before Christmas — oh, that's right, I told you back then." "Ayup. Got in the way of my plans to see more of you." "Trust me, love, I'd rather have spent the time with you. And I'd be glad of your company for this Easter thing, I'd feel better with an outsider along to keep things sane." "That bad?" "Oh, it's not like we fight. Just... look, I was seven when Helen left. I cried and cried for months before I accepted she wasn't coming back. And yeah, I'm still a little bit angry at her about that, but I can live with it... it's just that spending time around her is awkward. When somebody's out of your life that long, it's not something you can just switch on again. These days she's trying to take an interest, I do make an effort, but it just feels odd. Like I should have some sort of stronger feelings about somebody who gave me half my DNA. So, I mean, we see one another a couple of times a year, but we only ever talk about things that don't matter. Anything that's not about us." "Um, yeah." I could relate; my own situation wasn't quite that drastic, but I'd long ago found it was easiest to keep a certain emotional distance from my parents. "I can see that would be awkward — sorry, I keep dragging you onto depressing topics. This was supposed to be a happy weekend." "I don't mind talking about this stuff, love. I'd say if I did. Sometimes it feels better to get things off my chest." All the same, I felt we'd gotten into gloomy territory. I managed to lighten the mood a little with a feeble "off your chest" joke, but I was still glad when we arrived back at Chambers. There's something about an open fire that makes a place cheerful. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 09 We'd planned to retire to our room and enjoy the goodies that we'd bought for our picnic, but Keith invited us to dine with him and Iain "— our only other guests cancelled, we could do with the company —" and we accepted, bringing our stash to the table. We had no cause to regret it. Iain was a splendid cook, and both of them were excellent conversationalists. Like any old couple they'd long since heard all one another's stories, and were pleased to have an audience, so we sat back and listened while Kirby patrolled the carpet for crumbs. As I'd guessed from the name of the place, Iain was an ex-lawyer: "Queen's Counsel. And queens' counsel too, for that matter." After knocking back a couple of glasses of the Shiraz he'd loosened up enough to tell us about the "ex-" part: in the mid-nineties, he'd had a close shave with a newspaper editor obsessed with exposing a supposed conspiracy of gay pedophiles. None of his accusations had ever been substantiated, but one of Iain's friends had committed suicide after his fondness for anonymous hookups made the news: "That's his bed you slept on last night. I represented a couple of the others pro bono. We took the bastards to court, fought for a couple of years, squeezed a little bit of blood money out of them in the end. But it all took a lot out of me. Keith made me go to a doctor and the quack said I'd be dead in five years if I didn't do something about my blood pressure, so I hung up my wig and we bought this place." Keith had been almost famous, an actor in a long-running TV soap. It sounded like an exciting existence: cast as an unlikely sex symbol, kidnapped by a drug syndicate, jilted at the altar by the woman who nobody knew was his own sister. Off-screen he'd been stalked by a besotted fan ("little did she know!") and at the studio's advice he was married off to one of his co-stars ("a member of the sisterhood") when the show needed a ratings boost. He showed us a few of the cards she'd sent him over the years: "Love from your Sham Wife," "Merry Christmas from your best beard," "To 'Oscar' from 'Constance'," and so forth. "And then, of course, there was the time I grew my leg back." "How did you lose it?" asked Phoebe. "End of... was it Season Three or Season Four, Iain?" "Four. Not that I watched that tripe." "Of course you didn't, Iain. Yes, end of Season Four, the producers decided to do a bit of spring-cleaning. Great big bomb went off, killed off a couple of people who were asking too much to renew their contracts. My character was looking a bit too settled and happy at the time, so the writers told me 'Good news darling, you're losing a leg!'" "Sounds painful." "Excruciating. They strapped my leg up with my foot against my arse so it was all tucked away inside the trousers, but not what you'd call comfortable. And it slowed me down and mucked up the shooting timetable. So after they'd milked it for a few episodes we moved onto something new — Iain, was that the sex-change lady?" "Something like that." "So we agreed they'd just manage the cameras so I was only seen from the waist up. Great relief all round. By the middle of Season Six, we'd all forgotten about it. We'd had a serial strangler, a big gay kiss between the only two straight men in the cast, two Christmas specials, God knows what else. And then we had one episode at the beach where I was wearing shorts. Legs and all. We only remembered after it went to air, the writers were having kittens, but nobody out there noticed. Thank God we didn't have the Internet back then for people to complain about that sort of thing. So I got to have my leg back." "Impressive." I cut myself a couple more slices of a nice sharp cheddar. "So tell me, how did the two of you end up together?" "Well, it's a —" Keith began, but Iain interrupted him: "Do you want the truth and the whole truth, or the version we tell Keith's parents?" "Oh, let's hear both," chirped Phoebe. She was leaning forward, both elbows propped on the table, and from the way she spoke and the wideness of her eyes I thought she was just a little bit under the influence. She was also playing footsie with me under the table. "Well," said Keith, "after the show got cancelled, I went back to theatre for a while — that's my first love — and Iain was so smitten by my Orsino that he insisted on meeting me after the show. He invited me to his Christmas party, and romance blossomed." There was a respectful pause while Keith refilled his wine glass. Beside him, Iain finished another, before clearing his throat for the other version of events. "We met in a bath-house on Oxford Street. Both regulars. After we'd been shagging for a few months we exchanged names and phone numbers, and a few months after that Keith invited me to the theatre." "Iain and I were both getting tired of the scene, so we thought we'd settle down for a few months and see how it worked out. And thirty-four years later, here we are." Iain scowled. "Oh god, don't make me feel ancient." "You've always been ancient, Iain. You're so lucky I like older men. So, young ladies, how did you meet?" I fielded that one. "Also a Christmas party. I was pissed off at my boss, thought I was about to get fired, and his daughter was absolutely gorgeous, so I kissed her and one thing led to another. Erm, in her dad's wardrobe." "And is that the version you tell the parents?" "God, no!" blurted Phoebe. "We just tell them we're friends." The conversation went on, with Keith telling funny stories about some of the other guests they'd had over the years. But I found myself withdrawing from the conversation, drawing back and letting the three of them chat among themselves. Was I sulking a little? I shouldn't have been bothered by what Phoebe had said — it was quite true — and yet the emphatic way she'd said it had altogether taken the wind out of my sails. I tried to get back into the spirit of fun, but I just couldn't recapture the good mood I'd been in just a few minutes earlier, so I decided to make my exit. "Sorry lads, but you've fed me so well I'm falling asleep here. I'm going to toddle up to bed." "Already?" Phoebe enquired. "Lots of driving tomorrow. Don't let me spoil your fun, you stay." I wasn't sure how sincere I sounded, so I just gave her a light kiss on the forehead and made my way upstairs. Although it was still early, I'd barely climbed into bed and switched out the light when I heard Phoebe slipping into the bedroom. "Yvonne?" I lay there, facing the window, listening to the rivulets of rainwater splattering down from the gutters. "Are you awake, love?" I felt petty trying to ignore her... and I resented her for making me feel petty. "Yes." "You don't sound... are you upset?" "A little." She came around the bed and sat beside me. "Oh, love, it doesn't sound like a little. What's wrong? Was it about not telling family? I thought you were okay with that." "I can deal with not telling them. I don't love it but I can respect why you don't want to. But please don't talk like it's ludicrous to even think of acknowledging me in front of them." "Oh, love." She touched my hair, tentatively. I wasn't sure whether I wanted that. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's... I wish I could tell them, but it's not that easy." "So did you tell them about Luke? Was that so hard?" Bitterness seeping through, decades of old resentments. "Yes. You know I did." She sounded miserable, and instantly I felt like a prat. "I'm sorry. That was bitchy of me. I know it's not the same." "I didn't mean to hurt you, Yvonne. I hate the thought of hurting you." Still stroking my hair. "It wasn't really you, love." I sat up and put my arms around her. "Well, not much of it. I just, I've spent all my life being told my feelings aren't as big and important and real as the next guy's. All the happy straight couples getting their love stories on the telly out in the sunlight. And maybe if I'm lucky I'll get to fuck some girl who wants to put on a show for her boyfriend. Or be her little secret hobby until she finds a nice boy to marry and forgets about me. Maybe a few years down the track she wants to sound bohemian and adventurous, she'll tell her friends how one time she experimented with another girl. And then she'll forget all about it, and I'll still be..." I couldn't finish. My face was wet, and now she was holding me instead of the other way around. "Oh, honey, honey, honey." She pulled my head into her chest, stroked my hair, rocked me in her arms. "Oh, sweetie. Oh darling Yvonne. Look, I'm still a bit sozzled and I don't have the words right. But please believe me, you're not an experiment. You mean more than that to me." "I know. I should know, at least. Wish I wasn't so fucking insecure. It's stupid, if I'm expecting you to call and you're late, I start getting paranoid, thinking you've lost interest in me. I have to make myself think through it, remind myself that you're not that sort of person. Sometimes I have to go through old texts and emails just to look at the bits where you tell me you love me." I snuffled loudly, and she handed me a hanky to blow my nose. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I... hi, I'm Yvonne, if you hadn't noticed, I have a bit of baggage." "Don't we all?" She hugged me tight again. "Those things you said, that stuff happened to you?" "Not to me. But happened to friends, more than once. It's all part of the experience. Living in a world full of fuckwits who keep telling me any relationship with me in it doesn't count." "It counts for me. Hey, do you really go back through my texts?" "Saved 'em all." "Well, then." She reached down and took my hand, folded hers around it. "Tomorrow, when you go home, and you step off the plane and switch your phone back on, the first thing you'll see is a message from me saying I love you and I miss you. You should save that one too." I squeezed her hand, and we sat side by side as rain battered at the window. I was crying again, but if I wasn't exactly happy, I was far from sad: just sitting there, holding Phoebe's hand, knowing she wasn't going anywhere. After several minutes of companionable silence: "Yvonne, do you like poetry?" "Sure. Well, some of it, there's a lot of stuff I don't get. Why?" She hesitated a moment, marshalling a memory, and then spoke: "I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did, until we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but for this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee." "...is that Shakespeare?" "John Donne. Had to learn a couple of his in school, that one stuck with me." "It's beautiful. Now I feel tingly all over." I kissed her cheek. "Later you can read me more like that, but right now I should get some sleep." "Mmm-hmm." She rose, giving me a peck on the forehead. "Keep the bed warm, I'm just going to brush my teeth." When she returned, she slipped in behind me, and this time it was my turn to fall asleep wrapped in my lover's arms. We were sorry to leave the next morning. But I had a plane to catch, and a long drive back to Sydney before that. And so, just as the skies cleared at last, we said goodbye to Iain and Keith (and Kirby) and got on the road again. A few hours later, we said goodbye to one another at the airport, and I walked to the departure gate. And when I stepped off the plane at Tullamarine, there it was, just as she'd said: I love you and I miss you. See you soon - P. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 10 An Anglo-Australian talking about "football" usually means Australian Rules football. Historically in Australia soccer was viewed as a game for middle-European immigrants, sometimes derisively nicknamed "wogball", although it's gradually become more mainstream. * The day after I got back from Sydney, Peter called everybody in the office together for an important announcement. From my past experience with Peter, "important announcement" almost always translated to "pompous waste of time". A change to our expenses system, or a fatuous motivational speech straight out of whatever trendy management text he'd just read, guaranteed to take at least half an hour. The man liked to hear himself talk. But this time it was clear that he actually had something big to tell us, because Janelle had brought a bottle of champagne and glasses for everybody. Skipping ten minutes of buildup and ten more of self-congratulation, the part that mattered: we'd won the Redmond Barry contract and Peter would be overseeing the project, with Susan deputised to handle the details. It was fantastic news for R.J. Churchill, and as Peter popped the cork I was surrounded by excited realtors already planning how to spend the commissions they were expecting to earn. But for me, in the short term, it mostly meant a lot of extra work. I had to build a sales site for the Redmond apartments with different branding to our main website, and set up a fancy 'virtual tour' plugin so buyers could preview the apartments online. Throw in a dozen lesser complications, all on top of my regular work, and it meant a lot of staying late. As March rolled on and the days grew shorter, it became rare that I'd get from work before dark. At least I wasn't staying back all alone. Susan had plenty on her plate, and most nights she worked later than I did. Occasionally when I got fed up with wrangling our website I'd wander over to her office and we'd chat. One evening, though, it was she who came to my desk. "Yvonne?" "Yeah? What's up?" "Do you know how to get a Facebook group taken down?" "...um, in theory. What's this about?" She showed me the group: Zara T Is A Tubby Dyke. It had eight members, all smiling-faced girls of around Zara's age. "Oh, ouch. Her classmates?" "Yep. I don't know how they even found out. She only told her best friend, and her friend says she didn't tell anybody else, but... now they're not talking. Zara was off school today with 'cramps', poor thing. I don't know what to do." "Shit. Okay, um, here's what I'd do." I took some screencaps (number one rule of dealing with arseholes, always document everything) and then showed her how to report the page. "I'd take it to the principal, they should be able to talk to the little darlings." But I had my doubts; real life rarely works out that simply. This time the girls had been stupid, putting their name to it, and no doubt they'd be told off and ordered to make some sort of insincere apology. Next time they'd cover their tracks better. I said all this on the phone to Phoebe when I got home. I said most of it more than once, because I tend to repeat myself when I've got something stuck on my mind. She listened patiently until I'd let off enough steam for her to get a word in, and then she said: "You can't fix the whole world, love. All you can do is work on your part of it and hope other people will go work on theirs." "I know. It just bugs me." "I'm not surprised." A pause. "I miss you, Von." "Miss you too, love. I'm sorry, I haven't asked you how you've been. Getting in plenty of cello practice?" "Thirty-five hours this week, plus teaching. One thing about you working late, less incentive for me to get lazy and finish early." "Well, if you've been that good, I think you should get some sort of reward when I see you next." "I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?" "Oh... a box of chocolates, maybe? A gift card? What would you like, sweetie?" "You know very well what I'd like. That reminds me. Easter weekend, I'm coming down on the Friday morning, going back Sunday night. You still up for helping at Yaya's?" "Sure thing. Starting Friday?" "Yup. I'm staying at Dad's, but I'm taking the Saturday night off, and I'll be at your disposal. Anything you'd like to do?" "Oh, so many things. Starting with wrapping my arms around you and kissing you... actually, there is one thing I'd really like." "Anything." "Would you come to dinner with John and Cat? "Um. Yes, okay." *** I was shocked by how much Yaya had changed since I'd last seen her. In February she'd been tired and crabby, but there'd still been a sharpness about her. Less than two months later she was grey-faced and weary, bone-thin in a new wheelchair, and she barely acknowledged me when I arrived. Leon was in the front room, and he took me aside to whisper: "She's not good today. She had the chemo Wednesday, usually she's starting to feel better again by now. But tell her she looks well anyway, it'll do her good." So I did — I doubt she believed me, I'm an awful liar — and then I settled in to exchange pleasantries with Leon while we waited and Hamish made tea. Phoebe and RJ had arrived earlier, but they'd gone out to fetch a few things; not knowing what needed doing, we couldn't start without them, and Yaya was in no state to tell us. I noticed her grasping a bundle of leaves with her good hand, folding and twisting them. Not having had a religious upbringing, I didn't realise what she was about until Leon took a couple of fronds from the bundle and showed me. "Palm fronds. We make them into crosses for Sunday." It was a simple task, and after watching Leon demonstrate it once I could have done it easily. But Yaya's left arm was still out of action and she kept losing her train of thought, setting the crosses aside half-finished and starting new ones as the old began to unravel. We made conversation, and I made the mistake of admitting that I worked in tech-support, whereupon Leon started asking me for advice: he wanted to digitise several thousand family photographs, and needed a scanner, and maybe a new computer, and didn't know what to buy. So I wrote down a few things for him to look at and my phone number in case he had more questions. Just as I was on the verge of starting to explain most of the Internet to him, Phoebe and RJ unwittingly came to my rescue, returning with packing supplies and a trailer. As Phoebe caught sight of me I could see relief in her eyes too. We greeted one another as friends, but we hugged very tight, and I whispered "Missed you" before we disengaged. Once we were settled RJ explained what needed to be done. The plan was to sort through Yaya's belongings, boxing up some for storage and getting rid of anything that wasn't needed. Reading between the lines, he was concerned that she might not be able to go back home after the surgery, and wanted to get things under control while she was still around to say what needed to be kept and what to go. Of course, that was the bottleneck: with Leon there were four of us helping, and Yaya couldn't provide enough direction to keep us all busy. I spent half an hour on the bathroom, pulling out expired medicines for disposal and amalgamating assorted soaps and lotions into a box, while Phoebe sorted papers in the lounge and separated the junk mail from bills that might need payment. But most of the work was in boxes of Old Stuff in the bedrooms, and most of the contents required decisions: should this old dress be kept, or donated to charity, or thrown out? Since only Yaya and RJ could make those decisions — and even RJ only sometimes — we found ourself at a loose end when we'd finished those tasks. "Well, you could do the garage," RJ suggested. "Good idea," said Phoebe. She turned to me: "Lots of Grandpa's car stuff in there, she won't care what we do with it. And if we can clear some space in the garage, we'll have somewhere to put the packing boxes we don't need inside." And out in the garage Phoebe and I could talk — albeit cautiously, for RJ and Leon were in and out of the house carrying rubbish to the trailer. "What do you think?" she asked me as soon as we had the roller door open. "She's looking pretty sick. Is that the last of the chemo?" "For now, anyway. Really hope she isn't too fragile for surgery. Yeah, Dad told me she was in a bad way but I wasn't quite prepared for it." I hugged her, looked around to make sure RJ and Leon weren't about, and kissed her on the cheek. "Expect she'll pick up a bit now the chemo's done, then." "I hope so." She kissed me back. "Thanks for being here." "That's what girlfriends are for. So, what needs doing?" Quite a lot, as it turned out. Yaya had barely ventured into the garage since Achilles died thirty years ago. They'd sold off his car soon after that — Yaya had never learned to drive, RJ already had one of his own — but you probably could've built a new one from the parts he'd left behind. Most would go out to the trailer, to be sold for scrap. The dealers were closed for Easter, but Leon knew a guy who'd take it if we dropped it off. Along with the parts, there were other things to be sorted: several petrol cans, a couple of mowers long since rusted into uselessness, a big tool board with an assortment of things that might be worth something to the right person, and a lot of grimy cloths and rat-nibbled motoring magazines. I doubted we'd get much for any of it. With what RJ must be earning in the real-estate business, it was hardly worth his time to drive the trailer to Leon's friend; we might have done better just to give it all away to the first petrolhead willing to come and take it away. But this wasn't a business proposition. I don't believe in ghosts, but most of us carry a few ancestors around in our heads, and they get cranky if you don't treat them with respect. So it fell to family (and helpers) to sort through Grandpa Karavangelis' belongings. Even if it all ended up at the scrap yard just the same, at least we'd do it properly. As I filled a plastic tub with nuts and bolts and washers I asked, "Phoebe, do you remember him at all?" "Maybe. I have a hazy mental image of Helen taking me to see him in hospital and him kissing me on the cheek. But I was so young when he died, I don't know whether it's a real memory or just something I dreamed up to fill in the blanks." "Speaking of your mother, wasn't she going to be here?" "Tomorrow. She gets nervous driving in Melbourne, wants to avoid the worst of the holiday traffic." It took us most of the afternoon to clear out the garage. I'd half-expected to find something to explain why Yaya had been avoiding it for so long. Perhaps a leaky can of arsenic weedkiller, or an ex-war revolver hidden in a drawer? But the most exciting thing we found amidst the dust and grime was in a fruit-box tucked away under a workbench: Grandpa Karavangelis' collection of naughty pictures, hidden under a couple of parts catalogues. Phoebe slid the box to me. "Hey, 'Von, do you mind checking this one? Some things I don't need to know about my grandpa. But check it, just in case there's something important underneath." "Sure thing." I started to rummage through the collection. After a few minutes I picked up one of the magazines, holding it open and staring at the contents. "Wow, I didn't know they were even allowed to publish that stuff." "What? No, don't tell me, I don't want to know." But she'd stopped what she was doing and was watching from across the garage, looking alarmed. A few minutes later I picked up a loose photograph and stared at it, frowned, then turned it upside-down. "Oh! It's two nuns! And, um, whatever that is." "Stop that. You're making it up." "Yeah, I am." "...bitch." "Love you too. Nah, it's all pretty tame. Mostly 'eighties Playboys, and these photos... probably forties or fifties? Cute, anyway. And not a one of your grandma." "Missed his opportunity. She was a stunner, from the family albums I've seen." "Takes after her granddaughter then." "Flatterer." She kissed me on the nose. "You know I'm a sucker for compliments." An hour later, as we carried the last tub-load out to the trailer, I asked, "So, what's the plan for after surgery?" "Depends on how well her arm heals up. She wants to stay on here. Dad thinks she might need to move in with him or go to an assisted living facility. I've been looking them up, there are some good ones around with lots of Greek folk around her age." "What do you think?" "I think Dad's right, but she's not going to accept it unless she tries it her way first. He'll keep Hamish on for now, so it's not like she'll be alone here. Help me with the tarp?" We fastened a tarpaulin over the trailer, then headed inside to let RJ know it was ready. "Need us to come along for the ride?" asked Phoebe. "No thank you, Leon and I should be fine. Hamish is taking Mum out for a walk, so you're minding the house." "Cool, Yvonne and I could do with a shower." We gave RJ a hand hitching up the trailer. As they drove off I asked Phoebe, "So... when you said 'a shower', did you mean one at a time, or...?" She squeezed my hand, fingers just as grimy as mine. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" On our way back in we met Hamish coming out, pushing Yaya in her chair. She managed a drawn sort of smile for Phoebe: "You cleaned out the garage so soon? That's a miracle. Thirty-five years when he was alive, I couldn't make your Pappous clean it up. Did you find his dirty pictures?" "You knew about them?" Yaya gave a one-sided shrug. "He's a man, what's there to know? Every man looks at dirty pictures. Even priests." Then she said something in Greek, which Phoebe translated for me afterwards: "This fellow pushing my chair, you think he doesn't look on the computer?" Back to English: "Your daddy used to hide his under the bed." "Yaya, do we really have to —" "I don't mind. It's just how God made men, that's all. Now we're going to the park before it's dark." Alone in the house, Phoebe and I shut the bathroom door behind us and shed our clothes. It wasn't very sexy; we were grimed with a mix of oil and dust, and she had cobwebs in her hair. I spent a couple of minutes slathering myself with soap and scrubbing under my nails before I felt Phoebe's hand on my shoulder. "Be a darling and help with my hair, would you?" I slipped behind her and squirted something coconut-scented into my hand, then started working it into her hair. The air was cold against wet skin, so we stood close together to keep under the hot water: my hips against her butt, my breasts squashed against her back, and her long black curls all over the place. I tugged them out from between us and draped them over her shoulders to either side — ostensibly so I could get at them with the shampoo, mostly to enjoy the feel of her skin against me — and kept on going. "Mmm, nice." She reached back behind me and locked her arms around my waist, trapping me against her. "Do go on." I vanquished a couple of tangles and started massaging the shampoo into her scalp. "By the time you get out you're going to smell like a coconut meringue." "Is that good?" I leant in close. "I love coconut meringues. Baked with little pointy peaks." I slipped one hand under her arm, fingers gliding around to graze her nipple. "I run my tongue over the peaks to feel how pointy they are." "And then?" Her fingers were digging into my back. "Then I suck them into my mouth and crunch them and the world explodes into sugar." "Mmm." She let go of me and twisted around, kissing me fiercely on the mouth. "Show me." So I slid down her body, fingers leading the way and lips following, teasing her nipples into firmness and then testing their shape with my tongue as the water streamed down my face. My left hand palmed her other breast; my right followed the water down, carried by the rivulets to the tributary at her hip, and down into the valley between her thighs. "Mmm." I teased her with my fingers as my lips pressed around her nipple in a lower-case 'o', tongue flickering against the tip. She had her hands in my hair now, stroking me, pulling me closer, but I felt her gasp as my fingertips began to probe. "Easy, love!" For the soap had washed away most of her natural lubrication, leaving her squeaky clean — not always a good thing. So I took it slowly, pressing and retreating and pressing again, just a little further each time, until the warmth of the water began to give way to the heat of her body. She started to push back, hips rocking against my hand, and I let her set the pace as she slowly-slowly-slowly took my fingers inside her in a series of tiny gasps and thrusts and grunts, hands clenching in my hair. "So nice," she whispered, as my fingers curled toward my thumb, which now rested just behind her clit. "Ahh!" For as I stroked her G-spot, and my thumb slid over her nub, I bit down on her nipple as if it were a meringue. I felt her muscles fluttering around my fingers and I followed her timing, rubbing my thumb back over her clit every time her body tensed, running my other hand down her back to stroke her arse. "Oh, you witch, how do you... oh!" As she spoke, I'd probed her nipple with my tongue, pushing it back against the teeth that held it captive even as I bit down harder. "Ow!" And then as the sudden pain ran through her body I stroked again with my fingers, blending it with a pulse of pleasure, licking and biting and squeezing and pinching until the sensations blended together and the flutters around my fingers became ripples and the ripples became spasms and the pricking of my thumbnail against her clit sent her into sobbing climax: "Oh, oh, oh, oh!" The water was still running as I withdrew, and kissed her softly on the breast — the toothmarks might be visible for a day or two — and straightened so I could kiss her on the cheek and cradle her in my arms. "Love you, sweetie." "Mmm." She leaned into my arms. "I don't remember being that much of a masochist." "Maybe you just have a natural talent for it." "Mmm. Hey, we should probably get dressed before somebody comes home." "Spoilsport." I turned off the taps and stepped out of the shower. "So what are you doing tonight? I don't feel like waiting until tomorrow for my turn." "Sorry, babe, you're going to have to. I'm booked for dinner with Dad and some old friends of the family. Already told him I'm hanging out with you tomorrow, so it'd look fishy if I begged off tonight as well." This is why I hate closets. But I didn't say it. "Well, tomorrow then." I finished towelling myself off and helped her dry her hair. "Make sure you get an early night tonight, honey. You'll want to be rested tomorrow." I took my own advice and retired to bed at nine o'clock, after a brief exchange of text messages: Going to bed, goodnight, I love you - Y Love you too, wish you were here... No, it's horrendously dull, wish I was there - P When I arrived on Saturday there was an unfamiliar car parked outside behind RJ's. It was a dusty old Subaru station-wagon, heavily stickered with things like "Save Australia's Wild Places," "I Heart The Woodford Folk Festival", and "No To Uranium Mining". I walked past it, through the gate. "Hi! Are you Phoebe's friend? I'm Helen!" I jumped. I'd walked right past her without noticing, for she was down on her knees among the tomato vines. She had a plastic ice-cream tub beside her, half-filled with tomatoes and a couple of lemons. "Give me a hand with these?" "Um, sure." I knelt down beside her to see what she was doing. The garden hadn't been tended in weeks — probably not since our working bee in February — and the vines were heavy with unpicked tomatoes. Many had fallen and were rotting on the ground; others had been attacked by bugs small enough to get through the netting. But some were salvageable, if a little shrivelled, and Helen was collecting them up. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 10 "You're Phoebe's mum?" I remembered the name from Phoebe's family history project, but she didn't look much like I'd expected. In the photos she'd been a plump thirty-something; eighteen years later she was downright skinny and a little twitchy, bobbing and jerking like a wren unable to keep still. "Yes! They're all inside. Just thought I'd rescue these first. Shame to see them rot." But after a couple of minutes, when we still had four vines left to go — not to mention the lemons, and the beans — she straightened up. "Come on, let's go say hello." It was all very polite. Helen and Phoebe were polite to one another, and kissed on the cheek like a pair of clockwork dolls. Helen and RJ were courteous, exchanging conversation about RJ's business and Helen's difficulties finding a rental in Ballarat. I didn't understand the Greek that she spoke with Yaya, but the body language and the tone of voice seemed very proper and tactful on both sides and Yaya accepted the tub of tomatoes graciously. All in all I felt as if I'd walked into the middle of a diplomatic negotiation, smiles on the surface and minefields underneath. Even Phoebe gave me no more than a sisterly peck on the cheek. After a few minutes of pleasantries, Leon broke the ice. "What are we doing today?" RJ tapped his fingertips together, making a steeple. "We need to sort through the bedrooms. There are a lot of things in unlabelled boxes, need to get them out and check whether they're worth keeping, then repack and label them. And there's some china and glassware that needs to be packed away carefully." I'd been hoping for time alone with Phoebe, but it wasn't to be. RJ took charge of the chinaware: "If anybody breaks Mum's china, best that it's me." With Leon assisting him, that left the rest of us to go through a mountain of boxes in what had once been his bedroom. Hamish wheeled in Yaya to provide direction, then retired to the dining room with a fat textbook on aged-care nursing, and we got stuck into the boxes. They were ancient cardboard things, sealed with Sellotape that had yellowed and brittled with age. Every last one of them needed to be opened, sorted, and repacked into new boxes that RJ had brought along. We settled into a routine: I opened boxes and pulled out the contents, then stacked the dead boxes for recycling. Phoebe sorted the contents in front of Yaya, who decided their fate, and then Helen boxed and bagged them again. We started with box upon box of clothes, some of them Achilles' old gear but most of them Yaya's bright colours that had been packed away in 1990 to be replaced by widow's black. A couple of boxes had become badly mildewed, and we threw those out. Phoebe persuaded Yaya that most of the rest could be passed on to charity. But there were a few things that had too much sentimental value for that, and she acquired several hand-me-down dresses. Somehow even I ended up with one, a candy-striped time-traveller from the '70s: "You should have that, dear. I think will look good on you. You can't wear jeans all the time. Go on, try it." Bowing to the inevitable, I took it to the bathroom and put it on. It fitted, and the colours weren't really too bad, but it felt very wrong on me. I was still grimacing at the mirror when Phoebe slunk in behind me. "You know, she's right, that actually does look good on you." "I guess. I just don't wear dresses. Not my thing." She nudged the door shut behind her and advanced toward me. "Maybe not. Just saying, you look good." She straightened the neckline, adjusted the sleeves, and nodded approval. "I'd do you." And she kissed me. "Mmm. You're sweet." I ruffled her hair. "I still don't know that I should take it. I can't imagine when I'd wear it. Just don't feel comfortable in dresses." "Take it anyway. You don't have to wear it, you can put it away in a cupboard if you like, but she wants to give you something as a thank-you. Just one thing, before you take it off... shut your eyes a moment?" "Yes?" I obeyed, and waited, and as soon as I opened my eyes to see what she was playing at I was dazzled by the flash from her phone camera. "That's for yesterday, with the magazines. Don't worry, I won't show it to anybody." "Bitch. I love you." "You too. Come on, we'd better get back." After that we started to uncover boxes of bedding. These all needed to be unfolded, checked for wear or damage, and then refolded, so we had time to chat as we worked. Helen did most of the talking. "So, Phoebe, I hear you have an audition coming up?" "Yes, Sydney Philharmonic, at the end of June." "That far away?" "Yes, they've got a cellist retiring in September, so they were able to give a bit of notice." "Do you know what will be in the audition?" "Most of it. There's one sight-reading piece in there." "Are you still climbing?" "Yes. Haven't had much time for it lately though." And so on. Helen skipped from topic to topic and Phoebe responded, answering the questions she was asked but giving away nothing that might be taken as an invitation for further conversation. Eventually Helen turned to me; she already knew I worked for RJ, and we talked a bit about my job. In return, I learned a little about her: she was working as a guide at a gold-rush museum, studying part-time for a degree in ecological management or some such. Phoebe 'accidentally' brushed my hand every so often as I passed her a box, but she stayed out of the conversation, and Yaya was silent. Not long before lunchtime we got to the end of the bedding and opened another bundle of clothes. Phoebe shook out a polka-dotted dress and held it up: "Yaya?" "Hrr?" "Yaya, this dress, stay or go?" "Don't feel good." I looked up sharply. She was sagging and her face was grey. Phoebe stepped to the door. "Hamish!" "Coming!" He walked in, took her pulse and frowned. "Mrs Karavangelis, your heartbeat's a bit uneven, probably nothing to worry about but we should get you to hospital for a checkup." Five minutes later they were on their way in RJ's four-wheel drive with Leon and Phoebe along for the ride, leaving only Helen and myself to mind the house. As Helen closed the door she muttered, "Poor thing! My dad had chemo and radio, it's miserable." "Yeah, it's been taking it out of her. But she's stubborn, I'm sure she'll get through it." "I wish it worked that way. Sometimes all the willpower in the world isn't enough." Then, as she turned back to me, "Sorry, don't mean to be a downer. What do you think we should do? Should we tidy up?" "Yeah, let's." We shuffled the new boxes into one corner of the room, and carried the old dead ones out to the recycling bin. It was already pretty full with papers and tins, so I had to work to make room. As I squashed down the contents, Helen abruptly said, "Yvonne, can I ask something personal? Are you Phoebe's girlfriend?" "What?" "Are you Phoebe's girlfriend? Partner? Lover?" And while I was still trying to plan a response, "I thought so! The way she acts around you, it's not how she acts around her friends. You're in tune with one another, I can see it. Don't get defensive, I don't have a problem with it. But you are, aren't you?" "Yes. We are. We haven't told them." "Well, obviously. I'm sorry, it's rude of me to pry! But I'm her mother, I can't just... she won't tell me anything important. I just want to know, is she happy? I mean, I know she's not happy right now, but is she okay?" "Um... I think so." I wasn't sure how much I ought to tell her, if Phoebe wasn't willing to share it herself. "She's upset about all this and she's stressed about work, but she's coping." I figured I wasn't telling her anything much that she couldn't have guessed for herself. "I'm glad she has you. I mean, I don't know you, but I'm glad she has someone. This has to be so hard on her... she doesn't talk about me much, does she?" "Um. Not really, no." "Let's go inside, I could do with a cuppa." When the kettle had boiled and the tea was brewing, she continued. "I thought I was going to be such a good mother. We wanted her so much, she was such a lovely baby. But it all got... oh, maybe it was PND, I don't know. I was overwhelmed, so many things to juggle. Feed her, clean clothes, check her school work, look after Dimi —" it took me a moment to remember that RJ had started life as 'Dimitrious' "— look after his mum, my own job, the house, me. Every time I got one thing under control I'd take my eye off something else and it'd all come crashing down. And then Kalli would show up and tell me how I ought to be doing it. I couldn't even make soup without her telling me a better way to do it." "Oh." "Dimi's a good man, but he just couldn't see what it was like for me! One day I just snapped. I said I can't handle this any more, if Kalli knows how to do it all, Kalli can bloody well do it. I walked out, went to stay with my sisters just for a few weeks. I thought when she and Dimi found out how hard it was they'd beg me to come back!" She sugared her tea, took a sip, pursed her lips. "Do you know how stubborn that woman is? I don't know how she managed it! I couldn't go back, maybe it's foolish pride, but I just couldn't. So I went off to see what else I could do." Another sip. "Phoebe's never forgiven me." "I wouldn't quite say that. I think she'd like to be closer to you. She just hasn't worked out how yet." "Perhaps. Well, I like to believe one day she'll call me and say she wants to talk." A wry chuckle. "Maybe ask me to one of her concerts. I went once, you know? Found out when they were playing, drove up to Sydney, bought a ticket. Stayed up the back, she was looking the other way, never saw me, I was so proud when I saw her there on stage. Maybe she'll even tell me about you. But anyway, even if it can't be me... I'm glad she's got somebody to look after her if Kalli's sick. Look, don't tell Phoebe about this, she'll know when she's ready to talk. But if she ever needs help, if there's something I can do... can I give you my phone number?" "Sure." Although I couldn't imagine a situation where I'd use it. It would feel like violating Phoebe's trust, unless she knew, and then why wouldn't she just call herself? But I recorded it in my phone anyway, if only to reassure Helen. Then I texted Phoebe: how's it going? You okay? Love you. She's looking better but need to get checkup. Long wait for doctor, don't know when back. ILY Helen and I helped ourselves to a late lunch and then decided to go on with the bedroom as best we could, sorting things into "probably keep" and "probably chuck" that could be checked later. Here and there amidst the clothes we found old knick-knacks that had been wrapped in them for safe-keeping: family photos of people I didn't recognise, Greek-language books, young Dimi's high-school pennants (soccer in primary school, football and cricket in high). There was a heavy metal trunk that was either locked or rusted shut — "that'd be the one they brought over in fifty-three," Helen explained — and a large wooden chest. My parents had one like it, full of blankets and mothballs, and that's what I expected to see when I opened it. And indeed there was a small, colourful blanket on the top. But underneath that were children's toys and keepsakes: green plastic soldiers and a rather squashed tank, some sort of vehicle made from Meccano, a wooden sword that might have been made in Achilles' workshop, a collection of small shells and crab claws and river-polished stones... "This is Dimi's old stuff." "I don't think so..." Helen came over to look in the box. "No, that's his brother's. We should close that up and put it back where it was, she'll be upset if she sees we've opened it." "Oh." I lowered the lid carefully. It closed with a soft 'chunk'. "If you don't mind me asking, what happened to him?" "No great mystery. Just measles. Dimi caught it at school and brought it home, and that was that... nobody's fault, they didn't have vaccination until a few years later. I never heard the story until Phoebe was born, then Kalli wouldn't let up on me until she had her shots." I slid the box back into its place against the wall — it had left a deep impression in the carpet — and then pottered around, washing up dishes and collecting rubbish, until my phone buzzed with a message from Phoebe. Still waiting for doctor. Probably be few hours yet maybe you should make own way home Not going to make it for dinner with J & M? Shit, forgot. kinda distracted. yes will meet there Text me address. ILY I sent her my brother's address and then passed on the first part of the message to Helen. "I'd better go get my train." "I'll give you a lift." Although I could easily have walked, I accepted her offer because she gave me the impression she still had something she wanted to say. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 11 It was a short trip to the station, and Helen was quiet for most of it. Just as we got to the car park she spoke rapidly: "You must think I'm mad, talking at you like I did before. I probably am, a little bit. I can't deal with too much happening in my life, I need to keep it simple or I start going off the rails. But I have to know Phoebe's all right." "I worry about her too, you know. It's hard when she's living so far away, and she pushes herself hard. But I love her, I'm going to do my best by her." And then, since we'd just we pulled into a spot, I leant over and hugged Helen. I don't know if it was welcome, but she looked so worried, I felt I ought. "Thanks for the lift. I promise I'll look after her. Catch you back here tomorrow!" I arrived at John's place late, thanks to a delayed train, but that was okay: he was still vacuuming as I walked in. "Evening 'Von." He looked out the door, side to side. "Did you bring this girlfriend of yours?" "She's running late. Her grandma's in hospital." "That's no good. Give us a hand moving this sofa." "You vacuum under sofas now? Well, I never." "Cat says it gets her hot when I do housework. What can you do?" From the kitchen I heard: "Yeah baby. That's how I like it. And don't forget to change that top, it's filthy." "Hi Cat!" I called out. "Hi Yvonne!" I helped set the table and then caught a quick shower to rinse off the day's dust. As I was coming out of the bathroom I heard Cat at the door: "...and you must be Phoebe? Nice to meet you!" I hurried over to greet her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Hey sweetie!" "Hey there. Sorry, I was planning to dress up a bit, but I came straight from the hospital." "Don't sweat it. We're casual here... yeah, like that." My brother had just made his appearance in a Megadeth T-shirt that I'd given to him for Christmas eight years earlier. "Phoebe, this is my brother John. John, this is Phoebe." "Evening!" He shook her hand. "Get yourself comfortable, dinner's in five." As we ate, John made conversation: "So, Pheebs, little sis says you're a cellist?" "That's right." "What'cha play? Anything I'd have heard?" "Um, I don't think so... mostly classical and folk..." "She does a good version of 'Sweet Child of Mine'," I offered. "Do you know S&M?" John asked. Phoebe looked thrown by the question — I've no doubt he was making mischief — but Cat came to the rescue. "It's a Metallica album. With an orchestra." "Oh! Oh, yes, I've heard it. San Francisco Symphony. I'm auditioning for the Sydney Philharmonic, if I get in I might get to do stuff like that occasionally. And things like movie scores, video game soundtracks..." John interrupted, "Grand Theft Auto?" "I don't think so..." I patted her knee. "John is making trouble. He did four years of music in school, he knows what a cello is." "I did! You wouldn't believe how crap I was." "We were in school band together," I said. "Pachelbel's bloody Canon, over and over and over. He played the triangle." "Oh god," said Phoebe, "I used to have a T-shirt that said 'NO I WILL NOT PLAY PACHELBEL'." And she delivered a small rant on the subject. It's a lovely piece of music, easy to play, and so it suffers the death of a thousand scrapes at the hands of every school string group. "I had a gig at a restaurant for a few months. Guy wants to impress his date, can't name anything else classical, guess what he asks for? Every time." That set off an animated discussion about good music ruined by overexposure: "Hallelujah", "Gran Vals", "Smoke on the Water" and a dozen other classics. As we talked I felt Phoebe's fingers stroking mine under the table. She seemed to be settling in nicely with the company, and soon she was giving John as good as she got. As the conversation drifted on to Cat's work in architecture John and I rose to clear the table and rinse off the dishes in the kitchen. "Well, she seems nice. Very classy." "Yeah, I still feel out of my league with her." John humphed. "Can she fix a computer?" "No, but —" "She's never dated a woman, but she's dating you. That tell you anything?" "Um..." "It says she likes you. Now come and pick a movie." We sat out in the lounge and put on a DVD. It was something called Cardinals that I'd never heard of: pre-rehab Rob Downey Jr. as world-weary Bishop Stephen Doherty, Chris Rock as hard-living pro baseballer Stevie Doherty. Stephen gets appointed as a Cardinal, Stevie gets selected for the St. Louis Cardinals, letters get mixed up, hilarity ensues. John and Cat had left us the sofa, so Phoebe and I cuddled up next to one another as the opening titles rolled: Stevie's fiancée walks out on him after catching him in bed with a cheerleader, while Stephen's given up hope of finding the money he needs to fund the underprivileged kids' sports program. Cat brought out a dessert wine; as a rule I don't drink much, but I have a weak spot for a good botrytis, and Phoebe and I sipped as we watched. PAPAL EMISSARY #1: And of course, you're celibate. STEVIE: [fishes engagement ring out of pocket, looks at it sadly, throws it in the Missouri] Yeah, guess I am now. EMISSARIES: [look at one another in shock] Phoebe slipped her hand behind me, covertly stroking my back. In reply I rested my own hand on her knee, in plain sight, and squeezed. She tensed up and looked cautiously in my brother's direction. "It's okay, they're cool." I kissed her earlobe and slowly I felt her relaxing again. I don't know whether it was the wine or the company, but I enjoyed the movie more than I'd expected. It was one of those comfortable stories where you can predict most of the ending once you've seen the first five minutes. Bishop Stephen lost his glasses and hit a home run, Stevie D gave a passionate sermon about the "goddamn blessing of marriage" and proposed to his fiancée from the pulpit, the kids' sports program got saved. Everybody except the evil property developer got a happy ending. By then Phoebe was curled up with her head in my lap. "You still awake, love?" I asked, stroking her hair. She yawned. "Yeah. Just. Sorry, long day." "Sounds like we'd better head home." Another, longer yawn. "Yeah." So we said our good-nights and shambled to the station. As we waited for our train I thought to ask, "So how is Yaya?" "Bit of a heart wobble from the chemo. They're going to keep her in overnight for observation. She should be home tomorrow but we're not going to do any more packing, just the family stuff." "So you won't need me there tomorrow." "No, sorry babe. So we'd better make the most of tonight." "Mmm." We were the only ones in the carriage, and I nuzzled her neck. "So, how tired are you?" She tilted her head, giving me better access. "I think I could stay up a bit longer. But I'm going to need a shower first." The flat was quiet when we got home. As usual, Aleks was out. While I shed my clothes Phoebe made straight for the shower. I stopped to check my email, and when I looked up a few minutes later she was standing in the bathroom doorway wearing only a towel. "Darling..." she said. "Yes?" She began walking toward me, reaching out to me, towel falling away from her hips and leaving her naked. "Put the laptop away." I obeyed, and as soon as it was safe on my bedside table she pounced, pinning me to the bed. "Much better." She stooped to rub noses with me. "Give us a kiss?" I obliged, and we tumbled around in one another's arms for a while, ending up side by side. "How you doing, love?" "Oh... okay, I guess. Taking Yaya to the ER isn't my idea of fun." "I'm not surprised." I squeezed her tight. "I'm okay if you just want to cuddle up and go to sleep." "I could do that. But what would you like?" "Well, I..." I was going to say "cuddle up and go to sleep" but realised: no, that's not what I want. That's what I think Phoebe wants me to want. What I want is... What I want is scary to ask for. Is it too much? Will it scare her away? Will she say yes out of pity? I sat on the bed and gestured at the floor in front of me. "Stand there, please. Back to me." As she obeyed I shifted forward to the very edge of the bed, reaching for her hair, pulling loose the ties that kept it neatly corralled. She'd braided it earlier; I undid those braids now, teasing her hair out until it hung loose all around her. I took a deep breath. "Kneel on the floor. Facing me. Hands and knees." "As you wish, my love." What was that in her voice? Desire? Amusement? Surrender? Not distaste. Not distrust. She knelt, her drifting hair tickling the insides of my knees, her palms flat on the floor. "Phoebe. I want to be selfish tonight. I want you to go down on me, make me come, over and over." Her cheeks brushed my thighs now, and she spoke without looking up: "And is that all?" "No." I placed my feet on top of her hands. Not hard, not enough to hurt — god, the thought of damaging those accomplished fingers! — but firm enough to say: These stay here. "No, it's not. I need you to tell me: do you love me?" How many times can I hear that question answered, and see the proofs of it, and still need to hear the answer again? "Yvonne." She kissed the inside of my thigh. "Let me show how much I love you." And I opened my knees wider as she rocked forward. My fingers settled at the nape of her neck — I don't remember whether I was clawing her or caressing — as I felt the warmth of her tongue. I had to look down and reassure myself that she really was there, that I wasn't in my bedroom alone caught up in some daydream. "Mmm. Yesss. Like that." I took her by the earlobe, pulled her in a little, my legs wide as her tongue flickered into me, and out again, and upwards to explore the neighbourhood of my clit... Slam. Drunken laughter from the lounge. Both of us froze. "That," I whispered, "will be Aleks. Don't stop." She resumed licking me, leisurely slow strokes. It was very pleasant but I was more than a little distracted by the noise. Noises. Footsteps in the lounge, more than one set, and a second voice mixing with Aleks', although it was too soft for me to make out what he (she?) was saying. "I guess he brought a friend home." And then I whispered "More," tugging at her hair suggestively, placing just a little more pressure on her hands. She obliged me, the tip of her tongue describing circles around my clit like a tiny moon orbiting its planet. It was only a soft touch, but it felt so very good. I'd been in a state of high arousal since the moment she went down on her knees, before her tongue touched me. Right next to my room, Aleks' bedroom door slammed — I've spoken to him about that more than once — and the laughter continued just the other side of the wall, muffled a little so I could hear the tone but not the words. After a little while I realised my body was anticipating the path of Phoebe's tongue, little bow-waves of delight outrunning her and setting my nerve-endings tingling even before she came to tend to them. "Mmm. Nice." Next door the voices had changed. Not laughter any more. Quiet conversation. Sighs? "Sounds like Aleks is getting lucky." "Mmm-hmm." Soon after she slowed again and moved away from my clit, kissing my labia and running her tongue up and down. My arousal had been concentrated around my sex; now it was spreading, that delicious sensitivity creeping outwards along the highways of my body. I ran fingernails over my own belly, striking shivers like sparks from my skin, fingers sliding up to my nipples to savour what Phoebe had set in motion. Speaking with lowered voice: "So very nice. Can I keep you?" She drew back for a moment, so she could speak: "Yes." And sunk herself between my thighs again, tongue now darting in little flicks, frustratingly unpredictable. Thump. Thump. Thump... and I felt Phoebe shaking with laughter, for it was very obviously Aleks' bed bumping against the shared wall. As if to settle the matter beyond any doubt, we soon began to hear a rising series of moans that seemed quite excessive. I was more familiar than I wanted to be with the noises Aleks made in bed — he'd brought enough people home at one time or another — so I was pretty sure most of it was his bedmate. I am oddly self-conscious sometimes, and although the noises from next door were hilarious, I didn't want to be heard myself. And I was getting close, my face hot and flushed. So I leant back a little, one hand firm on Phoebe's forehead so she couldn't follow, and we took a breather. "Is that a man or a woman with him?" she whispered. "I can't tell." "Not sure. I think maybe a guy?" Thump. Grunt. Thump. Gasp. Thump. Grooooan. "I think that's a woman. Too high for a guy," she said. "Maybe." I shifted forward again, combed my fingers up into her hair, grasped. "Go on. Slowly." And she did, not that she had much option, with my hand pulling her in close. Next door somebody came, noisily and at length: a sound like "Aaaheyargh", followed by softer grunting and talk that gradually died away. "Keep going," I whispered. "Yes, harder. Eat me." Squeezing my own breast. Looking down at the curve of her back, the flow of her hair. My other hand at the back of her head, holding her close in, and feeling the tension in her fingers still caught under my feet. "Yes, I want you... aah!" I'd stuffed my knuckles in my mouth at the last moment, but it was barely enough to keep me from crying out as a tsunami flooded my nervous system. I came, thick fast pulses that I felt throughout my body. And when at last they ebbed, I took Phoebe by the hair, tugged her head back so I could look her in the eye, and told her, "More." And I did not release her until her tongue had coaxed out every last ripple of pleasure. When I finally did let her up, I fell back onto the bed — feet still dangling off the side — and she curled up alongside me. "Sweetie?" she said. "Mmm?" "I love you. And I loved doing that for you." I drifted off to sleep, still tingling, tangled up with my lover. It was eight in the morning when we were woken by her phone with a text message from RJ: Back at Mum's. She's doing well. When will you be over? We scrounged breakfast — there was no sign of life yet from Aleks' quarters — and I kissed Phoebe goodbye at the door. Then I went back to bed for another couple of hours. She called me in the evening: "Hey beautiful!" "Hey love, what's doing?" "Sitting at the airport, waiting for my flight. Just thought I'd call." "How's your grandma?" "Oh... you don't want to know." In the background, I could hear the airline paging somebody. "Still feeling poorly?" "No. Well, not like that. They said her heart was okay, discharged her in the morning. I don't think Dad got any sleep, he looked awful today. Doctor told her to take it easy, so of course she insisted on having the big talk with us all anyway, and then she got into a fight with the priest." "Wait, what?" "Okay, let me start at the beginning. So, we sat down in the lounge and talked about... arrangements. Powers of attorney and so on. She showed us the valuables and the memorabilia and told us who gets what if she... you know. She made me write down a list, it's five pages long. Photos, jewellery, tablecloths, even the kitchen stuff. If you were wondering, I get the pots and the knife set, Helen gets the egg-beater and the cake trays and some money." "Your mum? I didn't think they got along." "They don't, but... oh, I don't know. Maybe Yaya's trying to build bridges, maybe she's trying to tell Helen she's still part of the family whether she wants to be or not. And honestly, Mum could do with the money, she doesn't have much. Anyway, then Yaya had me write down another long list of how to look after the garden. She's really worried that if she's in hospital for a long time we won't know how to do it, so..." "Odd priorities." "Yup. She's getting really picky about everything. She used to be so easy-going, but now... today she grumped at Hamish because he made us sandwiches and he cut them in halves on the square instead of the diagonal. He looked quite angry." "Well, I imagine she's under a lot of stress." I'd seen it happen before: people who've suddenly lost control over the course of their lives, trying to compensate by controlling everything and everyone else around them. "Trust me, by that stage we all were. And she grizzled at Helen about the way she and you sorted stuff yesterday. Don't take it personally, Yaya's like that with all of us at the moment. I really hope she's going to mellow out after she's had her surgery." "Uh-huh. So where's this priest come into it?" "Well, it's Palm Sunday, right? And Yaya's not well enough to make it to church, and Father Kimon knows she's not well. So he comes over to give us all a blessing, which is nice. And then she explains how she wants her funeral to be. Father Kimon tells her she's got plenty of years of life left in her, but she says just in case." "So what did they fight about?" "She wants to be cremated, so her ashes can go back to Greece." "Oh. That's a problem?" "Yeah, it's a no-no with the Church. Something about the resurrection of the body. But Yaya says... how did she put it? All those people who burned up in the bushfires three years ago, can God make new bodies for them? So surely He cope with one old lady who just wants to go back where her parents were buried? She couldn't afford to go back when her parents died, you see. We visited when I was eight, but that was much later, and I think it still bugs her. Anyway, Father Kimon argued with her, and he ended up telling her she couldn't have her funeral in an Orthodox church if she was determined to insult God by destroying what he'd given her, and she said what about the cancer in her arm, is she allowed to destroy that or is that insulting God too, and he started to answer back, and she clutched her chest and said her heart was giving her trouble, and we persuaded Father Kimon it'd be better if he left. He's a decent sort of guy but not the type to back down from a religious argument." "But your grandma? Her heart?" "She wouldn't let Hamish check it, refused to go back to hospital. I'd be more worried about that but I suspect she faked it to make him feel bad." "Seriously?" "I don't know whether to laugh or cry right now. I hate this, I just want my Yaya back the way she was." "Oh, sweetie." "Doesn't help that I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep for ages." "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I should've let you get to bed earlier." "Not your fault. I was happy to... you know. But I think I had a bad dream about Yaya, woke up worrying about how things were going in hospital and feeling guilty for not staying with her last night. And then just as I finally managed to relax myself enough to go back to sleep... um, your housemate decided to go for seconds, judging by the noise." "Oh dear. I'm going to have to talk to him about that. But that does remind me, I found out the answer to our question." "Question?" "Whether he was with a guy or a girl." "Oh, was I right? Was it a guy?" "We were both right. They left while I was taking out the laundry this morning." Somehow my good shirt had gone missing, the one I'd worn to dinner with John and Cat; I'd spent ten minutes looking for it, with no success. "Huh. I should have thought of that!" There was a loud and garbled announcement behind her, and we stopped talking until it finished. "Well, that's my boarding call. Love you, I'll call you later." "Bye!" *** I went back to work after the long weekend to find several emails from Susan waiting for me. That wasn't unusual; there was always something to do on the Redmond Barry project. What surprised me was the timing of her messages. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 11 I walked over to her desk and tapped to get her attention. "Susan, have you been working on the holiday? Like you keep telling me I'm not allowed to do?" "I know, I'm setting a bad example. You know how it is, there's so much to do and it's easier to get through it when there's nobody around to pester me." Although Susan had been put in charge of the day-to-day work of marketing the apartments and all that went with it, Peter had final responsibility and a bad tendency to micro-manage. "Thought you were going to the coast with Zara and Danny for the long weekend?" "Yeah, she didn't want to go. Said she had an assignment to work on, spent most of the weekend in her room. Now, while you're here, let's talk about the website. First payment date in the contract is May 7 and we want to be able to go live immediately that comes through. Are we still on target for that?" "I think so. There are a couple of things that we need to work out, though..." Soon after our meeting, my phone buzzed: Got date for audition. Friday June 25 - P. Nifty. Can I come watch? 'fraid not, love, but will take your best wishes in with me... still panicking about this. You'll be fine. You're awesome. Thanks sweetie! Don't know if I believe it but thanks anyway. A few hours later, it buzzed again: Yaya's surgery booked next Tuesday. That was April 17th, just seven days away. Crossing my fingers for you all. We didn't talk about it much over the next week. Phoebe seemed eager to chat about other things, and I did my best to supply her with cheerful topics of conversation. But she often got distracted and would forget what we'd been talking about five minutes before, and it was obvious that it was weighing heavily on her. We'd settled into a sort of routine: she'd practise until nine-thirty and then call, before continuing her practice afterwards. But on Friday night, she missed our regular time. I waited until ten, and when I didn't hear from her, I tried calling her instead, to find her phone had been disconnected. I was beginning to worry until I thought to check my email and found a message from her: Sorry love, forgot to pay the phone bill. Will fix it up tomorrow. Love you. And true to her word, she called me the next night. Perhaps it had just been her forgetfulness. On the other hand, I knew her finances weren't at all good just then, and I suspected she might have been waiting on money from teaching before she could pay her bill. On the Sunday night, she said to me out of the blue: "Can I tell you something bad?" "You know I'm on your side, love. What's up?" "Okay." She was halting as she spoke. "I love my grandma, she's been so good to me. But last weekend when we took her to hospital... I realised a tiny part of me was wishing she'd die then, or in surgery." Those last few words came out in a rush. "It sounds horrible. I don't want her dead. I'd do anything to prevent that. It's just the uncertainty I can't deal with. I don't know whether her heart's going to cope with the surgery, I don't know if they're going to get it all. Always wondering, sometimes it feels like it'd be less stressful if I knew the end. Even if it's a bad end. But that sounds horribly selfish, doesn't it?" I could hear her sniffling, suspected she was crying. "Oh, honey. If it helps, I felt that way when Granny Ponting had her last illness. I think a lot of people get that. It doesn't make you a bad person, it's just human. Doesn't mean you don't love them. If you went and acted on it, now, that would make you a bad person." "I still feel bad about it." "I did too. But it's not like you acted on it. You've been there to help your grandma and let her know you love her, right?" "I guess so." She didn't sound entirely persuaded, but at least she seemed relieved to have gotten it off her chest, and by the time we said our good-nights she was in better spirits. The 17th was just another day at work for me. Phoebe didn't come back down to Melbourne — she couldn't afford the time or the ticket for another trip so soon — but she'd called Yaya that morning to wish her well. It was hard to focus on my work, and I found myself checking my messages every few minutes. At two-thirty I heard from her: Dad says Y out of surgery. Docs thinks it went well. Pin in her arm. Updates followed: Yaya was awake, although spaced out on morphine. The surgeon had been able to remove what remained of the tumour without too much damage to the surrounding bone, and he was optimistic that he'd got it all. After three days they let her go, to stay at RJ's house under Hamish's watchful eye. "She'll still have to do a lot of rehab for the arm, but at least she can get started," Phoebe told me. "Such a relief. She's still on chemo but they've dropped the dose so they're not expecting the heart side-effects to come back." "Oh, that's great. You and I should get together and celebrate some time. Maybe I could come up some time next month, if it's not going to interfere too much with your music?" "I think we could manage something. We're hoping to get Nero together some time and test out some ideas, it's been ages since we rehearsed. I might drag you along to that if you're not careful? I could do with a short break from the audition stuff. Maybe get out to Rockwall again. God, it'll be nice to see you without this hanging over our heads." "Likewise." *** On a Thursday morning, nine days after Yaya's surgery, I was woken by the phone. "Hello? Phoebe?" I tried to focus on the clock. Why was she ringing me at six in the morning? "Yvonne, Dad called me. Mum's dead, she died last night." I was still half-asleep and fuzzy-headed. "What, but I thought she was doing well, they let her go home..." "No, not Yaya. Mum's dead. Helen." That can't be right. I have her phone number. But even as my heart went into denial, my head started to respond. "What? Oh, Jesus. How?" "Dad said she had an accident. Ran into a tree. I don't know anything else. He's driving to Ballarat now. He has to — to identify her." She sounded dazed. "Are you..." No, of course she's not okay. "What do you need, love? I can come up today if you need me. This morning." "I don't know. I think I'm flying down today. Not sure about tickets. Dad will buy them I guess." A faint beep-beep. "He's calling now. I'll have to take that. Call you later." "Okay. Love you." It didn't seem like enough. After she hung up I sat back in bed, trying to absorb what had happened, looking at my phone. I wanted to pull up the number I'd never used and ring Helen. Surely she'd pick up. But when I searched on the net, there it was. A small piece in a local news site: A Ballarat woman has died overnight after a single-car accident. More to come. I called Susan's work phone and left a brief message to let her know I might not be in. Then I tried to figure out what to do next. I felt like I ought to be calling Phoebe, but she would have things she needed to handle. Flights to catch, tickets to book. So I texted her: Love you. So very sorry. Call me whenever you want. And since there was nothing more I could do, I sat at my desk and started playing solitaire. Two hours later she replied: Love you too. Going to airport. Don't know when will call but thanks. When I was at school, two of my classmates had stolen a teacher's Falcon. Juiced up on cheap booze and teenage delusions of immortality, they'd wiped themselves out when they took a bend too fast and slammed into a big gum tree. I'd seen the wreckage next morning, concertinaed so badly it barely resembled a car, and now I had ghastly mental images of a crushed car and a shattered body. I spent most of the day sitting in my room, watching my phone and waiting for her to call, trying to find the words. It was ten at night before she called back and told me more. RJ had identified Helen — "the body" — and spoken to the police. It was not as ugly as I'd imagined. The impact had been barely enough to dent the front bumper and trigger the airbags, leaving Helen with a few bruises on her face and arms. But somewhere in there she'd had a heart attack — perhaps from the shock of the accident, or perhaps the heart attack came first — and by the time the medics got to her, that was that. I was used to the frustration of being a thousand kilometres away from Phoebe, connected only by the phone. It seemed harder to be in the same city, but the wrong house. With every word she spoke I wanted to rush over there and hold her, rock her in my arms, stroke her hair. "I can be there in half an hour if you say the word." "I want you here so much. But I need to be here for Dad. He's pretty shaken up. I know they were separated a long time, but still. And he said there was a scene at the morgue with Scott, too. Mum's boyfriend. He heard about the accident but legally Dad's still next of kin, so they wouldn't let him see her until Dad got there and said it was okay." "God, that sucks. Poor guy. And you?" "I don't know. I still can't believe it. Listen, I need to go keep Dad company, he's still sitting up. I'll try to call you tomorrow. Go get some sleep." "Okay then. Please look after yourself." "I will," she told me. I wasn't sure I believed her. She called the next morning: "Are you working today?" "Yeah, but I can take a day if you need me." "No, don't. I have to come into town anyway. I could meet you at lunchtime." I mentioned to Susan that I might be taking a long lunch, and she nodded absent-mindedly without even looking up at me. Phoebe and I had agreed to meet near the fountain in Pennant Gardens; it was quite a walk from my work, but that suited me, since it meant we were unlikely to bump into unexpected workmates. I found a grassy spot under a tree, and it wasn't long before I saw her walking in my direction from the train station. "Hello, love." "Hello." She walked into my embrace, and as I folded my arms around her she pressed her face against my shoulder. She wasn't crying, not quite, but the quaver in her breathing told me she wasn't far off it. I held her there with her back to the sun, and we communed in silence as the joggers and cyclists and office workers passed by. And then after a minute or two she started to tremble, and she began to cry, tears soaking through my T-shirt. "Easy, love, easy. I'm here." I held her tight and patted her back until she ran out of tears. Then I kissed her head and said, "I got us sandwiches. I thought you might need something." "I don't want to eat anything." "I know, but eat it anyway. I'll let you off with half a sandwich." We sat down side-by-side on the grass and I opened up the sandwiches. Phoebe ate her half-sandwich without any great relish, but at least she ate it. When she was done she asked, "So how's your day been?" I finished my mouthful. "Glad it's Friday. I've been flat out with this website. Every day there's stuff to change, and just when I'm starting to get my head around what I'm doing, someone phones for me to fix their printer." "Huh." She took my hand in hers. "So, what happens from here?" "Well. They have to do a post-mortem to confirm cause of death, that'll probably be on Monday. The funeral's on Thursday, in Ballarat, so we're driving up Wednesday morning. Staying overnight after the reception and then Dad's driving me back to the airport on Friday morning so I can get back to my tutoring." "Who's arranging things?" "Dad, mostly. He's talking to Scott and her sisters about it, but none of them have a lot of money. Scott's retired on disability, he and Mum weren't living together so it's not fair to ask him to pay for it. And Dad seems to feel responsible for it." I wondered what was in RJ's head. Old-fashioned sense of duty? Had he been hoping all those years that one day his marriage would come back together again? Or did he just feel bad about how Scott had been treated at the morgue? Phoebe went on, "I'm going to play a couple of pieces during the service, so I'm picking up a rental cello and sheet music today. Didn't even think of bringing mine until after I got to the airport." I put my arm around her waist. "Do you want me there on Thursday?" "Yes. Very much. I don't quite know how I'm going to explain it to Dad and Yaya, though. Let me think on that." We snuggled in one another's arms for a few minutes more until I checked the time and coughed. "I should get back to work, still catching up from yesterday. Will you be okay?" "Yeah, I think so." She kissed me on the cheek. "I don't know if I'll be able to see you this weekend, there's a lot to do. But I'll be in touch." "Take care. I love you, Phoebe." "Counting on it. Love you too." We hugged one last time and then went our separate ways. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 12 When I got back from lunch, I told Susan I'd be taking leave on Thursday for a funeral. She nodded absently, but took a sudden interest when I mentioned it was for Phoebe's mother. "Helen? Really? I didn't think she was that old." "She wasn't. She had a car accident and they think it triggered a heart attack." "Oh, that's awful. Poor RJ, no wonder he wasn't in today. You know they were still married?" "I did, yeah. I didn't know you knew her." "A little. I was working here before they separated, she came in now and then. Well. I suppose I should send flowers..." She trailed off, looking into space, and I left her to it. I had work to catch up on, and more if I was going to be away next week. I worked late that evening and slept in on Saturday morning. I'd just gotten dressed and headed out the door to do my grocery shopping when Phoebe called me around midday. "Hello, beautiful." "Hi, gorgeous. Hey, can I get a sanity check on something?" "Sure, what's up?" "We've been talking about the funeral. Yaya wants to bring in a priest to run the service." "Was your mum religious?" "We went to church a bit when I was little, but I don't think she's been in decades. And Yaya thinks Dad and I should give the eulogy." "And not Scott?" "And not Scott. She doesn't think he should speak. Because they'd only been together a year and they weren't married." "That's... not right." "Yeah, I know. Just trying to figure out whether it's worth arguing with her. She's pretty stubborn at the moment." "Honestly? I've never met this Scott, but I have to think it'd be pretty awful for him to be treated like that. Especially on top of the morgue business." "Yeah." I heard a long sigh. "Yeah, I think I'm going to have to pick a fight. Wish me luck." "Luck!" I'd barely stowed my phone when I had an idea, pulled it out, and called her back. "Yes?" "I just thought of something. How would your grandma be if your aunts do the eulogy? It's still family but it means you're not putting one partner ahead of another." "Hm, that could work. I might try that if I need a compromise. Okay, I'd better go back in now." "Cool. And here's my tram. Love you." "You too. Bye!" I dawdled at the shops; I didn't want to be wrangling a week's worth of groceries one-handed if Phoebe called back while I was in the middle of things. But after procrastinating in a bookshop for half an hour and then stopping for a leisurely lunch nearby, I still hadn't heard from her, so I bit the bullet and got on with it, and was home again before she called. "Hey there, 'Vonne." "Heya darling. Good timing, just finished unpacking my groceries. How'd it go?" "She wasn't happy, but Dad backed me up. The aunts are going to do most of it, Dad says a bit, Scott says a bit. And we persuaded her that since Mum left the church a long time ago, it wouldn't make sense to have a priest, so that's off the table, thank God." "Oh good. I was pretty sure you'd be able to work something out, your grandma seems like a sensible lady at heart." "Yeah, usually she is. When she's not getting poisoned and irradiated and operated on, you know." "I can't imagine it'd help my patience. So, are you speaking?" "No. We've got enough speakers already, and honestly, I don't know what I'd say. I don't want to get up and say 'She left when I was seven and I didn't see much of her after that'. And I don't want to pretend everything was lovely and normal. So I'm going to stick to the cello instead. Speaking of which, sorry to leave you, but I really should go practise." "Fair enough. I'm going out with the sci-fi buddies tonight, but my phone's on vibrate if you need me. Love?" "Yes?" "Love you. Oh, by the way, should I work out my own travel there, or can I get a lift with you guys?" "I need to talk to Dad about that. Let me get back to you tomorrow." "No problem. Later!" "Bye!" I was glad to get out for a night of mindless entertainment, sitting in a beanbag at a friend's place and heckling some of the worst monster movies the fifties could produce. Although I loved Phoebe dearly, I was feeling a little drained after playing emotional support for so long and I needed to recharge my batteries. It was three in the morning when I got home, and I slept until eleven. I got out of my shower to find a message on my voicemail: "Hello, Yvonne? About Thursday? Turns out the chapel Dad's booked at the funeral home is quite small, so they need to restrict it to Mum's family and close friends. I'm really sorry. I wish you could be there. I'll call you later, okay?" Well, crap. I didn't hear much from Phoebe over the next couple of days; she was busy helping RJ with the arrangements. When we did talk, a few minutes here and there stolen from her family, she seemed preoccupied and distant. She spoke only of trivialities: a broken cello string, the missionaries who'd come by to pester them while she was practising, all the trouble she'd had trying to use RJ's rewards points to book hotel rooms in Ballarat. More than ever I felt the frustration of being back in a closet that I thought I'd escaped long ago. I wanted to be there with her, sharing her troubles, instead of hiding from her family. And I wanted to ask her: are you merely busy? Or are you retreating into your shell, and should I try to bring you out again? Or are you pulling away from me? But I kept it to myself. She had enough on her plate already without having to coddle my insecurities as well. On the Tuesday night, I phoned her. I figured she'd be with RJ and Yaya, but one call from a friend two days before the funeral could hardly raise suspicions. We spoke for a little while, and I told her, "You're strong and brave, and you'll get through this. I love you." I could hear RJ in the background, and Phoebe only said, "Thanks, take care. I might call you on Thursday night, I'll see how things are. Gotta go now. Bye!" But a few minutes later I got a text from her: Can't talk, but I love you. Not much of a girlfriend, am I? Sorry. You do what you need to do, don't worry about me. Then I added: Some time when this is over I'll come visit. Quality time, just us. Yes please. When I came in on Wednesday there was a sticky note on my desk to say that Susan wouldn't be in. That suited me; although I liked and respected her, she'd been generating a lot of work for me on the Redmond Barry project. A day without Susan would give me a chance to catch up on the everyday work that needed doing. Really exciting stuff, like installing software updates and ordering printer cartridges. All the time I thought of Phoebe and what she must be doing: getting dressed, packing her rented cello into RJ's four-wheel drive, driving a hundred kilometres down the Great Western Highway to Ballarat. I imagined her sitting in the back — Yaya would be in front — looking out the window as the trees flickered by, thinking of her mother. And thinking of me? When I came home Aleks was in the lounge room with a couple of his regular drinking buddies: Michel (think Vladimir Lenin's scruffier brother just after dropping out of art school) and Renee (tomboyish lass doing a communications degree, specialising in something that was either complete bullshit or too clever for me to comprehend). They were arguing about sculpture and politics over a bottle of Scotch and it sounded as if they were ready to make an evening of it. I wasn't feeling sociable so I said a quick hello, fixed myself dinner, and retreated to my bedroom to eat and surf the net. At nine o'clock I caught myself reloading my email twice in thirty seconds and admitted that I was just killing time, the way I tend to do when I'm feeling lonely, so I shut things down and changed into my pyjamas. Buzz. A message from Phoebe. A single verse, borrowed from some anonymous poet of five hundred years ago: Westron wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? Christ! That my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! I started on a reply, but no matter how I arranged my words it kept looking like useless platitudes. After deleting three drafts I admitted that there was nothing I could say to her to make this better. But perhaps there was something else I could do... I walked out into the lounge and raised my voice to be heard over an increasingly raucous debate: "Aleks? Can I ask a favour?" "Oh! I'm shouting too loud, isn't it?" "Actually, if you say yes, then you can shout all you want." Or until the other tenants call the cops, whichever. "Even better! What do you want?" I told him. After he'd agreed, I messaged Phoebe: Can I call you in a couple of hours? Will you still be up then? Yeah why not. Can't sleep anyway. Talk to you then. *** True to my word, I called on the dot of eleven-fifteen. She had her own hotel room, so we could talk without disturbing her family. "Hey there, Yvonne." "Hey, darling. How're you doing?" "Feeling like crap." "Wanna talk about it?" "I don't know. It's all tangled up in my head, I don't think I can get it out yet." "Love, are you dressed?" "Yeah, haven't got my act together to go to bed yet. Why?" "I'm outside looking up at the moon. It's beautiful and big, almost full. If you step out of your room and look up, we'll both be looking at the same moon together." "And I thought I was sentimental." I heard the rattle of the door handle, and she stepped outside. "I'm on the balcony looking up at it now. Oh, it is huge tonight, isn't it?" "Now look down, across the car park." And I put away my phone and stepped out onto the asphalt, under the sodium lights. I saw her mouth make an 'o' of surprise as she caught sight of me, and then she rushed to the stairs. By the time she got down I was there at the bottom. She flung her arms around me and I hugged her so tight I lifted her off the ground. "Yvonne! How are you here?" "Borrowed Aleks' car." An adventure in itself, but let's not dwell on that. "You mentioned the hotels you were looking at back when you were having that trouble with the booking, so I drove around and looked for that." I pointed at RJ's car. "I have to leave around six-thirty so I can return the car and get back for work, but until then, here I am." "Oh, darling." She squeezed my ribs. "Thank you so much. You shouldn't have, but I'm glad you did." "Do you want to go for a walk, or can we use your room? What are the walls like?" "Thick enough, we can talk. Let's go inside. I don't think Dad's going to come out, but just in case..." So I slipped into Phoebe's room and we locked the door behind us. "Want to talk?" "I don't know." Her eyes were quite red, and she sounded sniffly. "Feeling small and unlikeable. Can we just sit for a while?" "Sure." There was a small couch in front of the TV, upholstered in a hostile shade of tartan, and we sat side by side. Phoebe was still radiating tension, and I turned around and started massaging her shoulders and her scalp. "Oh, honey, you've always been good at that. Don't stop." I kept going. Normally when massaging I try to find the focus of the tension and concentrate on that, but that night it was everywhere; I just did the best I could. After several minutes she spoke. "Wanna hear something fucked up?" "Hm?" "I told you the teenage fantasy? Greatest cellist in the world, tragic death lamented by millions of grieving fans, all that? The other part of it, I wouldn't tell Mum anything about it. She'd just read about it in the papers and see how awesome I was, what a huge mistake she'd made walking away from us. "Then one day I'd be interviewed on TV. Terminally ill but being very brave about it, and I'd talk about how much I owed to Dad and Yaya. The interviewer says 'You never mention your mother Helen, but it must have had a huge effect on you when she abandoned you so young.' And I put on my most gracious face and tell her, 'To be honest, I've never really thought about it much, she had such a small role in my life. I've always thought of my grandmother Kalliope as my de facto mother.' And of course Mum and her friends would hear all that, and she'd feel awful. And when I was on my celebrity deathbed, she'd want to apologise for everything, and I'd just tell her 'It's too late'. God, aren't I a horrible person?" "I can understand you being angry. It's a big thing, especially at that age. I know I had my revenge fantasies as a teenager." "Thing is, I never really let go of it. Every time I go in for an audition, I've thought about that." She hugged her arms to her chest. "Joke's on me now. Stupid thing is, even if I had become a star and done all that... I don't know whether it would have gotten to her at all. Maybe she wouldn't even have cared." "Yeah, she would have." Phoebe turned to look at me over her shoulder. "How can you know that?" "We talked a bit, the other week, after you guys went to hospital. Well, mostly she talked. She said she snuck into one of your concerts in Sydney, and she was so proud of you." "She did? No, I don't believe it. When?" "I don't know. But I think she meant it." "I don't understand. If she wanted to see me play, why not tell me?" "Maybe she was afraid you'd say no?" I hadn't felt her crying, but there were shiny streaks on her face. "How should I feel about that? Does that make up for all the years she wasn't around? Should I have called her up and said 'everything's forgiven, mum'? I don't... god, if I'd known this was going to happen..." She was shuddering, sobbing, and I pulled her into my chest and rocked her from side to side. I didn't try to hush her, just let her cry until my shirt was soggy with tears and snot. "I wish I could fix things for you, love." "Can't fix this. Not now." "Let's get you out of these and into bed." I undressed her, tucked her in, and then stripped off myself. Before I climbed in beside her, I set my alarm to six-thirty and switched out the lights. "One thing, love. It's not going to help you right now, but maybe it will later on. You don't have to feel just one thing about it. It's okay to be glad she came to see you and angry about the other stuff. And you don't have to feel guilty about it. You're not going to hurt her feelings." She said nothing, but she settled a little in my arms. She was still tense and it felt as if there was more she wanted to say, but whatever it was, she wasn't ready to say it. Some things take time, and the most you can do for the one you love is help them get through the hours and the days until they find their own sort of peace. So I did my best to soothe her, rubbing her temples and forehead and talking softly, until at last both of us drifted off. It must have been at least six hours, but it felt like I'd only slept a few minutes before my alarm woke me again. I was in the exact same position I'd fallen asleep in, clasping her protectively, and I had to wriggle to get my arm out from under her and switch off my alarm, but she didn't stir. I dressed as quietly as I could, and when I was ready to leave I bent to kiss her on the cheek. Although her eyes were shut, something in her breathing made me think she was awake. "Goodbye, love," I whispered. "I wish I could be there with you today. I'll be thinking of you all day and I'll talk to you tonight." But she made no reply, and I thought perhaps I'd been mistaken. I picked up my overnight bag, and I was at the door when she spoke. "Yvonne. I do love you, you know that?" Poor thing, she sounded so strained. "I do." I went back, kissed her again — she still hadn't opened her eyes — and then left. I would gladly have called in late for work, for the sake of another hour curled up with Phoebe. But RJ seemed like the type to be an early riser, and to bump into him on my way out of Phoebe's room — it didn't bear thinking about. The drive back was unpleasant. I was weary, handling an unfamiliar car, and I was distracted by thoughts of Phoebe, of work, of trivia like the shirt I still hadn't been able to find. (It's a small thing, but it niggled at me: where had I forgotten to look?) My concentration on the road kept wavering, even after I stopped for a vile-tasting energy drink, and a couple of times I found myself on the verge of dozing. I stopped to stretch my legs, hoping to wake myself up — it didn't help — and then got caught up in heavy traffic coming into Melbourne. By the time I got home it was a quarter to nine. I dashed inside, dropped Aleks' keys on the bench and my bag in the bedroom, then ran for the train. I prepared to make my apologies to Susan; I was sure she'd be understanding. But when I got in and checked my email, in amidst the tech-support requests and mailing-list messages there was one that caught my eye. From Peter to everybody in head office, sent at 8:35 am: ATTN ALL - SUSAN HAS REQD INDEFINTE LEAVE EFF IMMEDIATLEY FOR PERSONAL REASON'S. IN HER ABSENCE I WILL MANAGE ALL MATTER'S RELATING TO REDMOND BARRY APARTMENT'S AND TERRY WILL HANDLE SUSAN'S OTHER CLIENT'S. And another to me personally, sent at 8:40: YVONNE I AM YOUR MANAGER WHILE SUSAN'S ON LEAVE. SEE ME AT 9 TO DISCUSS YOUR WORK ON THE RB PROJECT. Nine o'clock, that would be... almost thirty minutes ago. Shit. I locked my PC and hurried to Peter's office. It was not a good meeting. He was cross that I was late. Of course, I couldn't give him a good reason why, beyond "I had to go out last night to see a friend". He wanted to ask all sorts of questions about our website, second-guessing decisions Susan and I had made weeks ago, and in my tired state I couldn't give satisfactory answers. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I came out of his office forty-five minutes later with a flea in my ear and instructions to send him a full status report before I went home. The only shred of satisfaction in all of it was looking at him and thinking: That chair you're sitting in, that's where I told my girlfriend I loved her. And the sex was probably better than anything you've ever had. I worked through lunch and well into the afternoon, collating my notes and documentation into a briefing. I considered trying to snow Peter under with technical detail, but decided it would be unwise. Although he was obnoxious and technically inept, he wasn't an all-round idiot. RJ wouldn't have made him a branch head if he had been. If he saw through me, I'd just have made things worse for myself. Besides, I reminded myself, I was a grown-up and grown-ups don't play those games. By the time I finished the briefing and hit 'send', the sun had set outside and my stomach was growling something fierce. I grabbed a sandwich on the way home, and it was only as I finished eating it that I realised I hadn't heard anything from Phoebe all day. I sent her a short message: Hey there, hope you're feeling OK. Fifteen minutes later: yeah I'm managing. With family now. Will prob call tomorrow. Take care. Thinking of you. I got home and was about to try for an early night when I remembered the other thing that had been lurking at the back of my mind: what was up with Susan? She'd given me her mobile number soon after I started working at RJC, but I'd never copied it to my phone and it took me a few minutes to find it in an old email. I wasn't sure whether it would be bad manners to call her while she was on leave, so I settled for a text that she could ignore if she chose: Hey Susan, Yvonne here. Just heard you're on leave, hope you're OK. Best - Y. Almost immediately she called me back and told me the story. She'd reported the Facebook page to Zara's school principal, who'd talked to the girls involved. After that she'd heard no more about bullying, and had assumed it'd eased off — until she came home on Tuesday night and found Zara comatose in the bathroom next to an empty bottle of bourbon and a razorblade. She'd been fortunate, this time; she'd passed out from the booze before she got around to using the blade, and they pumped her stomach in time to avoid any serious damage from the alcohol. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 12 "But they need to keep her in for observation and a psychiatric evaluation. God, Yvonne, I had no idea it'd gotten this bad. Danny is working overseas for the next three months and I've been working late a lot, so... anyway, I'm taking time out to be with her. You'll have to manage without me for a while." "I'll be fine." I hope. "Poor kid." "I found one of her exercise books in her room. Every page, they'd written something horrible in it. 'Fat bitch', 'ugly dyke'... every single page." "Oh, that's awful. Is there anything I can do to help?" "I want to kill those girls." She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she'd been nursing the idea over the last two days. I found myself remembering stories I'd heard from friends in the USA who'd told me of hikers who'd gotten between a mother bear and her cubs. "I'm not going to do it, but god, I want to. They have no right to do that to my daughter. No right." I gave her my sincere but ineffective sympathies, and reminded her that she'd be more use to Zara if she wasn't in jail. She agreed — reluctantly, I thought — and we ended the conversation soon afterwards with a "let me know if there's anything I can do". It was only after I got off the phone that I realised I was jittery and trembling. I'd never met Zara, but I'd developed enough loyalty to Susan to be upset on her behalf. Besides, it brought back unwelcome memories of friends who went through similar crap at my school. Not all of them had made it out the other side. I wanted to call Phoebe and decompress, but even if she'd been available to talk, the day of her mother's funeral wasn't the time to bother her with my own vicarious concerns. The sensible thing would've been to go to bed and get some rest to prepare me for dealing with Peter the next day, but I needed to blow off steam before I could sleep. So I fired up the computer and killed orcs until about one in the morning, when I was feeling less shaky and starting to doze off at the keyboard. Then I sent Phoebe a quick I love you and finally turned in for the night. The next day was gruesome. I spent two hours meeting with Peter about the Redmond Barry sales website. He'd clearly decided it was time to put his own stamp on things, which meant micro-management and changes galore, second-guessing everything Susan and I had decided in the last month. Most of it was trivial stuff, easy enough for me to do and annoying only because it was so pointless: changing the sales website to a slightly different font, tweaks to the colour scheme and layout. But some of his requests — while just as pointless — meant a lot more work. Susan and I had agreed to keep the virtual tour and the sales options on the same page, so would-be customers could explore what all the apartment options looked like without having to jump back and forth to see the costs. Peter felt differently: "Show them the place first, get them in the mood to buy before you tell them how much." Along the way, he found time to nag about my attendance record and cast aspersions on my choice of work clothes. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I sat there being lectured on professionalism by the man who'd choked up his work PC with porn, and I had to tell myself repeatedly: It's Friday. Just make it through the rest of the day. Do not strangle him with his tie. After two hours in Peter's office I was behind on my regular support work for the day, so I ended up eating at my desk and catching up over lunch. Then, before I could start making Peter's changes, I had to send him a plan detailing all that I was going to change and when it would be done. By the time I sent it out and made a start on some of the smaller things, it was getting dark outside and my stomach was growling. On the way home I texted Phoebe: You okay? Worried about you. I love you a lot. I have to admit, it wasn't all about cheering her up; I was feeling stressed and lonely, and badly needed some human contact. I'm okay, just busy today. Call you tomorrow and catch up? ILY too. Sure, catch you then. I'd planned to sleep in on Saturday, but my phone rang at nine. The voice at the other end had a strong accent, and at first I couldn't place it. "Hello, this is Yvonne Ponting here, who is that?" "Hello! It's Leon. From the garden, you remember?" "Oh, yes!" Yaya's boyfriend. "Hi Leon, what can I do for you?" "I need to ask you about my computer, I hope it's not too early to call..." So I spent twenty minutes helping him set up his new scanner. He didn't know much about computers but at least he could listen and follow instructions, and we got it working. I was about to say goodbye and go back to bed when he asked: "How is Phoebe? It's very hard on her to lose her mother like this." "I don't really know. I haven't heard much from her since the funeral." "I worried for her. She looked so sad, sitting all alone." A cold hand began to stir in my guts. "Oh. You were at the funeral then? I thought it was just family?" "Oh no, lots of people come. Her sisters and cousins, people from her work, neighbours. Fifty, sixty people all together? Kalliope asked me to come keep her company. I'm surprised Phoebe didn't ask you, or was it that your work didn't let you?" The hand twisted, and it took effort to keep it from showing in my voice. "Something like that, yes. Look, I'm sorry, I have another call coming in, I should go —" "Well thank you, then. Goodbye Yvonne!" I hung up and started counting, breathing in, breathing out, as slow and even as I could manage. There would be a reasonable explanation for this. There had to be. Maybe Leon had misunderstood who the other people were, or maybe I had understood Leon. That had to be it. I got out of bed and opened a web browser... It's so easy to find things when you know how to use a search engine. Funeral notices with the location of the service. The funeral home's website, with information about each of their chapels: the parking facilities, the stained-glass windows, the seating capacity. Tagged photos. The hand in my belly clenched into an icy knot of anger and hurt. Phoebe had lied to me. There was plenty of room in the chapel. The funeral notices had read "all welcome". She'd told me otherwise... why? I closed my browser and stared at the wall, trying to make sense of it all. Then I went back and searched again, pulled up the same pages and read them over as if they'd tell me something different this time, and the thoughts went round and round in my head. I don't know where the rest of the morning went, but I was still sitting there at three o'clock when Phoebe called. I heard the phone ring, and adrenaline flooded through me: fear and anger. I couldn't talk to her, not now. I let it ring out, and then I tried to think. Phoebe would call again. How should I deal with it? I couldn't keep ignoring her. The second call came an hour later. This time I waited four rings and picked it up. "Hi there." "Hi darling, it's me." "Oh, hi, Phoebe. How are you?" "Oh... dealing. Still taking things in. Wishing you were here." "How was the funeral?" Just a little hesitation. "It was... not too bad. I remembered my music, anyway." "Oh. That's good." "Yeah." Silence. "Yvonne, I was thinking... I could probably make it down in a couple of weeks to visit you." "Oh, but don't you need to catch up on your cello?" "Yeah, I do, I was thinking just the weekend..." "I don't think I should distract you from your audition. I know how important it is." Or from whatever the fuck it is that's important enough to lie to me. "Oh, well... maybe not, then? Just a thought." There was a trace of hurt in her voice — didn't I want her to come? — and I felt a flicker of vengeful pleasure. Why should I be the only one hurting? But the pleasure was gone quicker than it takes to tell, replaced with dismay at my own pettiness. The silence grew, yawning and uncomfortable, until Phoebe broke it. "So what've you been up to today?" "Not much. Just sleeping in, checking my email, that sort of thing." And snooping on you, my dear. Then, because the dead-end response made me feel like a sulky teenager, I added, "Susan went on leave so Peter's supervising me now, and he wants a whole bunch of changes, so it's been a bit stressful." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Why's Susan on leave? I thought she'd just started on this project." "I don't know, I just came in on Thursday and found out Peter was supervising me." Why did I lie to her? Two days ago I'd wanted so much to talk to her about what had happened with Zara, and now when I had the chance I couldn't trust her with something so close to my heart. And perhaps I felt the need to repay a lie with a lie, however stupid. "Well. I hope she's okay, she sounded nice." "Yeah." The silence began to yawn again, and Phoebe ahem-ed. "Well, I should go grab stuff for dinner. I need to hit the cello this evening, but feel free to call later if you like?" "Okay. I might just have an early night, though." "Oh. Okay. Bye, love!" "Bye." I didn't call, and I didn't get an early night either. I went through the next week on autopilot. I carried out Peter's time-wasting requests, I fixed computers, I ate and slept when I remembered that I ought to. Phoebe called me sometimes and I replied politely, keeping my defences up until she hung up. Every time she sounded just a little disappointed and hurt, and I felt like a spiteful bitch: however much she'd hurt me, she'd just lost her mother, and I ought to be offering her comfort. Somewhere in there I still loved her, and I wanted to be there protecting her. But every time I thought about that, it turned into anger: I'd offered to be there for her and she lied to keep me away, wouldn't have me there even as a "friend". The anger steered me into more little cruelties — deliberately going out with friends so I'd be unable to talk when she called, neglecting to respond to her "I love you"s, the sort of tiny leech-bites that leave you bleeding without even noticing it. The knowledge of what I was doing twisted itself into guilt and self-loathing, and then transmuted back to anger: fuck you for making me feel like this. And in the end I couldn't hold on to it any longer. In the middle of a phone call — I don't recall what it was about, something trivial — I abruptly said: "You could just tell me the truth. It's not like I could get any angrier than I already am." "What?" "About the funeral. I know there was plenty of room. I know it wasn't true, about it just being a small funeral. Was it?" "...Jesus. I'm so sorry, I was going to tell you. I swear I was." "Yeah, when was that going to be?" "I was waiting for the right time. Every time I was going to tell you, you seemed so... odd. Tense. I was scared to tell you when you were like that." "Yeah. 'Tense'. Funny how tense I get when I find out somebody I love's been lying to me." "Please don't. I said I'm sorry. I was trying to stop you from getting hurt." "What, by lying to me? If you didn't want me there you could have bloody well said so, and I wouldn't have bothered driving up to see you." "I did! I did want you th-there!" She'd started to cry, and that offended me: I was the one who'd been wronged, I was the one who should be crying, but I was too angry to conjure ups tears. "I can't believe my girlfriend's ashamed of me. Fuck, this is why they always say not to date straight girls." "You — you know what? You have n-no fucking clue what you're t-talking about. No c-clue what I've risked for you." "Yeah? Anything like risking your heart with somebody who won't be seen in public with you?" "Oh, you — I can't believe — no. You know what, I'm n-not going to do this. Call me when you're ready to talk l-like an adult." Click. And the sound of Phoebe's tears stopped, along with her voice. I didn't call. I reached for the phone a hundred times and every time I caught myself: No. She lied to you, and now she's claiming the high ground? This isn't fair. You've been hurt. She needs to call and apologise to you. She didn't call. I stumbled through the next week waiting to hear from her. Every time the phone rang my heart would jump, juiced on a cocktail of hope and fear. Every time I looked at the number, and saw it wasn't Phoebe, I wanted to crawl away into a hole. John called once, to make sure I'd remembered it was Mother's Day on the weekend. (I'd forgotten it one year; never again.) I could tell he'd noticed something was wrong, but I wasn't ready to talk about it, and when he suggested we catch up I told him: "I'm flat out just now, maybe in a week or two?" After I hung up, I realised: it'll be Mother's Day for Phoebe too. And the thought was almost enough to make me pick up the phone and call her. Almost. The only good thing in that time, and it wasn't much, was that RJ announced he'd be taking a break for a few weeks and leaving Peter in charge of RJC, while he travelled to Greece to visit extended family. That meant I could work around the office without having to steel myself in case I should bump into Phoebe's father, and it meant Peter had less time to spend on pestering me. Just as well for both of us; I was in no mood to put up with his bullshit, or anybody else's. As the days went by I wondered: do I really mean so little to Phoebe that she won't call me? And inevitably came the reply: does she really mean so little that you won't call her? But calling her would've been dishonest: You're right, dear, it was silly of me to get upset over such a little thing. I'm quite over it now and ready to talk like an adult again. It wasn't a little thing. When I saw an email from her in my inbox — it arrived on a Friday morning, just as I was about to leave for work — I knew it wasn't going to be good news. Yvonne, I can't deal with this. I have the most important audition of my life coming up, and I can't work for it like I need to when I have all this running through my head and wondering if you're even going to talk to me again. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I need to be free to concentrate on rehearsal. So I need to take a break from us, at least until after my audition. I hope you'll understand. Phoebe. Her audition? June 25th. More than a month away. Well, that was me put in my place. I shouldn't have replied, not then. I try not to send email when I'm angry. But I had to go, and my mind was running around in circles; I couldn't stand to hang on to the words all day, and I didn't expect they'd change by nightfall. Phoebe - thank you for letting me know where we stand. Just a month? Have all the time you want, please consider yourself COMPLETELY at liberty. And then I hit 'send' and walked out the door. I held it together through the day, still angry and disbelieving. Perhaps I thought when I got home there'd be an apology waiting for me, but there was nothing. Not even junk mail. That's when it really hit me and I started to cry. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 13 I spent the next two days in my pyjamas, red-eyed and sullen. I didn't go outside because it was grey and cold, winter starting to creep in, and I had nothing to go outside for. I surfed the net aimlessly, talking online to friends who were unable to distract me, replaying the last month in my head over and over in the hope of finding a different ending. I stayed up late, unable to switch off and go to sleep; I stayed in bed until mid-afternoon, because there was nothing worth getting up for. I barely ate because I wasn't hungry; there was too much else gnawing away for me to notice the pangs of an empty belly. Aleks tried to cheer me up, in his blunt sort of way, but I just muttered "She dumped me for a fucking cello" until he lost patience and found something else to do. (That's what I told everybody who cared to listen. Somewhere inside I knew it wasn't the whole truth, but I was too weary and heartsick to care; telling it that way got me sympathy, and sympathy blunted the ache a little.) The only thing that pulled me back to some sort of routine was work. I went in on Monday morning, red-eyed and sullen, and did my job in a dispirited haze. Nobody seemed to notice; if they did, they didn't care. I made stupid mistakes and stayed late to fix them; it wasn't like I had any reason to hurry home. It wasn't so bad when I thought about our break-up head-on. Oh, it hurt, but I'd been through break-ups before. I could tell myself: you've survived before, you will survive this time too, and eventually you'll meet somebody else. I couldn't always make myself believe it, but even so, it reminded me to do the things that needed doing. Eat three times a day, hungry or not. Get up and go to work. Do the laundry. No, the worst part was the stuff that crept up on me unexpectedly. Seeing a poster for a new movie and thinking: Phoebe might be interested in that one, I should tell her — oh. Missing my train because of a bad announcement at the station: Maybe I'll grumble to — oh, no, that's right. A thousand little broken connections dangling at the edges of the Phoebe-shaped hole in my life. Those were the things that made it hard. Susan invited me to catch up on Friday night at a café in town. I wasn't in the mood to see anybody, but I went anyway, and she updated me on her own crisis: Zara sounded a little better, but shut down again whenever her parents suggested she might go back to school. So Susan and Danny were considering whether to persevere, or to find another school for Zara with all the disruption that would entail. I couldn't give Susan much advice, but I got the impression she mostly wanted somebody to talk to. We were about to pay the bill when she looked at me and frowned. "You've been awfully quiet. Everything okay?" "Not really... I broke up with Phoebe." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." "She dumped me for a cello." "Dumped you for a cello? What do you mean?" "We had an argument about... something. She did something thoughtless and I was angry with her. Then she mailed me, said she couldn't focus on her audition if we weren't going to sort things out, so she was putting things on hold for a month until after the audition. I... um, I told her off, and we haven't spoken since." "Oh, Yvonne, I'm so sorry. And I know it must be hard to hear that. But perhaps it's better that she made that choice." I scowled at the remains of my chocolate eclair and pushed the crumbs about with a teaspoon. "Hard to see it that way." "I don't know what you argued about, but whatever it was... if she puts you ahead of her audition, and she fails the audition, where does that leave you? Debts like that are hard to live with." "Huh." I was far from convinced. Her phone chimed, and she glanced at it. "I have to go, we have an appointment with Zara's counsellor. But give me a call some time, let me know you're okay." And I promised I would. On Wednesday, they fired me. It happened like this: Peter called me into his office at two p.m. for what I assumed was going to be another pointless change to the website. Instead he steepled his fingers, the way he did when he had something of great import to deliver. "Yvette, as you know —" "Yvonne." I shouldn't have corrected him, but I was feeling less than usually diplomatic. "Yvonne. I beg your pardon. Yvonne, as you know it's been a challenging time for our industry of late, and that obliges us to re-evaluate our business model on a continual basis. We've come to the decision that for operational reasons, it would be a better fit for our needs to contract our information technology support requirements to an external provider. I hope you understand. This isn't an easy decision to make." He handed me a formal-looking document prepared with half a dozen little "sign here" stickers. "Uh." It had taken me a moment to make sense of the jargon: they were replacing me with a contractor. Probably the guys who filled in for me when I went on leave. "I'd like to read it before I sign." "Certainly." I read through it carefully, small print and large. The gist was simple enough: I, Yvonne Ponting, tender my resignation, effective immediately, and agree not to disclose any confidential information about RJC's business, etc etc. In return I would receive all outstanding salary and an additional eight weeks as a bonus, all payable immediately. It didn't make sense. Outsourcing my job, maybe, but in the middle of an important contract? And why offer me eight weeks when my contract only required two? I shuffled through the pages again, stalling while I tried to figure it out. This wasn't about saving money. No, this was about getting rid of me. Either Peter had a family member looking for an IT support job, or... In Victoria it's illegal to fire somebody for their sexual orientation. So nobody ever gets fired for their orientation; they get fired for "performance issues" or "operational reasons" or some other excuse. Or they get persuaded to resign of their own accord. You can still fight it, but it's a slow and expensive process with no guarantee of success. So that was the deal: either we fire you with two weeks' pay in lieu, or you take the money and agree not to contest it. And don't forget you'll need a reference from us if you want to apply for work elsewhere. I accepted defeat and signed the papers. I had no stomach for a fight. Perhaps I should have made a stand on principle, but even if I'd won, what was the prize? Going back to work for Peter and for my ex's father. Screw that. So I signed. Peter sent Janelle to help me pack up my desk. I assumed she'd been sent by Peter to make sure I didn't sabotage anything on the way out, but I didn't mind. If the contractors did screw anything up, I would be glad of a witness to confirm that I hadn't even touched my computer since our meeting. I reminded her that my admin passwords should be changed as soon as possible, and wrote down some instructions on how to do that. And then, less than an hour after I'd walked into Peter's office, I was on the train home with nothing more than a few postcards and books that I'd brought in myself. No farewell party for me, not so much as a card. On the train I wondered: was it Peter or RJ? I thought it unlikely that Peter would have fired me on his own initiative, not when RJ would be back in a couple of weeks. But I decided I didn't really want to know; I just wanted to get home, curl up, and forget the whole thing. At least I had two months' salary to cover me while I looked for a new job. I decided I was going to approach this like an adult: four hours a day searching job sites and sending off applications. I should be able to manage at least four solid applications a day. Four hours on all the other stuff I'd been neglecting over the last few weeks. I had a pile of laundry waiting to be done, the bathroom tiles needed scrubbing, and there were three pizza boxes in the dining room from nights when I'd been working late and couldn't be bothered cooking. If I couldn't get the important parts of my life in order, at least I'd get on top of the little things. But before that, when I got home, I'd switch on the computer and allow myself an hour working off my aggressions killing a few orcs... One week later there were five pizza boxes in the dining room. The tiles still needed scrubbing, and I'd only done one load of laundry. But I had killed several thousand orcs, spiders, giants and assorted bandits, and I had a level seventy-three paladin to show for it. I'd started well enough. The day after I lost my job I got out of bed on time, just as if I was going to work. I'd archived all Phoebe's old emails to reduce the temptation to re-read them, and I'd applied for three jobs. But it had been a depressing experience — two of them offered less than I'd been earning at RJC, the third was almost certainty out of my league — and the thought of having to rely on Peter's say-so made me so queasy that I'd ended up listing Susan as a referee instead. After that... I'd spent a lot of my life telling myself that I didn't care what the rest of the world thought of me, except for a trusted few. It came as a shock to realise how much I cared about the opinion of people I didn't respect, and about being fired from a job I no longer enjoyed. An awful lot of my ego is wrapped up in the idea that I'm good at what I do for a living — no genius, but conscientious and diligent — and losing my job stripped me of that. Susan's words to me at the café had planted a seed of doubt, and now it began to grow. It was easy enough to say that if Phoebe really had loved me, she should have put our relationship above everything else... but if she'd offered to support me for the rest of my life, living off her father's money, would I have accepted? I doubt it; for all that I loved her, I would have felt imprisoned by that arrangement. And if she'd placed me ahead of her dreams... could I ever have lived up to that sacrifice? Or would we have been gradually devoured by disappointment and resentment, wondering every day whether it had really been worth it? I was still thinking about all this a week into June, when Susan phoned me. "Hi, Yvonne speaking." I had my mouth full; she'd caught me eating stir-fry in bed. "Hello Yvonne, it's Susan." "Oh, hi! I'm sorry I haven't called, I've been kinda distracted." "Indeed. Yvonne, did you apply for a job somewhere else? I got a phone call from somebody who said you'd put me down as a reference." "Oh, shit, yeah. I meant to tell you, sorry." "Don't tell me you've given up on RJC? I know you don't get along with Peter, but it's not forever. Did they tell you I'm coming back next week?" "I hadn't heard, but... no, they decided to replace me with a contractor." "What? No! Why would they do that?" "Peter said 'operational reasons'." It was true as far as it went, and I didn't feel like talking about my speculations. "Well! I shouldn't say it about a colleague, but that's pretty shabby. Are you going to be all right?" "I guess. I've got a bit saved, should tide me over until I find something. Hey, how's Zara doing?" "Quite well, I think? We decided to change schools. I think it's for the best, we've found a place that looks good, but I hate the feeling of running away. It shouldn't be poor Zara that gets driven out of her school and away from her friends." "Oh, I know what you mean. But sometimes you have to cut your losses... hey, I have another call coming in, catch you another time?" "Love to. Keep your chin up, I'm sure something better will come along soon enough." "Bye!" It turned out to be my brother, inviting himself over for an evening of popcorn and television. He'd bought some of the classics of our childhood on DVD and thought I could do with the company. He wasn't wrong; I managed to get through three hours of cartoons without once thinking painful thoughts about Phoebe. After the cartoons we talked, and he asked just enough questions to let me to get things off my chest. I still missed Phoebe, but it had been nearly a month since the last time we talked — fought — and I figured that ship had sailed, alas. He reminded me not to go leaping into a rebound relationship (guilty as charged; I had already been starting to wonder what my chances might be with Aleks' friend Renee) and told me he'd keep an ear out for job opportunities. As he headed for the door I asked, "Do me a favour? I want you to ring me up every night and ask me how many applications I've sent in that day. If it's not at least four, tell me off." "It's a deal. And by the way, little sister? Remember to have some fun." "I will. Just as soon as I remember how!" A few days later, on a whim, I booked myself in for a morning at the hairdresser's. Not the cheap place at the local shops where I get my ends trimmed every few months. No, the place in town where my goth friends go when they want something special. A tiny lady in black PVC and rainbow dreads asked "So, what can I do for you?" "I'm not sure. I want something interesting that doesn't look like I've just butchered my hair because I'm getting over a breakup. Maybe not too garish, though." I hadn't had any interview offers yet, but I had hopes on a couple of the ones I'd applied for. She looked me over and pursed her lip (studded, of course). "Let's see... yeah, I think I can do something." I sat back with my eyes closed while she did her thing with scissors and clippers and comb, then foil and a variety of noxious-smelling chemicals. I recognised one as ammonia, but couldn't place the others. There was a lot of waiting in between; she brought me tea and we chatted. I ended up telling her a little about my breakup and my job troubles, and she made sympathetic noises before telling me some of her own experiences of being fired from once place and another. After that the foils came off and it was time for her to wash out the chemicals. It felt great, the hot water and her fingers rubbing the shampoo into my scalp, although it got a little weird when I realised it was the first sensual physical contact I'd had since Phoebe. I was just starting to mellow out and enjoy it again when she turned off the tap and began to dry me off. I thought that was it, but there was still more: another treatment, and another cup of tea, and then at last a rinse. My stomach and bladder were both starting to grumble by the time she declared the job finished and held up a mirror to let me look at the result. "You said not too garish. Will this do?" It fit the bill. She'd undercut the sides and back and dyed most of it a deep navy blue, with two thick white stripes running down the middle where she'd left it long. It was quite unlike anything I would have selected for myself, but... it was a change, and I was in the mood for a change. Give it a few days, and I could see myself getting used to it. A week later I got a rather unexpected offer. It happened like this: on Thursday morning while I was in the middle of yet another application — muttering rude words about would-be employers who were too vague for me to know what they wanted — my phone rang. The number looked familiar but I couldn't quite place it. "Hello, Yvonne Ponting here." "Hello Yvonne, it's Janelle from RJ Churchill." "Janelle? Hi, what's up?" "I'm calling for RJ. He'd like to know if you're able to come into the office some time for a chat." "Huh? Any idea what it's about?" "He didn't say." "Well, um, I guess I can make it... tomorrow? About eleven?" I wanted to say 'today' — now I was going to spend all night wondering what on earth it could be — but I didn't want to give the impression I was at his beck and call. It felt odd returning to the offices of R. J. Churchill Real Estate as a visitor, having to wait at reception until RJ was ready to see me. Janelle showed me in and shut the door behind me, leaving the two of us alone. He looked tired. Not rumpled-suit and bags-under-the-eyes tired; just weary. He was toying with his fountain pen, rolling it between his fingers, and he didn't look at me when he first spoke. "Yvonne. How are you this morning?" "Very well, thanks. And you?" "Oh, getting by." I still didn't know what all this was about. "RJ, I never got a chance to say to you before, I'm sorry about Helen." "Yes." He flipped the pen to his other hand. "Thank you. It's not easy." Another pause, and then he looked up at me for the first time and raised his eyebrows, but whatever he thought about my hair, he didn't say it. "Yvonne, I've had a great deal on my mind lately, and it's been suggested to me — rather forcefully, by somebody whose opinion I value — that it may have distracted me from running this business the way I ought to be running it. You've done good work here." "Um, thank you." "And I've been reminded that my daughter is a grown woman. She has told me more than once that she's old enough to fight her own battles. If you've hurt her — well, whatever has passed between the two of you, that's a private matter. As is your personal life." I gave a tiny nod, just enough to say I was listening. "If you wanted to return to your position here, we could accommodate that." "Um, thank you. Let me think..." It wasn't quite an apology. Not explicitly. But it was as close as I was likely to get, and there was a lot to be said for a steady income... "Two things. I don't work too well with Peter as a supervisor, we just have different... styles." Does 'arsehole' count as a style? "I think we could find some way to work around that." "And... do you want me back? I do appreciate the offer, but I don't want to come back somewhere I'm not welcome." He gave me a thin smile. "Let's just say that we've noticed the difference in the last three weeks, since you've been gone." "Well." I was inclined to accept, but I hadn't quite forgiven him for firing me yet... "I have some commitments just now, but I could start back in two weeks' time, if that works for you? July ninth?" I didn't really have anything booked in the meantime, but I felt like letting him stew a little. "It'll have to do. Janelle will send you the paperwork." We shook on it, and I was on my way out of his office when something occurred to me and I turned. "So what do I tell people about why I left?" "There was a misunderstanding. Peter acted on what he believed to be my wishes, and when I returned and discovered that a mistake had been made, we corrected that mistake by mutual agreement." "Works for me." Perhaps I should have angled for a pay rise, but that might have been pushing my luck. And besides, there'd been no mention of me repaying the two months' wages they'd already given me. Well enough. On the way home I texted my brother with the good news, and then got to thinking about what had happened. My guess had been correct; Peter had fired me at RJ's bidding, and presumably because Phoebe had told him something about our breakup. I wondered what had happened there. She must have been pretty upset to tell him, or for him to figure it out. And after that... I supposed I owed somebody an email. Phoebe, Thank you very much for... well, you know. It was a generous thing to do, and you didn't have to, but I appreciate it a lot. I won't bug you further after this, but I thought I should at least say thank you. Wishing you well for your audition (I think it's Monday?) and for everything else. Best always - Yvonne. I read it over two or three times, made sure the wording said what I meant to say, then took a deep breath and hit send. Then I called a few other friends to tell them I was back in the land of the gainfully-employed, and made up my mind to enjoy the weekend — which I did. If I happened to go back and check my email a little more often than usual, well, what of it? And in any case, there was nothing there but the usual spam and notifications. Not on Friday night, not on Saturday morning, not on Saturday afternoon, and not even on Sunday. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 13 On Monday afternoon I went out to buy clothes. I still had plenty of T-shirts, but I thought it might be diplomatic to wear something more respectable to work until people got used to the hair. Since my good shirt had never shown up — I could only assume it had been eaten by monsters under the bed, or perhaps 'borrowed' by one of Aleks' friends — I picked up a couple of sober-looking collared shirts and a pair of trousers into the bargain for when the knees gave out on my Old Faithfuls. When I got home, there was an email waiting for me from Phoebe in between two Russian brides and a Syrian dissident looking for help shifting his improbably large fortune. Hi Yvonne, it's good to hear from you. I hope you're doing well. Audition was this morning, I think I did well, but I'll hear back in a week or so after they finish the other auditions. There were a lot of other candidates so may be a second round. But I'm confused... not sure what you're thanking me for? I'd like to take credit but I really don't know what it is. Wishing you well - P. I scratched my head and replied: Getting my job back? Half an hour later my phone rang. I jumped, and it rang twice more before I calmed myself and answered it. "H-hello? Phoebe?" "Yvonne? What's this about your job?" "It wasn't you, then?" "I have no idea what you're talking about. Honest. You lost your job?" "Yeah... don't take this the wrong way, but your dad fired me. Or got Peter to do it. Three weeks ago. I think he found out about us." "Fired you? Jesus! I'm sorry, that might have been my fault. I was pretty upset and I told him a few things, but I never thought he'd do anything like that." "It's okay, he took it back. He said somebody told him off for it, I assumed that was you." "No, I would've if I'd known, but this is the first I've heard of it. But thanks for the vote of confidence. After the last time we talked... well, I didn't think you had much opinion of me." "Yeah. Um." I took a deep breath, remembering my parting shot of a month ago. "I was... pretty angry last time I wrote to you. I could have been kinder in how I expressed myself." "I know you had reason to be angry. Just... listen, I owe you an explanation, but not over the phone. I'm heading down to Ballarat next Monday anyway, meeting up with the aunts at Mum's place to sort out what's happening with her stuff. I'll be coming back Tuesday, we could meet in town on my way to the airport?" "Yeah, that works." We agreed on a time and place, and then hung up without making further chit-chat. Talking to an ex is nervous business, like revisiting an old battlefield; even if you step around the unexploded shells, it's hard to forget the blood that's been spilt there. The thought of seeing her again made me uncomfortable. I wasn't expecting drama, but it'd taken me a month to pull myself back to some sort of emotional equilibrium and I was afraid of losing it again and toppling back into the pit. That week I armoured myself. I reminded myself of the facts: I'd called it off myself and it was probably for the best, for both our sakes. On Monday we'd meet and have a civilised talk — perhaps we'd get a little closure out of that, not that I really needed it at this point — and then go our separate ways, thinking of one another less and less as time went by. After a decent interval had passed she'd find herself a nice boy, one she didn't have to hide from her family. I'd take my brother's advice, stay single for a while, and then perhaps fall into a relationship quite by accident, the way I usually do. Perhaps one day I'd see her on TV and tell some new lover about the musician I used to date. But by that stage, all the moments that had once been so overwhelming, so much in the present — our first angry kiss, the delight in her voice as she rhapsodised about an electric cello, the way she shook as I held her in that hotel in Ballarat — would be just dry memories with no power to unsettle me. And in the meantime, I wouldn't spend too much of the week worrying about it. I had seven days of leisure — paid holiday! before I was due to meet her, and that was my time to enjoy myself. There were friends to visit, books to read, films to watch, clothes to wash... *** She was taking the train back from Ballarat and then switching to the airport shuttle at Southern Cross, so we'd agreed to meet in a cafe near the bus terminal. I got there early and sat at a corner table, distracting myself with an old newspaper so I wouldn't keep fretting about our meeting. I'd been staring at the crossword for several minutes, trying to make sense of "Average lover's still a lover (8)", when I realised Phoebe was standing in front of my table with a wheelie suitcase, in slacks and a faded T-shirt, waiting for me to notice her. "Hello, Yvonne." "Oh! Hello, Phoebe!" I put the paper aside and waved her to the empty chair opposite me. "How are you?" "Oh, not bad. You're looking well — I like the hair." "You think?" I ran my fingers through it. "I wasn't sure about it." "No, it suits you." A silence. "How'd things go in Ballarat?" I asked. "Oh, not too bad. I was worried the aunts might fight, they're like that sometimes, but they behaved. It's not like Mum had a lot of stuff worth fighting about. She didn't like to own more than she could fit in the car." "I guess that makes things simpler." "Uh-huh." She looked at me briefly, then away again, and pulled out a small notebook. "Listen, this might seem odd, but I wrote down notes, what I want to say, so I could get it clear in my head and so I didn't leave out anything important. Let me get through it and then ask whatever you want." And she began her story. *** It's Sunday morning at RJ's house, four days before the funeral. RJ has gone out to talk with Helen's sisters about the arrangements. Yaya is sitting out in the garden, in a sunny spot near the pool. Her arm's slowly healing from the surgery but it still aches, and the warmth makes her feel better. She hasn't been using the wheelchair this last week. She says she's feeling stronger, and that she doesn't need Hamish fussing over her all the time. But it's RJ who pays him to look after her, so he sits in the lounge room where he can keep a watchful eye on her through the window while he surfs the net. Phoebe's just brewed a pot of herbal tea, the kind her grandmother likes, and now she's headed out to the garden with a cup in one hand. Only one cup; with what she has in mind, she has enough to worry about without looking after a cup of her own. "Hello, Yaya." They're speaking in a mix of Greek and English, as they usually do when it's just the two of them. "Good morning, dear. So thoughtful, just what I wanted." Yaya takes the tea with her good arm and rests it beside her. "How are you feeling?" "Oh, still a little sad." Yaya nods. "Of course you are. Come and sit with me, Bee-Bee." Phoebe sits beside her, and kisses her on the cheek. Yaya's skin feels like warm paper. "You wouldn't remember it, but Helen, she used to sing to you every night when you were very small." She pats Phoebe's arm. "I don't think she liked me much, and I'm sorry for that. I know it's hard to bring up children — God knows it wasn't easy for me, out here with just your Grandpa — and I tried to help, but it was like it was an insult to her. But she was your mama and she loved you, and I'm very sorry she's gone." Phoebe can feel tears welling in her eyes, and she has to blink to keep them down. She can't talk about that stuff, not just now, because there's another conversation she needs to have and she's been putting it off for days. "Yaya, I need to tell you something important. And Dad too, but I wanted to talk to you first." "What is it, dear?" Phoebe swallows, looks out at the pool where the ripples cast mottled shadows on the bottom. "You know my friend Yvonne?" "The one who works for your papa? Of course I know her." "She's, um, she's my girlfriend." She's used the English word, and Yaya looks uncertain, so she goes on: "I love her." "What are you saying? Like... lesbians?" There's a hint of distaste in her voice. "Yes. Sort of. Yes." "I don't understand. Why do you think you love this girl? Maybe you're just really good friends?" "I... no, it's not just friends. We kiss. Not like friends." Yaya says nothing. The yawning silence demands more, an offering of words. "We, um, we sleep together. Sometimes." Yaya makes a noise between her tongue and teeth. "How ever did this happen? You weren't interested like that in girls. Never." "I'm not. Just her." Again, the silence. "We met at Dad's Christmas party. She kissed me, and... um." "She knew you were his daughter? When she kissed you?" "Yes, I... no, it's not like that! This isn't about Dad!" "Bee-Bee, do you know they've changed the laws now? If it looks like you're her girlfriend and then you split up, she can take you to court and get some of your money. You have to be careful!" "Yaya, I don't have any money. You know that." "But you will some day. Who do you think your papa will leave this to? Who does this girl think he's leaving it to?" "Grandma! I was with Luke three years. You never worried about him trying to get Dad's money." "Well, it's natural for a man and a woman to be together. Your grandpapa and I... he wasn't a good husband, you know? I had to hide money so he wouldn't waste it all. But I had your papa, and little Achilles, God bless him. And from your papa I had you. And you and your papa and your uncle, that was worth all of the trouble your grandpa gave me. Even coming out here, so far from home, leaving my mama and papa behind. And one day you'll understand how wonderful it is. But a woman can't give you that. Women need men, men need women." "Grandma." She's near tears again. "You know it's not as simple as that. I thought you understood. You remember Ralph who used to teach me cello, you knew he was gay. You didn't mind then." "Maybe some people are born like that. I don't know, maybe God has reasons for it. But you... I know you like men. We used to watch movies together and argue about who was most handsome. You never looked at girls. Now you can't be happy with a man any more? When did this change?" "I, no, I haven't changed. I still like men. If I wasn't with Yvonne, I think I could be happy with a guy. But I'm happy with her." "Bee-Bee, if you don't need this, why are you doing it? Maybe you're still sad about Luke and you don't want to see another man for a while, I understand that. But you don't need to do this just because you're lonely." The worst part is that there's some truth there: she was still angry at Luke when she let Yvonne kiss her (et cetera), and that's where it all started. She is afraid of loneliness. And while she's still trying to find words to explain that she has far better reasons, Yaya has already moved on and the chance to reply is lost. "Why don't you take some time and think about this, dear? You have so much on your mind just now, don't drive yourself crazy with this as well." "Grandma, that's why I need to talk about it now. Yvonne makes it easier for me to cope with everything else. Mum, the audition, you. I want her there with me on Thursday." "You need her... to cope with me?" She doesn't sound angry, just hurt. "Grandma, grandma, I didn't mean it like that... just that it's been difficult, with you ill..." "Bee-Bee, I'm your Yaya. I love you until the day I die. I know I've been cross lately but I didn't see how hard it was on you, I'm sorry. This sickness, it's hard to think about other things properly. Poor child, you've lost your mother, and here I've been arguing with you and your papa about the funeral. No wonder you're angry with me. No wonder you need somebody else to comfort you." Now Yaya is crying, and Phoebe realises: she has never seen her grandmother cry. She's comforted her, but she's never really comprehended what it must be like to be old, and frail, and to have your very bones become a malignant foe. To bury a child and a daughter, and wonder whether you failed them. And even now, with the surgery past... Yaya is still seventy-five, and frail, and there's no guarantee the cancer won't come back. If Phoebe hurts her now, this woman who's watched over her all her life, there's no guarantee she will ever get a chance to mend it. She can't take that risk, not now, not when she's about to bury her mother with so much left unsaid. Later, when things are back to normal, she'll find a better way to explain things and answer all Yaya's objections. She wants to hug her grandmother, but the arm-brace is in the way and the best she can do is a pat on the back. "Yaya, I know you love me. I love you too. Listen." She already knows she's going to hate herself for this. "I'll talk to you about this again, some time when things aren't so crazy. Maybe I can explain it better then. But I'm not angry with you." She thinks: I can't bring Yvonne on Thursday. Give me time, and I can bring Yaya around, but not yet. But if I tell Yvonne what just happened, she'll be terribly hurt. She hurts so easily. And I'm not in any shape to comfort her just now. I need time. And then later, I will tell her the truth, and apologise. She holds her grandmother's hand tight, fingers bony-thin between her own. When at last Yaya is settled again, Phoebe kisses her on the cheek once more before slipping away to make a call in private. "Hello, Yvonne? About Thursday? I didn't realise, but the chapel is quite small, so they need to restrict it to family and Mum's friends..." *** "...I just didn't know how to handle it. Too many things in my head. I didn't expect her to take it that way." She'd written down a list, and she started to read off it: "I was scared of fighting with —" but she was losing her composure rapidly, and she stopped talking and handed the list to me. Fighting with Yaya when she's sick. Thinking every time — what if this is the last? Feel like fraud when people give me sympathy for Mum. Thought I'd have Yaya's support when I told Dad about Yvonne. Can't remember when Nero last got together, think we've fizzled out. Don't have time or energy anyway. Playing funeral music on crappy rental cello with loose pegs. Let alone practice for audition. Yvonne likes Yaya, will be so hurt if I tell her. She watched as I read the list, waited until I looked back up at her. Her face was paler than I remembered and when she spoke her hands mirrored her agitation. "I just couldn't figure out what to do. I remembered how upset you were that weekend in the Hunter, when I laughed at the idea of telling Dad about us. I couldn't deal with that on top of everything else." "You could have told me. I would have coped." Would I? Well, I preferred to think so. "Maybe. I wish I had. I just couldn't think straight. I thought I'd come clean to you later, when I'd sorted out the other things. And then it seemed like it was never a good time. I was scared to tell you and the longer it dragged on, well, you know. I can't undo that, and... I am sorry. I really am. Not just because I got caught." I thought: Poor girl. That was a lot of crap to deal with, all at once. I thought: Reasons or not, she lied to me. "And then when you found out... I know you had reason to be angry, but it felt like you'd turned into the Lord High Prosecutor instead of my lover, and I just couldn't cope with that. But you know the really stupid thing? I could have just brought you along as a friend and nobody would have been any the wiser. I told Yaya because I didn't want to pretend. And then look where I ended up. Anyway, that's it. That's what happened." At last her hands quieted, and she flattened them on the table. "Uh-huh." I reached out, where her hand had settled on the table, and rested my fingers on hers. It didn't cost me to give that, at least. "So where does that leave us?" she asked. "There's still an 'us', then?" "If you want there to be." I thought about the imperfections of our relationship and ourselves. The distance; the tension of a disapproving family (one of them my boss); my insecurities, and Phoebe's, and the damage already done by what had passed between us. Damage to me, or to my ego? Were they the same thing? Then my fingers curled around hers, and hers curled around mine: two hooks linked. "I would like that," I said. "I've missed you." "I mi—" The moment was interrupted by her phone. She gave it a bored look, as if about to drop the call, but then raised an eyebrow as she saw the number. "Sorry, I should take this one." She picked it up. "Hello? Yes, speaking. Good to hear from you." I felt her fingers tighten on mine as she listened. "Oh, thank you. Yes, I can... the ninth, next Monday?" She mouthed to me: 'second round'. "Yes, eleven is fine. What do you want me to prepare? ...yes, I can do that. I'll think about it and let you know tomorrow. All right, thank you very much, I'll see you on Monday. Bye!" She put the phone away and gave me a half-smile. "Made it to the second-round audition. I was hoping for better news, but it's still good." "Well done, you." I squeezed her hand. "So I take it this means I shouldn't ask if you can stay on tonight." "Sorry. I really would love to, but..." "It's okay. I'm glad. When do you have to go?" She glanced at her watch. "About ten minutes." "That soon?" Then, almost before I'd thought of it, "In that case, can I come too?" "What, now? To Sydney?" "I've got the rest of the week off, and I've still got most of my severance money. If I wouldn't be in your way." "You wouldn't be. But —" she looked me over "— you don't have a change of clothes or anything with you." "I can pick them up at the other end. Or just spend the time nude until you throw me out." "My, but you're forward." She patted my hand. "I'm sure we can manage something." It didn't work out quite as neatly as I'd hoped. Phoebe's flight was full, and the best I could get was two hours later. So we hugged at the gate — I wasn't quite bold enough to kiss her yet — and parted with a "see you soon". Was I really flying seven hundred kilometres on the spur of the moment, without so much as my laptop or a toothbrush, to visit someone I'd thought was out of my life? Was I kidding myself to think it could be mended so easily? I plagued myself with doubts the whole way there, and when I switched on my phone I was half-expecting to see a message from Phoebe: Sorry, this is a bad idea, hope you haven't left yet. But there was no message. I'd told her to go on ahead when she got in — I could find my way to her place from the airport — but when I deplaned at Mascot she was there in the lounge, waiting for me. "Thought I'd keep you company on the train." We didn't talk much on the train, mostly just sat side by side enjoying one another's presence. I was happy and yet uneasy; it still seemed too good to be true. As we walked back to her place, through the leaf-dappled sunlight of a gentle winter afternoon, Phoebe said: "I have a confession to make. I pinched one of your shirts, that time when we visited John and Cat." "Wait, that was you? I've been looking everywhere for that. What..." "I took it home so I could wrap it around a pillow and have something that smelled of you. You were out of the room when I had the idea and then I forgot to ask you... and afterwards I felt silly about it. Then when... you know. I washed it and put it away. But you can have it back now. I hope you don't mind." A Stringed Instrument Ch. 13 "That may be the most adorable thing I've ever heard." I hugged her impulsively, and she stopped and hugged me back, leaving her suitcase to fend for itself. Then I kissed her on the cheek, blinking away sudden tears. "I'm glad to have you back." "I'm glad to have you back." And she kissed me on the lips, not deep, but lingering. "Come on, let's get home. I have no idea what we're going to have for dinner." In the end we sat on the couch, eating Reheated Leftover Surprise and watching the news. By the time they got to the sport I'd finished my meal, and I turned to Phoebe: "I haven't told you why Susan was off work, have I? Her daughter was having bullying problems, so she took some time out." "That bad?" "Yeah." I filled her in on the detail. "Huh. Poor kid, I hope she'll be all right. By the way, you know Susan and Dad used to have a thing going?" "What? No. Really?" "Just for a year or so, not long after Mum left. I saw her around, didn't think anything of it at the time 'cause I was only eight. Years later I started to put two and two together, and I got her alone one Christmas party and asked her about it. They'd both just come out of messy breakups and they ended up in... well, sort of 'friends with benefits', I suppose. Then Dad got promoted so he was managing Susan, and they decided that would be a sensible time to break things off. She met her husband..." "Danny, I think?" "Yeah, Danny. She met Danny not long after, so that was that. But she and Dad still exchange Christmas cards. She sent us a really sweet letter and flowers after Mum died." "Well, well. I had no idea it was anything more than a business relationship." Then I paused as I remembered RJ's words. Somebody he respected had spoken to him — "rather forcefully" — about his decision to fire me. And I remembered Susan's rage: "I want to kill those girls. They have no right to do that to my daughter. No right." Then I considered what Susan's reaction might have been, supposing that she'd made a few enquiries and found out the real reason why I'd been fired... and I almost felt sorry for RJ. Almost. "Whatcha smiling about, love?" asked Phoebe. "Oh... just figuring something out." I carried our plates over to the sink. Phoebe switched off the TV and came up behind me, slipping her arms around my waist. "So... what did you have in mind for tonight?" "You know... it's been a while since I heard you play. Maybe the Bach?" Her lips quirked into a smile. "As you like." She pulled out her stool, tidied her hair back out of the way, and tuned her cello. Then she sat, closed her eyes, and began. I watched more than heard it, her eyes half-closed, the smile still lingering, as her bow danced over the strings. There was a tightness in my chest, but it was welcome; it was the joy of finding my way back to something I'd thought lost forever. As she played I moved around her, standing behind so I could better see the flex of her shoulders, her whole body absorbed by what she was doing. I knew I'd never have the ear to appreciate her talent (or the cello she played, for that matter), but through her I could share the delight her passion brought. She came to the end of the Prelude and spoke softly: "Shall I continue?" I kissed her head lightly. "Please." And as she started the Allemande I rested a fingertip at the base of her neck, and I could feel as well as see the music of her body, the shift and play of her muscles. She didn't flinch, and her posture was such that I barely had to move to maintain that contact as the melody wandered and circled and came to a rest. Then as she shifted into the Courante, lively and quick, I began to stroke her neck. A touch here, a pause there... and I realised I could hear my fingertips in the music she played, the frisson of my touch translated to a subtle emphasis in volume here, a tiny quickening in pace there. "You're trouble," she whispered, and even as she slowed again for the Sarabande my hands drifted down to wander her shoulders, rising and falling with her movements... I was following her, and yet I felt I was leading too, my intent mirrored in her actions. The Sarabande was over too soon, but the Minuets came next, disciplined and regular... or so they should have been. For now I brought my hands back to Phoebe's neck, drifting around under her hair and exploring the bare skin at either side just under her jaw, and I could tell she was struggling to maintain composure. "Bad!" she whispered, and I parted her hair and brushed the back of her neck with my lips; I felt her on the verge of stuttering, and I eased off, and waited, and then started again. At last, up-tempo again for the Gigue, and I ran my hands down her back, lingering on her waist, planted at last on her hips. The way Bach wrote it, it races to the finish — well, the way Phoebe played it that night, it outran Bach and Casals, Rostropovich and du Pré, notes tumbling over one another until she ended it with a fierce chord. Phoebe stood, set the cello safely in its case... then suddenly she wheeled on me, and before I knew it I was in her arms and in her mouth. She broke from the kiss just long enough to get out "You're incorrigible, you really are!" and then with another kiss she cut off any reply I might have made. We tumbled onto her bed, inextricably twined around one another as we kicked off our shoes. For a while we just lay there and embraced, content to hold and be held; then our hands began to wander, caressing and fondling. On a whim I nudged her over onto her belly and rolled onto her, fingers stroking her sides, legs straddling hers, as I nuzzled the hair aside and began to kiss the nape of her neck. I growled very softly in the back of my throat — or was it a purr? — and she stiffened under me, taut but motionless, as I nipped at her skin and my fingers hardened, catching at her T-shirt, dragging it away from her waistband and then burrowing beneath it to claw stripes across her ribs. "Mmm. Nice." She had her arms stretched out in front of her; I reached up with my right hand to hold her wrists together, and my left scratched down her side, wriggled underneath her so she could feel my fingernails in her exposed belly. She said nothing, but I felt her exhale, long and slow, and her legs pressed tighter against mine. I twisted sideways a little to get better purchase on her neck, and gripped her between my teeth, growling again. She said a quiet little "oh..." as my hand moved up her front again, halting at the elastic of her bra, pushing under it and sideways, my index finger raking a curve along the underside of her breast. "I want you. I want you." "Want you too." She pushed back against me as I rocked my hips against her arse, she grunted softly as I thrust my hand up under the bra-cup, displacing and supplanting it, five fingernails digging into her breast, her nipple rubbing against my palm. I let go her wrists, jammed my thumb into her waistband. "These need to come off now." I shifted my weight back, letting her lift her hips a little, and she wriggled to assist as I fumbled with the buttons, tugged the zip open, shoved them down to her knees along with her briefs. As I did that I pushed her T-shirt up and popped the catch of her bra open. Then I settled my weight on top of her again, pressing her against the mattress and into my hands: one back at her breasts, the other between her legs. "I could lie here all night." I pressed my hips against her. "Whispering how much I love you." With my knees I coaxed hers open. My fingers pushed through her curls and found her labia, began to work between them, as my other hand enveloped her breast. "But I can say it better this way." "I like that language." She reached back behind her, one hand on my hip, the other at the back of my neck, both holding us together. I began stroking in earnest and she responded, grinding against my hand. We were doing well for a while, and then I noticed Phoebe was tensing up; not the aroused kind of tense, but the uncomfortable kind that gets in the way. It took me a moment to realise the problem: Phoebe was wearing less than me — or rather, it was covering less, thanks to my previous efforts — and the night air was cooling around us. "Let's get under the covers." "I was going to say." We shed the remainder of our clothes and crawled in together, spooning side by side. At first we just cuddled, and I squeezed Phoebe as tight as I could; after a little while, when our body heat had warmed the bedclothes, I felt her softening again. "Now, where were we before?" she asked. "I think I was doing something like this." Once again my fingertips drifted down her side, circling on her hip before slipping down between her thighs. She angled her leg to give me better access, and as I established a soft but insistent rhythm — rub, rub, circle, rub — she placed her hand on top of mine, as if to say: more pressure. I took the hint, and although here and there she flinched at the roughness of my touch, her hand stayed firmly on top of mine. She was breathing faster now, and with her other hand she was holding (pinching?) her own breast. She gasped when I slipped down and into her, renewing the lubrication on my fingers, and then again when I came back up to flick her clit, toggling it from side to side, up and down. "Don't stop..." I would've liked to keep her on the edge, slowing down and drawing it out, but it had been so long; I was ravenous for her, and impatient to feel her come, to consummate our reunion. So I did what she asked, faster, bolder, and as I kissed her back and shoulders she yelped, and her head snapped back, and her thighs squeezed me tight as she came. "Oh, darling... oh." She held my hand against her, motionless now and snug, surrounded by the heat of her body and the pressure of her thighs and the fading spasms of her muscles. "Mmm, that's what I needed." She twisted around enough to face me and we kissed; then she took my wrist, drew my hand up to her mouth, kissed my fingers and tongued in between them. "Give me a few minutes, and I'll do something for you." "No rush." Sometimes a vicarious orgasm, experienced through the senses of somebody you love, is as good as the real thing... but that doesn't mean you can't try for both. "Hey, I heard a carpentry joke." She rolled over again, pressed her back against my chest, pulled my arm around her and hugged it against her chest. "Want to hear it?" "A carpentry joke?" "How many screws does it take to assemble a lesbian's bed?" "Um... as many as she wants it to?" "None. It's all tongue-in-groove." I groaned. And a few minutes later I was groaning again, and gasping, but not because of her jokes. Afterwards, somewhere in the hazy land between afterglow and slumber: "Yvonne, are you still awake?" "Maybe. A bit." "Something I need to say to you." "Yes?" "I don't know... if we'll be together forever." She squeezed me tight. "I mean, I love you a lot. I want it to last. But I can't see the future... if some day we decide we've drifted apart and it doesn't make sense to stay together, sometimes that happens." "Okay?" I wasn't sure where this was going. "But this is the important bit. I don't want to break up for stupid reasons. Sweetie, I love you, but I'm human. I guarantee that if we stay together long enough, some day I'm going to screw up and hurt you again. I won't mean to, but those things happen. And if that happens... I'll need you to help me with mending things." "Hmm?" "I don't mean you can't be angry. I expect I'll be angry at you sometimes. But even if you're angry, can you remember that I love you, and I'm trying to fix things even if I'm not sure how to do it? Because I can't fix things if I'm the only one working on it. Even when it's me that broke them." I thought about how I'd reacted, back when I'd first found out about the lie. I could have gone to her and asked: what's going on? Instead I'd chosen to test her, and punish her, without even knowing quite what she'd done or why. And, yeah, if she'd told the truth in the first place I wouldn't have needed to work out how to deal with that situation. But what's done is done; if you love one another, the question is what you're going to do next. And I could see myself screwing up some day — perhaps I'd forget a birthday, or miss a concert, or some other stupid thing — and I thought: when that happens, do I want to be carrying it forever? No. I want to be able to leave that behind, without leaving Phoebe behind. "Yeah. That makes sense." I wanted to say: sorry I didn't ask, as soon as I found out from Leon. Sorry I got so caught up in my fears that I drove you away when you were trying to apologise and explain. But it's hard to admit such things, and instead I just said: "Sorry about how I handled stuff before. You know, if your dad hadn't fired me, or if I'd realised it was Susan that changed his mind, I probably wouldn't ever have..." She patted me. "But you did. And here we are." After some thought I said "Sweetie, can I ask you something?" "Of course." "Still straight?" She chuckled, then paused before answering. "I love you. I want to be with you. If people need a label they can decide for themselves what that makes me." And not long afterwards, I fell asleep in my lover's arms. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 14 14. Phoebe was still there in my arms when morning came. Not that morning was much to speak of; it was grey and cold, rain drumming on the roof of her little flat, staying-in-bed weather. I felt her wake, and as she snuggled back against my chest I murmured "So, what do you have on today, love?" She yawned and stretched, then giggled as I reached around and scratched her exposed tummy. "Tickles! Um, I'm giving lessons ten-thirty to twelve. You'll want to be out for that, little Amy's a wee bit rough on the ears. Another student four-thirty to six. Nothing else booked, but I do need to put in a lot of practice this week." "What are you playing?" "A good question. The Offertorio from Verdi's Requiem, the opening from Strauss's Don Juan. No problem there, I know those. And the first movement from a concerto of my choice." She still had her back to me, but from the tone of her voice I thought she was scowling. "So what are the options?" "I know the Elgar very well. I've been playing that one since I was fourteen, and it's a pretty popular option. It's just..." "Hmm?" "Bad connotations. Too much of death in that one, just at the moment." She squeezed my arm against her ribs. "I'd rather not play it." "Then don't. What else is there?" "Oh, Bach, Schumann, Shostakovich... I could do them, but I feel like I want to play the Glass. The one I picked up when I took you to that music shop. I just want to do something a little different." "So can you do that?" "Yeah, but I'm not as practiced with it." "You've got a week to sharpen up, right?" I felt her chuckle. "Oh, darling, I think I just heard you volunteer to be my page-turner. You are going to be so utterly sick of Philip Glass by the time you go home." "Mmm-hmm. Bet I won't be sick of you." I propped myself up on one elbow, and stroked her face. "Ten-thirty's not for a while yet." "Is that so?" I brushed a finger across her lips, trailed along the line of her jaw, traced the spirals of her ear. "Last night was lovely. I want more." I licked her earlobe, tasted the skin just below her ears. It was a trigger point: she shivered, and her lips parted. Then she reached back, scooped up her hair between thumb and fingers, exposing her neck. I took the hint and kissed her there, slow and firm, my lips following the bumps of her spine. My hand was at her face again, playing over her mouth, drawing her lower lip down and dipping inside. She caught me between her teeth, explored my fingertip with her tongue, exhaled warm breath as I kissed just below the hairline. Last night we'd both been working off pent-up desire. Now we were relaxed, and our love-making was more like a slow wordless conversation about nothing in particular. The day brightened and the rain eased as we caressed and explored one another, more concerned with touching than with where we touched. When you're with the right person, sensation can be found anywhere. A whisk of Phoebe's hair brushed across my forehead; my lips dawdling at the back of her knee; her toes wriggling against my ankle. And often, just stillness and warmth and quiet contact. Even when the sensual drifted into sexual, there was no hurry about it. She spent an age with her cheek pressed to my chest, and another at my belly, and another at my thighs. Her tongue and I became reacquainted, her fingers slipped and curled inside me. I floated on a warm tide, and I was almost sorry when at last I felt the current carrying me to my destination. No shrieks, no fireworks, just a feeling of gentle release pulsing like a slow heartbeat. She moved up alongside me to cuddle, and I ruffled her hair. As I did, my body made an unexpected crackling noise. "What was that?" "My back." I wriggled my shoulders experimentally; it felt good. "It's been out for weeks, too much computer work. And tension. Guess I just relaxed enough to loosen it up." "Mine's been acting up too, I'll have to get a back rub off you some time." "Deal." I pulled her against me, and I might have drifted off to sleep again, if her phone hadn't started ringing. Gilbert and Sullivan: her dad. She'd left it on the kitchen bench and had to get up to grab it; I stayed in bed as she threw on a dressing gown and answered it. "Hi Dad? Yeah, not bad, and you? No, that's okay, I was awake." I sat quietly while she listened and then replied. "Yeah, we did most of it yesterday. Gia and Chloe —" her mother's sisters "— and Scott. I picked out a box of books and stuff, and there were a couple of pictures that I didn't want to squash into my case. Gia's holding on to them for me, she's coming up to Sydney in a couple of months so she'll bring them then. "Yeah, birth certificate and stuff like that. Are you going to need — oh, okay then, I'll hang on to them. And a few clothes, and Mum's jewellery — no, not much, but you remember the malachite earrings? Yeah, and the necklace. There were a couple of other pieces Scott gave her, and we all agreed he should have them. Some pictures and things. And, ah, I have her wedding ring. Yes, with the rest of the jewellery. Do you — oh, no problem, I thought you would but I just wasn't sure, you know. No problem, I'll get it back to you. "No, I'm okay. It was sad, but... kind of good to do it, you know? Lot of little things I'd forgotten, it was good to see them again. And talk to Gia and Chloe. I should keep in touch with the cousins more, they're all on Facebook now. "Oh, I was going to tell you! They called yesterday, they want me back for a second round on Monday... no, different pieces this time. Two they've set, and one of my choice. I'm going to do the Glass. Yes, the one you didn't like... "No, just a few students... um, and. Yvonne's visiting. She's staying for a few days, but she knows I'll mostly be practising for this." I looked at her sharply, and she looked back at me and nodded, mouthed I love you. "Yes, we did. But we talked it over yesterday, and we sorted out a lot of things, so... yeah, here we are. Yeah, Dad, I know. I've thought about it a lot and this is what I'm doing. I'll talk to you about it more later... probably send you an email? Don't —" She paused again, pacing closer to me, as he spoke. "No, Dad. Not an issue. They don't ask about stuff like that. It's none of their business anyway." She gave my shoulder a squeeze. "No, I need to talk to her about it, but not until after my audition. I'll talk to her then, and I would really like you to back me up on that if you think you can... no, I don't mean that. Just, if she brings it up with you, make sure she understands this is something I've thought about long and hard. Yeah, I know. I'll talk more later, I promise, but I've got a student this morning and I need to get ready. Love you, Dad. Look after yourself, and I'll be in touch. Okay, bye now." She put down the phone and stood there, taking a couple of deep breaths. "Well, that's done. Half-done, anyway." I walked over and gave her a hug. "How'd he take it?" "Well... not delighted. Lot of 'are you sure you know what you're doing?' and so on." "And do you?" "Not really. Never stopped me before." She returned the hug. "But I don't think you're going to get fired again. He hates having to go back on a decision even once." "Glad to hear it. Um, does this mean we're out generally?" "Can I think about that a while? See how things go with Dad and Yaya, and then look at the rest of it?" "Sure." I squeezed her, then let her go. "By the way, your student's due in, ah, nineteen minutes." We showered and dressed in a hurry; since I hadn't brought a change of clothes, all mine were recycled from the day before, except the shirt that Phoebe had laundered for me. We wolfed down some cereal and I was just heading out the door as Phoebe's student Amy arrived. I spent the morning in Newtown, hitting the second-hand shops for a few days' worth of spares. I passed on several acres of corduroy and a pink faux-fur jacket that looked suspiciously like a skinned Muppet, but managed to get several decent shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans in my size. (By the way, this story was posted on lit erotica dot com and if you're reading it elsewhere, it's been ripped off without permission.) Amy was gone when I returned, and Phoebe was in the middle of something classical-sounding (the Strauss, as it turned out). I waited quietly until she finished, and then she rose and kissed me on the cheek. "Hello, stranger. Is that lunch I smell?" "Got us some pies." "Just the thing. I'm ravenous." After lunch I cleaned up. I looked back from the sink to see her sitting at her stool, holding her cello but not doing anything. "Everything okay?" "Yeah, just gearing myself up for the Glass. It's a bit of a shift from the others." "Do you need a page-turner?" Although I had no idea whether I'd be able to follow the music; I hadn't read a score since school days. "I'm trying to get by without. But if I get stuck..." She handed me the sheet music. "Hang on to it, I'll tell you if I need it." So I pulled up a chair behind her, and she began. It took me a while to come to terms with the music. I'd been exposed to the classical standards at one time or another — it's hard to avoid them altogether, even if you're not dating a musician — but Glass was not at all what I was used to. It was like trying to make sense of an unfamiliar programming language; at first it seemed jarring and discordant, and only gradually did I start to recognise its internal logic as its motifs emerged, disappeared, reappeared in new guises. Even then I couldn't decide whether it was brooding or hopeful, and I couldn't tell whether I liked it. "Music, please." Phoebe had stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry, I lost my place." "Page eighteen, I think." I found the page and showed it to her. "Oh, bloody hell. Always trip up on that bit. Let's try that again." She restarted from somewhere in the middle. I watched her play; it looked like hard work, with a lot of intense bowing and some fast finger-work for her left hand. She went over the same passage three more times; I couldn't hear the problem, but she seemed more and more dissatisfied. "For crissakes. I need a break. Can I get you to rub my back, love?" "Always." She lay face-down on the bed and I did my thing, noting how tight her shoulders were. "You'll get there," I told her. "Hope so, or I'm screwed next Monday." I kept going until my hands got tired, and then I lay beside her and put my arm over her. She rolled over and cuddled me back, the cello abandoned for now, and we snuggled together in comfortable silence. I'd only meant it to be for a few minutes, but I was warm enough and cozy enough that I drifted into half-sleep and stayed there until Phoebe's alarm reminded her that it was four-fifteen and her next student was due in a few minutes. "Gah. Meant to get so much more done. You're too distracting, love." But she kissed me as she said it. I cleared out for what remained of the afternoon. At first I explored a small park that I'd noticed on the way to the station; on a better day it would've been a fine place to sit and feed the ducks or read a book, but it was clouding over and threatening rain again. So instead I walked on to the neighbourhood shops. I sheltered under the awnings and browsed in windows, killing time, waiting for six o'clock... until all of a sudden I caught a whiff of something that put a smile on my face. "I got us chips." I put a steaming-hot paper-wrapped bundle on a mat on Phoebe's table. "Can't have winter without hot chips. Fish too." "Chips? I love you too." She put down a book of cello exercises and helped herself to a seat. As I unwrapped the package she said, "Dad used to buy us chips after my cello lessons, when I was about twelve. He'd get a cup of chips for me and one for himself, and then he'd try to distract me into turning around so he could steal a chip when I wasn't looking. He said they tasted better that way. Sometimes I managed to steal his, but he's pretty hard to trick." "That's adorable. John and I used to pool our money and buy three bucks' worth after school." She selected a chip, golden-brown and crisp, and tested it. "Mmm. Good. I think I'll keep you." "Delighted to hear it." I settled into my chair opposite her, and we played footsie as we got stuck into the fish and chips. When we'd nearly finished it off Phoebe paused, gesturing at me with a large chip held like a baton. "Sweetie, how do you feel about me auditioning for this job? If I do get this position, it means I'm in Sydney for the foreseeable." "I know. I... I'd like you to be closer, but this is your thing, you have to follow it. If that means us making a lot of long-distance calls and me coming up to Sydney when I can... well, you're worth it." "Aww." Her eyes were bright, and she took my hand and pulled it toward her. "You're sweet. And I promise I'll visit as often as I can. You never know, there might even be an opening for a cellist in Melbourne some —" Then her expression changed as she looked past me to the door, and she let go my hand in a hurry. "I cancelled my seven o'clock, I know I did!" I turned and looked toward the door, but there was nobody there. When I turned back, Phoebe had a satisfied grin on her face, and a couple of the chips nearest me were missing. "I'll get you for that." "Promises, promises." I walked around behind her, took her by the wrist, and brought her hand to my mouth. Her fingers were salty and I licked them clean, thumb tickling the inside of her wrist as I did so. With my other hand I stroked her lips and it wasn't long before she responded, catching my fingers between her teeth and laving them with her tongue, as dextrous and graceful as the fingerwork I'd watched a few hours earlier. I drew her to her feet, one arm around her waist, lips at her neck. But then she brought her hand between us, pushing me away. "Stop." I stopped. What did I do wrong? "I would love to climb into bed with you right now, but if I do that I'm going to be there till morning. And I haven't done nearly enough work today. Sorry." I hugged her and kissed her chastely on the forehead. "I shall be good, then." And I cleaned up the remains of the chips as she washed her hands and returned to Philip Glass... And still she was struggling. Sometimes she stalled on the same passage that had caused her trouble before; sometimes she made it past there, but stopped abruptly later on. I couldn't hear the mistakes — if mistakes there were — but I could tell by the set of her shoulders and the hiss of her breath that something was still wrong. "Phoebe? Is there anything I can do?" "I hate to say this, but...I don't think I can concentrate with you around. I'm sorry, I just —" "It's okay. I was kinda getting that vibe. Hmm... look, it's getting late, not a lot of options tonight. But what if I make myself scarce tomorrow? I can go visit my aunt, see museums or whatever, leave you to practice in peace, come back in the evening. Would that work?" "I think so. Are you okay with that?" I had to think carefully about my reply. It wasn't an easy thing to do; having almost lost Phoebe once, my instincts were screaming at me to cling to her, to spend every second I could with her. But... "Yeah, I think I'll be okay. Just promise that when you're done for the day, and you feel you've done enough, you'll give me a call." "I promise." She stood on tiptoes, kissed me on the nose. "Let's give that a try." And it worked, well enough. After a quiet night cuddled up with Phoebe I spent Wednesday out with my aunt, who monologued on the Evils Of The World and the trouble I had saved myself by steering clear of men. (Having been divorced twice, she had strong opinions on the subject.) We visited a museum exhibition, and when she ran out of monologue I told her I was Seeing Somebody. She was pleased to hear it. "Sometimes, Yvonne, I think my life would have been so much simpler if I'd been a Lesbian like you." I had my doubts, but I chose not to argue. We parted at five, and since I still hadn't heard from Phoebe I checked myself into a movie that I'd been meaning to see. The opening credits had just started when my phone buzzed silently. Have been good today, lots of work done. When can you be home? I'm in town, can be back in thirty min- I paused, considered things, then deleted the message and started again. I wasn't a teenager; I didn't need to drop everything and come rushing, and nor did Phoebe need that of me. I'm at the movies, just starting. Home around 8? Excellent. See you then. She met me at the door, with a boisterous hug that suggested her mood was greatly improved. "How was the movie?" "Not bad. And you? How did you go with your friend Philip today?" "Much better." She hugged me again. "The thing is, when you're around, I start thinking about what it sounds like to you, and what you're going to think of it. Then I find myself trying to play for you — do I need to emphasise this theme so Yvonne notices it? And it gets in between me and just playing the music, I get self-conscious and start tripping myself up. I need to think about the music first and get it right for me, and then you can listen. But not yet. It's silly, I don't mind if the neighbours hear it, but you're different." "I'll take that as a compliment... I guess?" "You should. Not many people get under my skin like that. So, sweetie, what would you like to do tonight? I'm cooking." "Cribbage?" "Love to." After she'd beaten me three games out of five, we retired to bed. We ended up head to foot, me playing idly with her toes as we talked. "Phoebe, I've been thinking... I might head back to Melbourne tomorrow, leave you in peace to practice." "You sure? You don't have to." "I don't..." I counted five little piggies, wiggled each toe in turn. "But I know what this audition means to you. I'll be happier if I know you're absolutely free to concentrate on this without me getting in the way." I kissed the tip of her big toe. "And whatever happens with the audition, I'll still be your girlfriend afterwards, and I'll come back soon." "It's a date." She flicked off the light, then wrapped her arms around my ankles. "By the way, I'm pretty broke, probably won't make it down before, but I'll be in Melbourne mid-August for my birthday." "Not partying in Sydney?" "Might have a small get-together there. But it's the first one since Mum died, I want to do something with family." "Ah, that makes sense." I squeezed her knees. "How are you going with that stuff?" "Oh... okay? I guess. Still gets me sometimes. I dream that we're talking, just mundane stuff. One time she asked me if I was seeing anybody and I started to tell her about you. Then I woke up and remembered you said she'd already figured it out. And sometimes I catch myself thinking 'That'd be a good birthday present for Mum', stuff like that. But getting better, I think." "I love you. Any time you want to talk about stuff, I'm here." "I know. Love you too." A few minutes later I felt her relax into sleep, still cuddling my legs like a teddy bear, and not long after I dozed off too. We said our goodbyes in the morning. I left one of my shirts down at the bottom of the bed, where she'd find it after I was gone. As I was about to go she said, "Can I ask you a little favour?" "Sure, what is it?" "I need you to deliver this." She gave me a small envelope, with a name on it. I didn't open it, but from the weight and the shape I had a pretty good idea what was inside. "Of course." I flew back to Melbourne that afternoon. The apartment was a mess: Aleks had been hit by inspiration and was furiously soldering bits of metal scrap into some sort of sculpture. Once I'd confirmed that he was using lead-free solder, I didn't bother remonstrating with him further. At least he'd put down a drop-cloth first. A Stringed Instrument Ch. 14 "I don't see you since Monday," he said. "You went away?" "Sydney." I must have sounded pleased with myself, because he replied, "You're back with Phoebe, isn't it?" "Yes!" "Oh thank God. I have been THIS CLOSE to cut the cord on your stereo." I should have reminded him of the performances he invariably put on after a breakup. After the last one he'd spent four days painting a gigantic canvas of a demonic pig whose face bore a suspicious resemblance to his ex Wasim. But since I was in a good mood I startled him with a hug instead, then went off to unpack. On Monday I went back to work. Since my employment had officially been terminated we had to go through the paperwork again; Susan had returned a week earlier, and I was pleased to see I was reporting to her once again. "Good to see you back, Yvonne! It hasn't been the same without you." "Good to be back! Speaking of which... I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?" "I have no involvement in hiring processes. Those are entirely RJ and Peter's prerogative." Was that a ghost of a smile? "I do recall some sort of discussion with RJ, but it would only have been offering advice." And that was all she'd say on the matter. Zara, she told me, had moved to another school; she still fell into black moods from day to day, but she'd found a counsellor she liked, and overall Susan thought things were improving. It wasn't until a few weeks later that my suspicions would be confirmed. One day while I was fixing the settings on Janelle's calendar she and I got to chatting, and she mentioned the day when Susan had come in unexpectedly — "this was when she was still on leave" — and marched into RJ's office. After a few minutes of raised voices Susan had come storming out again, and a couple of days later RJ had asked Janelle to call me about coming back to RJC. In the meantime I had plenty to do. The contractors who'd been filling my shoes had kept up with the day-to-day maintenance, but they'd let the longer-term stuff slide, and the Redmond Barry website looked like something coded by a work-experience student full of Jagermeister. With Susan's permission I reverted to the last version I'd saved before they fired me, and started catching up from there. There was an awkward moment when I bumped into Peter in the lifts at lunchtime; eventually he managed to say "So you're back with us, then," and I answered "Yes, I am." Then the lift arrived at our floor and we went our separate ways. I was sure I'd see him again soon enough, when next he found some new way to screw up his PC. It was late in the afternoon before I had things under control. There was still a mountain of work waiting for me, but at least I'd made a list of what needed to be done. Only then did I feel I had enough breathing space to lock my computer and go knock on RJ's door. "Come in." I pushed open the door and slipped inside, pulling it shut behind me. "Ah, Yvonne." He rose and extended his hand, and I shook it. "Mr. Churchill. Um, Phoebe asked me to give this to you." I reached into my pocket and held out the envelope she'd given me. He took it from me, frowning. Then his expression changed as he recognised the weight and the shape that bulged inside the envelope, the partner to the gold ring that he still wore on his own left hand, and I heard a faint sigh. "Ah. Thank you." He tucked it away inside his suit jacket. "I suppose —" My phone buzzed, and at the very same moment his beeped. We both hesitated a moment, trapped by politeness, and then both of us checked our messages. Out of audition. Think I did OK, will find out in a few days. I looked up from mine to see RJ nodding at his own. I felt something had to be said so I cleared my throat. "I guess that's good news." "So far, so good... has she talked about what this means for her?" "Yes... yeah, we've discussed it a few times." "I told her I'd support her, whatever she wanted to do for a living. And I'm proud that she wants to do it for herself. I was the same. But I worry about her a lot. I see how disappointed she is every time she fails an audition, it's hard on her." "I know." I wanted to say more, but I couldn't figure out what was appropriate. I love her too. I worry about her too. She can stay at my place if she needs somewhere. I came home early so I wouldn't distract her. It all seemed too intimate; we'd reached some sort of truce, but I wasn't sure how far that extended. So I just stood there stuck for words until he cleared his throat. "Well, I shouldn't keep you. I'm sure you have plenty to do." "I do. Well, thank you." "Thank you, Yvonne." And I slipped out again. I wanted to call Phoebe back to ask about the audition, but decided to give RJ a chance to talk to her first. It took two more weeks, and one last round — an interview, to weed out any candidates whose musical talents couldn't make up for their personalities — and I spent a lot of nights trying to soothe Phoebe's anxieties over the phone. But on a Friday afternoon late in June I finally got the call I'd been waiting for. "Hey sweetie!" I had a guess what it was about, but I didn't want to ask her, in case it was bad news. "Hey there, love. Just had a call... well, they offered me the job." "Oh, yay! Oh, I'm so pleased! When do you start?" "I haven't accepted yet. I said I'd like to discuss it with my partner first." "Ah. Hang on." I walked into the store-room for privacy. "Well, this is what you want, isn't it?" "It is. But... I know you said you'd put up with the long-distance, but I still didn't want to give them an answer until I'd discussed it with you." "Say yes. I think we can cope with the distance thing for a while... and then who knows? Maybe I can find something in Sydney. But call them back, and we'll talk later." "Love you. Talk soon!" She called me back a few minutes later: they wanted her to start on August 13, a few days before her birthday. "So I guess I'll have the party early... I was thinking, I can't take too long because I need to wrap up with most of my students, but I could come down on the Friday, have the party that night, then spend the weekend with you?" "Yes please!" And so on a bleak Friday in August, I took an afternoon off work and met up with Phoebe at Southern Cross, and we talked on the way home. She had explained to her father, very tactfully, that although she intended to spend time with family she'd be staying with me while she was in Melbourne. "So how'd he take it?" "Him? Not so bad. Yaya wasn't very happy though." "Oh, I'm sorry. Is that about you not being there, or about you being with me?" She shrugged. "A bit of both. It's complicated. She still likes you, she just doesn't think the relationship is a good idea. Keeps trying to tell me why it won't work. The main one is babies." "Babies?" She lapsed into a good impersonation of her grandmother's voice. "'Two girls can't get babies. You need a man for —' oh, I shouldn't make fun. It's not easy for her. Dad's her only son —" I thought for a moment of his long-ago brother "— and I'm her only granddaughter, and I think since Mum died she's been thinking about this stuff a lot more." "So what did you say?" "I said there were options, but you and I hadn't discussed it yet, and it was still a bit early in the relationship for that." "Fair enough." After a while I remembered something that had been niggling for a while, ever since she'd accepted the job: "Love, if I'd said no to you taking the job...what would you have done?" "I think..." She looked out the window. "I would've said goodbye to you and taken it anyway. I'd have missed you terribly, but I would still have taken it." "Uh-huh." It was what I'd expected. She squeezed my hand. "But I didn't think you were the sort who'd say no to that. So here we are." Then she looked at me, eyebrows arched. "Does it bother you that you're sharing me with her?" "Her?" "My cello." "Oh. Not really. Well, it did, but... I'm okay with it now. I love you, but I've seen couples who were completely wrapped up in one another, and in the end they drive one another crazy. It's good if you have your stuff and I have mine." "I'm glad." She snuggled beside me, squeezed my hand again. "I'm very glad you said that, because I'm thinking of bringing another cello into the relationship." "Wait, you what now?" "You've met her. In Janos' shop." "Oh, that lovely electric one — wait, I thought you were broke?" "I am, until I start work. And I owe back rent and bills, you don't want to know how much... but when I came down to help sort out Mum's stuff, we talked to her lawyer and he went over the will with us. Anything she didn't allocate otherwise goes to me. Which isn't much, mostly a lot of books and some old furniture. But there's her car." "Oh." I hadn't thought of it in those terms — only as the setting of Helen's death - but of course, it hadn't been badly damaged. I supposed that with a little bit of panel-beating and new airbags, it would be quite drivable. "I'll probably get a car for work eventually, but... not that one. It's still worth a few thousand, I'd rather sell it and not have to look at it." "That makes sense. But —" I tried to recall our conversation from seven months earlier "— I thought you wanted to earn the money for this one yourself?" "I did. But it all went on plane tickets and bills and stuff. I thought about waiting until I'm earning and I've paid off what I owe, but... by then, I'll have a lot more money than I'm used to, it won't mean as much. So I thought, this is Mum's money. I'll let her buy me something special for my birthday, something to remember her by. Maybe I'm just rationalising it." "I think it's a good idea." I clasped her hand between both of mine, because she looked as if she was on the verge of crying. "Just as long as I get to hear you play her." "Deal." Back at my place we snuggled for a while, freshened up, and then dressed for the party. RJ had insisted on holding it at his place, and Phoebe had deemed it tactful to accept. Speaking of tact... "You're wearing that?" Phoebe asked. I was holding the candy-striped dress Yaya had given me. "Considering it, if you'll help me get it on." "I thought you never wore dresses." "I don't. But I want to show her I appreciate the gesture. And besides, you said you'd do me in this. That's a pretty compelling argument." "I did? Well, then." And in the process of helping me into the dress, Phoebe somehow managed to get me on my back, lips at my throat, hands all over... "Oh dear, look at the time." She sat back and started straightening my outfit. "Wait, you can't stop now!" "You'll get yours." She kissed me. "Afterwards. Oh, don't pout like that, it's undignified." It was only the second time I'd been to RJ's, and I felt as nervous and out-of-place as I had been at the Christmas party. There were about thirty people there, and I knew only a handful of them. I remembered Maria, Jill, and Ellen from our movie outing, and I recognised Phoebe's aunts from their photos. The rest were strangers to me, except sometimes by reputation: her other friends from school and elsewhere, music buddies, distant cousins, and some older folk who were mostly neighbours or friends of RJ's. She introduced me simply as "this is Yvonne", leaving me to fend off the inevitable "so how do you know Phoebe?" with evasions and half-answers. I had to fight the urge to cling too close to her, lest I give us away; I hovered nearby as she began chatting with a couple of fellows who'd been to the Conservatorium with her, but soon realised I didn't know nearly enough about music to get involved. So I drifted away, and to avoid orbiting the room all on my own I started up a conversation with Jill and Ellen: work, Jill's kids, the weather, all the safe topics. "I'm sorry I walked out on that movie," Jill said. "Just too much for me. Did you enjoy it?" "I don't know if 'enjoy' is the word, but... yeah, it was worth seeing. Not easy watching, though. It got rougher after you left." Alongside me, Ellen nodded. "Ugh. What I saw — enough to give me nightmares," Jill replied. "Me too," said Ellen. "I heard Phoebe had a lot of trouble getting to sleep after, too." I started, and looked at her closely — was that an innuendo, had she heard something? Was I looking guilty, would she suspect something now? But I couldn't see anything in her expression. "Yeah, um, I heard that too." Soon after Ellen and Jill got talking about Deb (absent, travelling overseas), and I drifted out of the conversation. I wandered out to the back yard; it was unpleasantly chilly, but I wanted the fresh air. I stood there, looking out into the blackness of the winter night, until I was surprised by a dry voice behind me. "It suits you. I told you it would." Thump-thump, the old familiar spike of adrenaline. I turned; Yaya had been there the whole time in her wheelchair, almost covered with in blankets, so still that I'd missed her. Only her eyes gleamed like black marbles. "Uh, yes. It's a good fit." "But you don't like to wear a dress. You're always in pants." "Yeah. Um, I like clothes with pockets." There was a lot more to my clothing choices than that, but I wasn't equipped to discuss the complexities of identity with Yaya. "I always have stuff I need to carry around, and I don't want to haul a bag everywhere." "Come here. I show you something." I approached. The blankets shifted as she got her arm out from underneath. She wasn't wearing the brace any more, but her movements were slow and stiff as she clawed at my side. "Here." She poked at a spot near my hip, in between the pleats of the fabric. I touched it, and my fingers slipped into a space I hadn't noticed: a pocket, concealed between the folds, large enough for a wallet or a phone. When I checked, there was another just like it on the other side. "I put them in. Opened up the seam and sewed them in." "Hey, that's really nifty." Still not my thing, but nifty. She gave me a weary smile, wrinkles shifting on her face. " I don't like bags either. Too many people stealing them... be a good girl and push me inside, it's too cold here." By the time I got her inside and comfortable next to RJ, most of the other guests had already taken their seats for dinner — catered, of course — and I was left down at the end away from Phoebe, next to her aunt Gia. She seemed a nice lady but was a little hard of hearing, and I found it difficult to talk with her over the background noise. I looked at Phoebe as often as I could without being too obvious; occasionally she'd look back and smile at me, and once she pursed her lips into a brief hint of a kiss. But mostly she had her head down, looking quiet. A waiter did the rounds, filling up our glasses with wine and champagne; I substituted fizzy mineral water in mine. When everybody had a drink, RJ rose to his feet, tapping his glass with a spoon: ching-ching-ching. Across from us, Chloe had her camera out and was snapping photos of the party. "Hello everybody, and thank you for coming. I'd just like to say a few words about how proud I am of my daughter. Today we're celebrating two milestones, her birthday and also her new job. I sat down this morning and I worked out that by the time she turned eighteen, Phoebe had done over five thousand hours of practice and a thousand hours of lessons, and now at last her hard work is paying off." He brandished a sheet of paper from his pocket. "And now that she has this job, she can start paying me back for what we spent on lessons. Here's the bill, Bee-Bee!" There was a ripple of laughter, and she stuck out her tongue, and Chloe's camera flashed. Around us, waiters were bringing out the food. "But seriously, I'm as proud as a dad could be. I know Helen would've been proud too. And I don't want to talk too long, so I'm just gonna ask you all to stand and raise your glasses. To Phoebe!" "To Phoebe!" I kept my eyes fixed on her as I took a mouthful of bitter-tasting mineral water. She was smiling, but she looked pale in the camera-flash. And she was licking her lips, looking at her glass. As the rest of us sat back down, she stood. "Thank you everybody. It's been... a bit of a rough year, hasn't it? But, touch wood, I think it'll get better from here. I'd like to thank Dad for getting up early to drive me to all those cello lessons. And all the other stuff." She pointed at the 'bill'. "And my Yaya for nagging me when I got bored with scales and tried to cut corners. Don't try that with Yaya!" Another ripple of laughter. "And Mum. I wish she was here to see this." She sipped from her glass; I thought she looked nervous. "And, uh, I'd also like to thank my partner Yvonne. For being there for me, and putting up with me. I love you, Yvonne. And to everybody else who's here. You might not know it, but all of you helped me get here. You're all my family. To family!" And we followed suit as she toasted. I don't remember much of the meal; without any assistance from alcohol, the surprise and the unexpected attention had turned me into a blushing pile of incoherent mush. But a happy, bubbly sort of mush. It wasn't until after the mains that I ended up standing near Phoebe, and she took my hand and drew me aside. "Hey there, sweetie." "Um. I wasn't expecting that." "I wasn't sure whether I was going to do it. Well, not tonight." "I'm not complaining." I placed my other hand over hers. "Well, what brought that on?" She glanced to either side, dropped her voice a little. "I was thinking about Mum. About how I was going to sort that stuff out once the rest of my life was tidy and under control. And wondering whether it ever will be tidy and under control. There's always something. And thinking... if something happens. God forbid. But it can. If you or I died, love... what happened with Mum's funeral, I don't want it to be like that. "And then... when I was talking to Yaya the other day, I talked about coming out. She said, what if you do this, and tell everybody, and then it doesn't last, and you've stuck your neck out for nothing. Because I'd already told her, I didn't go looking for a relationship with a woman, if I wasn't with you it'd probably be a guy." "And?" "I thought, even if it happens like that... it's not for nothing. This is important to me. When I become the greatest cellist in history and everybody's writing books about me... you ought to be in those books. And Mum too. Both of you should be there. Even if you're the only woman in my life, that doesn't make you an experiment, it makes you unique." Stuck for words, I drew her closer to me. I saw her eyes flicker as she looked around at the people nearby, some watching us, some oblivious... and then we kissed. Flash-flash. And now she's back in Sydney rehearsing for her first concert, and I'm here in Melbourne fixing printers and wrangling webpages, and each of us yearns after the other and counts the days until we're next together. But meanwhile, in a silver frame, there it stands on my desk at RJ Churchill: a photo of me and my partner. A Stringed Instrument By now she was close up to the wall, elbows propped against it, and my legs were straddling hers. "The first moment I saw you," I whispered, "I wanted you." I punctuated the sentence with another tweak and she squeaked into the hand that covered her mouth. "And here you are." Her dress had some sort of fancy catch at the chest. I didn't fancy trying to work it out one-handed in the dim light, so I just bypassed it and popped the next three buttons below it. That was enough to grant me entrance and after that the front-fastening on her bra gave me no trouble at all. Soon enough my hand was playing over soft warm skin, just as music started up from the lounge. There's something exhilarating about touching a woman under her clothes, a shared secret quite different from open nakedness. I could tell she felt it too, from the way she arched back against me, body pressed against my hips and my lips. I released her mouth and she sucked in air while I explored her body. With my left hand I traced down the line of her spine, down to her tailbone, then around to her hip, pulling her against me hard as my right hand — fingernails digging into her — repeated the message. "By the way," I murmured into her ear, "I love the dress." And I started to gather it in my hand, drawing it upwards fold by fold, trapping it against her hip as my fingers reached for more. It seemed like far too long before I reached the hem and then there was nothing left below my hand, except Phoebe's underwear. And Phoebe. She knew what was coming, I could feel it, but I made her wait. My fingers skirted the edge of her underwear, brushed her belly and the tops of her thighs, touched everywhere but there, until she started to whimper in frustration. My fingers drifted closer, as I planned a slow crescendo... Footsteps in the hall, two voices approaching "...discuss this in private." "Shit." I pulled back, looked around for options. Yanked the wardrobe door open, dragged Phoebe in by the wrist as they came into the bedroom. The light clicked on just as I pulled the door closed behind us. If they'd been looking in the right direction they would have seen me, but they were too busy with one another. RJ and another voice I couldn't place — one of the regional office heads, I guess — talking business. "Not tonight, Mike, but if things don't pick up you're gonna have to make tough calls. It's what I pay you for." "I know, RJ. I don't like it, but it has to be done. Even with rates down, nobody wants to buy when GFC Two might be on the way..." I'm sure I could have learned something useful by listening, but I had other priorities. I dragged Phoebe to the back of the wardrobe and crowded her against the wall, this time facing me, with her back against a long fur coat (her mother's perhaps?) My hands were busy tugging the straps off her shoulders, working the fastenings, pushing the dress to the floor, swiftly followed by her underwear. My knee, shoved in between hers, opened the way for my right hand. "Oh!" Phoebe moaned as my fingers slid between her thighs, as I found her wetness, and I felt her stuff her knuckles in her mouth lest Daddy hear. He was still talking, and that suited me fine. I was in just the mood to enjoy his daughter in his bedroom, while he stood oblivious not ten yards away. I had my left hand in the small of her back and my breath was hot as I whispered in her ear. "Gotcha." And my fingers came up, thrusting inside her, warm and tight and alive. "Oh!" She must have left tooth marks on her hand as my fingers curled to stroke her, my thumb snug against her clit. She arched her hips against my hand, I felt muscles grip my fingers, and I pushed her hand from her mouth so I could kiss her as I worked my fingers inside her. (RJ and Regional Guy were still talking.) Phoebe set the rhythm with her hips and I matched it, fingers filling her and stroking that glorious bundle of nerves, thumb strumming her clit aggressively. I can be slow and gentle, but this wasn't the time. It was urgent for both of us, that I play her to — I'd expected her to cry out loud (what a way to get fired!) but she came in total silence, spasms wracking her whole body, breathing in fits. She had both arms around me, clawing at my back and my hair. With every wave I triggered her again, each shock stronger than the last until at last she melted into my arms. (Still talking.) I held her as she recovered, softly stroked her hair and her sides. When she was coherent enough to respond she cuddled me back. After a while, when her breathing was almost back to normal, she leant forward and tentatively kissed me. Neither of us noticed when RJ and Regional Guy finally went back to the party. *** Afterwards we found the light-switch in the wardrobe, straightened our clothing, tidied our hair as best we could and managed to locate an earring Phoebe had lost somewhere in the middle of things. She looked out into the corridor, making sure the coast was clear, and we returned to the party. I dare say we still looked rather hot and flustered but nobody seemed to notice; things were starting to wind down, and most of my colleagues were too tired or squiffy to pay much attention. I was trying to figure out the etiquette for this situation when Susan (shit, forgot all about Susan!) tapped me on the shoulder. "Yvonne! I thought you'd gone, looked everywhere for you." "Oh, I'm sorry, I was, um, in the ladies' for quite a while." "Well, I was hoping to talk to you this evening. Is now a good time?" I looked to Phoebe. She nodded at me and answered, "I'd better leave you two to it then. Lovely to meet you, Yvonne." Susan led the way outside. Everybody else had drifted in by then, except the caterers collecting a treasure-hoard of dirty plates and bottles. We walked some way from the house and then she turned to me with the same unhappy look I'd seen before. I braced myself; being fired would be a pain, but even so I was feeling better about the evening than I had when I walked in. "Yvonne, I hoped you could give me some advice. My daughter said she thinks she's gay..." It was a long conversation. I reassured her that the world hadn't ended, it was nothing to do with her parenting and lesbians still love their mums (well, if they deserve it) and then I gave her some tips that might be useful to a fourteen-year-old trying to survive Catholic school. She had a lot to process, but at the end of the conversation I felt I'd achieved something. And tired. God, so tired. By then almost everybody had gone home. In a sleepy fog I made my last good-byes and drifted toward the door, having looked around for Phoebe without success. I was halfway to the front gate before she caught up with me. "Are you going to be safe to get home? There's a guest room if you want to sleep it off and go home in the morning." "Thanks, but I think I'm okay, I only had one —" "It's next to mine." I took the hint.