‘This is me.’ I leaned into the page where he was pointing. There I was, in all my childhood glory, hair in pigtails and covered in mud on school camp. ‘Do you like the early Nineties cut and paste job?’
The entire yearbook looked like someone had cut people from old photographs and glued them to a sheet before adding headings and running the whole thing through the photocopier no less than fifty times. But that was also why I loved it so much. Simpler times and, really, this was the pinnacle of student publishing, especially if you were singled out to contribute one of the carefully drawn headings.
When he’d finished laughing at photos of me, but more so at the ones of Mick, he placed the book on the counter by the door.
‘Somehow, I don’t think it’d sail today with our super integrated cloud storage Photoshop land, would it?’ He looked for my approval. ‘Someone would be asking why there wasn’t a hashtag, filter applied.’
‘That’s true.’ I collected a few lemons for myself and tucked them into the fruit bowl in the pantry. I checked and double-checked windows and door locks, then looked to Marcus, who was standing about awkwardly, now with my yearbook held against his chest ‘Shall we head to yours now?’
* * *
Last time I’d been inside Marcus’s home, I hadn’t seen a lot. Realistically, it was a blurred, distracted race up the stairs that had been punctuated only by the ridges of wallpaper under my fingertips, and a getaway that didn’t stop to take in the sights.
After being greeted by Daisy at the door, I was ushered past a wall full of family photos and through to a kitchen of stainless-steel appliances and stone benchtops, downlights and a coffee machine. While Marcus busied himself with drinks, I sifted through one of four piles of work on the kitchen table. Workbooks balanced precariously atop each other while dog-eared pieces of paper were sorted by topic. No wonder he felt overwhelmed.
‘I’ll take these?’ I offered, holding up a pile of maths sheets.
‘Please.’ He checked me over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be there in just a second.’
I moved into the lounge, onto a deep-seated sofa that was comfortable enough to induce sleep and waited. Marcus dropped down next to me on the sofa, laptop propped open and ready to start work. I was fascinated by how different our approaches were. I’d claimed nothing but a red pen as my tool, while he had a word processor and some fandangle looking project management file open. Oh, and a red pen.
Daisy padded across the room lazily and dropped herself by our feet. She was more than happy that we’d stopped by the café on the way home and bought her one of their dog biscuits.
‘Okay.’ Marcus picked up a pair of glasses from the side table and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. They were black and thick-rimmed, though they didn’t strike me as the milk bottles he’d told me he wore as a boy. In fact, I’d never seen these before, ever. ‘What do you want to mark first? Each pile has the answer sheet at the top.’
‘Hang on.’ I held up a finger. ‘I’ve never seen this Marcus before.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Go on, have a laugh.’
‘Laugh? I don’t want to laugh.’ Pivoting and climbing to my knees, I held his head still, silently revelling in the warmth of his skin against mine, the stubble that grazed my fingers. Stubble was an awful, awful weakness, and here I was holding him like a long-lost toy. As his eyes searched my face, and I tried to keep my focus solely on the frames of his glasses, my brain went straight back to the bedroom. I swallowed. ‘I like them.’
‘You do?’ he asked, surprise rippling his answer.
‘They suit you.’ Still, my eyes danced about his face.
‘No, they don’t,’ he argued. ‘They’re far too chunky.’
‘Yes, they really do,’ I countered, drawing a finger across the top of the frame. ‘They’re strong, they match your face. I thought you said the other night, in the pub, that you’d had laser surgery?’
‘I suspect it was less laser and more Thor’s Bifröst,’ he said. ‘Didn’t entirely fix the problem, but it’s better than nothing, and I forgot to buy more contacts last night. Can we move on?’
‘As you wish, boss,’ I teased, to muted laughter.
‘That’s VP to you.’ He winked.
Chuckling, I set the papers between us and, while I worked my way through the pile I’d selected, Marcus began piecing together the yearbook. Between checking on grammar, or handwriting he couldn’t decipher (to be fair, some of it looked like hieroglyphs), we said little to each other. I was happy for the white noise of the television in the background, and Daisy eventually rolled to her side and stretched out fast asleep. I chewed through two piles of papers before we spoke again.
‘Eleanor?’
I held my finger in place, stuffed my pen in my mouth, and looked up. ‘Hmmm?’
‘You seem a little distant today,’ Marcus remarked. ‘Is everything okay?’
I frowned. ‘Hey?’
‘I don’t know, I just feel like you’re a little out of sorts this afternoon? Since we got here, really. It’s as if you’re here, but you’re not? We’re not really talking, are we?’
It hadn’t struck me that anything had been wrong per se, but he was right. I had been quiet. We had been quiet. Especially when comparing this afternoon to Friday night. I hoped it didn’t mean we were lost without cue cards. No, I thought, we’d been chatting on text and this morning in the backyard. Surely, we were just working quietly?
‘You know, I had lunch with an old friend yesterday, and she just said a few things that are bugging me.’
‘Like what?’
‘So, I met up with Sally. We were friends as kids but, you know, you move away and things change and people change and suddenly they’re not in your life anymore.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He kept tapping away at his laptop as he spoke.
‘Everything was going well until she asked me advice on how to get her kid reading more. I assumed she meant could I give her some tips to help at home, and I start reeling off these great age-appropriate books.’
Marcus worried his lip and removed his glasses. ‘This sounds like that one parent–teacher interview I get every half-year.’
I grimaced. ‘She stopped me and said, “That’s not quite what I meant.” She wanted me to help her word a discussion with her teacher. She’s of the opinion that her taxes pay our wages, so we should be the go-to for everything her child is learning.’
‘I hate those conversations. I mean, we’ve got, what, twenty-five kids at a time to teach. It’s not like we can do intensive one-on-ones with all of them. You’ve always got your bell curve of kids. Some of them don’t need a lot of help, because they just get it. Most of them sit in the middle and chug along, but there’s always one that turns up at parent–teacher interviews telling me they pay my wages and what the hell am I doing with my time because Little Jimmy, who’s not exceptionally bright, is apparently suddenly the smartest kid in the room and would just excel if I did my job properly.’
‘See! This is what I don’t get.’ I discarded my marking and wriggled on the couch, much to Daisy’s disgust. If I were honest with myself, I was certain that wasn’t my biggest worry from yesterday, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to air what it was that was really bothering me. ‘Why is it my problem that you’re not interested in your child’s education enough to be able to do something at home?’
‘You can’t be everything to everyone,’ he said. ‘And, look, I know I do those extra classes. It’s not out of the goodness of my heart, it is literally so that I can avoid shit like that. I don’t have to and perhaps I shouldn’t have to, but …’ His voice trailed off.
‘It just makes me rage.’
‘Yep.’ He nodded slowly, lips pursed. ‘But you need to remember you aren’t a panacea, either. You can only do what you can do with the limited time you have.’
I sighed. ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It’s just …’
‘Ignorance?’ he tried.
&nbs
p; ‘I guess so, yes.’
‘I have an idea.’
I lifted my eyes to his. ‘What’s that?’
‘I still have a little way to go on this document.’ He turned his laptop to face me, as if to prove the point.
‘Do you want to swap?’ I asked. ‘I’d be glad for the break. Mix it up a bit.’
‘Definitely, we’re absolutely doing that.’ He shoved his laptop aside. ‘But I was thinking, why don’t you stay for dinner? If I start now, I can make that roast chicken I talked about the other night.’
Urgh. The eggshell moment that was, one way or the other, setting itself up to be the sequel to our blind date. It was something we’d discussed and, yes, one of our cue cards definitely said he was cooking ‘next time’. He looked at me expectantly. I hoped I didn’t look like I was full of dread but, after yesterday, I’d decided I wasn’t sure on anything. Surely it wasn’t fair of me to stay and eat dinner when I was feeling like this?
‘It’s a no, isn’t it?’ he asked, finally.
I let out a held breath. ‘Not tonight,’ I said, going on to reason, ‘it’s Sunday—’
‘School night.’ He nodded. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I pleaded. In a heartbeat, I’d gone from comfortably quiet to ditheringly awkward and falling over myself to apologise. My stomach churned, and it felt like my vision had shrunk to a tiny window that included only him.
‘Eleanor—’ he held his palm out ‘—stop apologising. It’s fine.’
‘I don’t feel like it’s fine.’ A lump threatened to cut off my throat.
‘It really is, it’s okay. I don’t want to rush this. It’s okay.’ He stood, brushing his lap off. ‘Do you want a coffee? Water? Wine? Soda?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Thank you.’
Our words hung heavy in the open, threatening to spill into conversation every time we tried to discuss work. We did swap, and I took over the helm of the yearbook while Marcus finished his marking, but everything felt riddled with charge, as if any minor offence would result in something akin to lightning.
After finishing the last page of the book, sometime around six o’clock that night, I stretched my fingers up towards the sky and yawned. ‘I think I’m going to head home.’
‘Are you sure I can’t just whip something up?’
I shook my head and checked my pockets. I still had everything I arrived with. ‘It’s fine, really. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’
Instead of arguing, he simply said, ‘Okay, no worries.’
‘So, yearbook is done.’ I counted off on my fingers. ‘What I have, anyway. Are you caught up with your marking?’
‘I’ve got about six sheets left.’
‘Brilliant.’ I smiled softly. ‘Tomorrow, I have to meet Jack to tune the piano and see how he’s going with the music component of the night.’
‘You with your hidden talents.’ He whirled his finger about. ‘Would you like me there? Or is that a stupid question?’
‘Well, I can’t very well do this without my wingman,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a class last period though, so I’ll try to head over about three o’clock? Hopefully the gymnasium will be empty.’
Marcus followed me towards the front door, edging closer as I came to a stop. ‘Thank you for today. I appreciate your help.’
‘You’re always welcome.’ I rubbed his forearm. ‘See you in the morning?’
‘I’ll bring the coffee.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’ I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek, breathing in the intoxicating smell of a warm, solid male. This was not doing my resolve any favours, but it felt like a nice way to close out the afternoon.
Chapter 20
My love affair with the piano began when I was just five years old with ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. Long before I’d mastered the art of shoelaces, maths, or dressing myself properly, music managed to capture my attention. It was a blisteringly warm day, so drenched in humidity that each breath felt like a lungful of warm water, and I’d been left with my grandparents while Dad went off to one of his random jobs. It was there, in their lounge room, with curtains drawn and fan set to arctic, that I sat on the green velvet piano stool next to my grandfather and bashed out the first unknowing sounds on rickety old ivories.
Immediately, I was hooked. I was making that noise? Me? From that moment on, every visit had me glued to that piano. Like all kids, I wanted just a little more. One more scale, one more song, please just one more anything, and it wasn’t long before I was keeping my grandparents captive with impromptu concerts. If Penny happened to be around, which she quite often was, I’d have a dancer to accompany me.
Nursery rhymes soon became pop songs and, somewhere around the last gasping breaths of high school, they gave way to the works of composers whose own last gasping breaths happened hundreds of years earlier. Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty Suite was my favourite piece of music. Ever. Playing it became my favourite way to relax and unwind. If ever I needed white noise to fall asleep to, it was in an iPod playlist all its own.
Amongst Dad’s changing jobs, and my trips interstate to visit Mum, the piano felt like one of the few constants in my life. Along with books, it gave me a single point of reference to focus on. Wherever I was, or wherever I was going, I could always return home to it. For that, I loved it even more. I pushed myself to learn everything I could about it and, as I got older and my grandparents less mobile, professional lessons supplemented holes in my knowledge.
And, yet, despite all this, I never considered becoming a music teacher, even when playing in my university’s symphony orchestra. Music had always felt like something I did just for me and, while sharing that love with others made perfect sense, I didn’t feel that way during university.
Throughout auditions and public performances against the backdrop of some of Melbourne’s most beautiful recital halls, suggestions from friends and family, I stuck steadfastly to my plans of becoming a library teacher. Three unsuccessful attempts to join the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra only confirmed that I’d made the right decision on that matter. That didn’t mean I let my skills stagnate though.
While living in Melbourne, in a university share house with four other girls, I picked up the dirtiest, oldest upright piano known to man for the cost of covering a week’s worth of shifts at a local pub. Being a money poor student, I taught myself another trick: tuning my piano. Between shifts at the student bar and a retail job that saw me pushed further out the door with each candle added to my birthday cake, the thirty dollars the tuning kit had cost me ended up saving me hundreds in the long run. Throw in some YouTube videos, and I had a new feather in my cap, just call me Johan Sebastian. All Bach, no bite.
My new trick came in handy. Not only did it earn me a place with other students from the music stream, but I picked up the odd tuning job here and there. I charged minimal amounts, but every little bit helped and, most of the time, I was already hanging out with friends when the request came. It was through these new friends that I met Dean.
When we first met, backstage at a recital centre, Dean loved nothing more than long nights listening to me play, with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza. But, as we both left school and moved into the big world of business, life changed. He became busier, his job more demanding, and his patience for anything outside work grew considerably smaller.
My music, something that had once brought us together, became a force of tension. If I played, he said stop. If I continued, we fought. That alone should have rung alarm bells for me to leave, but I didn’t. Instead, my music became something I indulged in less and less until, eventually, it had stopped being part of my life altogether.
Looking back now, it seemed like such an easy loss to prevent. At the time, bobbing about in the middle of the storm, it didn’t feel like that at all.
So, I won’t pretend I wasn’t secretly thrilled when Jack asked me to tune the school pianos. It tickled at a
nervous energy that both brought me back to something I loved and terrified me at the same time. What if I’d forgot everything? What if I made a complete fool of myself? Yet, despite these worries, I was chomping at the bit for our Monday afternoon catch-up.
That’s how I found myself walking into the school gym right on the 3.30 bell. I hadn’t managed to get there earlier as I’d originally planned, even though my last class had been let out a few minutes early. I ignored my returns trolley emptied and a fresh delivery of books in favour of scurrying through the school yards like a thief in the night. I was like a kid in a candy store; only one thing on my mind.
Five minutes, that’s all I wanted. A few moments where I could feel my way around the instrument again, try and get a feel for the intricacies of this one and maybe, just maybe, I might be able to pull a rabbit from my hat and play something. I tugged the heavy fire door open and peered around the basketball court. The storage room was locked, and Kevin had already disappeared for the night.
And there it was. If this had been a film moment, there’d be a break in the clouds, a ray of light shining through the ceiling, angels chanting, and a harpist floating above the top of screen somewhere. Except it wasn’t. It was simply a piano under an old black bed sheet. At least it wasn’t a fitted sheet; they’re bad enough to fold, let alone get one off a piano.
Pulling the sheet back, I untucked the stool from where it had been nestled underneath the key bed and sat down. The yellowing varnish was worn across the front board and fallboard, the surface scuffed where feet had missed pedals, but it was still beautiful. I took a shaking breath and struck Middle C.
I listened carefully as the first fuzzy note of a poorly tuned piano rang out. The school gym wasn’t the best room acoustically, but it was perfectly suited to an end-of-year production, so I wasn’t going to get picky about things I couldn’t control. It would work perfectly, and everyone would go home happy. As if on autopilot, my fingers began traipsing along scales and familiar chords, music humming and vibrating through my heart.
Lessons in Love Page 21
