This Is Now

by Maggie Gilbert

  I coughed, dizzy, realising I’d been standing in the middle of the footpath, holding my breath. Without even noticing, tears had been sliding down my face, and my nose had clogged. Talk about your shitty days.

  I unzipped my purse, and dug around inside, but of course there weren’t any tissues. Damn. I sniffled, grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt and used it to scrub my face dry of tears, then dug into my purse for cigarettes. I pulled out the pack and peered inside. Empty. Fuck.

  That almost made me cry again, panic swarming up my chest. This was exactly why I was trying to give them up, I reminded myself. They weren’t just nasty and expensive, they ruled your life.

  My phone rang, and I almost fumbled it, hoping it was Mum, telling me it was OK, I could come home, she didn’t really mean it.

  It wasn’t. Any other time I would have been rapt to see the name that had come up on the screen. The ridiculousness of wishing it was my mother instead didn’t escape me.

  ‘Hi Sebastien,’ I said. My heart was thudding uncomfortably. I didn’t dare hope this meant the day was about to get better. I just had to hope nothing would make it worse.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Wow,’ I said. I am such a moron. Lost for words would have been an improvement.

  Sebastien just grinned and shut the front door, hanging his keys on a brass hook on the wall.

  I gazed around, as awestruck as a kid in a museum, taking in the high cathedral ceiling, the exposed beams and stained glass window perfectly positioned to catch the late afternoon sun. Polished floor boards, lit up in reds and greens and blues, long fingers of coloured light from the sun shining in through that glass window. Wonderful.

  A broad staircase swept up from the foyer, where we stood, to a second story gallery, lined by a timber railing, all glowing deep reds. Stained cedar possibly, but I was guessing, based on the address and the quality of the fittings and furniture I could see, that it might actually be genuine teak. I wouldn’t know for sure unless I could get a closer look at it; my fingers practically twitched with the desire to run along the smooth, straight grain of the polished surface.

  A piano sat directly ahead of us, black and shiny. I didn’t know what kind, I knew a darn sight more about houses and architecture than musical instruments, but I imagined it was probably a good one. It was a beautiful object anyway, solidly constructed, beautifully finished. And beautifully situated there, both showcased and protected by the curving staircase that rose alongside it and then arched above the piano, so that it was both on public display and in a semi-private alcove. I let my gaze take a slow trawl, turning my head slowly to see as much as I could. I recognised so many of the design elements in this house, and taken together, they added up to an incredibly exciting possibility.

  ‘Wow,’ I said again. ‘This has to be a Darry Ackles.’ I was so amazed that I had forgotten the embarrassment of being in Sebastien’s company, and his house, wearing gym pants and a ratty Short Stack T-shirt, and only the remnants of yesterday’s makeup.

  ‘What’s a Darry Ackles?’ Sebastien asked.

  ‘An architect,’ I murmured, distracted as Sebastien put his wallet and phone in a dish on a lovely little side table tucked in beneath the key rack. There were at least 4 sets of keys there; Sebastien’s phone sat on a jumbled stack of coins and notes, small change really, but there had to be fifty bucks in that dish, and the keys to several vehicles.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I can read,’ I said. ‘Are you going to leave that there?’

  ‘What?’ He looked around where I was looking. ‘My phone? Yeah, sure, I’m not expecting any calls. If Mum or Dad want me they’ll call the house line.’

  ‘OK.’ I gave it another uneasy glance. All someone had to do was pop the lock on the front door and they could grab everything on or near that table and they’d barely have to put one foot inside to do it. Three minutes, from go to whoa, tops. And every time Sebastien or his mother or sister opened that door to the postman or someone delivering caviar and flowers or whatever, they were vulnerable. I glanced over my shoulder at the front door. As I’d thought when Sebastien opened it with a simple key, it was a simple lock. No deadbolt, no alarm panel, nothing. This house had to be worth 1.2, maybe as much as 1.6 million if it was Darry Ackles designed, and that was just the house. There had to be an alarm panel somewhere, probably very cunningly incorporated into the design, so it was hard to find.

  Still, I was gobsmacked at the lack of security, and totally shocked by the casual way Sebastien had dropped an expensive leather wallet groaning with notes and the latest iPhone within arm’s reach of the door.

  And I was jealous as hell, of course. Not of the money or the expensive house (a Darry Ackles house, although he was my utter god when it came to architects, didn’t even appear on my blue-sky wish list, it was so far out of my league) but that he felt safe enough to do it. He wasn’t worried about thieves coming in and taking his stuff. He wasn’t worried about his mother going through his wallet and taking the twenty bucks he had stashed for cab fare without telling him about it, so he got stuck in the city at 4am with no way to get home but hitch.

  ‘Are you into architects?’

  ‘Huh?’ I stared at Sebastien stupidly.

  ‘I didn’t even know an architect designed this house and you know the dude’s name. Unless you’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘No,’ I said, truthfully, my face heating in a blush.

  ‘So are you into architects?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and this time I lied, so the heat spreading across my cheeks reached epic intensity.

  Sebastien looked at me for a long moment. I probably looked like a clown, and a squinty eyed one at that. I’d be puffy eyed from crying, and I realised I didn’t remember brushing my hair that morning, before the fight with Mum drove me out of the house. I raised a hand to my hair and patted experimentally. Ugh.

  ‘I hope you’re into cellists,’ he said, and I almost swallowed my heart.

  I returned his look, my heart thumping.

  ‘I could be.’

  He grinned, hugely, with his whole face, and it made him look about fifteen.

  I laughed shakily, almost weak-kneed that he’d followed that tense little exchange with humour instead of getting all heavy. Heavy right now would probably make me cry. I was an ugly crier, and that wasn’t really the look I wanted to work here.

  ‘Want a tour?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the stairs.

  ‘Hell yes.’

  ‘So you are into architects.’

  ‘I’m into houses,’ I said, and even that was way more than I usually shared. I waited for him to laugh at me or ask me why, but he didn’t. He just gestured for me to go ahead of him.

  ‘It is a nice house,’ he said.

  Understatement, much. The house was glorious, and by the time he’d shown me all over it, I was so full of conflicting feelings I thought maybe I would cry, ugly or not. I’d only ever seen pictures of Darry Ackles houses in architecture magazines at the library. I’d never imagined I’d get to go inside one. Unlike so many things that you dream of, only for the reality to be a massive letdown, this house exceeded my expectations. It was light, textured, cunning, modern, airy, comfortable, inviting, sun-filled, homey, and churchlike. A mass of design contradictions that were so cleverly constructed they somehow just worked.

  Downstairs again, I followed Sebastien towards what I thought might be the garage, vowing to go to the library and Google like crazy til I found the story behind this house. Because it would have one. I was totally sure now that this was an Ackles house; despite my cockiness with Sebastien earlier, I hadn’t seen enough of the house to be sure, it was just a guess. A guess from my gut, more than anything else.

  Sebastien opened a door, and again, as he had every time we turned a corner or went into a room, he waved me through first.

  It wasn’t a garage, it was a studio. And although I’d only seen those in pictures too, the musical instruments (inclu
ding another piano; what on earth did you need more than one for?) were pretty good clues.

  ‘How many instruments have you got?’ I asked in amazement, and felt my cheeks sting hotly again. What a rude question. First I gawk at his house like I live in a tent or something, now this. I waited for the shining floorboards to swallow me up, but no such luck. Well made. And strangely unresponsive, not like real timber flooring at all. I tapped the toe of my sneaker against it, some kind of laminate tiling, I thought.

  ‘It’s got sound absorbing stuff under it.’

  ‘Stuff?’

  Sebastien shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that kind of thing. I just know it gives us better acoustics.

  ‘Play something?’ I said impulsively, and shoved my hands in my pockets, shocked at myself.

  ‘Really?’

  I nodded.

  He looked pleased as he went across to where a big hard black case stood in a rack, and lifted it out. Kneeling, he laid the case on its back as carefully as if it was a baby, and when, after undoing buckles and snaps and zips, he drew the instrument out of the case, he did it with gentle hands and a small frown of concentration wrinkling his forehead.

  He was just so outrageously gorgeous, it really wasn’t fair. I sucked in a breath, aching for something I couldn’t even explain as I watched him get out the gleaming instrument, and carry it almost reverently over to a stool. He touched the strings lightly, testing them, and made some mysterious twiddles of knobs, and then he looked at me expectantly.

  ‘What do you want me to play?’

  I shrugged, still breathless. ‘Anything.’

  He settled himself, and lifted his right hand, up and over, laying the bow to the strings, and when he played the opening notes every hair on my body stood at attention. He played the same Bach tune he’d played at the concert. I’d Googled it since then, it was a hugely popular cello solo, and basically an essential in any cellist’s repertoire (a word I’d got from Wikipedia, thank you very much). And btw, that movie had been Master and Commander.

  But as my skin dimpled with goose bumps and I grew almost dizzy from forgetting to breathe, I wondered if he was playing it just because he knew it so well, or if he had a special reason. If he remembered that he’d played it the night we met.

  I gave myself a mental smack for such delusions, but I really wanted it to be true. How had he gotten so far under my skin in such a short time? Since Jay, I’d been so careful. Sure, Sebastien was gorgeous, but he wasn’t the only hot guy I knew. There was a good reason Anna was panting after Jay, he was pretty spectacular too and there were always girls trying to hook up with him.

  Maybe it was because when I watched Sebastien playing the cello, he seemed to feel the same things I felt when I looked at houses and design briefs in magazines, like I’d felt when I’d walked through this beautiful house. Like everything else was just gone. Like this was so much more important, so much more real and that everything else, all the hassles and the shit of everyday life just didn’t matter. Only this did.

  If I thought I’d design houses with the same passion and breath-stealing skill he played the cello I really would make a great architect. I’d be right up there with Darry Ackles.

  The final note quivered in the cocoon of the studio and I clapped madly, seriously, no joking around or pretending I didn’t mean it. His talent deserved respect from me, in particular, who had never achieved anything interesting and probably never would. I shook myself into motion and crossed the floor to him, my footfalls muted little thuds. Now was not the time to wallow over how far my pathetic little dreams remained from my reach.

  ‘You are amazing,’ I said. Wait. Uh, that wasn’t what I’d meant to say. ‘You played amazing.’

  Sebastien, grinning, stood up and took a little bow, with his hand wrapped securely around the instrument. Like the piano in the foyer, the house, and even Sebastien himself, the cello was a beautiful object. But it showed plenty of signs of use, and the wood had the patina of age rather than expensive lacquers.

  ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ Sebastien commented. ‘It makes me sound way better than I am.’

  I snorted. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘It’s true. Come on, I’ll prove it to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over here, sit down.’

  With his free hand he took my arm and steered my towards the stool he’d just left. Heat rising into my face again, I sat, uncomfortably aware of how close he was, of the warmth of the stool coming through the thin fabric of my pants, knowing that heat had come from him. What was wrong with me? I was thinking of stuff I never usually paid the slightest attention to.

  ‘Now hold out your hand and let it flop, as though you were about to pick up an egg.’

  ‘Like this?’ I asked, fascinated despite how unsettled I was.

  ‘Palm down and fingers completely relaxed. Yes, like that.’ He reached forward and slid the end of the bow into the tunnel formed by my loosely curled fingers.

  ‘Now close your fingers onto the bow and put your thumb against that little edge that sticks out, just there.’

  His fingers shaped mine, lifting and bending until my fingertips rested on the narrow wood bow, my thumb uncomfortably cocked inwards to grip the other side. As soon as Sebastien took his hand away and left the weight in my fingers, the bow sagged.

  ‘Ow!’ I exclaimed, shocked at how heavy and awkward it was, and how much it hurt my thumb to try to hold it.

  ‘It takes practice.’

  Sebastien tilted the cello towards me, and suddenly stopped. He went bright pink.

  ‘You, uh, you grip it between your knees,’ he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

  ‘OK,’ I said, perversely calmer now that he seemed to be getting flustered. As I concentrated on manoeuvring the cello between my knees, I lost focus on the bow, and the tip sagged down. Sebastien put his hand under the end to steady it.

  Sebastien started showing me where to put my left hand and where on the cello to press my fingers against the strings to get a note, and then how to draw the bow across the string smoothly, while keeping it in a horizontal line to the floor. I kept trying to point the tip of the bow towards the ceiling, and the first couple of notes I tried sounded like a dying donkey. I said so, and Sebastien laughed.

  ‘I’ll have to pass that one on to my teacher. We all sound horrible when we start, don’t worry. Mum always said it sounded like a cat being strangled when I was practicing.’

  ‘Yeah, like when you were two,’ I said, frowning over the effort of getting the fingers of my left hand to actually press the string firmly enough against the neck of the cello. It was hard, so hard. I mean, I knew Sebastien just made it look easy because he was so good, I’m not a total moron, but still I’d had no idea. My arms were trembling, my right thumb was cramping, and the fingertips of my left hand felt as though someone was slicing them with knives.

  ‘I didn’t start until I was at least four,’ Sebastien said, and I couldn’t tell if he was serious. I didn’t know what age you were supposed to start to get this good at something. But yeah, I knew I was leaving my own run pretty late. Or I would be, if I really thought I had a chance at becoming an architect, and it wasn’t just the dream I hung onto so I didn’t go crazy.

  Sebastien watched me drag the bow across the strings a few more times and at least I could keep the bow straight and I’d stopped making horrible rasping or squeaking noises.

  ‘See, you just need practice, like anyone else,’ Sebastien said, and I glanced up at him sharply, but he had his eyes on my hands, and didn’t notice. Then he did look up, his eyes catching straight onto mine, and I looked away quickly, hot all over.

  ‘Here,’ Sebastien said, ‘let me show you.’

  I started to get up, but he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me, and then he swung his leg across the stool and sat down behind me.

  I sucked in a startled breath and, as his arms reached around me, right hand closing over my hand on the b
ow, subtly shifting my fingers, left hand guiding me to a slightly different position against the strings, I think I forgot to take another one.

  I could feel the hard muscle of his legs framing mine, the long ropy strength of his arms wrapped around mine, his hands firm and warm and dry, fingers guiding mine. It was like he was hugging me and holding me and I was totally enveloped by his body, his chin practically resting on my shoulder, and I wondered why I wasn’t freaking out. But then I got spots in front of my eyes and realised I did need to let that breath out and take another one. Obviously I was a little freaked.

  Sebastien shifted the cello, a matter of centimetres, if that, and I found I could get my right arm, the one holding the bow, much further across the front of the cello, and my left hand could get better reach on the strings.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, amazed.

  ‘It makes a big difference, doesn’t it, for such a little change? Lucky you’re so tiny, too, or I wouldn’t be able to do this, but it’s a great way to show someone, so much easier than trying to explain. Now, slow and steady, glide the bow, don’t gouge it.’ I hid a grin, secretly thrilled at him describing me as ‘tiny’ rather than something more unflattering, and more regular, like ‘skinny’ or ‘shortarse’. Between that and the hyper-awareness of every point his body made contact with mine, I had trouble concentrating on what he was doing.

  But then Sebastien’s right hand drew my right hand across the strings and a deep, sweet note sounded. He drew my hand back, and then when he drew it across the string again, he pressed his left forefinger down on mine, and a higher note sounded; on the back stroke he nudged my finger off and the first, deep note followed. He repeated it, and pressed my fingers again, more bowing and more strings, and it didn’t suck. It sounded a lot like a tune. A Christmas song, I thought.

  Entranced, I did it again, and then tried another note, and was ecstatic that they sounded so much better than before. They were still fuzzy and even I could tell a lot of them were a bit off, but no dying donkeys or strangled cats here thank you very much.