Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  Harry whispers, ‘Just in case you were wondering, I’m not going to try anything, kiddo. Your terms. Purely business.’

  I cough and lean forward to put my glass down, using the motion to put a little more distance between us. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No offence. Just so you know. Been there, done that with my previous singer.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m not the first? I knew it. What happened?’

  ‘She got too demanding. Had to kill her.’

  I smirk. Is that relief or rejection I’m feeling? ‘Whatever. And stop calling me kiddo.’

  ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’

  ‘Try Kitten.’

  ‘Don’t know if I can get used to that.’

  I throw a piece of popcorn at his nose. ‘Actually, neither do I. Doesn’t sound right from anyone but Snap.’

  ~

  The morning after, while I’m stripping off for my shower, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m surprised by the smile beaming back at me. Who is that person? That can’t be me. I don’t do happy.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I tell myself. But I do anyway. It feels good.

  I hop in the shower, and as I shampoo my hair, I sing a scale. Harry’s told me to practise every day, twice a day when we’re not rehearsing. ‘It helps strengthen your voice and stay in tune.’ (I go a little flat when I’m tired, apparently. I can’t hear it, but he does). God knows what the neighbours think. I’m going off like an opera singer. Ha. Screw ‘em. I’ve got my own Mr Miyagi. They can say ‘I knew her when’.

  ~

  Harry’s not happy. I don’t even have to see his face to know – it’s in his body language, the way he’s stalking away from me, up the hall.

  ‘Sorry.’ I say it even though it’s pointless.

  He sits at the piano. ‘No point apologising if it’s going to keep happening.’

  ‘It’s not my fault. You know that.’

  ‘And it’s not my fault I’ve got a gig to get to tonight, so let’s make this quick.’

  I understand. I do. But it’s freakin’ irritating. I’m not choosing to be late; he’s just choosing to be a dick. If I’m told I have to stay a couple of extra hours because someone hasn’t turned up, I’ve got to do it or else it’s bye-bye job.

  ‘You need to set priorities,’ he says. ‘What happens when we start gigging together? Are you going to stroll up halfway through and shrug it off?’

  I fold my arms and glower at him. ‘It’s NOT my fault.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Let’s just get on with it.’

  I’m not ready to get on with it. This needs to stop.

  ‘Haven’t I done everything you’ve asked of me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Haven’t I learned every song? Haven’t I practised my scales, my breathing, my stance, my delivery? Just like you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’ I raise my hands in exasperation.

  ‘It takes one hundred and ten per cent,’ he says. ‘You’re only giving it one hundred.’

  Is he freaking kidding me? I can’t tell if he’s smirking.

  ‘Well, Mr Hollywood director, when you get me into the big time, and you’re showing me the money, I’ll give it two hundred per cent. For now, it is what it is. Got it?’

  He smiles. ‘Kitten’s got her claws out.’

  ‘Shut up and play.’ I flip my lyrics folder open to a Cole Porter classic. ‘Night and Day.’

  ‘You still need that?’ he asks.

  I’m about to throw it at him but decide to be the bigger person. Besides, I’m sure I’ve got all the lyrics down now ... pretty sure, anyway. I close the book and lift my chin ‘Happy?’

  ‘Because ...’ He leans behind the piano and pulls out a box. It’s white. It’s shiny. It’s got an Apple logo on it and a big red ribbon.

  I stare, mouth open. ‘For me? Purrrrr!!!’

  He leans back to put it away again. ‘Unless you don’t want it.’

  I reach both hands over him. ‘Are you crazy? Give! Give!’

  He’s already loaded all my lyrics onto the iPad. They’re in a program called UnrealBook, and I love it. Flip, flip, a finger touch turns the pages. And it’s got an alphabetical index to dig up songs in a hurry.

  I hug him. ‘Thank you.’

  It warrants a huge kiss. On the cheek of course. He’s looking at me as if he’s the one who’s been given the gift. And there’s something else there in his eyes. It does my head in because I can never read what it is. It’s like a chasm I can’t cross. Ha. Says me who’s always banging on about keeping my distance.

  His touch is light on the keys as the notes lift from the piano, airy like those fluffy seedy things that carry on the wind – the ones I used to call fairies and chase across our backyard. He gives me that knockout smile, and all is right with the world. I wish I was brave enough to kiss his mouth. Spell charmed.

  7. Inauguration

  Am I crapping myself? Yes. This isn’t karaoke in front of a bunch of drunks who don’t give a monkey’s. This is the Starlight Room, the casino. This is the start. How did three months go by so quickly? It wasn’t long enough. Am I ready? I should be. I’m crazy excited, like a child about to take my first high dive at the local pool with every kid in my class watching. I’ll never know if I can do it if I don’t jump.

  Harry is chill. He’s worked here plenty of times. But here’s me, gripping the mic stand so hard my fingers hurt. I wish I could somehow disappear behind the damned thing. I wipe sweat from my upper lip, and a nerve twitches in my right cheek. Breathe. Too sharp. I cough, reach for my glass, sip water, then scan the half dozen punters at the softly lit tables. Bless them for coming early. Better than an empty room. I wish Snap was here. Where is he? He promised.

  Harry plays the first bars of my song, and my chest goes all tingly. I clack my glass on the side table. Too hard. The water spills. Crap. Now I’ve made a mess, and I can’t remember the first line of the song.

  I resort to my iPad. It’s gone to sleep. I should have turned that option off. I jab at the home button. Now I have to put in the password, wait for the app to load, then find the song. Harry will be halfway through before I get there. I should have had it ready to go. Idiot.

  I flash a look at Harry. He mouths, ‘Relax.’ And I think you relax. I need my lyrics, not a lesson in meditation. And why is this piano between us? Why can’t I be right there, next to him, within proper hearing distance so I can tell him to wait for me?

  I glance at the sparse audience again. If Snap were here, I’d have a friendly face to focus on, grinning from the front row, cheering me on. And what about the casino’s entertainment manager? Is he here? He’s supposed to be checking us out. Maybe it’s a good thing if he’s not; I’ll get time to warm up.

  ‘One note at a time,’ Harry calls in a loud whisper. Sotto voce. Why am I remembering useless musical terms when I can’t even remember my first line?

  The lyrics are up, but I don’t know where Harry is up to in the song. He’s told me not to worry if that happens; he’ll play through to the intro a second time. Pfft. I wanted to nail it. I tap my finger on the microphone stand, keeping time. I won’t miss it again. I take a breath, open my mouth and ...

  I’m singing. Here. In this swanky bar with a martini list so long it takes up four pages of the menu. I might be wishing I’d guzzled one or two of those martinis before I started – I would have if Harry hadn’t forbidden me – but here I am, holding my own. My voice is a little husky at the bottom, strong in the middle and clear at the top. I’m doing it! I’m holding my own, and the punters don’t seem to hate it.

  Suddenly, I’m conscious of my shoulders up around my ears, so I force them down. Like Harry said, relax. I try to move. I’m stiff, not sexy, but I am moving. Harry says it helps ease the tension. I think I’m living proof he’s mistaken. I’m like a robot attempting a hip swing. I’ll
get there though. Give me time.

  Two songs down and Harry is blending into the start of a third. This time I don’t need to turn around for reassurance. More punters drift in, and the noise level of conversation and clinking glasses increases. I don’t care. I’m euphoric, feeling classy even. Only the people seated at the first few tables bother to applaud. Still, I don’t care. This is my heaven.

  And then it’s over, and I’m so buzzy and breathless, I almost trip getting off the stage. Harry catches my arm. For a moment, I pause as a memory flickers — another stage, our school competition — and my heart twinges.

  ‘Steady,’ he says.

  ‘I did it. I did it!’

  ‘So you did.’

  ‘Holy shit. Thought I was going to crap myself there at the start.’

  Harry laughs as he signals to a passing waiter, then guides me through the maze of tables. A couple of people stop us to pay a compliment. I smile, self-conscious but loving it. By the time we reach our booth, the waiter has already produced a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Oh wow. Did you arrange this?’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  We clink glasses, and I gulp nearly half of my bubbly.

  ‘Steady. Don’t write yourself off, kiddo.’

  Kiddo. Ugh. ‘We’re done for tonight, aren’t we? One set for the manager to check us out? I can drink as much as I want now.’

  ‘Fair call. But still—’

  ‘Tell me. How was I? I rocked didn’t I?’

  He nods, mouth full of champagne.

  I let go of my breath in a big sigh. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  I grin. I could hug him. Kiss him. I gulp more champagne instead, dizzy with happiness.

  ‘You were great.’ He looks at my hair. ‘And I know I said it already, but I really like your new style. It suits you.’

  I run a hand over my silky bob. It still surprises me. The restyle was Snap’s idea – something to perk me up, give me confidence for tonight — even though he didn’t turn up to yesterday’s appointment. His hand-holding had been verbal only – a phone call because he ‘just couldn’t get away’. Whatever that meant.

  ‘Luci is going to work miracles on you,’ he said.

  I hung up the phone, then cried as Luci chopped the first handful, and a chunky length of long, dark hair fell to the floor. She stopped, and I had to explain that it reminded me of when Mum hacked off her own hair, that it felt as though I was losing something. I wasn’t sure what. Luci cried too, but we pushed through. In the end, my reflection showed a tres cool funky cut, long at the front, shorter at the back.

  I look around the casino again now. Still no Snap. Is he okay? Why would he miss tonight? He’s been so excited for me. Then I remember the agent, and I turn to Harry. ‘Was he here? I couldn’t tell. Do you think he’ll give us more gigs? Do you know if he liked us? When will we find out?’

  ‘Whoa. Slow down. Yes, he was here. I don’t know if he liked us, he didn’t stay the whole set. But then they rarely do. We should find out tomorrow.’

  ‘God, I hope so. It might be my only income soon.’

  ‘More trouble at 7-Eleven?’

  ‘No. Yeah. I just ... one minute my boss is okay with it, next he’s threatening to sack me. And I can’t say no to shifts on the off chance we get gigs. You know?’

  Harry pats my knee. ‘I wish I could give you a definite answer, but you can’t count your chickens in this industry. It’s risky. Always was, always will be. You need to decide what you really want. And I’m not talking about working in a casino. This is just cutting your teeth. There’s bigger and better out there. I think you’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, I just like the sound of my own—’

  ‘Here you are!’ A guy in a tailored suit approaches our booth. He’s handsome in an older-guy kind of way. I’ve never seen someone with such immaculate hair.

  Harry stands. ‘Tony. Good to see you.’

  ‘You too, mate.’ They shake hands. ‘I see you have your little protégé with you. Lovely. Lovely stuff.’

  He must be the entertainment manager. I stand and offer my hand too, bluffing confidence. ‘Lauren.’

  Tony moves to take my hand, but at the last second, snatches his hand away and pretends to run it over his beautiful hair. ‘Ha! Gotcha!’ he says.

  I laugh. What else can I do to cover my awkwardness? Now he grabs my hand and envelops it in both of his, holds firm, squeezing. ‘Great voice. Just lovely.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I try to look him in the eye, but he’s glancing at my breasts, even though my neckline is high enough to be classified as nuns’ wear. Ugh. Again.

  ‘Happy to have you on board,’ he says. ‘Singing a treat, up there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I repeat, louder, firmer, pulling at my hand a little because he still has hold of it. He doesn’t release me.

  ‘Harry, where did you find this little gem?’

  ‘We’re long-time friends,’ Harry says.

  ‘Oh. Damn. Off limits then?’ He laughs, showing too many teeth and too much gum.

  Seriously? What the hell?

  Harry looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Can I have my hand back, Tony?’ I grin, trying to make light, when I’d really like to biff him. That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Our debut night, and I take out the entertainment manager. First Bob, then Tony. It could become a habit.

  He lets go, without acknowledging me. ‘Speak to the office,’ he tells Harry. ‘I’ve given my okay. They’ll line you up.’ Then as an aside, but loud enough for me to hear: ‘Might want to rethink the wrapping.’

  As he leaves, I thump Harry’s arm. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’

  ‘Little protégé? Why didn’t you introduce me as your partner? I felt about this small.’ I make a gap between my forefinger and thumb. ‘We’re supposed to be a team, yeah?’

  ‘I ... yeah, of course. Don’t worry about it. He’s just old school.’

  ‘Didn’t you see the way he was perving on me?’

  ‘Uh, sorry. But look, we’re going to have to deal with guys like that sometimes. It is what it is. If we want to sell ourselves—’

  ‘I’m not selling myself to anybody. And what did he mean by “wrapping”? Is he talking about my dress?’

  Harry flicks a look at my clothing, obviously embarrassed. He grimaces as he gently lets me have the bad news. ‘Your clothes are a little ... well ... underplayed. If money is the problem ...’

  It stings. Snap was supposed to help me choose what to wear. I look down at my dress. In the Brunswick pre-loved clothing boutique, I thought the classic black sheath looked fabulous on me. So did the shop assistant: ‘It plays down your curves.’ I baulked at the idea of curves being something that needed playing down, but the price tag suited, so I was sold.

  Admittedly, there was a whole array of glitzy dresses I could have chosen, but the evening lengths emphasised my lack of height, making me look like a dwarf in a disco ball.

  For a while there, this petite, simple dress held an air of sophistication. Now it’s a drab sack, and I’m doubting my shoes too. Are they not high enough? Not sparkly enough? I don’t know if I can handle this roller-coaster. And I’m disappointed in my own disappointment because I thought I’d learned not to care what people think. I turn towards the stage. I’m NOT going to cry.

  I watch Shelley, the headliner for tonight, testing the height of her mic stand. The crowd has thickened. She stops to wave at a familiar face, and as she moves, the fabric of her emerald dress shines and shifts over her slender figure.

  ‘Listen,’ Harry is saying. ‘You got this. Your voice is what’s doing the selling. Anything else is just smoke and mirrors. You have to trust me on that.’

  I sink back into my seat, disillusioned.

  Harry isn’t finished. ‘I picked it the first time I ever heard you sing. There’s something unique about your voice. Something that demands at
tention.’

  We’re interrupted again by a couple who stop at our booth. They’re an older pair, holding hands as though they’ve never been apart a day in their life.

  The woman speaks with a soft accent. ‘We just wanted to tell you how much we enjoyed your music.’

  Harry grins. ‘It’s all Lauren. She’s magic, isn’t she?’

  ‘You both sound wonderful,’ adds the man. He nods at me. ‘Your parents must be proud.’

  I nod, smile.

  ‘Missy here has one special voice,’ he tells Harry. ‘Hang onto that one.’

  ‘I intend to,’ Harry says.

  What is it with people thinking I’m Harry’s property? Nobody owns me.

  As they move on, Harry looks me in the eye. ‘You need more convincing?’

  ‘They were sweet.’

  ‘They were honest. Look, work hard, ignore the crap that comes with it – that comes with every job – and in a few more weeks, they’ll put us in the Ruby Room.’

  ‘What’s so special about the Ruby Room?’

  ‘It’s a steppingstone. High-roller territory. Big tippers. But you’ve got to watch your language. Show some class. I know you’re capable.’ He pours more champagne for us. ‘Once you’ve got more time under your belt, we’ll get you some auditions for shows. I have a few connections.’

  ‘You mean stage shows?’

  ‘Sure. It’s regular work, pays well ­– more than the odd band gig that’s for sure. You’ll build a resume, get your name known. I’ve done a couple, playing in the orchestra. It gets repetitive, but the cast and crew make it fun. Although, I have a feeling your strength will be in recordings. Backing vocals to start with, till you find your feet. I do session work for a couple of studios now and then. Helps to have a foot in a few doors. But my point is, pay your dues here first, and you’ll learn a thing or two. And creeps? They’re everywhere. You’ll learn to deal with them.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess the casino doesn’t have a monopoly on arse-wipes.’