I woke up on the floor of the study, my body aching and my mouth dry. I was sprawled over Matt’s chest; a thin blue blanket tossed over our naked bodies. Bright light streamed through the half-open Venetians. I could remember Matt’s drunken voice.
“I’m sick of waiting, Abby…”
I fumbled for my clothes and climbed off the floor. I stumbled into Matt’s waist but he didn’t move. I closed my eyes for a second then crept out of the room.
Jess was sitting on the back step, drinking a glass of water and rubbing the dog’s belly. I sat beside her. “I slept with Matt.”
“No shit,” said Jess. “The rest of us could hear you loud and clear.”
“Oh my God…” I buried my pounding forehead in my hands and took a deep breath. “Oh my God…”
Jess put her glass down on the concrete. “You don’t remember?”
I shook my head. “Hardly…”
“Oh honey…” She rubbed my shoulder. “I guess you were pretty wasted last night. It was your first time?”
I nodded. “I didn’t want it to be like this. Not after what happened with Justin…” I sat up. “I’m going to be sick.” I rushed into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. The swirls on the wet, grey lino danced in front of my eyes. I’d never felt so awful in all my life. I wanted to die. At least then I’d never have to make eye contact with any of my uni friends again. Jess pushed open the door and knelt beside me. She handed me a glass of water. I gulped it down, then puked it straight back up again.
Jess stroked my hair. “You have to be careful, honey. Take it easy.” She hugged me. “It’s okay. At least it was with a guy you really care about.”
“I’m never drinking again,” I groaned. “I can’t believe I got that drunk.”
Jess rubbed my back. “Do you want to go home?”
I nodded.
“Okay.” She kissed the side of my head. “I’ll go get my keys.”
I soaked in the bath for an hour that night. Jess had given me some lavender oil and decorated the bathroom with candles. I alternated between states of relaxation, misery and plain humiliation.
I stepped onto the bath mat, my head spinning from the heat. I wiped the steamy mirror and stared, dripping, at my reflection. It hadn’t changed. I was just red from the heat of the bath. I had always thought that having sex would nudge me over the line into adulthood. I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like a stupid, slutty child. I awarded myself a thousand dickhead points. Sighing, I dried myself and climbed into my pyjamas. As I ran a comb through my wet hair, there was a knock at the door.
“Abby?”
I flicked open the lock and let Jess poke her head in.
“Matt’s here,” she whispered. “Do you want me to tell him to go?”
I shook my head. “No. I need to talk to him.”
Matt was sitting patiently on my bed. As I walked in, he stood up and grabbed my hands. I felt myself pull away.
“How come you disappeared like that this morning?” he asked. “And why is your phone off? I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
I turned away from him. “Why did you take advantage of me last night?”
“Abby, I am so sorry,” he said. “I thought you wanted it. You certainly seemed to last night.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Julian says you’re only going out with me to see how long it would take to get me into bed.”
“Yeah well Julian’s full of shit,” said Matt angrily. “You know me better than that.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I wasn’t thinking clearly either. I was just as drunk as you. You can’t put all the blame on me.”
“I know,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. This just wasn’t how I wanted it to happen.”
Matt pulled me into him and kissed the top of my head. He stroked my hair with long, even movements. “I love you, Abby,” he said. “If that counts for anything.”
My heart somersaulted. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against his thick woollen jumper. Suddenly, I couldn’t hold him close enough. “It does,” I told him. “It counts for a lot.”
I went into the street in my pyjamas to kiss him goodbye. The wisps of hair around my face had dried and he smoothed them behind my ears.
He held his lips against mine for a moment. “Come over tomorrow night. We’re having a Standing Waves rehearsal.”
Suddenly, I didn’t care about Clara’s quartet, or if I was seen playing the right music. All that mattered was Matt. Matt who was in love with me. And Matt who I was pretty damn sure I was in love with too.
“See you tomorrow,” I said.
I could hear a low, sultry voice floating over the groaning dryers as I climbed the steps of Matt’s apartment. She was singing the piece I had seen on Matt’s computer; the words of an old Spanish love poem. Matt was plucking out a jazz progression on the guitar. I let myself inside. Matt put down his guitar and leapt out of the desk chair. He kissed my lips.
“Hey. I’m so happy you’re here.”
He introduced me to Sam, the singer, then reached into the drawer and shoved a cigarette between his teeth.
“Can I see the score?” I asked.
He rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk, throwing aside unopened phone bills and catalogues of recording equipment. I lifted the cigarette out of his hand and held it between my thumb and forefinger.
“You’re going to set fire to something.”
Matt laughed. “Here it is.” He traded me for the cigarette.
“Leave you guys to it,” said Sam, padding into the kitchen; her faded red gypsy skirt covering her feet.
I slid the dog-eared pages onto the music stand and tuned my violin.
“Hell, I’m glad you’re doing this,” said Matt. He kissed my neck and sent a rush through my body. I lifted my violin.
“The piece you wrote for me is beautiful,” I smiled. “I played it all last night.”
“You’ll like this one better.” Matt ran his finger down my arm and across my poised bow. “You’re my inspiration.”
Julian and the percussionist arrived half an hour later. They squeezed their instruments into the lounge room to sight-read through the first piece.
“This one is really laid-back,” said Matt. “Sam’s part is kind of free, so just follow her.”
I plucked quickly through my part. Sam began to sing and the others picked out their lines around her. I tried to tap my foot to feel the rhythm, but the beat was too relaxed.
Matt nodded to me. “That was your entry.”
I cursed myself and tried to jump over the bars I had missed. My part didn’t sit right and I couldn’t tell where the others were up to. I skimmed over the score to find the lyrics Sam was singing, but didn’t recognise the Spanish.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I told Matt, after I’d scrabbled around the score for half an hour. The others had disappeared into the kitchen. “I suck at following the singer. And I hardly played at all in the improv section.” I sighed. “This just isn’t my thing.”
Matt smiled. “Give yourself a chance. You’re not going to pick it up straight away.”
“But I’m used to picking things up straight away.”
He laughed. “So you’re being challenged for once.”
“I think you should get someone else.”
He bent his head a little to look in my eyes. “Abby, I want you. Come on.” He lifted my violin for me. “Play the last phrase of the notated section.”
I played carefully. My line was smooth and full of jazzy chromaticism, working in harmony with Sam’s vocals. Without the others, it was easy to add expression.
“Nice,” said Matt. “Now close your eyes. Picture yourself playing that line again, then imagine where it would go from there. Do you want to repeat that motif? Or borrow from the vocal line?”
I held my eyes closed and tried to conjure up a melody. All I could hear was someone slamming the fridge.
“This is never going to work,” I huffed.
“You’ve never improvised before?”
I shook my head, feeling grossly inadequate.
“But don’t you ever play just to express the way you’re feeling? To get stuff out?”
“Of course I do.”
“What do you play?”
“Ysaye. Elgar. Beethoven. Everything I play expresses something.”
“Well sure,” said Matt. “But they’re not your emotions, are they. They belong to whoever wrote the piece. Express what you’re feeling. And do it with your own sounds.”
He stood behind me and nestled his head into my free shoulder. He pointed at the score. “Use the chords as your outline. Then just let go.”
I let my bow fall heavily against the strings, surprising myself at the explosive chord. It was furious and dissonant, nothing like the relaxed jazz Matt had written. Suddenly, my head was full of Nick, of my parents, of Justin. Frustration surged through my fingers, voicing itself with wild double stops and rippling saltando bowing.
When I opened my eyes, Sam and Julian were watching from the kitchen doorway. Matt was grinning.
“Not exactly Latin jazz, but I think you got the idea.” He squeezed my arm. “What do you say? Give it another go?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He placed his hand over my heart. “Just feel the music in here for once. Instead of in your head.”
I wondered if he could feel my pulse quicken in anger. “I always play from the heart,” I snapped. “Just because I play other people’s music doesn’t mean I play without passion!”
He caught my eye. “Hell, Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. You know what an amazing muso I think you are.” He smiled. “Let’s play it again.”
I stayed at Matt’s that night, excited by my newfound skills of improvisation. We had finished rehearsal with a few glasses of red and it had made my eyelids heavy.
Matt’s doona was thick and smelled of soap powder.
“No pressure,” he said, as though Julian’s party had never happened. “Just hold me.”
He wrapped an arm around me as he sat up in bed and wrote lyrics. Closing my eyes, I drifted into a blissful sleep, my fingers resting on Matt’s bare chest. I adored Standing Waves, but for the first time, my dreams weren’t filled with the sound of the violin. For the first time, my love for music had been dwarfed by my overwhelming love for Matt.