She finishes her breakfast way before I have even made inroads into mine; she’s always had a healthy appetite, but Robs being Robs she’ll be off for a run now, as like as not. I envy her sometimes. I never caught the exercise bug; piano and, later, cello consumed my free time, bar the small amount I had free for dancing.
I can lose myself for hours in music. It’s always been my primary escape from the harsh, jagged edges of the world.
She’s my other escape. Now, more so than ever, I can take strength from her loyalty and love.
She pushes her chair away slightly, and then turns so that she can watch me while she finishes her coffee. I feel a little self-conscious, but I shove it aside. I need to eat properly this weekend, the rehearsal is likely to be long and I’ll need my ‘A’ game. But the longer it goes on the more difficult it is to ignore.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I finally ask, after she’s watched me for a while.
“They’re not worth a penny,” she replies, with a lazy smile.
“To me they are,” I answer, waving a spoon at her. “Spill it.”
“Just amused is all.”
“At what?”
“At how in love with you I am.”
I flush slightly. “Robs, you’re going to make me mess on myself if you keep talking like that.”
She laughs. “Really?”
“Pinkie-swear it,” I say, quietly. I sip the peppermint tea she made for me, and smile at her over the rim of the teacup. She’s slouched back, and I enjoy the way her breasts press against the fabric of her shirt. Her hair’s mussed; she hasn’t bothered to pull it into her usual ponytail yet so it falls in waves on either side of her face, framing and accentuating her cheek-bones.
I wish she’d wear her hair down more often, but she hates having it in the way.
She shifts suddenly, then knocks back her coffee and stands. I get a tantalising glimpse of her inner thighs as she leans forward to plant a kiss on my head, then she’s gone with a brisk “See you in a bit.”
I sigh and quietly force down the remains of my own breakfast. I finish my tea while staring out at our small, straggly kitchen garden.
It’s a mostly clear morning; with just a few fluffy cumulus clouds scattered like cushions on the sky. I think I’ll spend at least some of it in the garden.
At that I stand, abandoning my cup on the counter for later. I stretch, enjoying the feeling as my back unkinks. It’s time for me to start my day.
—
I drag my fingers through my dishevelled hair, then tie it back so it will stay out of my eyes. I pull the nightie off, and pause. On a whim, I walk over to my full length mirror, and stand there taking stock.
I guess I’m attractive. Robyn is pretty adamant about her opinion on the matter. But I think that I pale in comparison to her. All I am is slender. She’s got the hips and the musculature. I suppose I lucked out with my brown eyes; at least I’m not the stereotypical thin blue-eyed blonde. I purse my lips, and gently run my hands over my small breasts and their delicate nipples. At least Robyn is appreciative of them. Andrew wasn’t.
I still feel too hurt about his cheating to really summon the hate I should feel about that.
I sigh, and turn away. I dig out a pair of panties from my underwear drawer and drag them on. A pair of long cream linen pants and a cotton vest follow. I glance outside and consider, then pull a thin navy polo neck jersey on as well.
My cello case stands in the corner, safely out of the way of anyone who visits us. I lift it by the handle set into its side, then hump the case and its precious contents downstairs to the lounge where I lay it down on the sofa.
I open the French doors to the garden, pulling back the curtains to let the fresh air in, take a long breath of the cool morning breeze, and then drag a stool nearer to the doorway so that I can have some natural light while I play.
I flip the clasps and open the case, gently folding the lid back against the backrest of the sofa. Out comes my practice bow, and I set it aside. I gently lift my cello free of her restraints, and then lift her from the case by the neck, resting her on the floor. Steadying her with my left hand, I quickly ease out her endpin to the stop that I’ve marked with a thin ring of black electrical tape.
Finally, I pick up the bow again and make my way to my stool, careful not to bump my baby on anything along the way.
I settle myself in the sunlight, and sit still for a short while with my cello cradled between my legs. Ever since I started to learn, this has been one of my favourite parts – the anticipation, the possibilities that exist before horsehair and rosin meet steel.
I adjust the tension of my bow, then limber up with some arpeggios and some chromatic scales. My baby’s out of tune; and I need to ease D slightly. Scales again. Better, but not perfect. Tighten G in a bit, tease the bow gently across all four strings, and smile, satisfied. Perfect fifths. A loud, strident, happy sound.
Time for Bach’s Cello Suite number one, then. A warm-up piece… playful but also full of emotion should the musician choose.
I touch bow to strings, and start to play.
—
I once tried to explain to Robyn what music was like when one experiences it the way I do. It’s as if I fade into the background and the music takes over. Crescendo, descendo are as natural to me as the tides. I always have an orchestra going in my mind; pieces I’ve read or heard or written, chasing themselves around like leaves in a whirlpool. It’s at once awesome and aggravating – I can never truly be still.
I have to let the music out, all of it, or it pecks away at me and makes it impossible to relax.
Then there’re the emotions. Sadness is in the minor key, happiness in the major. Sadness can also be major when one knows one will overcome it. Most of my life is major-key stuff, thank God. Or minor key that’s modulated via some cunning to major. I’d have cut my wrists long ago if this weren’t the case…
I came close once, one very dark time shortly after Mum and Dad…
All that stopped me was the knowledge that she’d be the one to find me. I couldn’t do that to her.
So I endured. And I overcame. Minor became major, as it always does eventually.
I’ve never told Robyn that, obviously. I’m a drama queen at heart, but at least the dramatics are confined somewhere where only I can see them. And at least I have this outlet for it. And now that I have her… maybe I’m finally safe from the darkness.
I hope so.
—
I always lose track of time while I’m playing. Bach has transitioned into Schubert, Schubert to Brahms, and from Brahms I’ve segued into Dvorak’s concerto in B minor. I don’t even remember doing it; I’ve been lost in my own dream-state.
Something moves in my peripheral vision and I lift my chin, turning slightly. Robyn’s sitting on the end of the sofa nearest me, legs tucked under her, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She must have snuck in while I was playing. She’s always loved listening to me.
Her eyes are closed, so she doesn’t know I’ve seen her. The movement itself was just a fold of her blanket shifting in the breeze. I smile, and turn my head away again. She looks so peaceful, I can’t bear to stop and disturb her. So Dvorak winds slowly on to his conclusion, and then, I transition into her song.
She doesn’t know it’s hers, or that I wrote it. It amuses me to hum it sometimes and watch the gears turn as she tries to place it. She never will. I’ll put her out of her misery someday… but not today.
It’s slow to start. Soft, gentle, like Robyn is with me. Minor which slowly becomes major, building gradually to a grand, rich harmony. It borrows somewhat from Elgar, I admit. Maybe someday I’ll find a composer who can set it for an orchestra.
But for now… it’s mine, and hers, and I alone know it.
I turn to watch her as the final chord dies away. I see her sigh as the last echoes fade. Then she opens her eyes. I meet her gaze with a smile.
“My, what a sneaky little Robs you are.”
She blushes. “Sorry, Lexi. I couldn’t bear to interrupt you.”
“I know, Robs. I’m just teasing. I love having you as my audience.”
“I love being your audience,” she says, quietly.
“Good run?” I ask, as I ease the tension out of my bow.
“It was ok. Didn’t go as far or as hard as I should have, though.”
“Sometimes you just need a break, you know?”
“I know, Lexi.”
She stretches; the blanket slips off her shoulders and I see she hasn’t changed yet. I laugh.
“That desperate for culture, Robs?”
She snorts, and waves her hands. “You know me, Lexi. If it’s comfortable and not too smelly it’ll do for now.”
I wrinkle my nose at her and she shakes her head with a wry grin. “Smelly clothes are hardly a hardship when the trade is to hear you play like that,” she says quietly.
“So I guess you’re saying I’m an ok cellist?” I tease.
“You’re better than Jacqueline du Pre,” she answers, levelly.
“Oh Robs,” I say, amused and flattered. “I think you may be seeing me through adoring-younger-sister glasses. I’m good, but not that good.”
“You are!” she insists. “God, Lexi, don’t you understand? You… you take that instrument and you make it sound like… fuck, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like it’s your soul, in your hands, and you’re telling and showing your story with no filters at all and every little hurt, every little ache, everything you’ve ever seen or done or felt is there, singing…”
I eye her speculatively. “Robs, have you been drinking?”
“What? No!” she says, flustered.