Chapter 1
J ustine was waiting for the bus in Elizabeth Street when the heavens opened.
She had joined the mass of office workers huddled together under the pedestrian overpass, but a mist of droplets drifted in and made everyone wet anyway. People shielded themselves by covering their heads with jumpers, bags, the occasional newspaper and if they were lucky, an umbrella.
The bus arrived, with fogged-up windows and windscreenwipers going at the max. When the doors opened, people ran from their shelter across the torrential rain, up the steps to the bus and into the stuffy wet-dog-smelling air.
Justine waved her card in front of the machine and joined the throng of people standing in the aisle, avoiding shopping bags, a pram and people's legs. The driver was shouting, "Move to the back, please! Let other people get on. This bus will not depart unless you move to the back!"
People moved and jostled.
Justine was sardined between men with wet suits and wet umbrellas, while trying to avoid being poked with handbags and poking other people with her bag in turn.
A male voice said, "Oh, hello."
She turned around, meeting the eyes of a man perhaps a few years older than herself. His eyes were brown and smiling. His blue shirt was wet through at the shoulders, but the rain had made little impact on his curls which were kind of wild and went in all directions. His hair was a bit too long, but it was cute.
She frowned at him. "Were you talking to me?" The words were out of her mouth before she realised that they sounded kind of rude, but now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about those curls. He carried a long and narrow cloth case on a strap slung over his shoulder. If she wasn't mistaken, there was a flute in that case.
"Darren Wood, from the conservatorium. You're Justine Feldman. You play the cello."
"Uhm, yes." She did play the cello back then, two years ago. "I'm afraid I don't remember you more than vaguely."
"I was two years above you."
A flood of emotions washed over her. Second year at the conservatorium of music. Parties, concerts and more parties. Practice, auditions, missing out. Frustration, heartbreak. Tears and despair.
She nodded at his flute case. "I guess you're a professional musician now?"
"Yep."
"How are you finding that?"
"I'm doing all right. I got a paid position in an orchestra, I teach a few students and play in private gigs. I even just got a mortgage."
"Congratulations." It was so hard making a living as musician. The sting of jealousy that she felt surprised her. He succeeded where I failed .
Yes, now she remembered seeing him on the stage, where the stage lights made his hair shine as silver as his flute. It was awesome hair, untameable, like the music from his flute.
He played with his eyes closed, and his expression utterly absorbed in music. He didn't even have a stand with sheet music on the stage. There could have been no one in the room and he still would have played the same. She remembered being mesmerised with how effortlessly his fingers moved, and beautiful and warm his flute sounded and she knew she would never, ever, be as good as he was.
He asked her, "What about you?"
She shook her head. "I left halfway through third year. Too competitive. I don't know if I was good enough." There had been a whole lot of other things going on, but there was no need to elaborate on those.
"That's a pity. I like the cello a lot. It's such a wonderfully mellow instrument."
"Yeah." And while the rain pelted on the roof of the bus, her mind was filled with memories of that one time she got a break. She was chosen to play with the great violinist Hiroshi Hideka. He was an awesome teacher and after the performance the two of them had received a standing ovation. Well, the honour was more his than hers, but it felt good. She could see the warmth of his smile after the performance, a smile that said You will get there . At the time, she had so wanted to believe that, but
J ustine was waiting for the bus in Elizabeth Street when the heavens opened.
She had joined the mass of office workers huddled together under the pedestrian overpass, but a mist of droplets drifted in and made everyone wet anyway. People shielded themselves by covering their heads with jumpers, bags, the occasional newspaper and if they were lucky, an umbrella.
The bus arrived, with fogged-up windows and windscreenwipers going at the max. When the doors opened, people ran from their shelter across the torrential rain, up the steps to the bus and into the stuffy wet-dog-smelling air.
Justine waved her card in front of the machine and joined the throng of people standing in the aisle, avoiding shopping bags, a pram and people's legs. The driver was shouting, "Move to the back, please! Let other people get on. This bus will not depart unless you move to the back!"
People moved and jostled.
Justine was sardined between men with wet suits and wet umbrellas, while trying to avoid being poked with handbags and poking other people with her bag in turn.
A male voice said, "Oh, hello."
She turned around, meeting the eyes of a man perhaps a few years older than herself. His eyes were brown and smiling. His blue shirt was wet through at the shoulders, but the rain had made little impact on his curls which were kind of wild and went in all directions. His hair was a bit too long, but it was cute.
She frowned at him. "Were you talking to me?" The words were out of her mouth before she realised that they sounded kind of rude, but now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about those curls. He carried a long and narrow cloth case on a strap slung over his shoulder. If she wasn't mistaken, there was a flute in that case.
"Darren Wood, from the conservatorium. You're Justine Feldman. You play the cello."
"Uhm, yes." She did play the cello back then, two years ago. "I'm afraid I don't remember you more than vaguely."
"I was two years above you."
A flood of emotions washed over her. Second year at the conservatorium of music. Parties, concerts and more parties. Practice, auditions, missing out. Frustration, heartbreak. Tears and despair.
She nodded at his flute case. "I guess you're a professional musician now?"
"Yep."
"How are you finding that?"
"I'm doing all right. I got a paid position in an orchestra, I teach a few students and play in private gigs. I even just got a mortgage."
"Congratulations." It was so hard making a living as musician. The sting of jealousy that she felt surprised her. He succeeded where I failed .
Yes, now she remembered seeing him on the stage, where the stage lights made his hair shine as silver as his flute. It was awesome hair, untameable, like the music from his flute.
He played with his eyes closed, and his expression utterly absorbed in music. He didn't even have a stand with sheet music on the stage. There could have been no one in the room and he still would have played the same. She remembered being mesmerised with how effortlessly his fingers moved, and beautiful and warm his flute sounded and she knew she would never, ever, be as good as he was.
He asked her, "What about you?"
She shook her head. "I left halfway through third year. Too competitive. I don't know if I was good enough." There had been a whole lot of other things going on, but there was no need to elaborate on those.
"That's a pity. I like the cello a lot. It's such a wonderfully mellow instrument."
"Yeah." And while the rain pelted on the roof of the bus, her mind was filled with memories of that one time she got a break. She was chosen to play with the great violinist Hiroshi Hideka. He was an awesome teacher and after the performance the two of them had received a standing ovation. Well, the honour was more his than hers, but it felt good. She could see the warmth of his smile after the performance, a smile that said You will get there . At the time, she had so wanted to believe that, but
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