the seeds of doubt had already been sown.
"What do you do now?" Darren's voice cut through her thoughts.
"I work... for an insurance company." Checking claims, entering claims, helping customers. Useful work, if sometimes distressing when people were rude to her, but mostly it was just a desk job that she shared with a couple of other office girls. There was always lots of gossip and laughter. It was such a different life from that of a musician. More mundane, but with not half as much stress.
He asked, "Do you still play?"
"I haven't played for a while." Meaning that her cello had stood in its case in the spare bedroom gathering dust.
Sometimes she'd look at it and wonder what it would be like to play again, but Tom always complained about the neighbour's kid playing the clarinet. He had done so much to help her through that difficult period after she had given up her music study, when she'd been depressed and aimless. She didn't want to annoy him.
Darren stuck a hand in the pocket on the outside of his flute bag. He withdrew a card which he gave to her. It said Darren Wood, principal flautist, North Sydney Symphony Orchestra, teacher for medium to advanced students . "I do a lot of work with small ensembles. We can always use cellos."
"Oh, but I couldn't. I'm awfully out of practice." And she didn't really want to go back to paying for expensive lessons and all that kind of stuff.
"You'll get it back easily enough. Hey, none of these groups are pretending to be virtuoso ensembles. Most of the players have other jobs. We play music because music is meant to be fun. We play easy pieces, often for functions. You know, weddings and things. Ring me if you're interested."
"I... don't know." It sounded like fun, but... there were so many buts, she couldn't even begin to list them all.
The bus was coming to a stop. "You'll have to excuse me. I have to get off here. Ring me. I'd love you to come." His brown eyes were playful.
"I'll... think about it."
While he hopped off the bus, Justine put his business card in her pocket, where it felt like a big burning, flashing beacon. The last she saw of him was his hair, a quick glimpse of wild curls in the space between two fellow passengers.
A lot of other people had gotten off at the stop, and Justine could get a seat next to a lady who was reading a newspaper on a tablet. She glanced over the top of the lady's hand at the headlines. Corruption in the police force, wars in the Middle East. Did anything ever change? Her eyes were tired.
When it was her turn to get off the bus, the rain had almost stopped even if the traffic was still going through big puddles. She crossed at the traffic lights, and went into the supermarket where she picked up the usual things for dinner with Tom's explicit instructions. Lean mince, not that substandard stuff, tomatoes, but not too soft and not too hard, bananas, a couple of sports drinks, a bottle of soy milk and a bag of oranges. They lived in the building above the supermarket and rather than wait for the lift, she struggled up the stairs with all the shopping bags.
Justine and Tom lived in a spacious two-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor. It had a small hall, with doors to the bedrooms and bathroom. The living room-kitchen area was to the right, with trendy black stone benchtops, white cupboard doors and stainless steel washbasin and appliances. The living room window had a view towards the city over the roofs of the old terrace houses in the next block.
Justine dumped her shopping bags on the pristine and empty island counter and put all the shopping into the cupboards and fridge.
Then she went to wash her hands in the bathroom because you never know who has touched all that stuff in the shops . On the way back to the kitchen, she stopped at the door to the spare bedroom.
The cello stood in the far corner against the wall behind Tom's exercise equipment. She would have to climb over the rower to get it, and would have to wipe all
"What do you do now?" Darren's voice cut through her thoughts.
"I work... for an insurance company." Checking claims, entering claims, helping customers. Useful work, if sometimes distressing when people were rude to her, but mostly it was just a desk job that she shared with a couple of other office girls. There was always lots of gossip and laughter. It was such a different life from that of a musician. More mundane, but with not half as much stress.
He asked, "Do you still play?"
"I haven't played for a while." Meaning that her cello had stood in its case in the spare bedroom gathering dust.
Sometimes she'd look at it and wonder what it would be like to play again, but Tom always complained about the neighbour's kid playing the clarinet. He had done so much to help her through that difficult period after she had given up her music study, when she'd been depressed and aimless. She didn't want to annoy him.
Darren stuck a hand in the pocket on the outside of his flute bag. He withdrew a card which he gave to her. It said Darren Wood, principal flautist, North Sydney Symphony Orchestra, teacher for medium to advanced students . "I do a lot of work with small ensembles. We can always use cellos."
"Oh, but I couldn't. I'm awfully out of practice." And she didn't really want to go back to paying for expensive lessons and all that kind of stuff.
"You'll get it back easily enough. Hey, none of these groups are pretending to be virtuoso ensembles. Most of the players have other jobs. We play music because music is meant to be fun. We play easy pieces, often for functions. You know, weddings and things. Ring me if you're interested."
"I... don't know." It sounded like fun, but... there were so many buts, she couldn't even begin to list them all.
The bus was coming to a stop. "You'll have to excuse me. I have to get off here. Ring me. I'd love you to come." His brown eyes were playful.
"I'll... think about it."
While he hopped off the bus, Justine put his business card in her pocket, where it felt like a big burning, flashing beacon. The last she saw of him was his hair, a quick glimpse of wild curls in the space between two fellow passengers.
A lot of other people had gotten off at the stop, and Justine could get a seat next to a lady who was reading a newspaper on a tablet. She glanced over the top of the lady's hand at the headlines. Corruption in the police force, wars in the Middle East. Did anything ever change? Her eyes were tired.
When it was her turn to get off the bus, the rain had almost stopped even if the traffic was still going through big puddles. She crossed at the traffic lights, and went into the supermarket where she picked up the usual things for dinner with Tom's explicit instructions. Lean mince, not that substandard stuff, tomatoes, but not too soft and not too hard, bananas, a couple of sports drinks, a bottle of soy milk and a bag of oranges. They lived in the building above the supermarket and rather than wait for the lift, she struggled up the stairs with all the shopping bags.
Justine and Tom lived in a spacious two-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor. It had a small hall, with doors to the bedrooms and bathroom. The living room-kitchen area was to the right, with trendy black stone benchtops, white cupboard doors and stainless steel washbasin and appliances. The living room window had a view towards the city over the roofs of the old terrace houses in the next block.
Justine dumped her shopping bags on the pristine and empty island counter and put all the shopping into the cupboards and fridge.
Then she went to wash her hands in the bathroom because you never know who has touched all that stuff in the shops . On the way back to the kitchen, she stopped at the door to the spare bedroom.
The cello stood in the far corner against the wall behind Tom's exercise equipment. She would have to climb over the rower to get it, and would have to wipe all
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