Truly Madly Guilty(65)

Tiffany and Vid opened their car doors and flung themselves out into the pouring rain. They opened the back doors and climbed in on either side of Dakota.

‘What is it? What is it?’ said Tiffany.

‘It … it …’ Dakota’s chest heaved. Tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her face.

Tiffany’s heart thudded. What could have happened to her? What could be so awful? It had to be sexual abuse. Someone had touched her. Someone had hurt her.

‘Dakota,’ said Vid. ‘Dakota, my angel, take a very deep breath, okay?’ There was a quiver of terror in his voice as if his mind was following a similar path. ‘And then you need to tell us what the matter is.’

Dakota took a deep, shaky breath.

At last she whispered, ‘Clementine.’

‘Clementine?’ repeated Tiffany.

‘She hates me,’ sobbed Dakota.

‘She does not!’ responded Tiffany immediately, instinctively to the banned word ‘hate’. ‘I only meant she wouldn’t want to give lessons because I got the impression she doesn’t especially like teaching, she’s going for a full-time job with –’

‘Yes, she does so hate me!’ snapped Dakota, and it was a relief to hear ordinary, ten-year-old petulance.

‘Why would you think Clementine hates you?’ said Vid.

Dakota threw herself at her father. He wrapped her in his arms, and his mystified eyes met Tiffany’s over her head.

‘Oh, Dakota,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sweetheart. No. No.’ She leaned forward and rested her cheek against Dakota’s narrow, hunched back and put her hand on her knobbly spine, her heart breaking for her, because she knew exactly what Dakota was going to say.





chapter thirty-four



This morning’s wedding was only a ten-minute drive from Clementine’s house, thankfully, and she knew exactly where she was going, so she wouldn’t get lost. That was the worst part of being a freelancer, the driving to unknown locations.

She’d never been late for a gig, touch wood, because she always allowed time for the inevitable mistakes.

The wedding was at a sheltered little harbour inlet park with huge native figs and an old bandstand. Clementine didn’t enjoy playing outdoors: lugging her cello and music stand around parks trying to find the right place, sheet music flapping about in the wind in spite of the clothes pegs she used to keep it secure, cold days when you couldn’t feel your fingers, hot days when your make-up ran down your face, no acoustics so the sound dissipated pointlessly into the atmosphere. But for some reason this particular spot was always kind to them; the sound of their music floated across the blue sparkle of the harbour and punctual brides posted glowing online tributes after their honeymoons.

Not today, though. Today was going to be awful. There was no point to a harbour view you couldn’t see. Clementine looked at the heavy grey band of cloud pressing down on Sydney’s skyline. The world felt narrower. People walked around sort of hunkered down, ducking beneath the sky. It had been raining steadily all morning, and although it had slowed to a soft drizzle now, it could make a comeback at any moment.

‘They’re still going ahead with it outside then?’ Clementine had said on the phone this morning to Kim, first violinist and manager of Passing Notes.

‘They’ve hired a pop-up marquee for us,’ said Kim. ‘The guests will have to make do with umbrellas. The bride was in tears this morning. She thought there was no way the rain would last this long. I remember when she first booked and I said to her, “What’s your wet weather plan?” and she said, “It won’t rain.” Why do they always say that? Why are brides so deluded?’

Kim was in the middle of a nasty divorce.

Clementine wondered if she was at the beginning of a nasty divorce. Today, as Sam left for the ferry she’d said, ‘Have a good day at work,’ and she was sure she’d caught him rolling his eyes, as if he’d never heard anything so inane, or as if she was the last person in the world he wanted to wish him a good day at work. It had hurt, a sudden sharp sting, like a reprimand, like when her C string snapped this morning just as she’d bent her head and pinged her cheek. That had never happened to her before. She didn’t even know it was possible. There was too much tension in her playing. Too much tension in her body. Too much tension in her home. The sting of the string had felt personal, and she’d sat there in the dark early morning and refused to let herself press her fingertips to her cheek.

She parked her car right near the entrance to the park. She was twenty minutes early because she’d still allowed a twenty-minute ‘getting lost’ buffer just in case. She yawned and studied the weather. The rain might hold off just long enough for the ceremony. If the bride was lucky.

She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Today she had got up at five am and had worked with the metronome on the Beethoven excerpt. ‘Feel the inner pulse,’ Marianne used to say, although then she’d suddenly cry, ‘Too choppy! Too choppy!’

Clementine massaged her aching shoulder. Her first cello teacher, Mr Winterbottom (her older brothers and her father all called him Mr Winter-Bum), used to say, ‘Nobody plays pain-free,’ if Clementine ever complained that something hurt. Clementine’s mother hadn’t liked that at all. Pam had researched the Alexander technique and in fact the exercises still helped when Clementine remembered to do them.