Truly Madly Guilty(67)

‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ said their second violinist, Indira, who always took on the role of optimist, as well as the role of making sure they were fed. She had been known to put down her violin in the middle of a piece to waylay a passing waiter if she saw something delicious, which was very embarrassing.

‘How’s the practice going?’ asked Nancy as they tuned.

Clementine sighed inwardly. Here we go. ‘Pretty good,’ she said.

‘How will poor Sam cope with school pick-ups and all that when you’re away on tour?’ said Nancy.

‘Nancy. I’m not going to get it,’ said Clementine.

‘I think you’ve got a great chance of getting it!’ said Nancy.

Nancy didn’t want her to get the job. She pretended it was because she didn’t want Clementine to leave the quartet, but Nancy always made Clementine think of that Gore Vidal quote: Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.

Nancy was the sort of friend who was always pointing out slim-figured women to Clementine: ‘Look at her tiny waist/long legs/tight butt. Wouldn’t you just love to look like that? Don’t you just hate her? It makes you feel so depressed, doesn’t it?’ (Because if it doesn’t, it damn well should!)

‘Oh well, if you don’t get it, you won’t have to deal with all the orchestra politics,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s like being part of a big corporation. Meetings. Policies. Personally, I couldn’t stand it, but that’s just me.’

‘You’ll love it, Clementine. The camaraderie, the travel, the money!’ said Indira.

‘Would Sam mind socialising with all the musicians, do you think?’ said Nancy. Nancy liked to mention the fact that Sam wasn’t a musician at every opportunity. It was like she sensed a possible weak spot there, so she kept pushing her thumb against it. She’d once said to Clementine, ‘I could never marry a non-musician, but that’s just me.’

‘He gets on with most people,’ said Clementine shortly.

‘I just thought it wouldn’t be his scene,’ said Nancy. ‘He’s more the rugged, outdoorsy type, isn’t he?’

‘Sam isn’t outdoorsy,’ snorted Clementine. Shut up, Nancy. Nancy was your quintessential entitled eastern suburbs princess. Her father was a judge.

‘Didn’t you once say he was tone-deaf?’ said Nancy.

‘He pretends to be tone-deaf,’ said Clementine. ‘He thinks it’s funny to say that.’

‘He likes eighties rock,’ said Kim fondly.

‘Gosh, your legs look amazing in those pants, Kim,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t you just hate her, Clementine?’

‘I’m actually quite fond of her,’ said Clementine.

‘Oh! By the way! Nearly forgot to tell you. I heard that Remi Beauchamp is auditioning.’ Nancy threw down her trump card.

‘I thought he was in Chicago,’ said Clementine. She felt a numb sort of acceptance. She’d known Remi for years and had always been in awe of his flawless intonation. Even if she got through the first round, the orchestra would ultimately choose him.

‘He’s back,’ said Nancy, and tried to pull her lips down in a sad face. The result was kind of terrifying. She looked like the Joker in Batman. ‘But I’m sure you’ve still got a good chance.’

‘First guests are arriving,’ said Kim. ‘Shall we start with the Vivaldi?’

They all turned to the right page on their sheet music and positioned their instruments.

Kim tucked her violin under her chin, gave them a nod and began to play. Her eyes met Clementine’s and she stepped back on one foot just enough so that she could give Nancy the finger behind her head, a quick, subtle movement that anyone else would think was just her fingers moving on the strings.

As they played Clementine let her mind drift. She didn’t need to think. They had been playing together since before Holly was a baby and they had all got used to each other. Nancy had a tendency to rush, although she disputed this, and believed the others dragged. Now they just went with her.

They moved on to ‘Air on G’ and Clementine watched the poor wedding guests milling about, umbrellas held aloft over rueful faces, high heels sinking into the wet grass, desperate for it to be over.

‘The bride is here!’ A woman wearing a tiny hat suddenly approached. She reminded Clementine of a Mr Potato Head. ‘Start the bridal march, go, go, go!’ She waved both her hands in her version of a conductor. It seemed like she might have already got into the champagne.

Kim always arranged for one person to have the official job of signalling them when to start the bridal entrance music, but for some reason random guests (women, it was always women) took the job on themselves, and were often responsible for making them start too early. Once they’d played the entrance song ten times before they finally saw the bride.

‘Oops! Sorry, false alarm!’ The potato head lady made an exaggerated face of apology.

Brides were rarely early. They’d played at one wedding where the bride was an hour late and they’d had to pack up and go because they had another booking.

Erika had been early to her own wedding. ‘We can’t be early,’ said Clementine, her only bridesmaid. ‘Your guests will still be arriving.’

‘Oliver will be there,’ said Erika. She had her hair pushed back off her forehead, and a lot of smoky eyeshadow. She looked like an entirely different person. ‘He’s the only one I care about.’ It was one of the few times when Erika had been the one prepared to break a rule of etiquette.