voice squealed down the line. “I’ve been calling your loft for hours. Have you seen the papers? Can you imagine? Me! Bad in bed? That motherfucker didn't even make it to third base.”
I continued the short stroll to my apartment, making sympathetic listening sounds as she ranted and raved.
I lived in an average area of town. The mortgage was decent and I liked the acoustics.
When Courtney had moved out—uprooting to Sydney, which had a better club scene, and more flights to international destinations—I’d stayed in Canberra. I’d sold the two-bedroom apartment we'd shared and moved into a loft apartment in an older area of the city. It was within walking distance of the city centre, but near a park which offered quieter living.
I loved this little loft apartment with its scuffed and scarred wooden flooring and thick brick walls.
I’d purchased the loft for its wide windows and sunny balcony, definitely not its interior. The small U-shaped kitchen held a gas cooktop and small oven but little else, space being at a premium.
Recording gear and instruments dominated the space; microphones and mixers, amplifiers and audio equipment, my mother’s grand piano, my father's guitars, a keyboard, some ukuleles, a few drums and bongos, a saxophone, and a violin.
Bright, cheerful and filled with everything I needed and not a thing more, my little apartment was spotless, barring a few music sheets heaped on the grand piano. Everything had to be in its place. It was one way I could bring control to my life.
“If Dad was alive this never would have happened!”
I sighed, Courtney’s tirade showing no signs of ceasing.
Rock stars of the highest calibre, my parents had lived the superstar cliché. Crazy parties, screaming matches, boozy nights out, brawls, destroyed hotel rooms. They had epitomised the rock-and-roll lifestyle. Had they been alive, I'd no doubt they would still be gracing the front page of gossip rags and dominating social media.
“Mmm,” I murmured, non-committal. Experience had taught that sympathetic sounds worked best in kind of these situations.
Courtney surprised me by abruptly changing topic.
“Anyway, enough about those shitheads. Let’s talk my birthday. I’m thinking 1940s burlesque. All feathers and glittering bodice. You’re totally coming. I’m getting Manny to plan it. You know how fabulous he is at planning this shit,” she chattered while I kicked off my sandals and padded over to the small recording area. I hit loudspeaker on my cell, shuffling through the music sheets and scribbled notes as Courtney continued to gossip.
“When are you flying in?”
“For your birthday?" I pulled one of the sheets free frowning as I read the jotted melody.
Not bad. That could work.
"Next Tuesday." I set the sheet aside, making a mental note to record it before I went to Sydney. "Though I thought I’d drive. I know it’s a short flight, but it’s only three hours to drive and I need my car. I’m looking at staying a week or more, depending on what Paul says about the latest stuff I’ve got for him.” I said, referring to our pseudo-uncle who also happened to be the owner of Australia's biggest record label.
“God. As if Paul would turn you down." Courtney scoffed, her derision dripping down the phone line. "After Dad and Mum? He practically owes us.”
More like owns us.
I looked to the picture that sat on my desk, our parents staring back out at me, their joyous spark captured perfectly. I felt the familiar creep of grief, the dark cloud that constantly hovered overhead.
I cleared my throat, turning back to my music.
“Look Ney-ney, I need to head off. I’ve got some work to do, and I still need to go and visit Mum and Dad.”
There was silence from the other end of the line. I could feel her displeasure through the speaker.
Huh-oh.
“I told you not to remind me.” Her voice was cold enough to give me frost bite.
I sat down, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. “Ney-ney, I—”
“No! I don’t want to talk about this! You’ve completely ruined my birthday buzz. God, Jet. Why do you always do this?”
The phone went dead before I could apologise.
I considered calling back for all of five seconds, then pushed the phone away, heaving a sigh.
You'd think after ten years she'd be ready to process their death.
I looked back at their picture, the familiar stab of grief and frustration hitting settling in my chest.
Ten years ago today we'd lost them. I spent every year remembering. Courtney spent every year trying to forget.