It opens up like a time capsule of the final minutes before the accident. I’m looking at the last computer screen she ever saw. The notification that she’d left a Zoom meeting. Behind that, her email folder, now with three years of unread newsletters and promotions flittering into it, along with an internet window with her unnecessary number of open tabs—the florist, the venue, the photographer. It’s as though she was poring over everything, imagining how it would unfold two days from then … seeing herself in that future, carrying a similar bouquet, dancing with me at the reception pictured on the venue’s website.
I can’t look at those pages. Or close them. It would be like closing the tabs on our dream.
She opened the email to her fellow students in a window of its own, so I click on that—all their names are there—and forward it to myself.
It was Rachael who had contacted one of them after the accident. One of their mutual acquaintances, who had asked the group, on my behalf, not to pursue this any longer. At least, not to pursue it as far as Audrey’s music had been concerned. I knew that probably meant an end to the whole process. It was her music that had taken the worst hit. But it felt like agony,having anything to do with this then. I was so angry about all that was stolen from her, I couldn’t go anywhere near it.
I close the laptop and put it back in the drawer near her piano. Back then this was only about Audrey. At the end of the day she was an adult. It was her fight. But now it’s about my child. Someone just as talented, with the same amount to lose—but too young to protect herself. A kid who’s already been through multiple traumatic events, with fragile mental health.
For the first time since Audrey died, I lift the piano’s key lid. I run my fingers along the keys, not heavily enough to make a sound, wanting somehow to preserve Audrey’s last notes, and rage roars to life beneath my grief.
‘Dad?’ Parker says, coming into the room and stopping still when she sees where I’m standing, this tiny concession to music opening a world of hope in her eyes.
I will not let Ridgesnearher. I’ve avoided music all this time, but I’d listen to every note that Audrey wrote and the entire catalogue of modern classical music to find the evidence I need to bring that monster down. My brother mightn’t have the fortitude to finish what Audrey started the day she died, even with his own niece’s music in the firing line. But after all these years of pushing this away, I do.
54
AUDREY
‘So, nobody panic, but I’ve just received a message from a supermodel,’ I say to the Bookies on FaceTime.
‘If you mean Harlow, she’s not technically asupermodel in the strictest definition …’ April clarifies.
‘But for the purposes of dramatic effect, let’s go with it,’ says Clair.
‘Well, it turns out she’s at least a triple threat. She’s a model, she’s playing the leading role in Beau’s movie, and he’s teaching her screenwriting. She said she’s been workshopping the new character with him all week and they’re having an emergency table read of the new direction in Sydney. And she wants me to come.’
There’s silence from my friends. A reverent silence, befitting the gravity of this development.
‘A supermodel-slash-leading-actress-slash-writer has invited you to the table read of a movie script written by an Oscar-nominated screenwriter,’ Jess summarises.
I nod.
‘I would say stranger things have happened, but they never have,’ Rach adds, leaning into view on her couch beside me, Jasper asleep on her shoulder. When the email came in a few minutes ago, we both squealed and woke him up, and she’s only just got the poor child settled again.
‘Beau and I haven’t spoken since a very charged conversation in the rehearsal room. I have been giving him space to write, like I’m a proper muse.’
‘Wait,’ Clair says. ‘What conversation?’
I’ve been avoiding it all week. Rach knows, but I need no encouragement from the other three, so I do my best to play it down. ‘He basically admitted he wants his new character to be sort of, well … There are some similarities.’
Their eyes widen, each drawing their phone closer, amazed faces enlarged on my screen. Rach gets up and lowers Jasper into the pram in the corner so she can be properly present in this conversation.
She takes my phone and speaks to the others directly. ‘The executive summary is that he’s given her space to think about being with him in the spotlight and he’s gone off, all inspired by his crush, and has written her into a blockbuster.’ She places her hand on her heart with pride. ‘Our Audrey.’
‘Shut up!’ I laugh and lean into the view again. ‘He didn’t say for sure she was based on me.’
‘Just that she was some deeply suffering, flawed, creative woman who’s sexy in Wellingtons and in love with someone else,’ Rach explains. ‘You’re right. That could be anyone!’
‘Flawed and sexy!’ Clair chimes.
‘The Wellingtons!’ Jess repeats.
‘My bet is that Harlow wants to pull together some grand Hollywood moment with you in the room, everyone watching—’ April says, describing the exact circumstances of my worst nightmare!
‘Then he confesses he’s madly in love with you!’ Jess goes on.
‘Except he doesn’t have to, of course, because itshinesoff the page!’ Clair claps her hands in delight.
