Page 6 of Fa-La La-La Land
I tap a few keys—Middle C. D. G.
What starts as tapping turns into running scales, then chord progressions. The same ones Mum used to make me practice when I was a kid. I hated it back then, but now the repetition calms me. Gives my hands something to do while my head sorts itself out.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when Mum comes in and slides onto the bench beside me. We sit shoulder to shoulder. She doesn’t say a word—just starts playing the opening notes of“Carol of the Bells.”
I let out a soft laugh. “It’s September, Mum.”
“Humor your old mum,” she says. “We could use a bit of joy around here.”
I laugh again and lean into the keys, letting the bells ring out. It’s not a hard song, but it was the first duet Mum and I ever played together, and we’ve played it a thousand times since. Every note reminds me of where I started and who got me here. Everything I am, everything I’ve got, comes down to Mum and Dad.
We play through to the end. She finishes with a touch so light, it feels like Christmas slips away with the last vibration of the keys. The hair on my arms lifts at the echo she leaves behind.
Mum’s an incredible pianist—played concert halls all over the world before she gave it up to have me. I was the late-in-life baby she always wanted.
I take my hands off the keys. She nudges me gently.
“Do I need to ask what’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t listen to the negativity, love,” she says. “Push it aside and get back on stage. People will always try to tear you down when you’re on top. Don’t let them. You’re talented, and your next tour will be even better.”
“If thereisa next tour,” I mutter. “Sometimes it feels like everyone wants to squeeze everything out of me and leave me high and dry. I don’t even feel the music anymore, Mum—and what Idofeel, no one wants. I was an idiot demanding they let me play my own song at Winter Lights Live.”
“You’ve got nearly three months,” she says. “You can write a song in a day once you find your muse. Your dad and I believe in you.”
She slips an arm around my shoulders, kisses my cheek, then stands. “I should check on your dad, see if he’s ready for dinner.”
Dad had a stroke a few months ago. He’s recovering, but he’s nearly eighty. He’ll never be quite the same, and he’ll need more care soon. Now’s not exactly the time for me to reinvent myself, not when they’re depending on me.
A big reason I didn’t add dates to the tour is that it didn’t go the way I’d hoped. Critics—and even fans—called ittiredandheartless.The worst were the ones who said my songs were unoriginal—like I’ve ever had much say in what I sing.
The mess with the fans in Seattle didn’t help either. But that one’s on me.
VibeHouse made me into what the public wanted. I don’t know how to be anything else. But the older I get, the less I believe in the guy up there smiling and dancing his way through songs he doesn’t feel. Still, for almost a decade, I’ve made the label—and myself—a fortune by playing that part. Ineed to figure out how to keep doing it…only different. Older. Realer. The formula needs updating, that’s all.
I just have to figure out how.
I push back from the piano and wander to the kitchen, that uneasy feeling creeping in again. Then my phone lights up with Stella’s name on the screen, and just like that, I’m smiling.
I saw her for the first time in a year last night, at Archie’s place for the AFL playoffs, and swear I nearly imploded. She had on these tiny denim shorts and a Freddie Ridgefield tee, like she was trying to get under my skin.
Freddie hasn’t been calledwashed-uportired.He’s selling out stadiums, and I’m genuinely happy for him—he’s a good bloke.
But I’m jealous as hell.
“Hi, Stella,” I answer, embarrassed by how nervous I am. “Thanks for ringing me back.”
“Yeah, hi. VibeHouse Records called too, and I’ve got some questions.”
Stella has this voice that always sounds like she’s on the verge of laughing. She reminds me of that old song about a kookaburra in the old gum tree. Mum taught me that song when I was barely out of nappies. It’s silly, but it makes me happy.
“Ah, sorry ’bout that. I was hoping to talk to you first, to give you a heads up.” I grab a drink from the fridge and pop it open.
“It’s my fault for not picking up when you called. I was on location with Georgia.” She sounds like she’s on speaker, and I hear the faint sound of honking in the background.
“You on the road?”
