True North

Chapter four

Trembling, I ran my fingertips over the smooth surface of the piano keys. I hit a humble c-chord and the glorious sound echoed around the empty house.

It had been two days since I'd embarrassed myself in the changing room. Humiliated, I'd paid for the dress, snatched the first pair of size six heels I saw and fled to the ute. We drove back up the mountain without speaking; I wasn't sure if it was me ignoring him or him ignoring me, but we both seemed relieved to let the mixtape fill the silence.

Since then, something had stirred inside me, despite the fact North and I hadn't really spoken again. Perhaps it was the recognition of how he made me feel, like part of me was still alive and waiting to regenerate. Or maybe it was the exposure to so much of the music I'd loved and had blocked from my life.

Either way, the last few days had seen me desperately trying to keep myself from singing—all the time. For half a decade, I'd squelched my desire to sing; it was too dangerous. As much as I didn't look like Duchess anymore, I lived terrified under the belief that my voice would have given me away instantly.

Butter melted with honey, musical sex, unique and broken. Critics around the world had all come up with their own imaginative nonsense to describe my singing voice. I could still remember the Rolling Stone article word for word: 'I was driving along the freeway the first time I heard the Duchess sing. Her soulful voice poured from my speakers, anguished and torn, with the hopeful huskiness of a woman who still believes in redemption. I literally had to stop the car, overcome with spontaneous emotion, something that doesn't happen every day to this hardened reviewer.'

I ignored the hype. It was just my voice and I'd never known any different. As a waif in the foster system, music had been my only friend. I'd sung to keep myself company, for comfort, to stay sane. Whenever I could get my hands on a guitar or piano, I tinkered relentlessly until I could pick out a tune and accompany myself.

In high school, I'd won a few hundred bucks in a talent quest, and the knowledge that singing could actually earn me a wage was a heady high. I busked in the city every afternoon on my way home, money piling up inside my guitar case.

That was where Darren found me. The first words he ever said to me were, "If you can give head as good as you can sing, this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship."

But it's been five years. Surely, everyone has forgotten now? Splaying my fingers wide on the keys, I played a simple chord progression. The vibrations from the notes thrummed in my chest and I felt my body relax into the music I'd missed so much.

It was the first time in ages I'd had the house to myself; there were no guests arriving until the next day, Mrs Waters was at bingo, and Dr Mike had driven North to the hospital in Alex for a CT scan. The baby grand in the sitting room had called to me like a late-night sext, and I'd been unable to resist.

Avoiding my own hits, I played some old school tunes. Starting with Piano Man, through to Learn to Fly, music poured out of me, wave after wave of healing sound.

Aussie music had always been my favourite. Gotye waved at me once at an industry event and I melted into a silly puddle of giggling girlish goop. The memory made me cringe, but I couldn't deny it; the man could write a song like nobody's business.

Plinking out the opening melody, I sang, "Now and then, I think of when we were together. Like when you said you felt so happy, you could die."

Darren used to croon the hit at me as we lay naked on his bed. He'd strum his guitar the way he'd just strummed my body, and rasp along, turning the song of sadness and loss into something bitter and dark.