Rough Edge (EBOOK)

Jetta

“It’s Courtney Oliver!” 

As the line in the coffee shop shuffled forward, I kept an ear on the frantic conversation behind me, my shoulders tensing as I waited for the inevitable to occur. 

“Where?” A voice urgently hissed back to the first. I could imagine it, two woman, both growing in excitement, phones no doubt beginning to be pointed in my direction. 

I'm too tired for this shit today.  

I caught the eye of Joe, the barista. Nice guy, tattooed, tall, always with a smile and a laugh, he owned Tall, Dark and Handsome my favourite coffee shop. He glanced down the line catching my grimace, obviously having heard the girls behind me. 

Help me. 

“There! In the black shirt!” The voices behind me grew louder as their excitement increased.

The line shuffled closer to the front, the few people in the coffee store beginning to glance my way. 

Desperation made me antsy as the guy ahead of me tossed up between a latte and a flat white. 

Uh, newsflash, mate. It’s all coffee!

“No. Freaking. Way. How can you tell?” 

“Duh. She’s got that wrist tattoo! Though she’s definitely put-on weight.” 

Ah crap. 

I resisted the urge to cover my art. The wrist tattoo had been a spur of the moment impulse my sister and I had made during a week in Vegas last year. A small, yet incredible phoenix about to take flight. In the fire trail that followed it were music notes, which made up a world famous song.

It was a distinctive tattoo in a visible spot. 

Stupid. 

“Go over! I want a selfie!” 

Mr. Flat White had finally decided, allowing me to step up to the front of the line. Joe glanced at the girls, before looking straight back at me, his eye twitching slightly. 

“Hi, Delores. How was the nursing home last night?”

I smiled gratefully. Joe knew some of my background and was willing to cover when something like this happened. 

And something like this nearly always happened. 

“Hi Joe. Shift was great, thanks. Just the usual.”

He nodded, taking my keep-cup, and handing it off to his girlfriend who worked the machine. The girls behind me watched in disappointed silence as I loitered by the magazine rack, waiting for my mocha. 

“Thanks, Winnie.” I grinned at the short brunette behind the coffee machine, pressing the cover to the lip of y cup. 

“No trouble, Delores. See you tomorrow.” She winked, a co-conspirator in this charade.  

Outside I slipped on my sunglasses, squinting against the mid-summer glare. I fell in with the crowd on the street, sipping my coffee and enjoying the mild morning as I wandered my way back to my apartment. Summer in Canberra had to be one of my favourite seasons. Cool mornings and warm days, perfect for sitting on my terrace with a guitar and a notebook composing the day away. 

A poster advertising a magazine caught my eye, pausing my wander. The latest tabloid had a picture of my sister arm-in-arm with her latest conquest. The caption read Courtney Oliver – Her Secret Shame!

God, do you just like to punish me or have I done something wrong in a past life? Cause I really don't have time for this nonsense. 

I sighed, pulling out my phone to call my sister. She answered after one ring.

“Finally!” My sister’s 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. 

I turned to my piano, my fingers itching to compose. With a deliberate breath in, I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the music, finding freedom from responsibility, from memory, from pain in the song.