AllFreeNovel
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I send him a photo of me biting down on a sandwich.
Hungrygabriel73:I have been thinking on where to book a holiday. What does your work look like for next week?
NoAgenda:No shifts yet. I can call in that I’m unavailable. Where do you want to go?
Hungrygabriel73:Not sure. Doing research now.
NoAgenda:Anywhere is fine with me—gotta go back to work.
Hungrygabriel73:Be safe x
The rest of the shift is a blur. At four, a woman named Nadia comes to relieve me, and I take the polaroid photo off the board. Nadia replaces it with hers.
‘Noah, huh?’ She looks me up and down. ‘You look familiar. Have you worked here long?’
‘No, not long.’ I grab my satchel, give her a quick wave before I’m accosted with any further questions and slip out the door.
The day is bright and hot: a classic late-January afternoon. The streets of Carlton are full of people enjoying the long days; browsing bookshops, drinking coffee alfresco, shopping in local grocers.
‘Hey! Hey, Noah!’
Fear shoots through me. I don’t know if that feeling will ever go away.He can’t find you, Noah. You’re in a city of four-fucking-million people; he can’t find you.
I turn. It’s not my shit-stain of a dad. It’s Peaches. She’s running after me in a hot-pink sequinned mini-dress and a pair of fluffy heels.
‘Blend in much?’ I say as Peaches reaches me.
‘God, you’re impossible to get hold of,’ she snaps. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my text?’
Shit. ‘I changed my number, sorry. I’ll message you my new one.’
‘You should be sorry,’ she says, exasperated. ‘I’ve had people calling me nonstop about your little performance the other night.’
‘What?’
‘“Memory”—or were you too shitfaced to remember?’ I recall being encouraged up on the stage, but honestly the rest is a bit of a blur. ‘Do you know how long I worked to get a gig at the Flamingo? Now all everyone can talk about is you.’
‘What, really?’
‘You’d know that if you could be contacted,’ Peaches says. ‘One of the managers at the Flamingo Bar wondered if you might be interested in a gig. I told them you could play the piano too.’
Horror shoots through me. ‘What? I can’t do that!’
‘But you can play!’ Peaches replies, clearly not seeing the issue.
This is a nightmare. ‘I said I could play, not that I couldperform. There’s a difference.’
Clearly bored with the circular conversation, Peaches crosses her arms over her chest. ‘So, you want me to say no?’
‘Shit, no, of course not,’ I reply. ‘I just need some time to think.’
‘Well, think about it until Friday and for god’s sake, text me your new phone number.’
I promise I will, and Peaches goes back to rehearsing at the Playhouse, and I take a minute to process the conversation. Playing music because I enjoy it is one thing; but performing it for people—performing for money and being consistent in my craft—is another.
But if I’m serious about music, serious enough to consider studying it for a not-at-all-small amount of money at university, shouldn’t I take this opportunity?
Margie’s not home when I get back to the house, so I feed Sadie, put on a podcast, and start making dinner. I don’t cook often and, to be honest, I’m not a fantastic chef (there’s a reason I’m behind a bar and not in a kitchen), but the one thing I can make is a mean Bolognese sauce.
