The Astrid Notes

  About The Astrid Notes

  Astrid Bell

  Dutiful daughter. Classical singer. Secret pop songwriter. And suffering from stage fright.

  Jacob Skalicky.

  Trust-fund kid. Indie singer. Immensely gifted performer. And refusing to sing again.

  Are they polar opposites? In his grief and fury at the world, Jacob certainly thinks so.

  But when Jacob loses everything and Astrid uncovers a shocking family secret, they may need each other to make sense of their lives.

  PRAISE FOR THE HARPER EFFECT BY TARYN BASHFORD

  ‘A heartfelt story about perseverance, believing in yourself, family and love, The Harper Effect did not disappoint. Bashford kept me hooked from the first page.’ Teenreads

  ‘This novel is the kind of book that makes me want to be a better writer . . . Beautifully written, this story will stick with me for a long, long time.’ Tara Gilboy, author of Unwritten

  Contents

  About The Astrid Notes

  Title page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: Jacob

  Chapter 2: Astrid

  Chapter 3: Jacob

  Chapter 4: Astrid

  Chapter 5: Jacob

  Chapter 6: Astrid

  Chapter 7: Jacob

  Chapter 8: Astrid

  Chapter 9: Jacob

  Chapter 10: Astrid

  Chapter 11: Jacob

  Chapter 12: Astrid

  Chapter 13: Jacob

  Chapter 14: Astrid

  Chapter 15: Jacob

  Chapter 16: Astrid

  Chapter 17: Jacob

  Chapter 18: Astrid

  Chapter 19: Jacob

  Chapter 20: Astrid

  Chapter 21: Jacob

  Chapter 22: Astrid

  Chapter 23: Jacob

  Chapter 24: Astrid

  Chapter 25: Jacob

  Chapter 26: Astrid

  Chapter 27: Jacob

  Chapter 28: Astrid

  Chapter 29: Jacob

  Chapter 30: Astrid

  Chapter 31: Jacob

  Chapter 32: Astrid

  Chapter 33: Jacob

  Chapter 34: Astrid

  Chapter 35: Jacob

  Chapter 36: Astrid

  Chapter 37: Jacob

  Chapter 38: Astrid

  Chapter 39: Jacob

  Chapter 40: Astrid

  Chapter 41: Jacob

  Chapter 42: Astrid

  Chapter 43: Jacob

  Acknowledgements

  About Taryn Bashford

  Also by Taryn Bashford

  Copyright page

  For Mum, Ella and Eric . . . I’m no songwriter, so this book’s my song for you.

  ‘To thine own self be true’

  William Shakespeare

  1

  Jacob

  The hotel air conditioner blasts arctic air so my goosebumps sprout goose-babies of their own. We’ve lost the air-con remote. Mad Dog tells a joke and Callum laughs so hard Coke spews out of his mouth and nose.

  ‘Who’s hidden the frigging remote?’ I kick at the clothes and shoes on the floor in case it’s been buried. We’ve yet to open a wardrobe on this tour. Why would we? The floor is the biggest shelf in any hotel room.

  My phone pings and vibrates in my pocket. I can tell by the ring tone and the way it pulses that it’s a text from my ex.

  Harper.

  Her text reads, Good luck for tomorrow. And two little pink hearts. I don’t deserve the big red heart anymore.

  Even though Harper has a boyfriend and is playing a tennis tournament in China right now, she’s remembered to text me. Tomorrow’s the biggest gig we’ve booked. It could get us an agent, a recording contract – our dream of being as big as the Arctic Monkeys folds through me like heady sweet smoke.

  Thanks, Harps. Our fanbase is exploding even after only being on the road two months. How’s my favourite girl? I leave out the hearts.

  I search for the remote behind cushions, inside Emery’s two-foot-high pile of dirty laundry, which he calls a modern art sculpture, and in the toilet – I wouldn’t put anything past them. The fridge only contains vodka and sour-smelling milk.

  ‘A little help, guys,’ I complain. But JW’s on his nightly call with his mum, Emery’s combing his hair into the perfect flick, and the other three are somehow sharing one tiny sink in the bathroom to shave. Everyone’s getting charged up for a big night out.

  The hotel phone on the bedside table rings. Its grating buzz cuts through the boys’ whoops as they tease Skittles. He’s going through what Mad Dog calls his ‘time traveller’ phase. At last night’s gig he wore a white belted–jacket and tonight he’s wearing gold trousers.

  ‘You could steal the sun and replace it with those trousers,’ I joke, and decide not to answer the phone – anybody I want to talk to is right here in this room. And Harper would call my mobile. Oof. Even though she’s been gone for months, each memory of her feels like a wooden drumstick stabbing a hole in my heart.

  The phone stops ringing. Mad Dog shoves Callum, but Callum’s a big lad and doesn’t budge. ‘You’re so Lilliputian,’ he says. A smirk pushes out his stout cheeks.

  ‘You calling me small?’ All of Mad Dog’s skinny-arse six-foot-two frame towers over Callum.

  Callum straightens and nods, hands folded in front of him. ‘And unimportant.’ Callum has an inflated sense of his own importance. He wrote ‘Boldly Meekly’ when he was fourteen. I’ll never be as good at songwriting. Even back then, when the six of us started jamming together, just casual kids’ stuff, he was a talented writer. Now that it’s our biggest hit, he thinks he’s gold.

  The phone starts ringing again. It’s this old-fashioned ring that climbs inside you and rattles your bones. I snatch it up. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Jacob. Is that any way to answer a phone?’

  I stiffen. ‘I’m used to my mobile, Dad. Why don’t you call that?’ But we both know it’s because I screen his calls.

  ‘Another wrong answer,’ he says.

  Gripping the phone harder, I wait for his reason for calling. It’s never good. The sound of Sydney traffic in the background means Dad’s just leaving his law firm.

  ‘I’m calling to remind you to visit my sister. You have one more performance tomorrow, don’t you? And then you’re moving on.’

  Performance? Guess that’s one way to describe the biggest gig of our lives. I turn to face the boys, patting the air to tell them to hush up, and step in the wet patch of Coke, courtesy of Callum. ‘But we’re celebrating tonight. Aunt Jane will understand.’

  ‘You’re out every night. I’ll text her and say you’ll be over by 8.30 pm. She has a parent-teacher night, but she’s still going to cook you dinner because she wants to see you. It’s been three years. I’ll text you her number and address. No doubt you’ve lost them.’

  ‘But Dad, we’re . . .’

  ‘I won’t be argued with, Jacob.’

  Jeez, don’t I know it. When did I ever win an argument with him? ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ I slump onto the bed.

  ‘And remember your manners.’ He hangs up. No ‘good luck’. No ‘we miss you’.

  I unclench my jaw, shove the phone into its cradle. After I explain I can’t go out tonight, I lie down and drown out the ribbing the boys dish with a pillow over my head.

  On their way out, JW waves a bottle of hair dye at me. ‘When you get back put this on your hair like I showed you. Christina Aguilera blond suits lead sing
ers better than dirty carpet blond.’

  Mad Dog flicks his long hennaed hair like a girl and says, ‘No-one’s going to remember the dude with hair the colour of hotel carpets.’

  ‘With you MIA, there’ll be more ladies for us.’ Skittles punches my arm. I picture him drumming a rhythm on the bar, reeling in the girls with his wide smile. His hair’s shaved up the back and sides but long on top, and he likes to let his stupid flick cover his eyes so he can peer out mysteriously. That’s his MO. Gets him lots of girls. Mentioning we’re an indie-pop band never hurts either. I usually get a lot of attention, being the lead singer, but I never take anyone back to the Purple Daze van because my heart is still stuck full of drumsticks.

  ‘Joke’s on you mate.’ I chuck Skittles the van keys. ‘You just became designated driver for the night.’

  A line of light spills under the hotel room door providing a dim glow. I flick on the bedside lamp beside me, wait until the bulb flash disappears from my retinas. My head throbs from too much cheap wine with Aunt Jane. Grunting, I swing my legs off the bed, pull open the bedside drawer. It contains the hotel Bible, Callum’s fake ID, a strip of Advil. I fumble for two painkillers. They slip down my leg onto the carpet and I shove the drawer shut with my foot. A whiff of cheesy socks drifts by when I grope around for the lost Advil, then dry swallow them.

  It’s fricking cold in here. I didn’t find the air-con remote before I left, and I was bone tired when Aunt Jane dropped me back. I shuffle toward the table in the corner to resume the search, but the hard object under a dirty T-shirt turns out to be the bottle of hair dye.

  Shivering like a plucked guitar string, I give up on the remote and open the doors onto the balcony. Despite it being late July, it’s hotter outside than in. Warmth spills all over my skin. Far below, the city of the Gold Coast gleams, a cobweb of shimmering lights. To the left a narrow strip of moonlight beams across a black ocean. It’s as if I’m looking down on two different worlds.

  Even though I’m warmer now, a shiver passes through me.

  Back inside, the clock radio reads 4 am. Where the hell is everyone?

  After texting them on the group chat and getting no response, I call their mobiles. They ring out. That gives me a bad vibe – they’ve been known to party too hard. Unsure what else to do, I hit the sack and only wake when the door rattles with several pounding blows. The brightness of the room tells me it’s morning, yet the other beds haven’t been slept in.

  I sit up. Even with the balcony doors open, it’s freezing.

  From behind the door, a man’s weighty voice says, ‘Jacob Skalicky. Of the band Purple Haze?’

  ‘Purple Daze,’ I yell back. The name thing annoys me. ‘Daze.’

  ‘This is Senior Constable Cox. Could you open the door please?’

  ‘Cox?’ I snort-laugh. ‘That’s the best you can do? Who is that – JW? Mad Dog. It’s Mad Dog, isn’t it?’

  ‘This isn’t a hoax, Mr Skalicky.’

  I check the clock. 8.05 am.

  The voice adds, ‘There’s been an accident.’

  ‘Shit. Seriously?’ It’s probably a Mad Dog adrenaline-rush stunt gone wrong – falling off the moving van roof or losing his balance off someone’s balcony. I pull on some shorts, search around for a shirt so the cops don’t think I’m a punk-ass. But every shirt I own stinks or has food spill stains.

  ‘Officer. Constable. I’ll be right there.’ I snap up JW’s white T-shirt, the only stain being a spot of tomato sauce from the spaghetti he ate for lunch yesterday, and tug on a pair of Mad Dog’s socks before realising I don’t need socks to answer the door.

  I yank open the door. Two uniformed coppers loom.

  ‘Jeez, we’ve got a gig tonight,’ I say. ‘They better not have broken anything vital.’

  A wave of annoyance hits me. What stunt did they pull this time? Dad’ll go off if they’ve damaged the van.

  Five hearses.

  Five shiny cockroaches, all in a line.

  Callum’s dad, a big guy like his son, shuffles over. ‘Morning.’ He dips his double chin. Dad stands on my other side. ‘Bit worried about Riley,’ continues Callum’s dad. ‘Not sure he can manage carrying the coffin.’ Riley is Callum’s thirteen-year-old brother. ‘Reckon you could step in?’

  My stomach jerks with nausea. ‘I don’t think – no. I just – can’t.’

  ‘Doing your duty will bring you comfort,’ Dad states, no doubt seeing my refusal as further evidence of another major flaw in my character or a dereliction of my duty as a man. But how can I choose Callum over the others? The six of us have been more than friends; when you’re in a band you become brothers, and when you’re a band on tour you’re blood brothers. They were my makeshift family to cover for the one I was born into. How could I choose one coffin over another?

  ‘S’okay, son,’ says Callum’s dad. ‘I understand.’ He smacks a palm on my bicep, then moves away. Dad follows him, head bowed.

  In slo-mo each coffin is unloaded from its hearse. My fists ball. My vision smears. I attempt to breathe, but the air is no longer oxygen – more of a poison; with each gasp I want to vomit. I’m wearing Dad’s polished, black leather work shoes – apparently Vans are inappropriate for a day of burying friends – and use their heels and toe caps to rake and dig at the dirt as though I’m excavating a hole to drop into.

  ‘Jacob.’ Mum beckons me. ‘Come inside the chapel now.’ But I’m not ready to say goodbye, and don’t plan to go anywhere near inside. And I can’t deal with the way the boys’ parentals looked at me when they arrived. Their faces flared with something like sympathy. Only not. A question hangs in the air that no-one dares ask. ‘Why our sons and not you?’

  JW’s coffin fronts the line. Overhead, trees ten times his age shift and hover under the stale winter sky. The faces of his pallbearers are red and glisten with tears, their shoulders hunched against the weight of his body. Gazes lowered as they pass, they kick up dust. The last time I saw JW, he’d chucked a bottle of hair dye at me.

  I focus on the hole I’m digging with Dad’s shoe as Emery and Mad Dog float past in their wooden boxes. The sob that’s strangling me gushes out. Shocked by the strange sound, I check no-one heard and catch sight of Skittles’s dad leaning against a tree by the entrance, downing a bottle of rum. That’d be right.

  In the end, Callum chooses me to carry his coffin anyway. Thanks to liking his chips large and fatty with a couple of burgers on the side, by the time Callum passes me – Christ, he’s inside that box – the six pallbearers sweat and adjust their grips, knees buckling. At the back his brother stumbles. Assuming he’ll recover, I throw out a limp arm to steady him. But the back of the coffin tilts dangerously. Suddenly I’m there, my fingers slipping against the sweating wood where Riley’s hands were.

  I’m carrying a dead body. Callum’s dead body.

  The last time I saw him he laughed so hard Coke spewed out of his nose. He’ll never play the keyboard again. He’s eaten his last plate of chips. My throat prickles. Reality hits me in the chest and stomach simultaneously, like a freak breaker at the beach. The air gets knocked out of me. The coffin almost goes down again. I yell at myself. You will not let him fall. You will not let him down today.

  I grind my teeth. Pain shoots up my jaw and behind my eyeballs, but my legs straighten, along with my back, and Callum’s dignity is restored.

  Inside the chapel, the stale air rubs against the back of my throat. After we lower Callum’s coffin, I search for a seat. Sorrow is folded into each mourner’s expression, scrunched against sobs. In the front row a woman cries into another woman’s neck. I clamp my arms to my sides and sit in the aisle seat Mum’s patting with her hand.

  A woman starts speaking. A eulogy. She stops when Skittles’s dad stumbles into the chapel, scraping his feet on the floor and slumping into one of the extra rows of metal chairs they set up at the back. The chai
r screeches. Mum tuts him. Is Skittles’s dad sorry for all the arguments he had with his son? Maybe he’s sorry for the times he smacked Skittles around.

  The eulogy continues.

  I can’t listen.

  Top three Arctic Monkey singles. ‘A Certain Romance’, for sure.

  A void expands in my skull.

  I grip the sides of the seat and rock myself.

  ‘Warm-hearted yet shy, and extremely clever and talented, we’ll never forget you, JW.’ Miss Eulogy sits down. JW’s coffin retreats on some sort of conveyance, the curtain closing on it. One down, four to go.

  Someone nudges me from behind. ‘They’re probably wearing a suit inside those coffins.’ I turn to find Riley behind me. He leans in closer. ‘Callum’s first and last suit.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re wearing stupid pointy leather shiny shoes too,’ I say.

  Mum prods me and frowns. Someone stands and shuffles to the lectern up front. My tongue sweeps across furry teeth. I can’t remember the last time I brushed them.

  ‘Did you go to Josh Mayor’s funeral last year?’ whispers Riley, clearly preferring to talk than listen.

  ‘Nope.’ Josh, a boy from one of the schools round here, fell from a balcony at schoolies week, with a helping hand from Mr Jack Daniels.

  ‘Funny how no-one mentions Josh anymore.’

  A life forgotten.

  Six months and three days ago, when I ran a red light and rode a Harley-Davidson into a brick wall, people said I was lucky. I said I was destined for a forgettable life; Harper, the only girl I will ever love, chose someone else – and I failed my audition for a place at the Sydney Conservatorium. At the time, dying tragically and memorably seemed a good idea.

  If I had died, would I already be forgotten?

  ‘How long will it take for people to stop mentioning Callum?’ Riley adds. Mum turns to him, a stern finger to her lips.

  Sadness muscles through me. The band was meant to become our legacy, with people singing our songs for decades, like Elvis or The Beach Boys – because being forgettable is worse than never having lived at all.