Free After Ariel: It started as a game by Diana Hockley Page B

leave in the car for later. Goldie disappeared down the back garden to the laneway. I picked up my coffee mug and turned to go back up to bed, eyeing my basic, stand-by navy draped over the back of a chair. Boring, boring – but it would just have to do.
     
    *
    10.30am
    I hunted out the musician’s swipe card sent to me by my agent and headed through the morning traffic to the Concert Hall at Southbank. The river air was fresh; I drew a deep, appreciative lungful. Shopkeepers were running up the shutters and putting out merchandise; people bustling to work. Saturday was as busy as any other day in Brisbane. I pulled into a vacant space near the lift, gathered my flute case and briefcase.  Unaccountably, nerves struck. Could I “cut it” after two years away?
    Vacuum-wielding cleaning staff made a maroon path for me, as an anxious-eyed young woman of about my own age popped out of a doorway, carrying a sheaf of papers. Her eyes widened when she saw me. ‘Hello, you must be Ms Miller. I’m Joan Hamilton, the admin assistant. I’ll take you down to Mr Seymour. He wants to introduce you to Vladimir Rezanov, and Lance MacPherson will be in to rehearse the orchestra’s item with you after that. We’re at sixes and sevens here this morning because they’ve all just come back from short breaks. Mr Seymour has been away for a couple of weeks, Vlad – er – Mr Rezanov, well I’m not sure when he got in to Brisbane, and Lance has been here since early this morning.’
    I was grateful for a friendly face, because meeting a well-known musician for the first time is always stressful for me. What is it about ourselves that we can’t recognise when we are worthy of being in such hallowed company? I allowed Joan to usher me back into the lift. ‘So, has Rezanov arrived for rehearsal yet?’ I asked, hoping to elicit gossip.
    She blushed, rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Oh yes, he’s here. Have you met him before?’  Hm, I fear you’re too old, Joan.
    ‘No, I haven’t.’ I was also curious to “suss out” the manager of the Concert Hall and the conductor.
    We stepped into the lift and headed down to the dressing rooms. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the clatter of dishes, presumably in the canteen. Voices echoed along the corridor to the dressing rooms; I became aware of a brawl in progress. Although I speak reasonable French, Italian and German, this could only be Russian. Rezanov‘s throwing a tantrum – or perhaps he’s just discussing the soccer . I didn’t have to sneak up on them, the noise he and whomever he was bellowing at were making enough for an army. Joan slowed and grabbed my arm. ‘Hang on, Pam.’
    I disengaged myself and went to the door. Wondering whether to knock before stepping inside, I was riveted by the words ‘Puking Pam’ followed by more tirades. Russian didn’t have to be a language I understood. The contemptuous snarl with which the words pronounced my nickname revealed what Rezanov thought of me . Curling my hands in the ‘kill’ position, I charged into the room. Two men watched, while the third strode back and forth. Dark-eyed, totally gorgeous and sporting designer stubble, Rezanov swung around.
    I’m known for my laid back demeanour. The white-hot rage which surged through my body shocked me to the core . ‘How dare you?’
    Rezanov stared at me, speechless.
    ‘Who the hell do you think you are, insulting a fellow artist? I’m supposed to work with you. Well, I’ve got news for you, mate, forget it! I wouldn’t allow you within spit of the stage with me!’
    He started to say something, but I hadn’t finished. ‘You’re totally unprofessional. It wasn’t my idea to play flute to your piano, believe me!’ I swung around to the one I thought could be the manager. ‘Get someone else to play with this drongo.’
    Leaving Joan waving her arms, I swept out of the dressing room and charged along the corridor to the canteen, the only possible place of sanctuary on the