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  “Alex, the publishing house is in London. We would have to relocate.”

  I massage my left brow as if nursing a headache. Alex looks at me blankly. We stare at each other—his breath and my breath clash. His anger thickens the air around me like starch in water. His fists clench, but he keeps them by his side.

  “London? Mel, I’ve just turned down a job in New York for you.” Alex crosses his arms, making himself taller by straightening his back and broadening his shoulders. He hovers above me. I will not let him intimidate me anymore. I will take no notice of this manipulation.

  “Last night, you said you were happy here,” Alex continues. “My God, Mel. And you’ve known about this possibility for a year? And you’re just telling me now?”

  “Well, I could have told you back then—”

  “Yes. Why didn’t you?” he asks, his voice tight. “We’re responsible adults. We can both decide what’s best for our family, don’t you think? And since when are you so gung-ho about your job? I thought you didn’t like it.”

  “I don’t. I’m not finished with what I want to say.”

  Alex squints. “Go on.” He leans against the wall and flicks his chin up as if giving me permission to speak.

  “I’m tired of this routine, Alex. I want to play gigs again. I want music back in it. No, you know what? I don’t just want music back in my life. I want it to be my life. I want my dream; the dream you somehow convinced me I didn’t need anymore. So, if I get this promotion, and if you want to save our marriage, then we will relocate to London, where I will have the opportunity to follow my dream.”

  “No, Melody. We won’t. You won’t follow any dream. Forget it—we’re not going anywhere.” Alex sits back behind his desk.

  “Excuse me?” I screech.

  “You heard me. Just hope that your presentation doesn’t go well, so that you don’t have to regret turning the promotion down.” Alex takes hold of his mouse again, clicks a couple of times, and pretends to read something.

  “Alex. I …”

  I want to tell him that I’ll just go without him. That I’ll take Tessa and flee without even discussing it, but I lose my nerve. Am I being irrational? Selfish? Is it so bad to want something for yourself? Is it selfish not to accept living a life you didn’t wish for?

  “What?” Alex snaps. “Alex, what?” He glares at me. I shake my head. “Go, to your stupid presentation. I have work to do.”

  Tears fill my eyes. My bottom lip shudders a little in the hope that what I want to express might find the words to do so. But I don’t utter a word. I close my mouth, press my lips together and swallow my devastation. I have an important presentation to give. I must pull myself together. Tonight. I will continue this conversation tonight.

  Two

  The sharp shrill of car horns and Tessa’s wails prick my head from every direction like acupuncture needles, doing nothing to help lessen my grip on the steering wheel while I inch along in slow, grueling traffic. It’s so hot and congested that I feel as if I’m sitting in a box of melting forgotten chocolates. All we need now is an amateur string quartet to add some punch and a wince to this hyper-city soundtrack.

  “It’s stuck!” Tessa cries, dragging out the words in a teary and unnerved whimper. Her chewing gum is embedded high up her left nostril. She leans herself forward and her head back so that I can see via the rearview mirror.

  “Oh Tessa,” I whine, furrowing my brow, trying to comprehend whether the jolt I just felt is from Tessa’s legs flailing about, or from a car hitting my rear bumper bar. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter. My eyebrows remain together so long that the skin-crease tattoos itself between them. Another corporeal proof of exhaustion to add to my list.

  I never asked for this career-driven life—to become another rodent in this stinking patriarchal and hypocritical nation, hanging from faulty strings of bureaucratic security. But this country is blessed with a persuasive charm that I still, to this day, cannot put my finger on. What drew me here? Was it really just my father’s Greek roots? Was the need to keep returning to a land that oozes with unidentifiable mystique a habit merely instilled by ritual family visits? Or did the alluring Sirens’ song succeed in tempting me here, in view of smashing me against their jagged cliffs? They didn’t succeed with Odysseus. Perhaps I’m their next prey, knowing very well that song would undoubtedly cause me to stray from my anticipated path.

  I bite my tongue, swallowing the urge to yell at Tessa’s stupidity. But I will not get angry. Yes, you’re flustered and late. But you can’t undo what is done. Just calm her down. Calm yourself down. I take a deep breath and watch Tessa through the mirror, squinting with concern. She keeps trying to get the gum out, but seems to be pushing it up even farther in her eager effort to hook it with her pinky finger.

  “Honey!” I snap, then immediately lower my volume at the shock of my frenzied voice. “Stop it. You’re going to make it worse. When we stop the car, I’ll help you get it out, okay? I can use my tweezers.”

  She sniffs outward, as if trying to dislodge it, and nods. A bubble escapes from her gum-free nostril. How could I possibly scold her? She’s a child. Every child sticks things in holes, and are bound to make silly, experimental mistakes. I certainly did. Such as when I scratched my dad’s gold Gibson electric guitar with my mother’s box cutter. I was only four, sitting in the corner of a rehearsal studio, listening to my parents bash out their gothic guitar riffs, vocals, and synthesiser samples, in passionate determination, oblivious to the world around them. I decided to make memory cards out of a brown box I found abandoned in the corner, and I needed a table. So I found the next best thing—the back of Dad’s guitar. Boy, did I pay for that. Not from Dad, from Mum. For blunting her knife. She whacked me on my backside several times with a rolled-up amplifier cable in front of all the rehearsal studio staff. Of course, she regretted it once her bipolar-induced rage died down and we got home. The rest of the night I was pampered with pizza, chocolate and ice cream, accompanied with her mascara-tinted tears and desperate pleas for forgiveness.

  “What on earth inspired you to shove it up your nose, Tessa?” I ask, scrutinizing the dormant vehicles in front of me and wondering how much longer we’re going to idle in this skanky heat.

  “I was just smelling it, Mummy. But it’s an alien. It’s from Mars. It went inside to make babies!”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Mummy, I want it out. It’s hurting me!”

  “We’ll be there soon.” I swivel around in my seat so that I can look her directly in the eye, riding the clutch so that the car doesn’t stall as I inch forward with the traffic. “Look at me. How much does it hurt?”

  “Lots?” she replies and shrugs her shoulders.

  “How much lots? A lot-lots, or just a little-lots?”

  Tessa hums a nasal “um” looking out the window. She rolls her eyes up in thought. “Medium-lots.”

  “Okay then. Medium-lots isn’t too bad, right? Can you wait another ten minutes until we get you to preschool?” If it is only ten bloody minutes.

  Tessa nods with a half-smile.

  “Great,” I reply, with a kiss in the air. “Soon. We’ll be there soon.”

  Now the car behind me does nudge my bumper as the traffic moves forward at a more reasonable pace. I accelerate in haste, making it to the next set of traffic lights just in time for them to turn red. I can’t be late for this presentation. I am the presentation.

  I turn on the radio to distract myself from the anxiety bubbling in my throat like baking soda in vinegar. Rock FM—the only station I enjoy in this country. Patti Smith is on. What a legendary musician—an inspiration. A rock goddess, who in my opinion, puts every other female rock musician of her generation to shame. I would do anything to go to her concert tonight. Perhaps if I hadn’t been such a social recluse lately, I would have heard about it sooner than yesterday and arranged to go.

  The lights turn green and we get moving onto a wi
der road where I can step on the gas. Finally. I take a fleeting look into the rear-view mirror again to check that Tessa hasn’t continued to dig up her nose. She’s bopping her head up and down to the music and twiddling her fingers around as if playing guitar. I sometimes wonder whether she’s seen Alex do it, or whether she actually feels the rhythm and can’t control herself. Unlike Alex, who does it consciously in fun, I catch myself playing air-guitar as if it were a common reflex.

  To be honest, it can be quite embarrassing. My favorite colleague, Heather, once caught me at it by the coffee station in the office with my headphones on. I imagine it would have been a funny sight—a professional-looking thirty-year-old woman, who attempts to mask her post-baby stomach flab with bulky male shirts, strumming an invisible guitar with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. Yes, I stick my tongue out when I concentrate. A habit I have recently become self-conscious about since realizing I will soon have to concentrate in front of a large audience of strangers. I’ll have to conquer this stage fright once and for all today.

  Deep breaths. Do what Heather said. Pretend you are practicing on your own in your bedroom. Windows and doors closed. Free from interruptions.

  Being a victim of stage fright is not easy, to say the least, for a woman with a passion for music sewn into her seams. In my world, the stage is a magnet. One side pulls me in, the other pushes me away, generating an involuntary psychological push-and-shove with no resolution in sight. Despite stage fright paralyzing me like a dose of tetrodotoxin, the overall thrill of performing survives the poison, and I wake up on the other side, ready to get back up on the stage and start all over again. I don’t remember the angst; and the craving to perform again overpowers me like drug withdrawal. If Alex hadn’t asked me to stop playing gigs would I be craving this now? Would I have become this tyrant of an editor who sports herself as a determined corporate ladder-climber? What if I followed this course in life because the stage fright had ultimately taken over? What if I subconsciously found an excuse to escape the fear? Should I really be putting the blame on Alex? Perhaps this is my fault. Perhaps it wasn’t Alex’s doing at all.

  Before I met Alex I earned enough money to feed myself and pay the bills through random solo gigging. And that’s not easy to do, especially in Greece where the mention of music generally sparks thoughts of bouzoukis and traditional dance in foustanela (male dress).

  My first live gig in Athens was at a tiny venue that comfortably held eighty to a hundred people. That night there were a hundred and fifty ticket stubs collected at the door. And that’s not counting the acquaintances of the promoter, venue owners or the press that slip in for free simply by having their names put on the list at the door.

  During sound check I tuned my guitar at least ten times, because despite what the little orange light suggested, my guitar never sounded in tune. It was as if my anxiety was interfering with the frequency. The sound engineer’s blood-shot eyes bore through my back, while a short petite man with a gray Mohawk fiddled with the stage lights—he seemed to like red. I hated red. Red lights make the frets on my guitar almost invisible. I kept trying to overcome my pride and tell him I was scared I would hit the wrong chords, but he spoke first. “Red lights are great, aren’t they? They hide wrinkles.” If I hadn’t been so nervous, and perhaps could have injected myself with a shot of teenage aggression, I would have punched him in the nose for that comment. I clenched my teeth behind a polite smile and took a moment to compose myself while sitting on the edge of the stage with my eyes shut.

  The light man winked and stepped outside onto the wet pavement. The foggy sound of the busy street crept through the large, heavy soundproofed metal door as he opened it. The deep thud of the door closing behind him remained with me for the rest of the night. A reminder that I was trapped inside myself—a victim of my own torture.

  When the venue was full, I stepped onto the stage holding my breath. My footsteps vibrated through my body, as laughter turned to talking, talking turned to mumbling and mumbling turned to breathing. The first song on my set was a capella. I didn’t introduce myself, or welcome the audience to the show. Looking down at my chunky black army boots, I let out a hot steady note that thrust the crowd into throbbing silence. Each hair on my bare arms rose one by one as the notes escaped me. But was the silence a sign of dislike or awe? Panic brittled my bones, and my limbs shook with immutable doubt. So much so that I feared the audience could see and were silently laughing at me.

  I tamed my nerves little by little, doing invisible breathing exercises in between songs. But I continued my set with more original tunes without much reaction—bar the obligatory applause. They watched with steel eyes. Convinced they were just waiting me out to see the headlining band, disappointment pricked my skin like poison ivy. I thought, I’m never doing this again. I just can’t take it.

  But then I had an idea. I replaced my last song with a cover. I had learnt it not long ago for a friend’s party. I played “Wonderwall” by Oasis; despite believing it to be too commercial for my reputation, it had to be done. I had to do something to loosen up the crowd. As soon as the words, “Today, is gonna be the day …” came out of my mouth, they recognized the song, and started cheering and singing along. Relief flushed through me like a sedative. The dissipating tension in the air cooled me down like sprinkler mist on a warm spring day. It was over. Finally over. And on a good note.

  Performing to a live audience has always, and will always, create an explosion of dread and dignity within me like a balloon expanding in my stomach. I despise the feeling, but something about it—the release of steaming hot fear while playing the last song of every set— makes me want to do it all over again with the absence of such fear. Of course, this never happens. And I continue to go through the same torture again and again.

  After the gig, I stood outside the venue in the rain with my guitar, waiting for a taxi to hail. I was praying one would appear out of nowhere and save me before the rain got any heavier, but a man with a shaved head and a long black leather coat appeared with an umbrella instead. He looked different than the typical Greek male, who commonly sported skin-tight jeans, open white shirts, and slick gelled hair. I was immediately intrigued.

  “Hi, Melody, you were great tonight. I’m Alex,” he said, holding out his hand, “head of Cat Events.”

  “Hi, thanks. Nice to meet you. Did you come to see The Drovers?” I asked, wondering whether he was just trying to make friendly conversation.

  A vague Greek accent laced his warm, humble laugh. His voice purred—a soft, deep, slow, mouth-watering purr from a big, fast wild cat, with the pitter-patter of drizzle in the background.

  “Well, not really,” Alex replied. “I came to make sure the whole event ran smoothly.” Then I remembered the huge blue and black banner that read “Cat Events” behind me on the stage. You idiot!

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry!”

  “Not a problem,” Alex chortled. “It’s refreshing to see a musician who’s not concerned with kissing up. It shows you’re sincere. I’m impressed.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, thanks.” As the left side of my lip stuck on my teeth, a crooked smile emerged. I dislodged it with my tongue, strangely captivated by the reflection of headlights passing over his dark blue-gray eyes. He put his hand on my upper back and guided me toward the entrance of the venue, which was under cover, and closed his umbrella.

  “Listen,” he said in a more serious tone. “I was thinking we could get together and talk about your music. I really like your stuff. I think we could make something of you here.”

  “Oh, wow, really? That’d be great.” I turned my guitar case upright and rested it on my foot to move it around with ease. Is this really happening? Am I seriously going to make an honorable musician of myself in the least likely country? I pictured myself on a bigger stage. Fearless. Crowd roaring. Cameramen shooting the show from every angle. A huge line-up of professional musicians behind me, backing up my guitar and vocals with inst
rumental genius. I saw myself as Tori Amos with a guitar.

  “How about we meet tomorrow for a coffee? Say about three p.m.?” asked Alex, wiping a few raindrops from his cheek.

  “Okay. Where?” I was now as curious about Alex as the idea of pursuing my dream.

  “See you at Thissio Station, three tomorrow.” Alex held out his hand for me to shake again. But this time he pulled in closer and gave me a peck on the left cheek and then another on the right. He smelled like Chinese noodles. It gave me goosebumps. It gave me hope. I’d finally met a man who didn’t drown himself in his mama’s cooking.

  “Er, okay, wonderful, great,” I stammered. “See you then. And again, great to meet you.”

  I was about to step back out onto the street to find a taxi, but Alex offered me his gig runner to take me home. I accepted the offer, already feeling a little like a star.

  The next day, we drank coffee in Thissio until the shop closed. He offered to be my manager. I accepted and we began exchanging emails. He requested promotional shots; I sent him promotional shots. He requested a written biography; I sent him a written biography. He requested a demo CD; I said I’d bring it the next time we met. I asked him if he knew of any worthwhile gigs to go to on Saturday night. He said I should come to one that he’d organized, and that he would take me to a great little jazz bar afterward. So I went. But the night didn’t turn out as I’d expected.

  “So, what kind of music are you into?” I asked, letting this newfound confidence take reign as I perched myself on a bar stool and crossed my legs in my slinky knee-length black skirt. My long psychedelic beads collided, caressing my hardly-there and well-covered breasts. “You know, the stuff that moves you. The stuff you listen to at home,” I continued after a few seconds of silence, wondering if I had asked a stupid question. The soft warm Frangelico glided down my throat, my voice sliding through my red lips like water over tanned, oiled skin. Alex’s body heat traveled from his thighs to mine as he stood leaning his elbows against the bar, slowly sipping his Vat 69. He squinted, and pouted his lips in thought toward the rows and rows of alcohol bottles behind the bartender—a very old, classy man who had worked there for thirty years and obsessively wiped the bar dry.