Melody Trumpet Read online

  ‘And let’s not forget the chicken,’ added Mr Trumpet. He got up to massage Mrs Trumpet’s shoulders with his enormous zucchini-sized fingers. ‘I saw him on a commercial the other day. You made him a star.’

  Mr Pizzicato took another gulp. ‘With all due respect, Clive the Chicken has more musical talent in his beak than Melody has in her entire body.’ He sucked in a sharp breath. ‘My deepest apologies . . . but Melody is no ordinary child.’

  ‘Actually, she’s entirely ordinary, Mr Pizzicato, that’s the problem,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘We do not accept your resignation. You have a month until Melody is headlining the Debut Gala, and she will be ready. We’re not asking if you can do this. We’re telling you to do it. Do you understand?’

  Mr Pizzicato held up his hands in defeat. ‘I can’t perform miracles.’

  ‘All our reputations are on the line here.’ Mrs Trumpet sighed. ‘We’ll cancel her other academic studies until the Debut Gala is over so she can fully invest in this. And if it’s money you’re worried about, that is no object. Buy every instrument in Battyville, in the country, if you have to. Hypnotise her, make her practise around the clock — hire a real sorcerer to help for all I care. Just get it done.’

  ‘Ma’am, I —’

  Mr Trumpet cut him off. ‘Pizzicato, you are our only hope. I know you care about the child, so if you won’t do it for me and Viola, do it for her. Don’t you want to see her achieve something after all this time?’

  ‘It is all I’ve craved for many years.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mr Trumpet said. ‘Then you will do it.’

  Mr Pizzicato nodded. ‘I will try my best.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Trumpet chimed in, ‘you will do your best.’

  ‘Discretion remains essential, you hear?’ Mr Trumpet added.

  ‘It has always been a secret, and it will remain one until Melody is ready,’ Mr Pizzicato said. ‘You have my word.’

  Mrs Trumpet raised her glass and clinked it with Mr Pizzicato’s. ‘And ready she shall be. We look forward to seeing Melody’s star shining on stage at the Debut Gala.’

  5.

  Claudette Rouge and the Debut Gala gown

  While Mr Pizzicato focused on getting Melody performance-ready, Mrs Trumpet threw herself into a different priority: what Melody would wear to the Debut Gala. More specifically, what gown made by Claudette Rouge, the most sought-after designer in the country, Melody would wear to the Debut Gala. It was all Mrs Trumpet could talk about, and today was no different.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ she squealed, clapping her hands together as Claudette Rouge’s sandstone-brick building appeared through the limousine window. ‘Can you see it, child? Can you?’

  Melody looked up from scribbling the beginning of a new poem in her notebook and gave a small nod as their limousine came to a stop.

  ‘Now don’t drag your feet,’ Mrs Trumpet whispered with an excited giggle as she and Melody slipped out of the limousine. Royce tipped his hat at Mrs Trumpet from the front seat. ‘Hurry, Melody, we can’t be late when Claudette has closed the studio just for us. And sunglasses on — we don’t want the paparazzi hounding us. Well . . . not today.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Melody, sliding her notebook into her pocket and struggling to keep up with her mother’s brisk pace.

  ‘Smoke and mirrors may be all we have,’ said Mrs Trumpet, lips pursed. ‘You will need a spectacular dress to accompany your spectacular performance at the Debut Gala. And I will need a gown too.’

  Spectacular performance. Melody gulped. She knew her parents were disappointed in her progress so far. She’d caught Mrs Trumpet weeping into her fluffiest feather boa the previous night.

  ‘So I really have to perform?’ she asked her mother now. ‘Mr Pizzicato seemed worried at practice yesterday. Well, more worried than usual.’ She recalled the vein in his forehead that had looked ready to burst through his skin.

  ‘There’s no choice,’ Mrs Trumpet said, striding along. ‘We’re out of options. And we’re putting all our resources into this, so it’s time for you to step up and play your part. It’s that or . . . we’ll have to send you to boarding school somewhere far away, where no one knows the Trumpet name or heritage. I’m not sure where that would be — your father and I are adored globally after all — but surely there must be somewhere.’

  ‘Please don’t send me away,’ Melody said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m trying, I promise. And I’ll keep trying. I’m just no good yet.’

  ‘You’re the Trumpet heir. You’re not supposed to be good — you’re supposed to be great.’ Mrs Trumpet’s hand grabbed Melody’s and squeezed it tight. But it didn’t feel like a reassuring squeeze. It felt anxious. ‘You have the Trumpet blood after all,’ Mrs Trumpet finished.

  ‘The finest blood,’ Melody parroted. She’d heard her father say it endless times.

  ‘Mr Pizzicato insisted I return you to school within the hour to continue your practice,’ Mrs Trumpet said, shooting Melody a look. ‘What are you working on today?’

  ‘The drums.’

  Mrs Trumpet shuddered. ‘Thank goodness we soundproofed that studio. He’s running out of time, you know. Make sure you tell him that, child.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Mrs Trumpet released Melody’s hand to touch up her lipstick. ‘Now, we mustn’t dilly-dally. These gowns will be on every best-dressed list for the next year.’

  Claudette greeted them at the door with a fire-engine-red smile and so many air kisses that Melody lost count. A measuring tape swung from around her weathered neck.

  ‘Viola, you look marvellous as always. How have you been, you dazzling creature?’ Claudette squawked, not waiting for an answer as she thrust a flute of fizzy pink champagne into Mrs Trumpet’s manicured hand. She gaped down at Melody. ‘Why hello, sweetie. I’ve been waiting for this day. How fabulous that you’ll be making your debut at the Gala in one of my designs.’

  ‘So fabulous!’ Mrs Trumpet beamed and gave Melody a small nudge as they entered the store. The walls were pale pink and gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling. ‘Isn’t this fabulous, child?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ Melody forced a smile for Claudette as she soaked in the scent of vanilla candles burning in the store. She wished she could pretend things were fine too. But Melody was tired of pretending — especially when she showed zero signs of improvement during music practice.

  ‘Let’s begin!’ Claudette announced. She positioned Melody on a pink poof in front of a rack of glitzy gowns then shuffled behind the counter to retrieve an oversized sketchbook. Mrs Trumpet purred with approval as Claudette flashed pages and pages of dress design sketches in front of Melody, never waiting to hear her opinion on any of them. There were stunning jewels, intricate beading, delicate lace — each gown was more lavish than the last. ‘On your feet, sweetie!’ Claudette continued, as she prodded and poked Melody, spinning her around and sizing her up with her measuring tape.

  Claudette paused to nibble on her fingernail. She stared at Melody. She muttered to herself. She furrowed her brow.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ she cheered, clapping her hands together with such force that Mrs Trumpet almost dropped her drink. ‘A sweetheart neckline, beaded crystals on the bodice, tulle flared skirt with an inbuilt petticoat for maximum volume . . . and let’s do it in a rich emerald to make Melody’s eye colour pop. It will be a gown fit for music royalty.’

  ‘Perfect, Claudette,’ Mrs Trumpet said, raising her glass. ‘But will such a magnificent gown be ready in time for the Gala?’

  ‘I’ll see to it personally,’ Claudette said with a flamboyant flick of the wrist.

  Melody hid a wry smile. At least something would be ready for the Debut Gala.

  ‘And for me?’ Mrs Trumpet hinted, batting her thick eyelashes as she sashayed around the store. Her gaze landed on the rack of gowns behind Melody. ‘The child can’t be the only Trumpet stealing attention at the Debut Gala.’

  ‘Viola, you couldn’t hide from the spo
tlight, no matter how hard you tried.’ Claudette beamed. Melody tried to imagine a world where her mother tried to hide from the spotlight. Impossible. ‘These couture gowns have all been designed with you as my muse — so please, take your pick,’ added Claudette. ‘My team and I have been working on them day and night. Would you like to try one on?’

  Mrs Trumpet sipped her drink. ‘One, two . . . or all of them!’ she announced, striding into the nearest dressing room. Claudette heaved the first gown – a jet-black mermaid cut – from the rack and hurried after Mrs Trumpet, measuring tape flapping behind her.

  Melody plopped down on the poof with a sigh. So much for rushing through the appointment to get Melody back to Mr Pizzicato. This was going to take all day! While her mother fussed and preened in the dressing room, Melody pulled out her notebook. Her eyes skimmed one of her poems, tracing over the letters.

  Just once,

  Just once I’d like to be,

  In the kind of place that’s in my head,

  The perfect place for me.

  She smiled at the rhythm of the words, feeling them almost leap off the page.

  Where it’s all okay,

  And it’s all alright,

  And nothing is a pain.

  Where the sun’s not too hot,

  The clouds aren’t too grey,

  And no one hates the rain.

  It was one of the first things she’d ever written, right after her parents gave her the notebook. She flicked through the pages, reading other words from her past. Mrs Trumpet was still busy trying on gown after gown with Claudette — not that Melody was bothered. Time disappeared when she got lost within her notebook.

  Waiting and hoping,

  For someone to see,

  The girl in the tower,

  And what she could be.

  But life just goes on,

  And things stay the same,

  So from a distance she watches,

  Away from the game.

  Yet one day she’s certain,

  That someone will see,

  The girl in the tower,

  And what she will be.

  Melody smiled at the words.

  ‘Enough of that!’ a shrill voice scolded above her, and the notebook was suddenly snatched from her hands. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Mrs Trumpet stood over Melody, her face screwed up into a taut angry mask, the notebook raised high above her head. ‘I asked you to thank Claudette for the great honour of designing your Debut Gala gown, but instead you sit here with your nose in some silly book?’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t hear you,’ stammered Melody.

  ‘No, you weren’t listening,’ Mrs Trumpet hissed, as Claudette hurried to hang the couture dresses back on their hangers. Forget one spectacular gown for Mrs Trumpet – she was buying the whole rack. ‘We are doing everything in our power to make you a star and this is what you’re paying attention to?’

  ‘It’s just a notebook.’

  ‘I’m not investing all my time, money and energy into you for this tripe! Do you not understand the pressure this family is under? I’m getting rid of this rubbish. Right now!’ Mrs Trumpet stuffed the notebook into her handbag.

  ‘Mother, please!’ Melody pleaded.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ Mrs Trumpet added, gulping down the rest of her drink. ‘I’m so sorry, Claudette, I’m mortified and can’t handle a moment more.’ Mrs Trumpet spun on her heel away from Melody and teetered over to Claudette’s side. ‘Kisses, darling!’ she gushed, kissing the air between them. ‘You’ve been a dream, as always. I’ll send Royce for the gowns soon.’

  Mrs Trumpet grabbed Melody’s hand and strode out the door onto the street, blowing Claudette a final kiss over her shoulder. Melody expected to walk back to the limousine but instead Mrs Trumpet veered towards a nearby rubbish bin, heels click-clacking on the cement, and dropped the notebook into it. Melody rushed to retrieve it, but Mrs Trumpet stuck out her arm and blocked her from reaching into the bin.

  ‘It’s time you focused on what matters to this family: music. The Debut Gala is less than a month away for goodness sake! Other children would kill to be in your designer shoes, not to mention enjoy a private fitting with Claudette Rouge. And this is how you repay me? No gratitude at all.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Melody said, her face reddening as she strained against her mother’s outstretched arm. ‘That notebook is mine.’

  ‘I am Viola Trumpet and I can do what I please. It’s time you started acting like a Trumpet too, even if you have to fake it at first.’

  Melody’s jaw tightened. ‘Well, maybe I don’t want to be a Trumpet if it means being more like you.’

  Mrs Trumpet’s eyes narrowed into thin black slits as she wrapped her long fingers around Melody’s arm and yanked her away from the bin.

  ‘No, please! My notebook!’ Melody screamed as Mrs Trumpet dragged her back towards the limousine.

  Twisting in her mother’s grip, Melody looked over her shoulder and saw a tall man in a suit dump a half-eaten container of pasta into the bin, coating her notebook in thick red sauce.

  ‘No! Stop!’ she cried. ‘My notebook!’

  But it was too late.

  Her writing. Her thoughts. Her heart. All gone.

  6.

  Mr Pizzicato’s last shot

  The doorbell of Trumpet Manor rang, playing the opening bars of Mr Trumpet’s Triple Concerto Number 3 in E Minor.

  ‘Here we go,’ Mr Pizzicato said to Melody, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

  Melody drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t ready, and she knew Mr Pizzicato wasn’t either, but they seemed to have run out of options for her Debut Gala performance. The most obvious solution — regular practice — hadn’t worked. Lip-syncing had also been a disaster: Melody couldn’t move her lips in time with the music, plus she was terrified of being caught out. Mr Pizzicato had tried auto-tuning her voice in his studio, but it had just sounded like a chipmunk was singing.

  Melody’s emerald gown from Claudette Rouge’s had arrived, and still she and Mr Pizzicato hadn’t come up with a better idea. Everything had come down to this moment.

  The doorbell rang again, setting off the concerto.

  ‘Should I answer it?’ Melody asked. ‘Or would that be strange?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Mr Pizzicato’s voice trailed off. The situation was strange no matter who answered the door. ‘It was my idea. I’ll do it.’

  He opened the door to reveal the most peculiar sight: a line of at least one hundred Melody Trumpet lookalikes winding their way from the front step down the staircase and along the driveway. Melody gasped. She’d never seen so many girls with red headbands and green bows pinning back their long jet-black hair. Her hand raced to the bow in her own hair. It was like looking in a mirror. An extremely bizarre mirror, where everything was the same only different.

  She wasn’t the only one staring at the line of lookalikes. Mr Bloom and his three children watched from a corner of the garden, whispering and pointing at the girls. His eldest son caught Melody’s eye and gave her a friendly smile. She broke away, unsure how to respond — especially in front of a long line of chattering, laughing and singing Melodys.

  Mr Pizzicato’s face had turned an ashy grey. ‘Unbelievable,’ he stammered, before straightening his posture. ‘One moment, girls. Be with you soon.’ He closed the door and turned to Melody, his eyes wide and worried. ‘Remember the back story?’

  ‘You mean the lie?’

  He sighed. ‘We don’t have time to go over it again. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course. We’re holding auditions to find an understudy for a Melody Trumpet movie.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Except there is no Melody Trumpet movie. It’s just the Debut Gala, and you’re hoping to trick the winner into performing as me. And trick everyone else into thinking it is me.’

  ‘Melody! Never say those words out loud again.’ Mr Pizzicato pressed his finger against her lips. ‘We can’t give up now.�
��

  ‘Or we could just tell people the truth?’ She shrugged. ‘I’m hopeless. There. Simple.’

  Mr Pizzicato swallowed, then opened the door to call out, ‘Nearly ready, girls. Keep practising your vocal warm-ups.’ He slammed it shut again and crouched down to her level. ‘Melody, do you know what I saw on the drive over here today?’

  ‘No, Mr P.’

  ‘First, the statue of your parents in Town Square, next to the ice-cream parlour. Then I saw a busker playing your father’s first concerto. And lastly, as I arrived, an old woman pushing a shopping trolley of fruit and vegetables stopped me outside the gate and asked, “Sir, are you really going inside?” I told her, “Yes, today I am,” and she shrieked with joy, as if I’d just said I was about to meet the Prime Minister. This isn’t a joke. Your parents’ stars may have faded a little, but they’re still icons. We can’t take this away from them. Or from the people. Because they will care.’

  ‘But I’m just me,’ Melody said.

  Mr Pizzicato sighed. ‘You’re too young to know what you are, or what you could be.’

  Melody rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you don’t know everything. Yes, you’ve taught a chicken to sing and a baboon to play piano, but do you know how to make a rocket fly to the moon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or how to write a haiku?’

  ‘Melody —’

  ‘Or how to fold a fitted sheet like Miss Sprinkles can? Do you know why some people are poor and some people are rich? And why brussels sprouts and peas taste disgusting but are good for you, while lollies taste like happiness and are terrible for you?’

  Mr Pizzicato sighed again. ‘You know my field of expertise isn’t lollies or brussels sprouts. But I’m begging you, Melody — we need to pull this off, because if we don’t . . . Well, frankly I don’t know what will become of either of us.’

  She noticed the slight quiver in his voice and nodded. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Miracles can happen, and we’re certainly going to need one,’ he said, fiddling with his bow tie. ‘How does that look?’