Sanguine

The G-sharp key stuck halfway through the run, and the next note came out as something between a squeak and a dying kettle.

I lowered my flute and worked the key gently. It had been sticking all week, and another hour of practice wasn’t going to fix it.

“Great,” I told the empty room. “Fantastic timing.”

Auditions for a professional orchestra’s casual list were in six weeks. I’d applied and was waiting to hear whether they’d shortlisted me. Getting through wouldn’t guarantee regular work, but it would mean they could call me when they needed a player. I’d been preparing the excerpts for months.

I checked the time. Ten minutes left on my practice-room booking. I tried the passage again, stopped when the key stuck, and began packing up.

My phone vibrated in my bag. A parent had cancelled Thursday’s flute lesson for her son’s birthday party. Beneath the message was a reminder that rent was due on Friday.

I typed, ‘No problem, see you next week,’ and opened my banking app.

Two hundred and eighty-six dollars. I had another six hundred set aside, although most of that already belonged to my landlord. The flute service would cost at least a couple of hundred. More if something needed replacing.

I was still staring at the balance when the door opened.

“You finished?” Jess asked.

“Unless you’ve brought me a replacement flute.”

She leaned against the doorframe, violin case over one shoulder. Jess played second violin in our university orchestra.

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“Key’s sticking. Again.”

“Ah. Money.”

“Money I haven’t got.”

“A few of us are going for a drink. Come complain about it somewhere with heating.”

“I can’t afford a drink.”

“I’ll buy you one.”

“You bought me one last week.”

“Then you can buy me one when you’re famous.”

I gave her a look.

“Fine,” she said. “When you’re moderately employed.”

I laughed and picked up my case. Jess was doing postgraduate performance studies and somehow managed to pay rent in Sydney without appearing permanently distressed.

“How do you actually afford to live?” I asked as we walked into the corridor.

“Private lessons, mostly. Weddings when I can get them. The occasional medical study.”

I stopped. “The occasional what?”

“Clinical trials. Paid research.”

“You take experimental drugs?”

“Sometimes. I’ve only done two.”

“How much do they pay?”

“The last one was just under four grand. Five nights in a clinic and follow-up appointments.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. They’re recruiting for a ten-day one now for seven and a half thousand. I can’t do it; the dates clash with a chamber concert.”

Seven and a half thousand dollars would cover the flute service and leave enough to stop worrying about rent for a while.

“Send it to me.”

Jess smiled. “Thought you were coming for a drink.”

“I might go home and read this first.”

By the time I got home, I’d read the advertisement three times on the bus.

HALDEN THERAPEUTICS — RESIDENTIAL CLINICAL RESEARCH STUDY

Ten days. Healthy volunteers aged 21–35. Participant compensation: $7,500.

The photograph showed a modern building surrounded by gardens, with glass doors opening onto a terrace and swimming pool. Transport, accommodation and meals were included. The study involved medical examinations, blood collection, questionnaires, supervised physical activity and an investigational oral medication.

That last part made me hesitate.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my music bag beside the sofa and called Sophie.

“Please tell me you’re not working,” I said when she answered.

“Hello to you too. I’m eating cereal.”

“It’s nearly seven.”

“Dinner cereal. What’s happened?”

“I’ve found a way for us to make seven and a half thousand dollars.”

“Is it legal?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“Reasonably.”

“That’s not quite the reassurance I wanted.”

I sent her the link. She paused to open it, then made a delighted sound.

“Amber. Look at that pool.”

“Look at the words ‘investigational medication’.”

“I’m looking at both.”

Sophie was my closest friend in Sydney. We’d met at a university party three years earlier. She studied communications, worked part-time in a bookshop and had more confidence about money than her bank balance justified.

“Who told you about this?” she asked.

“Jess from orchestra. She’s done trials before.”

“Are you thinking about applying?”

“Maybe. I want to know more about the medication and who’s running it.”

“I’ll come over. We can investigate together.”

“You just want to look at the accommodation.”

“I can multitask.”

She arrived twenty-five minutes later with takeaway chips and lemonade. I heated some leftover pasta, and we spread everything across the coffee table beside our laptops.

Halden Therapeutics had offices across Australia, Europe and North America. Its website described research into regenerative medicine, cellular repair and neurological treatments, citing published studies and university partnerships. Independent searches brought up business reports and articles about its medical technology investments.

“It’s definitely a real company,” Sophie said.

“That doesn’t tell us whether this particular drug’s a good idea.”

“No, but we can get the participant information before agreeing to anything.”

The study page listed possible side effects, including nausea, headaches, dizziness, and allergic reactions. It also acknowledged unforeseen risks.

“Would you take it?” I asked.

“Depends on what they tell us at screening. I’m not signing up for permanent liver damage, even for that pool.” She stole a chip from my plate. “Filling out an application doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

I checked the dates. They fell during semester break, and I had no performances booked. I’d need to rearrange a few private lessons.

“Do you think they’d let me bring my flute?”

Sophie glanced up. “Only you could look at that place and worry about where to practise scales.”

“I can’t take ten days off before an audition.”

“Email them.”

I did, asking whether instruments were permitted and whether there was somewhere private to practise between appointments. Then I opened the expression-of-interest form.

The questions covered my contact details, occupation, medical history, prescriptions and allergies. When I reached alcohol consumption, Sophie leaned across.

“Two standard drinks a week?”

“On average.”

“You drank considerably more than that on Saturday.”

“Saturday was a statistical outlier.”

“And Thursday?”

I shifted my laptop out of her reach. “Mind your business.”

She laughed. “Did that bloke ever text you again?”

“Daniel? Yes.”

“Wasn’t his name David?”

“Daniel.”

“What happened there?”

“We had a nice night.”

“And?”

“And that was it.”

Sophie wanted me to find someone worth dating. I liked going out, meeting men and leaving things there. Between rehearsals, practice and teaching, I barely had enough time for my friends.

I corrected the alcohol figure and carried on.

By nine, we’d both submitted our forms. A confirmation page thanked us and said they'd contact suitable applicants about medical screening.

Sophie raised her lemonade bottle.

“To science.”

“To paying rent.”

We clinked bottles.

Mum called while Sophie was looking up flights to Japan. I answered on speaker.

“Are you girls planning a holiday?” Mum asked.

“Not exactly. We’ve applied for a paid medical study.”

There was a pause.

“What sort of study?”

“One at a research retreat. We haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

She asked which company, what medication, and whether a doctor would explain the risks. I answered what I could and promised to send her the information.

“Just don’t agree to something because you need the money,” she said.

“I’ll read everything, Mum.”

“You can always ask us for help.”

“I know.”

They’d helped me move from Adelaide to Sydney, paid for my lessons growing up and bought my flute when I was seventeen. With my little sister still at school, I hated asking them for more.

“Is Liv there?”

“She’s meant to be doing homework. Hang on.”

A minute later, my sixteen-year-old sister took over.

“Are you actually going to do it?”

“Only if I pass the health checks.”

“I had to get blood taken last week. It was gross.”

“You fainted when you cut your finger making toast.”

“I was eight!”

“And it was a very small cut.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Mum says you’re coming home for my birthday.”

“I said I’d try.”

“You always say that.”

“I’ll check flights tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I promise I’ll check.”

Sophie left after the call. I washed our plates, set out tomorrow’s music and opened a flight-search page.

A return ticket to Adelaide cost more than I could comfortably spare. I checked a different departure time, then closed the page.

Halden had sent an automatic confirmation explaining that shortlisted applicants would be invited to its Sydney clinic, where staff would discuss the study and its risks. Jess had also texted me the number of a flute technician.

I saved it and set a reminder to call in the morning. Whatever happened with the trial, I needed the key repaired.

My phone buzzed as I was getting into bed.

Sophie: If they accept us, I’m taking ten books and doing absolutely nothing for ten days.

Me: You realise they’ll make you do tests?

Sophie: Fine. Nine books.

I laughed, set my alarm and switched off the lamp.

The following morning, a new email from Halden arrived as I made coffee.

We are pleased to invite you to attend a preliminary screening appointment.

There was a link to choose a date and time at the Sydney clinic. I opened the booking page, then forwarded the email to Sophie.

Me: Check your inbox.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Sophie: GOT ONE TOO!!