‘What?’ Flynn reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the gleaming Steinway on the stage.
Harry and Jennah laughed together. ‘Flynn’s preparing to give André the evil eye,’ said Harry.
‘What’s wrong with André?’ Jennah looked outraged, then caught Harry’s eye. She caught her breath suddenly. ‘Oh, I forgot.’
‘Stop!’ Flynn said to Harry. ‘I have only praise and admiration for André.’ He tried not to smile. ‘I wish that he’d develop gangrene and his hands would drop off, but that’s all.’
Jennah laughed and then pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry.’
Flynn shrugged, smiling a little. ‘Doesn’t matter. I gather he’s a fairly good pianist.’
They all laughed and started to clap as the orchestra filed onto the stage.
André made his entrance once the orchestra was seated, greeted by heavy applause. Although he was only eighteen like them, his stride was purposeful, his chin tilted upwards and everything about him exuded the kind of confidence that only touring five countries and winning the BBC Young Musician of the Year contest could bestow. Flynn knew him only from a distance, but had absorbed a fair bit about him from Professor Kaiser, who taught them both. Despite being head of the keyboard department, Professor Kaiser had only two individual students. In Flynn’s mind that was his tough luck because no one could ever measure up to André Kolov. If it weren’t for André . . . But it was difficult to imagine what life would be like if it weren’t for André. Realistically, although perhaps not very modestly, Flynn suspected that if it weren’t for André he would be the Royal College’s top pianist. He had no other real rival at the moment, although the competition in the strings department was fiercer. If only André played something else – that was another thought that frequently went through Flynn’s mind.
The Royal College gave out a handful of scholarships each year, one for each instrumental category, which entitled its receiver to a weighty financial award, coupled with considerable prestige. Of course, with André competing in the same category as himself, Flynn hadn’t stood a chance, although Professor Kaiser had gone a bit funny when Flynn had shared this thought with him. The professor had actually gone as far as insisting that this was not the case – probably just to try to get Flynn to work harder. Well, as it turned out, André got the award anyway, just as Flynn had expected. Ironic really, considering that André’s family was loaded and the money meant nothing to him.
It hurt, though. Professor Kaiser actually seemed genuinely disappointed – presumably that Flynn hadn’t risen to the challenge.
‘You didn’t try,’ he told him. ‘You gave up before you even went on,’ he continued, referring to the performance that each of the candidates had been required to give. ‘You didn’t believe in yourself. That’s your biggest problem, Flynn. You don’t understand your full potential.’ Whatever that meant.
Six months later, Flynn still remembered the moment well. The audience had been made up almost entirely of students and music staff, the judges sitting in the front row. André had played just before him, with that self-assured, almost cocky manner with which he was playing now. The tilt of the head, the half-smile, the shoulders moving confidently with the music. Each little mannerism that screamed, I know I’m damn good! His playing looked effortless and what he lacked in emotion he certainly made up for in technical ability. Every piece, every note was precision perfect. Flynn knew he was out of the game before he even began. And, of course, he was right. He lost the flow in the first piece. The second piece sounded methodical and cold, even to his own ears. By the third, he was thinking about the notes, which obviously only spelled disaster.
Professor Kaiser was outraged. ‘You never let yourself go!’ he exclaimed heatedly the next day. ‘You went through the whole audition like a robot, thinking only of the notes, never the feeling behind them! That was not the pianist I have in my study every day!’
All in all, the whole experience had not been particularly pleasant. Flynn had gone out of his way to avoid maestro André after that. And now, that swaying head, that tilted chin, the packed concert hall reminded Flynn of everything that he was not. He pulled his eyes away and gazed dully at the back of the conductor’s red neck instead. And, blissfully unaware, André played on.
Harry bought them drinks in the lobby during the interval. He was the only one who wasn’t broke, so they let him. Jennah vanished into the throng to talk to a couple of friends. It was hot, too hot. Flynn found the atmosphere oppressive.
The second half was even longer than the first. André played Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Flynn knew it well. He had been learning it for the past year and still struggled with the third movement. There was a standing ovation at the end. Jennah looked across at Flynn and gave him a sympathetic grin as he reluctantly got to his feet.
‘Wasn’t Professor Miguel’s conducting majestic?’ Jennah’s eyes were bright as they climbed up the steps of the Hungerford Bridge.
‘Majestic? You’ve been reading too many reviews,’ Harry said.
‘Well, what did you think?’
‘It was nice.’
‘Nice?’ Jennah snorted. ‘You can’t go round calling Beethoven nice, Harry.’
‘How’s soporific then?’
‘What?’
‘The last one was. I’ve always thought that piece was too long.’
Flynn thought that Jennah might explode. But she only gave Harry a playful shove. He launched into an exaggerated stagger and leaned over the side of the bridge, arms dangling. Flynn and Jennah flanked him as the stream of people thinned, heading towards the station entrance on the other side of the river.
Harry straightened up and leaned back, holding onto the rail and inhaling deeply. ‘Wow, look at that. London really is a beautiful city.’
St Paul’s, the Gherkin and Tate Modern were lit up in pink and orange against an inky black sky. Flynn loved this bridge. The bright white light, the smooth walkway, the tall crisscrossing white posts reaching up into the darkness, making you feel as if you were aboard some luxury yacht. He had lost count of the times he had just stood here and looked out, at night, across the multicoloured city.
When he had first moved to London six months ago, standing here had overwhelmed him completely, had made him believe that anything was possible. He had turned to face the Royal Festival Hall and whispered, ‘One day, one day I will play there. Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto with the Philharmonic. I will. Wait and see.’
‘Did you enjoy it, Flynn?’ Jennah asked him a touch tentatively, elbows resting on the rail.
He looked at her. The wind was whipping her hair across her face and her eyes were very bright. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Please don’t tell me you thought it was nice.’
‘No, it was—’ He stopped. His true feelings would only sound fake. André’s playing had been exquisite beyond words.
Harry and Jennah were both looking at him. The heat rose to his cheeks as he faltered.
‘Tell me, why does André keep rolling his head around?’ Harry stepped in effortlessly. ‘Does that help him keep tempo or something? You don’t play like that.’
Jennah grinned. ‘No, Flynn just rolls his eyes.’
‘That’s at Professor Kaiser’s barking, though, not at the music,’ Harry said.
Flynn forced a smile.
‘Let’s go,’ Harry said. ‘I’m getting cold.’
At the other side of the ticket barriers Harry tried to tempt Jennah back to the flat with the offer of coffee.
‘No, I really should have an early night.’
‘Hot chocolate then? Ovaltine?’
Jennah shook her head, smiling, and gave them each a kiss before departing for her platform. ‘Don’t talk to any strange men!’ Harry called after her.
‘You mean stranger than you?’
They went down to their platform in companionable silence. Harry waved at Jennah, waiting alone on the other side. Her burgundy scarf wa
s wrapped tightly around her neck, and her arms were crossed against her black jacket. Even all dressed up, Jennah still had a childlike, windswept look about her, with her tousled brown hair and overgrown fringe. She was so petite, she looked a lot younger than eighteen and still got asked for ID in bars. She often appeared wide-eyed and innocent – big green eyes set against a pale complexion, a small up-turned nose and naturally dark red lips. And when she smiled . . . her nose did this little crinkly thing and her eyes grew really bright and her teeth were very white . . . Flynn was sure she used that smile to keep Charlie wrapped around her little finger, because it was a smile you couldn’t say no to, a smile that made you feel really strange inside.
As she stood gazing up at the train information, Flynn watched her covertly until a train came hurtling through. He glanced away as she waved at Harry through the window. When he looked back, the platform was bare.
Flynn made coffee while Harry set up his battered laptop on the living-room carpet.
‘You’re not going to do that now, are you?’ Flynn asked in disbelief.
‘I’m going to try. I’m going to stress about it all night otherwise.’
‘I thought Jennah was going to give you hers to copy.’
Harry glanced up as Flynn handed him his cup. ‘Do you think she meant it?’
‘Course she did. Jennah would do anything for you.’ Flynn sat down against the wall on one of the carpet cushions and glanced surreptitiously at Harry, who showed little emotion as the computer bleeped and lit his bespectacled face with an eerie, pale blue glow.
For a moment, Flynn wondered if Harry had even heard, but then he said, ‘Yes, she’s very sweet.’
A long silence stretched out between them, and Harry fiddled with the mouse as Flynn sipped his too-hot coffee. He wasn’t sure what had prompted his last comment and now felt more than a little embarrassed about it, but could hardly take it back. Jennah had been going out with Charlie since the summer holidays and in recent weeks Harry had started going out with Kate, a serious-looking violinist from their Musicianship class. But there had always been this thing between Jennah and Harry. It was hard to pinpoint. A gentle warmth. Shared jokes, joint secrets, an extremely similar sense of humour. They had an affinity, like brother and sister, that Flynn was unable to share, and it was only with varying degrees of success that he managed not to feel left out.
Harry always seemed so at ease around everyone, even girls. Especially girls. He was good-looking, but in an unusual sort of way, with the slow gait of a gentle giant. Yet he had a sophistication, a maturity in his demeanour that commanded a certain respect. He was Flynn’s closest friend. Yet sometimes he hated him. Around Jennah, he made Flynn feel like a tongue-tied fool.
‘Are you going to practise?’ Harry’s voice made him jump.
‘No, I did enough this morning.’ He stretched out his legs. ‘Think I’ll go to bed.’
He got as far as the doorway when Harry’s voice stopped him. ‘You OK?’
Flynn half turned, coffee cup still full in his hand.
Harry was regarding him placidly, his face still eerily glowing.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘You were kind of quiet again this evening.’
Flynn resented the ‘again’. Just because Harry talked for England didn’t mean that everyone found it so easy. He gave a small shrug. ‘Just tired.’
‘Sleep well then.’
‘You too. Don’t work too late.’
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN HIS ALARM went off at seven the next morning, Flynn thought it had to be a cruel joke. Every morning for the last week he had been getting up and going for a run in the park before lectures. Some days – yesterday, for example – even managing a run after class. Today, the very thought of it was horrifying. He felt as if he had only just gone to bed and a crushing torpor seemed to have taken hold of his limbs. Even reaching out to turn off the alarm before it woke Harry didn’t seem worth the effort. With great difficulty, he opened his eyes and blinked dully at the pale morning light filtering in through the curtains. The thought of lectures this morning sickened him.
‘I can’t believe you skipped Historical Studies again.’ Sick of canteen mush, Harry had returned home to gaze into the empty fridge. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’
Still in the T-shirt and jogging bottoms which served as pyjamas, Flynn surveyed him from his usual place among the crumbs on the kitchen counter. ‘No.’
‘I knew last night you were going to go all monosyllabic again,’ Harry said matter-of-factly, buttering two slices of bread for a sandwich. ‘Want half?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got Kaiser this afternoon?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh well, cheer up. At least you’re not me with two essays to do in as many days! Jen’s given me hers, by the way – what a star.’
‘Good for you.’
Harry shrugged good-naturedly. ‘What else are friends for, hey? Are you ready?’
‘No.’
‘Well get dressed and let’s go. It’s nearly one already.’
The Royal College was one of those places where you just weren’t allowed to feel tired. From the moment you stepped off the Kensington street, through the heavy doors and into the grand entrance hall with its marble floor and huge, sweeping staircase, you were enveloped by an aura of purpose, of hard graft, of dedication. Sometimes, if the orchestra was rehearsing, the corridors would be deserted and music would explode from the double doors at the end of the hall. Occasionally there would be a concert on and students and professors alike would be hurrying from one place to another, carrying sheet music, stands and instruments, a palpable feeling of urgency in the air. Or it would just be lunch time, with the faint strains of practice coming from the music rooms, and the few students who actually believed in stopping for lunch standing around and chatting, or drifting in small groups towards the canteen with tempered, controlled enthusiasm. It was an impeccably well-oiled establishment, in which there was always something you should be doing and always a feeling you hadn’t done quite enough.
‘What is the matter?’ Professor Kaiser greeted him. ‘Have you not slept?’
Jesus Christ! What was it with everyone today? ‘I’m OK.’
‘You don’t look “OK”,’ Professor Kaiser said in his clipped German accent. ‘You look like someone who has not had so much sleep. I warned you, did I not, about going out during the week?’
‘We went to Professor Miguel’s concert,’ Flynn said to shut him up.
‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Well that should not have kept you up so very late. But you must make sure to get enough sleep. Remember the other week we wasted much time.’
Flynn had a dim recollection of feeling almost equally crap a couple of weeks ago. Three painfully dismal lessons had ensued, resulting in Professor Kaiser giving him two days off to ‘get some rest’. Ironic, really, when at the time he had been sleeping twelve and thirteen hours a night. Perhaps if he played badly enough today, Professor Kaiser might do the same again.
As it was, he didn’t even have to try.
‘Put some effort into it, Flynn!’ Professor Kaiser was pacing the room, running a hand over his balding head. Never a good sign.
Flynn stopped, mid-bar. ‘What, again?’ he asked testily.
‘Ja, ja, again! Again from the beginning. You play as if you are in a – how do you say? – a coma! Where is the melody? It, I cannot hear. You need to make it sing. Sing! Rise above the chords—’ He hummed a few bars. ‘Yes?’
Flynn nodded wearily. His fingers felt like lead against the keys and his whole body ached with tiredness. The clock on the piano read quarter past two. He couldn’t believe that only fifteen minutes had passed. Gritting his teeth, he returned to the first bar.
‘Nein, nein!’ Professor Kaiser cried. And so the torture went on.
He was not in the mood for Jennah when she caught up with him in the hall. Bouncy, sparky Jennah who alw
ays had a smile for everyone and a lot to say.
‘Are you coming to the pub after class?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m going home. Anyway, you know I’m broke.’
‘Me too. So? Harry will buy us drinks. Oh, please come with us, Flynn. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’m going home,’ Flynn repeated between clenched teeth.
‘Are you OK?’ She put her hand on his arm.
‘I’m fine.’ He had pushed her hand away without even realizing it.
Jennah stepped back quickly, her face registering hurt and embarrassment. ‘OK, well if – if you change your mind—’
Flynn turned away before she had the chance to say anything else. He couldn’t even trust himself to be civil.
There was a four-pack in the fridge. Harry must have been shopping. Flynn took it to his room and turned his stereo up loud. Don Giovanni on full volume. Tough luck, Boney downstairs – if you don’t like it you can go to hell. He drank the beers quickly, staring out of the window at the late-afternoon sun. The branches on the trees looked like claws.
He awoke with a pounding head. The luminous numbers on his alarm read 10:13. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. No pills in the bathroom cabinet. He had climbed up on a stool and knocked half the contents of the kitchen cupboard onto the counter when Harry came in and switched on the light.
‘Bloody hell.’ Flynn sat down heavily on the edge of the sink, squinting against the painful light.
‘What are you doing?’ Harry looked at him in disbelief.
Flynn groggily rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘Painkillers,’ he mumbled.
Harry started collecting up the strewn contents of the cupboard. ‘Aspirin?’
‘Yeah.’
He handed Flynn two tablets. ‘God, you stink! Have you been drinking?’
‘Bit.’ Flynn downed the tablets with a mouthful of tap water.
‘You should have come to the pub with us!’
Flynn groaned, splashed his face with water and sank heavily to the floor, leaning against the fridge. He looked up dizzily as his eyes grew accustomed to the light.