Page 1 of A Wistful Symphony
Opportunity Prelude
O f all days, my coffee maker breaks before the most important meeting of my life.
“Splendid. Just splendid,” I mutter, jabbing at the power button. Dead.
I check my smartwatch. It’s a quarter to seven, and the neighbourhood cafe isn’t open yet.
Perhaps if I waited …. No. The meeting is at eight sharp and the commute to Soho takes at least forty-five minutes.
The train could be late, there could be a malfunction, there could be an obstruction on the rails.
I might have to take the bus after all, and traffic is hell at this hour. I can’t take any chances.
You do not need coffee, Eric.
Missing a compulsion is manageable, but it means less willpower to overlook bigger triggers.
The train, for example. There’s no way I can sit on those filthy seats without the urge to set my clothes on fire.
Holding the bars where everyone puts their contaminated hands is also a no-no.
I always wear gloves when taking the train and even so, I touch the bars as little as possible—which has given me the balance of a yoga practitioner without ever doing so much as a downward dog. Silver linings, I suppose.
Contrary to my worries, the train ride goes smoothly, with only minor delays.
By the time I transfer to the tube at Charing Cross, however, I’ve already thought of seventeen different ways this day might be a disaster if I don’t have my pivotal cup of coffee.
Oh yes, I counted them. Though counting did nothing to quench my anxiety this time.
I reach Bluebell Studios’ building with a tight ten-minute gap and stride to the open elevator. Before I touch the panel, another finger beats me to the fourth-floor button, and I look up for the first time since crossing the entry.
“Morning, Eric. Big day today, innit?” Nick Jameson, the junior composer, flauntshis uncanny-valley veneers.
“Morning. Sure is.” I force a smile, thinking I might chew my arm off if he continues this small talk while I’m caffeine deprived. Then I notice he holds a paper tray with two cups. “Any chance one of those is filter coffee?”
“Sorry, all flat whites. And both Ms Thorne’s.” He presses his lips together apologetically. “She’s already asked for you twice.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Fuck indeed.”
Laura Thorne, my boss and mentor, is an accomplished composer, conductor and music director who had the guts to open her own soundtrack studio in a male-dominated industry. It’s no wonder, giving her relentless dedication. Ms Thorne can be a bigger workaholic than I am, and that’s saying something.
Her combination of tailored trouser suit, tight bun and square face is classy, but makes Ms Thorne look older than her early forties. The ominous dent forming between her eyebrows as she browses her computer only makes it worse.
I tentatively knock on the half-open door. “Ms Thorne? Were you looking for me?”
“God’s sake, Eric, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Her stern gaze pierces me through her gold-rimmed glasses. “The producer just arrived.”
“But I’m on time.” I recoil, stuffing icy hands inside my pockets.
“Oh, please. Early is on time, on time is late, and late is—”
“Unacceptable, I’m aware.”
Great. The day’s barely started and things are already going south. All because of one stupid coffee, as my nagging brain’s been shouting since I left the flat. This day is too important to afford any more mistakes.
Ms Thorne has scheduled an interview with an executive producer from the BBC to develop a soundtrack for one of their new period dramas.
Another Jane Austen adaptation, as if there aren’t enough of those.
She mentioned my name and credentials to the producing team, and they were, in her words, intrigued.
Which probably translates as ‘wary,’ since she also mentioned I’m hard of hearing.
She arranged for me to attend the meeting, and if I manage to impress the producer and help the studio snatch this account, she’ll let me develop the soundtrack as lead composer.
After four years of being stuck with countless stupid jingles and second-rate film scores, which are a waste of my talents, this is a godsend opportunity.
A shot with the BBC will catapult my entire career.
I mean, no one knew who the hell Ramin Djawadi was before he signed with HBO and wrote the score of Game of Thrones .
Now he’s one of the most celebrated composers for television.
I’m more than ready to be the next Ramin Djawadi. Which definitely won’t happen if I have intrusive thoughts sledgehammering in my head while I talk to the BBC representative.
Hence, coffee.
“Is there time for a quick cup of coffee? Please, my machine broke down this morning.”
“Are you serious?” She checks her wristwatch. “I give you exactly sixty seconds.”
“You’re a saint,” I pant, rushing to the office kitchen across the hall.
The coffee maker lies on the far side of the fake granite counter, and I wonder if someone was kind enough to make a fresh brew.
No such luck. The pot’s weight tells me it only holds yesterday’s remains.
The urge to make a new batch corrodes my insides, but cleaning the pot and waiting for the machine to do its business would take more time than I can spare. Old coffee it is.
The content of the pot fills less than half of the mug. Not nearly close to 200ml. I ignore the ill feelings, but as soon as the coffee touches my tongue, I wince. It’s cold and tastes like dirt. Wrong. Entirely wrong.
“Your minute is over. Conference room. Stat,” Ms Thorne demands from the kitchen door.
“Of course. Right away.” With a sigh, I pour the leftovers in the sink and leave the mug behind.
Suck it up and carry on. That’s what high-functioning adults do.
If only.
As soon as the conference room door opens, my stomach churns.
For weeks I’ve prepared for this interview, making cue cards and spreadsheets with everything they could possibly ask.
I tell myself there’s nothing I haven’t thought of an answer for, but once I see the suited man perched on an armchair, all my conviction flies out the window.
You’ll never remember your answers without coffee.
“Good morning, Mr Harrow.” Ms Thorne takes the lead. “Did my assistant offer you some tea?”
“Oh yes, it was quite lovely.” He gets up and shakes her hand. “Seems like we’re barely on time, isn’t it?”
Her smile is plastered in place. “This is Eric Lowell, the young composer I mentioned before.” She gestures at me, and I comply with a swift nod.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” I stutter on the last word, my thoughts echoing that somehow the coffee shortage is going to make this man hate me.
“Pleasure to meet you, young man. Heard quite a few things about you.”
He extends his palm. I stare at it for a split second. Ms Thorne throws me a sideways glance, and I offer the man a stiff smile before shaking his hand. Sticky. Covered in bacteria. I breathe deeply and count to ten as I curl my itching fingers into a tight fist and rest them against my body.
One more trigger for my stupid brain to feast on. Lovely.
We all grab our seats around a coffee—shit, I can’t stop thinking about it—table, Mr Harrow back to the comfy leather armchair, and Ms Thorne and I on the two smaller suede ones right in front of him.
The muted light of a winter morning filters through the open blinds. There’s a chilly breeze around the room, too weak to cut through my jumper. The look on Harrow’s face as he opens a binder and removes the cap of a fancy fountain pen is definitely colder.
“During our previous contacts, I was led to believe you would do the compositions yourself, Ms Thorne, not hand them over to your apprentice.”
He hates you. He hates you. He hates you.
“I oversee the arrangements, production and post-production, and involve myself closely in every studio project,” she answers without batting an eye. “Which, as you’re surely aware, leaves me little time for the creative process itself. That part is left upon my top composer’s shoulders.”
By now I’m used to people doubting my skills, be it for my youth or the hearing impairment. But Ms Thorne having my back like this instils a fresh wave of confidence in my veins.
“Such narrow shoulders for a rather large task.” He flashes me a condescending smirk while adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, as if to take a better look. “What is your experience in the field again, Mr Lowell?”
“I have an undergraduate degree in composition from the Royal Academy of Music and moved on to the Royal College for my master’s because of their Composition for Screen programme,” I enumerate, though he holds my complete resume right there on his lap.
“Ms Thorne hired me soon after. I’ve been working at Bluebell Studios for the past four years. ”
Perfect. Just as I practiced.
“I see. It says in your history that you were highly recommended by your tutors, yet you took a gap year before you got into the Royal Academy. Care to explain?”
The tricky question knocks me off balance. I glance down and purse my lips, scavenging my brain for the answer I rehearsed the week before.
You’ll never find it without coffee.
“It was a tough year, because of my accident.” I point to the hearing aids. “I needed time to recover and adjust to my new reality.”
“Oh,” he pauses, visibly embarrassed. “That’s unfortunate. Impressive that you achieved so much after that.”
“Thank you.” I smile, sure that the suited prick didn’t see that one coming.
“Your undergraduate and postgraduate records are also impressive.” He scans the papers and dwells longer on a particular page. “Marvin Burgess is your father, is that so?” He glances at me again, now inarguably puzzled. “A known name in the industry. Yet you don’t use it?”