Page 10 of A Wistful Symphony
Rekindling Suite
I ’ ve been pacing around the flat since dawn, hunting for things to keep myself busy.
Laundry, deep cleaning, sorting things for charity.
Anything to prevent me from staring at my phone.
The BBC producer should deliver his verdict today and Ms Thorne assured me she would call as soon as news arrived.
Shockingly, such a vague time span doesn’t agree with my anxiety.
Possessed by the housework goblin as I am, the morning flies by.
I only realise it’s long past lunch hour when my stomach’s beastly growls are loud enough for me to hear.
I settle for a sandwich after concluding I’m too hungry—and too under-skilled—to try one of the million recipe videos I saved for a rainy day.
As I’m doing the dishes, my mind runs wild. They didn’t like the song. BBC would never hire someone inexperienced like me. I’m a mediocre composer. How could I even consider such a job? Ms Thorne will fire my arse when I blow this opportunity.
Once the domestic chores stop working, I resort to the piano.
Music has always been my best weapon to muffle the thoughts.
I run my digits over the ivory keys and choose a couple of Liszt’s Rhapsodies—complex enough to keep my focus.
For a while, it works like a charm. But when BBC covertly crawls back to my mind, Liszt morphs into the piece I composed last week.
The theme song is not bad at all. Peaceful, melodic and yet lively. A smile takes over my lips as I remember what you said last time: delicate phrasings that give the song a wistful colouring. That was some compliment.
It’s even better if I picture the arrangement.
The cello base, its foundation so deep it strings through one’s gut, the violin duo fluttering variations of the melody like a pair of starlings ululating around the piano, the main voice, the core of it all.
There are even droplets of percussion to give it a special touch. It sounds absolutely beautiful.
My screeching ringtone wakes me out of the musical reverie. How is it night already? I sprint to the centre table, almost tripping on the piano bench, and pick up the phone with my heart in my throat. The screen, however, does not show Ms Thorne’s number, but Zoe’s.
I run a disappointed hand through my hair. “What do you want?”
“Gee, thanks for the warm welcome,” she rebukes, and says something unintelligible amidst the background noise. I press the device to my good ear, to no avail. Phone calls are a bitch for the hard of hearing.
“Hang on, I’m going to put you on speaker. Okay, come again?”
“My promotion finally came in,” she shouts. “Me and the gang just got off Hither Green station and we’re coming to the pub down your street. I already texted Delia. Come celebrate with us.”
“Congrats, but I’m waiting for an important call from work. Can’t afford to miss it with all the noise.”
“Then put your phone in your pocket on vibrate, or we can warn you when it rings. Quit making excuses, grandpa.”
Ben, one of her flatmates, chimes in. “Eriiiic, come out and play.”
“Let’s get wasted!” Kayla shouts.
“We’re hard and wet waiting for you!” That was definitely Robin.
Zoe laughs and shushes them. “Eric, four very broke queers came down to your side of the river just so you could be a part of this. Don’t be a wanker.”
“Fine.” I sigh, making my vowels purposely longer. “I can pop in for a swift one.”
“That’s more like it. See you in ten.”
Heading down to the pub on a Thursday evening was not in my plans.
Even if I’m in desperate need of distraction—and there’s nothing of importance on my to-do list—the chaos surrounding that group is sometimes more than I can handle.
Especially when they’re drinking. But I can’t let Zoe down on her big day, and truth be told, a pint wouldn’t hurt.
Nevertheless, I vow not to get drunk while I’m out of the flat.
I can’t afford to lose control in public.
Quit overthinking, Eric.
I spot my cousin and her flatmates the moment I enter the pub. A quartet of loud glitzy queers stands out easily among the normies watching football and chugging pints.
Zoe eats chips in her workplace attire, a brown chequered blazer and tailored trousers straight out of Dead Poets Society —if we ignore the nose ring and Doc Martens.
Her girlfriend Kayla sips a gin and tonic by her side, wearing a witchy purple overcoat that matches her box braids in the bisexual flag colours.
Ben comes from the taps balancing four pints in his hands.
He would be the most average of the four, if his hoodie and joggers weren’t two sizes too big and a blinding shade of neon green.
And last there’s Robin, blathering in vacuum-sealed vinyl trousers and a crop top in mid-January, proving that hoes indeed never feel cold.
“The troll came out of his cave,” Ben exclaims, giving me one of his big Latino hugs. The others cheer after him.
Robin blows two kisses by my cheeks. “Darling, those dark circles look ghastly. You must start doing proper skincare.”
“Oh, we have this amazing eye serum at the shop,” Kayla cuts in. “It’s all natural and 100% vegan. I’ll send you a sample later.”
“Thanks, Kay.” A vegan serum would hardly undo my decades of insomnia. “So, a promotion, huh? Which position?”
“Assistant editor, babe.” Zoe returns my pat on her back with a shoulder punch. “Thank fuck for never writing stupid BuzzFeed-style articles again. Where’s Delia? I texted her like an hour ago.”
“We’ll be lucky if she arrives before midnight.” I chuckle as Ben hands me a spare pint.
“Is Ollie coming?” Robin asks eagerly.
“He’s still in France,” I say. “The tour ends on the second, next month.”
“Aw, shame. I miss those sexy ballet muscles.” Robin is never coy about their massive crush on my best friend.
The chatter goes on, and the first round of pints quickly turns into a second.
Soon, my shoulders lose their stiff posture and laughter comes easy.
Reluctant as I am to admit, it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt all week.
It’s a funny conundrum. With my plain jumper and uptight manners, I may seem like the oddball in such a flamboyant group, but not once have they made me feel unwelcome.
These are my people. There’s no denying it.
Half an hour later, Delia scampers inside the pub, tying her frizzy hair in a high ponytail.
“Ugh, I only just got out of uni. Who schedules a seminar at 6:00 p.m.?” She sits next to Zoe and gives her a tight hug. “Congrats, honey. What did I miss?”
“Rob was telling how they managed to shag the police officer sent to our place for a noise complaint last week,” Kayla says.
“In our room,” Ben stresses. “I had to sleep on the sofa with noise-cancelling headphones.”
Robin giggles at Delia’s gasp. “I’ll give you all the sordid details later, love.”
“Everyone’s here, so it’s time for a toast.” Zoe stands up and lifts her pint.
“After two years working for that shitty website, they finally realised I have enough brain cells for a better position. The hours are crap, my workload will increase, and the raise barely covers this tab. But I’m assistant editor, so cheers, bitches! ”
We all cheer along and bottom up our pints.
Everyone takes a turn patting Zoe’s back, and Kayla gives her a tender peck on the lips.
The chatter is louder than ever. I can barely understand what everyone is saying with all of their voices jumbled up.
As I’m struggling to read Delia’s lips, Ben nudges me on the shoulder.
“Oi, Eric, is that your phone?” He points to my device on the dark wooden table, buzzing and flashing Ms Thorne’s number.
“Everyone shut up!” A drop of cold sweat runs down the back of my neck. “Hello?”
“Lowell? I got word from the BBC,” Ms Thorne says in a tone I can’t deem cheerful or disappointed.
“Alright.” I pause. She draws out the suspense until I can’t stand it. “And what did they say?”
“We got the job. They loved your theme song.”
I stop breathing. My heart gallops against my ribs and my sight blurs enough for me to suspect I’m having a seizure.
“I … I got the soundtrack?” I blabber incredulously, mouth half-open. The gang hollers in excitement and jumps in to hug me as if I’d just won an Oscar.
“What the hell is happening there?” Ms Thorne asks.
“Sorry, I’m at a pub with some friends.” I laugh and try to shush everyone. “Just a moment. I’m going outside.” I sign for the gang to hold on and wedge between the tables until I’m out on the chilly, empty pavement.
“Lowell? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Gosh, I don’t even know what to say.” I smile so hard my cheeks ache. “Thank you so much for this opportunity!”
“Oh, shush, your work speaks for itself. I would be a fool not to recognise it.” A light chuckle sounds on the other side of the line. “We’ll meet with the director at 8.00 a.m. tomorrow to discuss creative options. Be here an hour earlier so we can prepare.”
“I’ll be there for sure. Thank you again, Ms Thorne.”
I hang up and stare, star-struck, at the screen.
Nothing really changes around me: the street stays cold and filthy, the buzz remains unaltered inside the pub, and I’m still an over-worked musician struggling with my mental health.
But the hint of a dream coming true brings beaming colours to the night.
Determined to boast about my good news, I type a general message. My thumb hesitates over your contact’s name, and I swallow hard, wondering why the urge to send you the text is even there.
The answer comes without effort. You were the first one I ever told that I wanted to be a composer, and since then, you’ve shown me nothing but fierce support. You’ve always believed in me, even when I didn’t myself. All I want is to share this happiness with you.
After all this time.