Page 11 of A Wistful Symphony

Mum sends me the sweetest line of congratulations and says she already knew I’d get the job (that makes one of us).

Nan Olympia sends a line of scattered letters and emojis, which I think means she’s excited.

Ollie demands we go to a fancy place and celebrate once he gets back from France.

And, to my surprise, there’s also a response from you.

you got it? omg that’s great news!

congrats Eric!

Thanks! I’m stoked!

as you should

are you celebrating today?

I’m at a pub with Delia, Zoe, and some friends.

You could join us.

While the three dots appear and disappear on the screen—for way longer that necessary—Zoe crosses the wooden doors. She takes a pack of smokes and a lighter from her blazer and stands a couple of feet away.

“Want one?” she asks, lighting her cigarette.

“Thanks, but I quit.”

“And this is attempt number …?”

“Fuck off.” I laugh and turn back to the screen.

idk Eric

it’s late and I don’t wanna intrude

but we could do something tomorrow

my last class ends at 5PM

meet me at the institute?

Sounds perfect.

I was wondering how Mr Westcott looks on the job.

Perhaps I’ll drop by earlier and check it out.

there’s not much to see

really

but feel free to drop by anytime

Will do.

Send me the address?

I reread our texts with a smile plastered to my face until I find Zoe side-eying me.

“Who was that?”

“Andrew,” I answer dryly. Since Delia knows, there’s no point in trying to hide your resurgence.

“Andrew?” Her eyebrow raises almost to her hairline, which is impressive due to the size of her forehead. “ The Andrew? As in the guy who almost wrecked your life and made you a mess for over a year? That Andrew?”

“Yes, him.”

“Jesus, Eric, what does that guy have? Honey on his cock?”

“Classy, Zoe.”

“You either have an awful memory or you’re plain masochistic.” She blows out a wave of smoke and shakes her head. “Look, it’s your life. I won’t tell you what to do. But when this guy breaks your heart, I’m going to be there to say ‘I told you so’ and pick up your pieces. Again.”

“Noted. Now let’s go back inside. I’m freezing out here.”

It’s Friday afternoon, and the sky is darkening in watercolour splatters of purple and royal blue.

The streets of Soho bristle with movement and artificial lights.

People are going home, running to pubs for happy hour, or strolling on the pavement, chattering and window shopping. The city is alive, and so am I.

When I arrive at my destination, I almost laugh.

It’s an enormous church with towers reaching for the sky, Gothic arches, bronze bells and fancy crosses, the whole deal.

I enter the nave tentatively, soaking in the place.

There’s a line of saints with their judgmental stony faces turned at me, and I low-key expect to burst into flames for the many times I’ve mocked religion.

The priest welcomes me with kind wishes, and I mention your name.

He gives me a wide smile and points to an exit at the north transept leading to the adjacent building.

Third door to the left, and I can either wait here and talk to God while I’m at it, or attend your class, as long as I keep quiet and don’t disturb the kids. I choose the latter, obviously.

The directions weren’t necessary. All I had to do was follow the shrieking sound of cats scratching violin strings.

I grip the door handle and open it delicately.

You stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by a group of twelve kids holding second-hand instruments.

Mid-conducting, you smile at me. I return the silent greeting and point to the chairs at the back.

A couple of kids notice my entrance and start to chatter, but you swiftly call them out.

I observe your class for a while, and though the music is atrocious—understandable, since the kids look younger than ten—it’s easy to see why you like it so much.

You help a girl adjust the tapes on her violin’s fingerboard and put her little fingers in the correct position.

Her face beams when a clear note comes out of the instrument, and you compliment her effusively.

My smile widens. You have such a sweet manner of talking to them. Such patience.

“He has a way with the little ones, doesn’t he?” The deep voice almost makes me jump out of my skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t sneak up on people like that!” I raise a hand to my chest, peering at that bloke Danny’s idiotic grin.

“Watch the language, mate. There are kids here and this is a church.” He chuckles. “And I hardly snuck up on you. I was here before you came in.”

“If you come at me from my right side, I can’t hear you, especially with that much noise.” I point at my hearing aids.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He raises his hands apologetically, though the broad grin remains. Danny has such a childlike attitude it’s borderline irritating. “Are you two going out?”

“Yes, we are,” I answer, not knowing how it’s any of his business.

“He’ll probably end the class late; he always does. Andy loves those kids. I’m sure you can tell. All it takes is for one of them to ask a question or mention something about their lives at the orphanage and he stays. I hope you don’t mind waiting. It’s not his fault. He means well.”

I nod and force a smile. Gosh, does this guy ever shut up?

“I mean, you can understand why he likes to work with them, coming from a broken home himself. Even if they often overload him, being autistic and all.”

“Wait, come again?”

“I thought you knew Andy’s on the spectrum.”

“Oh, I do. Didn’t think you knew about it, though. Andrew used to be touchy about that.”

“He still is.” Danny leans back and scratches his buzz cut. “But it was important that I knew his triggers back when I was his sponsor. And Andy has very few friends, so it’s good to have someone close who can help with his struggles.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” I swallow hard, reliving the time when I was the one who knew about your troubles, but you still kept me at arm’s length. To think you let Danny stay, to think he’s closer to you than I ever was, makes my chest burn. Ten years is quite a long time.

Danny keeps talking gibberish about your classes, along with anecdotes of your first year with the kids. To be fair, that’s something I want to know more about, but not the someone I wish to hear it from. I zone out and let Danny talk to himself, mostly out of spite.

You end the lesson and say goodbye to the kids one by one, calling them by their first names. A cheeky boy asks about me, and you say in quite an authoritarian tone that I’m a friend from your hometown. That muffles down the kids’ teasing.

Disappointment creeps in my gut. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to tell a group of children I’m your ex-boyfriend, but the fear that all I am to you is an acquaintance from your teenage years, a time I’m sure you wish to forget, lurks in and settles like poison.

You could never mean so little to me, Andrew.

“Sorry for making you wait.” You grin apologetically, massaging the nape of your neck.

I get up from my chair. “It’s okay. I told you I’d come early and watch you teach.”

“Yeah, sorry about that too.” You twist your face in a playful grimace. “This group is still raw.”

“I turned off my hearing aids through most of it.”

“Silver linings, I suppose.” You chuckle. “Do you have a place for us to go?”

“I figured we could decide together. I’m in the mood for something simple.”

“You guys could go to the Southbank and look around the food market,” Danny cuts in. “Plenty of options there.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea,” you say. “We can eat something and chill. What do you say, Eric?”

“Fine by me.”

“Awesome,” Danny says. “You kids go and have fun. I’ll clean up and lock the room.”

“Dan, you don’t have to.”

“Easy, mate, go enjoy your date. Just bring home some extra-spicy curry and we’re square.”

“Not a date, but—” You give up and laugh. “Sure thing.”

A sting shoots straight through my heart.

‘Not a date.’ What does this mean? That the chance of us being more than friends is out of the question?

Or are you simply stating that this particular encounter is not romantic?

I can never tell with you. And why did you have to stress it so bluntly?

Your raw honesty is one of your best qualities, but sometimes it’s a real pain in the arse.

Snap out of it, Eric.

My overthinking is making me fall behind. I wave a goodbye at Danny and follow you back to the corridor.

“You guys live together?” I ask, steering my thoughts to something else.

“Yeah, we’re flatmates. London is crazy expensive, and I had to cut off some of the rent.”

“Tell me about it. I can barely afford a one-bedroom in Southeast London.”

“No flatmates?”

“God, no.” I chuckle. “Having my own place is priceless. Besides, I needed a bit of space after living in that crowded cottage.”

“I totally get that.” We cross the church’s great arches, and I raise a palm to the darkening skies to test the weather.

“Zoe was so pissed that I didn’t want to share when she came to London. Now she rents a flat in Hoxton with three other people, which is crazy if you ask me. They live like hippies, and the place looks like an animal cage most of the time.”

You burst into laughter, and a rat-looking lady in an ugly mustard coat throws us a quibbling glare.

“Are those the friends you were with yesterday?”

“The very ones. They’re good people. A handful, but good people.”

We cross Shaftesbury Avenue with our hands in our pockets and tiny sprinkles of rain prickling our faces.

Both of us silently agree to stay out of the main streets, to avoid the thundering wave of tourists and get a better view of the riveting night in the West End.

The ploy works until we reach Trafalgar Square, crowded like an anthill, and inevitable if we mean to walk over the Golden Jubilee Bridge.