Page 36 of A Wistful Symphony

Unexpected Trio

T he power of joy over one’s creative mind never ceases to amaze me.

Forget Hollywood’s version of the tortured artist who needs to be at rock bottom to create transcending masterpieces.

It doesn’t work that way. Being relaxed, excited about the project, and confident about myself is how I make my best music.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been composing with thunderous drive, one I haven’t felt in years.

Perhaps it’s a reflection of everything going right in my life: I’m working in my dream field, I have a great family and a tight group of friends, and the love of my life is sleeping in my bed.

This is usually the time when I doubt my good fortune and start sabotaging myself, but curiously, I don’t feel the urge to.

Instead, a strange sort of peace has fallen upon me.

Is this what happiness feels like?

It’s late in the morning, and you come out of my bedroom wearing only a pair of joggers. I know it’s corny to call you my muse, but come on. The angled sunlight shining on your bedhead waves, glistening over your naked abs, is enough material for at least three more songs.

“Morning,” you say, muffled by a yawn. “Have you seen my glasses?”

“Probably tossed around here somewhere.” I flash a grin as I edit the sheet music on my tablet. “We weren’t exactly tidy last night.”

“Who has the time for tidy, anyway?” You sort through the pillows on the sofa. “Here they are. In one piece, by some miracle.”

I throw in a quiet laugh and resume the music. A slow and melancholic theme for the sequence in which Marianne falls ill.

You watch over my shoulder. “It’s Saturday morning, Eric. Why are you working?”

“Had an idea for this song. It’s not due until next week, but I didn’t want to waste inspiration.”

“Such a model employee,” you purr, peppering kisses on the back of my neck. One hell of a way to work.

You sneak your fingers under my T-shirt and play with the waistband of my pants as I carry on with the music—chords in minor tones that don’t match your warmer moves in the slightest—until the sudden chime of my ringtone wakes me from your arousing touch.

“Let it go to voicemail,” you say, nibbling my earlobe.

“It’s my boss. I have to take this.” Dodging your arms, I pick up the phone. Your pout is priceless. “Hello, Ms Thorne. Is everything alright?”

“More than alright. The director is loving your work so far.” She pauses, and I brace for what’s coming. “So much so, he ordered two more songs. Some scenes changed a lot in post-production. Think you can manage?”

“Of course,” I say at once.

“Are you sure? The deadline remains and they’re non-negotiable about it.” I can picture the famous creases between her brows from her tone alone. “I could hand the extra work to Jameson.”

“Don’t.” I cut in hastily. “Keep Jameson’s greedy paws away from my score. I can do this.”

“Alright. Your call, Eric. Remember the deadline.”

“I’ll rearrange my worksheet stat.” I hang up and turn to you. “Apparently, I’m no longer ahead of schedule. They just ordered two more songs.”

“Does this mean you’ll have to work all day?” The pouting intensifies, making me wish to take a bite of your rosy lips.

“At least until Delia gets here.” I sigh aloud. “She’s been bitching that we don’t hang out anymore since you and I got back together. She’ll murder me if I cancel lunch again.”

“No worries.” You put one arm around my waist and peck my lips. “I can handle the food and tidy the place while you work.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” I smile and kiss you again.

I get back to the piano with fresh tenacity injected into my fingers. The extra work makes a thin wave of anxiety creep into my brain, but I brush the thoughts away. It’s only two more songs. Relaxed as I am, I’ll probably handle it in no time.

You change your clothes, clean up the mess we made in the sitting room and cocoon yourself in the kitchen until the doorbell buzzes.

“I hope you guys like red, because that’s all I had,” Delia announces, showing a bottle of something that barely qualifies as wine.

“Andrew’s making spaghetti. It fits.” I take the bottle from her hands and show her in.

She flashes a lopsided grin. “Oh, he cooks? What a talented brother-in-law I have.”

“Come on, quit it.” I roll my eyes and point to the trendy green dress she’s wearing. “Is this new?”

“Uh-huh. Do you like it?” She half-twirls, showing it off.

“You can’t afford decent wine, but come in a new dress?”

“Priorities, dear, priorities.” She heedlessly waves a manicured hand and goes to the kitchen. “Hey Andrew, the smell is great. May I have a taste?”

“No one in the kitchen before I finish.” You drive my sister away like shooing a flock of hens.

“Alright, alright. Jeez, I’m going.” She leaves her purse on the coffee table and turns to me. “I need to hit the loo.”

“You know the way.” I wait for her to be inside the bathroom before turning to you. “Delia is definitely seeing an older man.”

“Huh?” You stick your head out the kitchen door, brows knit. “What makes you think that?”

“She’s always wearing something new. Expensive things. On my birthday she had a fancy bag, now this dress. It’s chiffon, and reeks of designer.”

Your lips tremble, widening into a grin. “How do you even know what chiffon is?”

“With Delia as a sister? Of course I know.” I shake my head. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I checked her credit card invoice and there’s nothing of the sort on there.”

“You checked her invoice?” You intone every word. “That’s barging into her privacy.”

“Sure, but she’s my sister and I need to watch out for her.” I shrug. “As I was saying, this can only mean there’s someone else paying for these things. Probably an older bloke.”

“And? She’s an adult, Eric.”

“An incredibly na?ve adult.” My eyes roll all the way to the back of my head. “Look, she’s easy prey being the impulsive materialist that she is. Delia often puts herself in dangerous situations, and I’ll be damned if I let some horny old prick act like he’s entitled to her.”

“If you say so.” You turn to the stove, your disapproval painted all over your face. “What do you intend to do?”

“Prove my theory. And you’re going to help me.”

“Eric.” You sigh aloud. “You know I’m terrible with these things.”

“All you have to do is keep her glass full and distract her until she needs to use the loo again. Then I can check her texts.” I point at her bag. “Don’t worry, I know her password.”

“You know her—” You huff. “You two have serious boundary issues, you know?”

“Sure, ‘Boundary issues’ should be our family motto.”

The bathroom door opens, and I raise both eyebrows at you, waiting for confirmation. You mouth “fine.”

“Were you talking about me?” Delia says. My spine freezes, thinking she might’ve heard something.

“Just about the food.” Your voice calls through the kitchen door. “It’s almost done.”

“Oh, nice.” She serves herself a glass of wine. “And what are you boys up to besides shagging like bunnies? You should keep it down a tad. Mrs Fitz said she can hear you both when she’s trying to watch her telly.”

I gag in the middle of a sip, spurting some of the wine back into the glass. I hope to God she’s joking, or I can never look my landlady in the eye again. “Keep your nose out of our sex life, if you please?”

She giggles. “Why should I? Making you blush like a teenage boy is so much fun.”

“Lunch is ready. Hope you like my homemade tomato sauce.” You come back and put the tray on the table between us.

I sigh in relief. “Thank God.”

“Such a drama queen,” Delia snorts, filling her plate and taking a bite. “Oh my gosh, Andrew, this is everything.” She twirls another forkful of spaghetti and hums while chewing. “Please, never leave my brother.”

“Thanks.” A smile carves dimples on your cheeks while you lift the bottle. “More wine to go with it?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Delia says ‘when’ only when the wine is close to the brim. Luckily, my sister inherited our grandmother’s taste in alcohol.

“So, do you have any embarrassing stories of Eric from when you were little?”

“Wait, what?” I cut in.

“Oh, I have tons of those.” Delia takes a large sip and clears her throat. “When he was eight, he was convinced the old lady down our street was a witch. He would run away every time he’d see her.”

“No way.” You laugh. “Why was that?”

“In my defence, I had just watched The Witches , and that lady wore a wig and kept trying to give me candy.”

“She was nice and had alopecia, Eric.”

You chortle, putting a hand over your mouth so you don’t spit. “Oh my gosh. Now you have to tell me more of those. More wine?”

Another two stories follow, and my ears turn the same colour as the tomato sauce. We open another bottle, and my sister’s third glass of wine turns into the fourth.

“Guys, excuse me, I need to hit the loo again.”.

“By all means,” I mutter, throwing a significant glance at you. When the door closes behind Delia, I say. “I don’t approve of your choice of topic, but that was awesome, Andrew.”

“Oh, come on, I loved hearing about the time you built a dog out of Play-Doh and cotton balls, and tried to walk him down the street.” You burst out laughing, almost not finishing the sentence. “What was his name again?”

“Bernard. He was a Bichon Frisé.”

My answer only makes you laugh even harder.

Unlocking my sister’s phone, I scroll through her texts, easily finding what I was looking for. “I knew it. ‘See you tomorrow, daddy.’ She has a goddamn sugar daddy, Andrew.” I turn the screen so you can see.

“Still, it’s her life.”

“She has no idea what she’s getting into.” I scroll through more of their conversation, snap some screenshots, send them to myself, and wipe my trail. “They’re meeting at a fancy restaurant in Mayfair tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And we’re going to follow her there and see what this guy’s intentions are.”

“We?” You frown with your mouth half-open. “Come on, Eric, that’s ridiculous.”