Page 40 of A Wistful Symphony

Unruly Sarabande

H ow does a person get back to normalcy after the most gruesome ghost of his past comes waltzing in?

He pretends nothing has happened. Goes to work as usual, plunges himself into song and composition until he can barely breathe.

Lets his partner fuck him until there can be nothing else on his mind. Death by denial.

Unhealthy? Yes. My therapist thinks so as well.

She says I’m refusing to deal with my feelings, like the good Brit I am.

Bottling things up has always been my go-to coping mechanism, and it never ends well.

I know it. She knows it. But as the BBC deadline creeps in, I see no other solution.

Opening this particular Pandora’s box would make me fall apart, and I can’t afford that.

Not when I’m so close to reaching the shifting point in my career.

The show must go on. Or so I thought.

It’s been six hours since I’ve tried to come up with an arrangement for the next song in the score, but all I have on the sheet music is one phrasing. Barely. More like a glorified cadence. And even that sounds like shit.

Not right. It’s not right.

I repeat the phrasing again and give up on it, deleting everything in frustration until the digital pen falls out of my hand.

“Crap.” I reach under the piano where the pen fell as my phone rings for the third time today.

“Eric, do you have the sheet music ready?” Ms Thorne’s dry tone greets me on the other side of the line.

I glance at the horribly scribbled half-page on my tablet. “Not yet, but it’s coming together. I’ll send it later.”

Her long sigh makes my stomach plummet. “I need to revise it today , before we send it to the orchestra for rehearsal.”

“Please, Ms Thorne, give me a little more time? I’m having trouble with this one.”

“The deadline is closing in, Eric. One more month until we deliver this whole thing. We can’t afford to fall behind schedule.”

“I know, I know.” I sigh, pressing the corners of my eyes. “I promise I’ll have it ready by the end of the day.”

“You better.” She hangs up on me.

I go back to the tablet. Nothing. The dread of failure takes over and chills run down my spine.

Fucking Marvin . He had to get under my skin, like he always does on the rare occasions we’ve met over the past thirteen years.

I thought I was rid of him, of his poisonous presence, of his hurtful words.

But what if he was right?

What if he’s interfered with more than just the BBC job?

My admittance at the Royal Academy, my hiring at Bluebell Studios, the accounts I’ve scored so far.

And worse, what if I’m lying to myself, thinking I can overcome my mental health problems and my disability?

What if there’s too much of a gap between me and everyone else in the industry?

If everything I’ve achieved so far was out of pity, and not my merit?

What if? What if? What if?

My head sinks forward, hitting the keys with a dissonant thump. I’m exhausted from thinking the same things over and over. I just wish it would stop, so I can do my damn job properly.

Perhaps if I watch the scene again, I’ll have a fresh idea. Yes. Sounds like a plan.

I put the tablet away and close the fallboard. Clean all the sticky notes I left around the sitting room, walk a little, make myself some late lunch, wash the dishes.

I’m stalling. But mindless chores help stop the thoughts.

Finally, I sit on the sofa and play the scene on my laptop. I watch it on repeat, trying to picture some sort of theme that matches it, until my phone rings again.

Delia. She’s been calling me non-stop for the past week.

I don’t want to talk to her. Not while the resentment still boils like lava spreading through my chest. While the rational part in me knows it’s not her fault, this wretched feeling urges me to spit at her the ugliest things that come to mind.

Take my frustration, my rage, my trauma, and vomit them all over her.

She doesn’t deserve it, so I’d rather stay away.

She doesn’t seem to take the hint. My phone keeps buzzing, and I try to ignore the flashing screen by my side. I turn the volume up on my laptop and focus on the scene. A doomed endeavour. With my mind a thousand miles away, I grumble, pause the video, and take the call.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say instead of hello.

“Jeez, what have I done now?” you say, taking me by surprise.

Since our fight, there’s been a strange truce between us. I went to your flat. Apologised. We had make-up sex. That was it. Pretending everything is okay is like walking on thin ice, each wrong word a new crack that threatens to make us fall.

“Sorry, Andrew.” I sigh, passing one hand over my face. “I thought it was Delia again.”

“You two still aren’t talking?” I can hear the disapproval in your tone. “Come on, Eric, it’s been like a week and you’re still mad at her? Over that silly thing?”

My reasons are far from silly, but I can’t blame you for thinking that way. Not when I’ve kept my issues close to the chest and refused to share them.

“This isn’t about the sugar daddy thing. It’s something else.”

“Yeah, I thought so. But I can’t help you if you don’t open up to me, Eric.”

“I know.” My head falls back on the sofa, and I shut my eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just …. I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet. Soon, okay?”

“Sure. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” There’s a pause on the other side of the line. “But that’s not why I called. My mother told me she’s sick, so I’ve taken a few days off to visit her in Somerset. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

“Will I be okay?” I gasp in disbelief. “Will you be okay? You haven’t seen her in years, right?”

“Yeah, I guess I haven’t thought about it that way.” You nervously chuckle. “We’ve been talking so much on the phone it feels like she’s close.” You pause. “We’ll be alright. I think. As long as the reverend doesn’t see me.”

“I’ll be rooting for you.” I smile, itching to do more, but unable to. “In the meantime, I’ll deal with the million deadlines at work. It’s actually good timing that you’ll be away.”

“Is Ms Thorne biting you in the arse?”

“You have no idea.” We laugh together.

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Maybe we could go out for dinner next Saturday and I can tell you how things went with my mother.”

“It’s a date.” A pinch of relief seasons my smile. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.”

I hang up and keep staring at the phone screen. This is just a setback. A bump on the road that will shake things for a while and sort itself out in time. Marvin is nothing but a ghost. He’ll howl in the darkest hours and vanish with the first morning light. All I have to do is wait.

I put the noise-cancelling headphones back on and concentrate on the work scene. It’s no use.

The ghost is still there.

“Come on, people, this song needs to be done today,” Ms Thorne bellows to the orchestra during the last recording sessions of this track. “Remember, we still have two extra songs to rehearse. Again, from the top.”

The musicians try to be discreet, but a wave of sighing and mumbling buzzes through the room.

It’s fifty minutes past lunch hour and everyone is exhausted.

I’m even subbing as the pianist, since our guy called in sick today.

I don’t have the right to complain. I delivered the last song a day late, and everyone barely had time to look at the sheet music before recording. Hence the horrible session.

It turns out two extra songs caught everyone by surprise. We already had a tight schedule, and fitting in more work means we have to perform miracles. There’s no time for distractions. No time for calling in sick. No time to deal with memories of an abusive father.

I need to be at the top of my game.

Once the song ends, Ms Thorne leans on the production table and presses the speaker button. “Let’s do it again, from bar 26. Brass, tone it down a bit, and strings, more intention if you please? It’s a dramatic scene, after all.”

The anguished melody fills the recording room.

Though I try to put my head into the song’s nuances, now and then my mind drifts to the past. Blaring voices.

The smack of a slap. Various shades of purple.

Crying. Alcohol. So much alcohol. A younger version of myself trying to make a stand.

Useless. Glass cracking against my back.

A trip to the hospital. Lying about it afterward.

You’ll never make it without my help.

“Stop, stop.” Ms Thorne interrupts us. “Eric, you’re dragging.

And woodwinds, there was some leakage in your section, so we’ll have to do it again.

” The mumbling gets louder, and Ms Thorne shushes everyone.

“Come on, people, I’m as hungry and tired as you are.

One last run on the second half and we’re done. ”

She clears us for lunch half an hour after that.

It’s all my fault. I can sense the sideways looks, the whispers every time I pass in the corridors.

I’m cracking. Dragging this project down with my bullshit and taking the entire studio with it.

Me, who only got this project because his father, the famous producer, put in a word with the BBC.

Everyone is late for lunch and will probably have to stay over hours because of the useless nepo baby.

You’ll never make it without my help.

The afternoon is no better than the morning.

My newest composition is utter shit and Ms Thorne’s red pen revision looks like a slasher massacre.

We try to fix everything along with the orchestra, but it only gets them frustrated with the countless changes and repetitions.

My mind is fraying at the seams, and I can barely concentrate.

Ms Thorne notices and calls me out more times than not.

It does not make me look good in front of the rest of the team.

You’ll never make it without my help.