Page 41 of A Wistful Symphony

“This chorus seems too much like the one on track eleven,” Ms Thorne says, amongst the infinite revisions. “Can you put some variation into it?”

“Variation. Got it.”

“Good. Now, about the bridge ….”

Ms Thorne goes on about how a shift in tone might bring out the feeling the scene needs, but I can’t focus on a single word.

All I can think of is Marvin. His smug smile, his falsely wounded expression.

How many times have he and Delia met? What have they talked about me?

About Mum? What filthy lies has he fed my sister on a silver spoon?

Has he turned Delia against me? Or worse, what if he’s done absolutely nothing and I’m the one fucking everything up?

No. I can’t spiral like that. Ms Thorne is talking. Work is more important .

War rages in my head, making my heart race and splitting me between duty and delirium.

I lose the battle.

“Lowell, are you even listening to me?” Ms Thorne snaps, one menacing note higher.

“Yes, of course, Ms Thorne. Shift the tone and pace up the tempo.” I swiftly repeat.

“Pace down the tempo,” she stresses, pursing her thin lips. “If you think wasting my time at this stage of our project is in any way acceptable, I’ll find someone who won’t.”

“I’m sorry. I swear it won’t happen again.”

“You know what? Go have a coffee or something, Eric. Your head is a million miles away.”

I swiftly nod and leave her alone in the production room.

A cup of coffee will do nothing for my thoughts, but I take the time to breathe in some fresh air.

I run to the lift without so much as a glance up and go to the ground level.

Our shift ended half an hour ago, and the sun is almost gone.

God knows what time I’ll be home. I stand on the street, brace against the outside wall, and shut my eyes. Fuck. I’m ruining everything.

“What a shitshow this week has been, innit?” Jameson stands right next to me, taking a drag of a cigarette.

I let out a sigh. “Tell me about it.”

“Want one?” He extends the cigarette box to me. “Looks like you could use a cig.”

“Thanks, I quit.” It’s my automatic answer, but the old itch tickles inside my throat.

Nothing placates my anxiety like nicotine.

Every time I’ve gone back to smoking was because of it.

I ball my hands into fists, nails plunging against my skin.

It’s an innocent vice, isn’t it? One cigarette.

Just this once. Just today. Just so I can rip Marvin out of my mind.

You’ll never make it without my help.

“You know what?” I turn back to Jameson. “I think I’ll have one.”

“Sure thing.” He gives me a cigarette and lights it after I put it between my lips.

The first drag comes like the calm after the storm. Acrid smoke fills my lungs, carrying its filthy substances to my bloodstream. I take another. And another. Soon, my heartbeat steadies, and my hands lose their tremor. The stillness is bliss.

Just until I finish this project, I repeat to myself. I’ve quit a million times. I can do it again. It doesn’t hurt to use a crutch in times of need. Right?

I’m a fucking hypocrite.

Work is utter shit. This week has been an agonising hell of failed recordings, crappy compositions and missed deadlines. Of trying not to think about Marvin, or Delia, or Mum, or everything that happened between us when I was a kid. The more I try, the worse it gets.

You’ll never make it without my help.

Ms Thorne reprimanded me for my lousy work so many times I have nightmares with her voice.

On Thursday, she sends me home a little before lunch because I can’t get a single thing done.

She says the sanctity of my flat will be better for me to focus on the extra compositions.

It’s a lie. I’m dragging everyone’s work with my bullshit, and productivity would be much better if I’m not around.

She just doesn’t want to say it to my face.

At home, things aren’t any better. The silence and loneliness make the thoughts scream ever louder.

I sit at the piano for countless hours, muffling everything with music.

The way I did as a kid. When war raged and screams resounded through the rooms of our house, and all I could do to escape was lull my terrors with classical music.

Stop. Stop thinking about that.

Time passes and I forget to eat or drink. My only pauses between songs are cigarette breaks. The box empties, and I go out to get another. I end up buying five so I won’t need to leave the flat for the rest of the week. Music and cigarettes. It’s all I need to get this job done.

Ms Thorne keeps calling me non-stop. I delivered the first extra song a day late, and the second one isn’t looking any better.

Truth be told, I’ve had the skeletons of both ready for a while, but nothing seems to make them sound good.

I need to deliver more than a proper job this time to redeem myself. It has to be perfect.

Not right. Everything about this is wrong.

After a brief pause for coffee and cigarettes, I return to the piano and try to work out a section I’m stuck on. I play it over and over, but each time it sounds worse.

Not right. Not right at all.

I keep up the repetition until my buzzing phone calls my attention. My hands freeze, thinking it’s Ms Thorne yet again, but your number flashes on the screen.

“Andrew, what’s up?” I take advantage of the break to flex my sore fingers.

“I’m at the building door. Open up for me?”

“Alright.” I hang up with knitted brows and skip down the staircase. “Has something come up?”

“It’s half-past six. I’m here to pick you up for dinner.” Your nose wrinkles, a tiny grimace morphing on your face. “You reek of cigarettes. Are you smoking again?”

“It’s a slip out of stress. I’ll eventually quit again.” I glance down, the disapproval on your countenance making me swallow hard. You might as well have said I’m weak. Gullible. A fucking failure. “Anyway, isn’t dinner on Saturday?”

You frown. “Today is Saturday, Eric.”

“What?” My half-open mouth can’t settle on horror or laughter. “No, it’s Friday.”

“Check your phone.”

I retrieve the device, and my eyes bulge.

“Shit,” I mutter. My voice becomes louder by the second. “Shit, shit shit! This song was due yesterday!”

Startled by my exasperation, you put both hands on my shoulders.

“Hey, you got the days confused. It happens to the best of us.” Your tone is sincere, though a minor twitch on your lips shows me your disappointment.

“Tell you what—we skip the dinner date, and I keep you company while you finish your work. I can cook something. Sound good?”

My close-to-hyperventilating breaths become steadier with your suggestion. “Yeah.” I take a deeper breath and nod. “Sounds nice.”

“Great. Now let’s go inside.”

You gently touch my shoulder as we go up the stairs. As soon as you hang your jacket on the rack, I return to the piano bench and leave you to it.

“What would you like to eat? Anything at all.” You make your way to the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Andrew.” My trembling fingers rest on the keys. “I’m barely hungry, to be honest. Cook whatever you fancy. I’m not picky.”

“That might take a while,” you chuckle, but I do not mirror your humour. Taking the hint, you bite your lower lip and leave me with my music.

I can’t believe I missed the due date again. Ms Thorne must be pulling her hair, and she already berated me so many ways for the delay in the previous song. Something I’m not eager to relive.

Stop, Eric. It’s too late to ruminate about it. Finishing this song is the priority.

I play what I have, testing if I can see what comes next. Nothing but a couple of phrasings, and one of them is a tedious repetition of the main theme. Not right.

“I guess there’s enough for a decent omelette. Would you like one?” you tentatively ask, putting your head through the open door.

I don’t even turn. “Whatever, Andrew, just let me work.”

“Right.” From the corner of my eye, I see you grimace before you go back to the kitchen.

A new phrasing comes to me, and I gasp at the hope of progress. I try the idea on the ivory keys, weaving it with sore fingers. Wrong. Entirely wrong. I delete it and go back to square one.

My head and jaw hurt from all the clenching, but I can’t stop. This needs to be done today, or else my entire career will be jeopardised.

“Omelette is ready,” you announce after what seems to be a minute. A glance at the wall clock tells me it’s been half an hour.

“Leave it on the dining table. I’ll get to it soon enough.”

You eat your dinner with lowered eyes, throwing swift glances in my direction. What are you doing here looking like an abandoned puppy that didn’t get enough attention? I don’t have time for this, Andrew. There are more pressing things in my life than my boyfriend’s silent plea for quality time.

The music goes on, over and over, like the repetition might shift it into something different. It doesn’t, but I can’t stop. I need to set this thing right before I move on.

You retrieve a digital reader from your jacket and make yourself comfortable, quietly disappearing into the pages of whatever book is your latest. Several minutes pass until you can’t hold back anymore.

“My mum is better, if you’re wondering. Though she has—”

“Andrew, for the love of God, shut up,” I cut you off, coming out harsher that I intended.

You chew the inside of your cheek and begrudgingly swallow your response.

On another day, I would ask all about how your meeting with your mother went. It must’ve been so hard for you, reconnecting with that part of your past. I would be by your side and show genuine interest in everything you have to say. Today, however, I don’t have the means to.

Time passes, and I still struggle with that damn segment. No progress whatsoever. Cold sweat drips from my neck, all the way down my spine. My fingers sting, stiff enough to lose their agility, which only makes the music sound worse by the minute. I huff, desperation creeping in.