Page 51 of A Wistful Symphony

“Let me see what you’ve got.” She puts the headphones on and presses play.

Her face grows tighter by the second, her thin lips compressing into a fine line.

After a couple of minutes, she presses ‘stop’ and yanks the headphones off.

“The sound channels are unbalanced and too compressed, and there’s still some leakage on strings.

If you can’t clear it, we’ll have to record it again, Eric, and there’s no time for that. ”

“I know, Ms Thorne.”

“Then, for God’s sake, do your bloody job. We needed this done yesterday.”

She slams the door in her wake. I bury my face in both hands and try not to scream. I’m blowing everything. My relationship, my work. All because I can’t get my shit together.

I put back the headphones and press play.

No use. I won’t get anything done like this.

With a sigh of defeat, I leave the production room for what must be my twelfth cigarette break of the day.

The nicotine helps put things in focus, and I get some work done.

Not my best, I must say. But enough to deliver the track to Ms Thorne and get out of work at five in the afternoon.

There will surely be corrections to be made, but that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Today, all I need to know is that you’re okay.

Instead of going home, I sprint to the church orphanage. You probably won’t be back at work so soon, but Danny is there. Being a close friend, he must know something, and it’s much harder to lie face to face than it is by text.

When I arrive, the priest walks me through the corridors to the administration office, where Danny sits at his desk.

“Hey, mate, good to see you. Andy isn’t here. He’ll be back from his hometown today.”

“I know. I’m actually here to talk to you.”

“Oh.” He raises both eyebrows, looking more amused than puzzled. “I was about to clock out. Want to chat on the way to the station?”

“Sure.” I wait for him to pick up his jacket before we exit the joint building.

The usual grey London sky spreads its dark clouds over our heads. Like every other day this week, it might rain. We stroll down the narrow pavements, crowded enough that it’s hard for Danny and me to walk side by side. He rubs his hands together, seemingly eager to have a heart to heart with me.

“So,” he starts. “This is about Andy, innit?”

“Have you heard any news?” I ask, almost trampling Danny’s question. “What train or bus he’s on? What time he’ll be back?”

“Not really.” He scratches the nape of his neck. “Last I heard from him, he’d checked out of his bed-and-breakfast this morning.”

“All I got this weekend was a text saying he’ll be back on Tuesday.” My loud sigh gets lost within Central London’s traffic. “I know I screwed up and said things I shouldn’t, but it’s been too long. He’s never pulled away like this, not even when he was—”

A hard swallow prevents me from finishing. Not like I have to. Danny knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“It’s not you, Eric.” He puts a large reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Look, if Andy didn’t tell you, it’s not my place to do it. But he’s been going through a lot. His mum is in bad shape.”

The answer is double edged. A part of me is relieved I’m not responsible for your silence, but the other is troubled that something is wrong, and you don’t trust me enough to share. And I know what happened last time you tried to deal with your problems alone.

“Danny?” I tentatively ask, a chill running down my spine. “Do you think he’s using?”

“No. I know the signs. I’d have noticed something earlier.” He frowns, his face unusually serious, like the thought has crossed his mind.

I huff and shake my head. “If only he would open up about things.”

“Andrew Westcott, opening up?” Danny chuckles. “Do you know your man at all?”

“Damn right.” A bitter grin emerges and fades on my lips. “I don’t know what to do. Do I wait for him? Do I reach out?”

“Just give it time. He’ll probably come on the last bus, tired from dealing with everything. You guys can talk better tomorrow.” He gently pats my back. “In the meantime, I’ll call him out and say it’s time he quits the silent treatment.”

“Thanks, Danny.” I smile at him. “I owe you one.”

“Double date at Harrison’s Pub once things get better?” A joyful expression floods his face. “I met this girl and I’ve been dying to introduce you guys to her.”

“Deal.” I force a laugh, hoping Danny’s carelessness will rub off on me.

It doesn’t make me feel better at all.

First thing on Wednesday, I send you a text asking if you got home safely.

The message doesn’t go through. I call, but it goes straight to voicemail.

In a panic, I text Danny, who confirms you never arrived.

My heart races a thousand miles per hour.

He tries to calm me down and reassures me something important must have come up.

You must have forgotten to charge your battery, that’s all.

It’s not enough. Feeble excuses designed to mitigate my worries.

I knew something was wrong with you. Terribly wrong.

You wouldn’t ignore my messages out of spite.

That’s not who you are. This is the most dreadful of your silences, I know it.

The silence you give to the world when you’ve run out of coping mechanisms. When you don’t know what else to do.

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.

I try to replace the bad omens with happier thoughts, but it’s no use. I wash my hands once, twice, countless times. Change my clothes again and again. Useless. Scratch the corner of my thumb until I draw blood. Nothing works. And I’m already late for the studio. Shit.

“Eric, where were you? The entire orchestra is waiting for you to start the recording session,” Ms Thorne utters the second I get out of the lift.

“I’m sorry, I had trouble at home,” I babble, trying to put some order into my hair.

“No excuses. Go, now. Chop chop.”

I nod and rush to the recording room. The wave of murmurs stops once the door opens, and my colleagues’ sidelong glances burn through my skin. They hate me. I’m dragging everyone down. It’s as much their dream as it is mine, and I’m blowing everyone’s chance.

Something is wrong with Andrew. He’s in danger. Call him. Now.

Jameson gets up from the piano and comes to the podium.

“Eric, are you okay?” he asks in a low voice. “We can reschedule for the afternoon if you’re not feeling well. Work on something else, perhaps.”

My brows knit. “And what gives you the impression I’m not feeling right?”

“Well,” he tiptoes, brushing a lock of perfectly combed hair behind his ear. “You’re looking rather ….” He gestures at me and doesn’t finish the sentence.

I glance down at my crumpled, mismatching outfit.

It must be quite a vision, along with the unruly hair and the dark circles, fresh from a sleepless night.

However bad I may look, it’s none of Jameson’s business.

He’s such a corporate leech. Wouldn’t miss a chance to play nice and make himself look better in front of the crew.

It’s a trick. It’s all a trick. I won’t fall for it.

Andrew is not okay. You need to find him. Now.

“I’m perfectly fine, Jameson. Now get back at it. We’re already late.”

He excuses himself and returns to the piano. I give the signal to our sound engineer and raise the baton to the orchestra. The song begins. Soft and timid at first. Then a streak of strings rises like a tidal wave, ready to engulf my body. Thunderous. Pungent. And wrong. Entirely wrong.

“I’m sorry, stop.” Once there’s silence, I explain. “Strings, you’re coming off too strong. Let’s take it from the top.”

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with Andrew.

The orchestra resumes the tune. Woodwinds are too chirpy.

It’s wrong. “Stop.” They play again. Everything seems right for a minute, until an out-of-tune note on brass.

It’s wrong . “Stop. Again!” They go a third time, a fourth time, a fifth time.

Wrong. Entirely wrong. “Stop! Let’s do it one more time. ”

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Everything is wrong.

The first violin lays her bow on her lap. “Eric, do you even have feedback for us now? What was wrong this time?”

“I ….” My mouth dries and I swallow hard, not knowing what to answer. “It’s not sounding as it should. When I hear what I’m looking for, I’ll let you know.”

She sighs in exasperation. “Come on, it’s impossible to work like this.”

“Kate, please. Trust me. One more time.”

The orchestra starts again. Andrew is depressed.

“Stop!” A broken crescendo. My chest tightens.

That’s how it started. That’s how everything started.

“Stop. Again!” Wrong tempo. Wrong. Something’s wrong.

“Stop. Let’s do one more.” Lousy dynamics.

He’s using. He’s definitely using. “Stop! One more.” It’s 2013 happening all over again.

And you won’t be there to save him this time. Dissonance. I can barely breathe.

Wrong! Everything is wrong! Entirely wrong! JUST WRONG!

“Eric, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ms Thorne’s blaring voice resounds through the recording room when I ask them to repeat the song yet again. Jameson, that viper, is at her heels. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d gone out.

“Ms Thorne.” I run a hand through my dishevelled hair. “I was just—”

“My office. Now.” She closes the door.

I stand in the centre of the podium, trembling palms covered in sweat.

I take the sanitiser out of my pocket and rub it all over them.

Once. Twice. Everyone’s eyes are on me, and the whispers rise like a swarm of wasps threatening to attack.

I storm out the door, my heart pounding at a hundred and fifteen beats per minute.

Allegretto . Like the song we were just playing.

I’ll never finish it. Everything is going to shit.

I knock on Ms Thorne’s door, and she welcomes me in. I do not sit. The nerves have turned my legs into a stiff mess, and I’m afraid if I sit down, I’ll never be able to get up again.

“Eric, I warned you,” she starts, face as hard as stone. “One more problem, and you’re out of the project.”

“I’m just feeling more anxious than usual. Nothing a Xanax can’t handle.” I pull excuses out of the hat like a fucking magician. “It’s an off day, nothing more. Please, Ms Thorne, don’t do this to me.”

“You were having a full-blown mental breakdown in front of the crew. And worse, by refusing to admit it, you dragged everyone into your mess. The only reason I’m not firing you, Eric, is because I know how hard these things can be. But that’s your last straw. You’re out.”

“Please, Ms Thorne. Please.” My eyes sting. “Don’t take this from me. I know I’ve been neglecting work and doing a poor job lately, but I swear I can push through. It’s just a week and a half.”

“Eric.” She sighs, leaning back in her chair. “You clearly can’t. This is not only for the good of the company, but for your own. I refuse to be the reason you get hospitalised or worse.”

I put a hand on my forehead and pace through the office. My heart jackrabbits. My breathing turns ragged. It’s happening all over again, you and your crises fucking my life. I’m losing the opportunity of a lifetime because you decided to disappear. Just like ten years ago.

This can’t be happening. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

“Please, Ms Thorne.” I wipe the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been nothing but a model employee for four years. If you can wait just ten more days. Please, you can even cut my paycheck from this job. I’ll deliver these songs on time.” A sniffle escapes. “I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Eric.” Her tone is sympathetic, but unwavering. “I’ve given you all the chances I could. Take some time off to sort out your mental health. As long as you need. Jameson will take the soundtrack from here.”

This is it. I lost it. My dream, my career. All gone.

“What am I supposed to do now?” My voice barely makes it out of my throat. I’ve lost all the strength left in my bones.

“Go home.” She offers me a pitying smile, which only makes it worse. “Rest.”

I’m not sure I know how.