Page 62 of A Wistful Symphony

Leaping Fantasia

I t took me a month to go back to London.

My therapist recommended I stay in the countryside until my medication stabilised and the intrusive thoughts were manageable, which is a slower process than I anticipated.

The wait, however, was most welcome. With nothing to do except concentrate on my wellbeing, I could see how many unhealthy habits I’d piled up like a castle of cards.

No wonder I crumbled at the slightest wind.

Brain-fried and burnt out as I was, I would be lying to myself if my sabbatical was strictly for mental health reasons.

I needed healing. Closure. A balm for my shattered heart.

The end of our relationship left me on the brink of despair, and it took me a few sleepless nights, therapy sessions, and one dazzling composition to start living again.

Does it mean I’m over us? Not in the slightest. But one must start somewhere.

The first step was resuming my career. I told Ms Thorne I was ready to come back to work and sent her the scores of the recent songs I’d composed.

All I got in response was a vague, “Be in my office first thing on Monday.” Good or bad, it remains a mystery.

She hadn’t let me go after weeks of not showing up, however, and that fact gives me hope.

Hope. A foreign feeling, but somehow I have gallons of it pumping through my veins.

My leg bounces like a pinball in the waiting room. It’s been ten minutes since Ms Thorne’s assistant announced me, and the wait is bringing my anxiety back with all its might.

Relax. She’s probably busy with something else. It has nothing to do with you.

“Eric?” The assistant pops her head through the door with a hearty smile. “Ms Thorne is ready for you.”

“Thank you, Sarah.” I get up and wait for her to show me in.

Ms Thorne’s office seems more intimidating than usual, with its pretentious Scandinavian designer furniture and grey walls threatening to engulf me.

She sits at her desk, back turned to the closed blinds and a pair of headphones tucked in her ears.

Her index finger moves back and forth on some audio file and, without looking at me, she points to the empty chair in front of her.

I take my seat and fidget with an anxiety ring until she removes her headphones. It’s been a minute and thirty-eight seconds, and the corners of my thumbnails remain intact.

“Before we start, I want to state clearly you’re a damn talented composer, Eric, and the last songs you sent me only proved so.” She flashes me a stern glance despite the kind words.

“Uh, thank you?”

“That said,” she adds, “you almost jeopardised the biggest account we’ve had in a while and put your teammates through a distressing time because you refused to acknowledge your mental health decline.

It’s going to take a lot of work regaining the market’s trust after that. And mine, for that matter.”

I lower my head. “It’s only fair.”

“Now, regarding the BBC project, you’ll be delighted to know we delivered the score on time. And they actually liked your work. Since you wrote most of the songs, it would be unfair to give credit to someone else.”

“Oh.” I frown, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but it never comes. “Does this mean the score is still mine?”

“It means you may keep your name on the project, but since Jameson took over the compositions after you left, you both will share the credits.” She entwines her fingers on the desk. “You didn’t think the lack of responsibility you pulled would go unpunished, did you?”

“It’s okay.” I try to smile through my disappointment. “Jameson is an excellent composer, and he saved the project after I broke down.”

She huffs in contempt. “Don’t be all high and mighty with me. I know you hate Jameson.”

A playful grin twists my lips. “Hard to believe, I know, but I actually think it’s fair.”

“It’s more than fair. Any other person would’ve fired you for what you did, but I know sometimes it gets hard. I fight my own battles with mental health, you know?”

Incredulous, I raise my eyebrows. “You, Ms Thorne?”

She waves one heedless manicured hand. “Oh yes, I’ve been in treatment for bipolar disorder for years now.”

“I would’ve never guessed,” I mutter.

“Exactly my point. You never know what someone is going through.”

I nod, my respect for my boss growing higher.

“Now that we’ve cleared the elephant in the room, let’s talk about your next projects.”

“Of course, I’m all ears.” I shift on the seat. With my batteries recharged and my creative well filled, the eagerness for new projects spreads tingles through my skin. I need to feel like myself more than ever, and that can only be done through music. Through creation.

“There’s a TV commercial for some homemade jam that needs a catchy tune, a theme song for a true crime podcast, and another commercial for this new blood-pressure pill.” She pauses. “I want you on all three. We’ve already lost too much time with the BBC.”

Like a burst balloon, my hopes deflate in an instant. I expected the Sense and Sensibility score would elevate my work to serious songwriting and take me out of the sea of jingles and second-rate tracks, but here I am, up to my neck in them once more.

“What about film scores? Any projects like that?” I endeavour, a wrinkle between my brows.

“Don’t be na?ve.” Ms Thorne snorts. “These jobs are like comets. You know it’s an inflated market and people always go for the most known names. Little accounts like commercials pay the bills until we snatch the next big project.”

My chest is empty. This means I’ll keep doing the same thing for God knows how long. That no matter how hard I try or how much I push through my mental health, minor jobs are all I’ll be cut out for. No ladder up. With the weight of realisation, I curl my hands into fists and moisten my lips.

“Ms Thorne, I quit.”

“Pardon me?”

“I deliver my resignation from Bluebell Studios.”

Ms Thorne takes off her glasses and stares in my direction, saying in a slow, cadenced tone, “Eric, you’re not thinking straight. Do you think you’re going to get out of here and go straight to Hollywood? There’s no such thing. You’d still have to work minor jobs.”

“I know, Ms Thorne.” I pass one trembling hand through my hair, afraid I’ll lose courage.

“But at least I’d get my name out there and aim for bigger jobs.

I’m not spitting on the plate,” I add in a rush.

“I’ll be forever grateful for all the experience I’ve gained here, and for your tutelage.

But if I stay, I’ll be crippled by the safety net of the studio and never build a career of my own.

” I take a deep breath. “I want to do films, Ms Thorne, and TV series. And I don’t think that will be my future if I stay here. ”

Her grey eyes peer at me for a long moment, and I only take a breath when she gives me a lopsided grin.

“I’d hoped the day you realized you’re too good for this place wouldn’t come this soon.

” She chuckles. “You’re right. There’s only so much you can achieve inside a studio, and if this is what you want, you need to put your face out there.

” She leans forward. “It won’t be easy. You’re in for years of begging for scraps before you land a chance that will make your name.

At least you’ll have one splendid portfolio with you. ”

“One you helped me put together, Ms Thorne.”

“Exactly. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“Your name will definitely be in my Oscar acceptance speech.”

She laughs, leaning her head back, something I haven’t witnessed in the four years I’ve worked here.

“Always setting the bar too high.” She smiles fondly. “I’ll miss you, Eric.”

Ms Thorne gets up and extends her hand. And despite the touch of foreign skin sparking contamination thoughts, I grab her palm without hesitation.

“I’ll miss you too, Ms Thorne.”

My entire body shakes once I step outside of her office.

What have I done? Did I just waste four years of my life and go back to square one?

No, I can’t think that. I’ve gained experience.

I’ve learned from greater minds. I know how the market works.

Saying my time at Bluebell Studios was for nothing is a tremendous disregard of the steep learning curve that made me the professional I am today.

I’m ready for the next step. The future lies ahead.

I inhale and exhale with my eyes closed.

Once, twice, thrice. After the fourth breath, my heartbeat falls back to its former pace and my mind clears like the summer sky.

I can do this , I repeat to myself. Being an independent composer isn’t as delusional as I once thought.

Every big name in the industry started out as such, a nobody with their mighty portfolio waiting for a big chance.

I was so stuck on the idea that Sense and Sensibility was my one shot, I forgot I have a life ahead of me.

If this project wasn’t it, perhaps the next one will be. All I need is to keep believing.

Breathe, Eric. It’s going to be fine.

After I finish grounding myself, Ms Thorne’s assistant sprints back with someone on her heels.

“I’m sorry, Eric. I said you were busy, but this gentleman insisted on talking to you right away.”

One glance at the entitled bloke by her side makes breakfast rise up my throat.

Marvin.

“Thank you for your kindness, Sarah.” He opens the manticore smile he uses with younger women. “Now, would you be a darling and give us some privacy?”

After we’re left alone in the hall, I ask, “What do you want now, Marvin?”

“Won’t you show me to your office?” There’s a slight trace of impatience in his tone.

“I don’t intend for us to talk that long.”

“Suit yourself.” He puts his hands inside his pockets, and it bothers me to notice we have identical postures. “I called Harrow from the BBC to ask how things went with your studio, and what was my surprise when he told me their head composer had a mental breakdown?”

I clench my teeth. “And this concerns you because …?”