Page 14 of Good Girls Lie

“I read that you love caramels but are allergic to tree nuts. There’s a little shop in Oxford that is allergen-sensitive, none allowed on the premises. These are totally safe.”

“What a darling you are! I will enjoy them tremendously, I’m sure.” She links her arm through mine. “So, Ash. I’ve heard your tapes, you have quite an ear, such a way with the keys. Why have you never performed onstage before? From what I’ve heard, you’re a shoo-in for Carnegie Hall!”

I smile—charming, dimples, with a touch of rueful thrown in for good measure. “My family frowned upon it. I’ve not played in a public venue, only privately.”

“Do you wish to? I’m sure the dean told you about my connections. I could have you at the Kennedy Center in a few weeks.” She slaps her hands together, back and forth, and the sound makes me jump. She is so vibrant, this woman, so loud.

“Oh, no, ma’am. I’d prefer not to.”

“You don’t want to perform?” This is said with such confusion I almost laugh. But I force my face into a downcast expression.

“Honestly, I’ve been considering giving up.”

“Oh, no. A natural talent such as yours can’t be squandered. The joy you’ll bring to your listeners... It would be such a shame, Ash. I was so moved listening to your audition tapes. You’re quite extraordinary.”

Truth, then. “I haven’t been feeling the music lately.”

“Well, we’ll fix that. Why don’t we warm up with some chromatic scales, cadences, and arpeggios at all octaves, and then try a little Bach. I always find Bach so comforting.”

Oh, yes. Bach makes me want to skip through a forest with mice following my trail. Makes one wonder why I have no desire to play.

I sit on the bench and stretch, first my neck, then my back, then my wrists. Muriel sets the metronome at sixty and I go through a quick and easy series of scales, just to get the feel for the keys. I grow serious. This is important.

I run through the second part of the traditional Hanon exercises, do some chord work. My fingers are sluggish on the keys. The strike is too soft for my liking, so I’m depressing the keys harder than normal, banging out the notes.

After ten minutes of noise, I nod at Muriel, who places a Bach fugue on the stand. I’m familiar with it, but I don’t know it by heart. I’ll have to read the music and play.

I launch in, and almost immediately Muriel holds up a hand to stop me.

“Slow down, Ash. You’re pulling the notes. Make me feel it.”

I continue to pound away. The next ten minutes are a study in extreme frustration.

“Now you’re pushing. And your texture is off.”

“Stop chasing the note, Ash. Let it come to you.”

“Feel the keys. Allow each to build on the last.”

“Your placement, Ash, your wrists.”

And finally, “Goodness, wearehaving an off day, aren’t we?”

Yes, we are.

I slam down both hands, the discordant notes ringing through the room. The acoustics are perfection, the sound lingers in the air until I lift my fingers from the keys and my foot off the pedal.

Muriel’s face is a mask of concern. Her star pupil hasn’t made an appearance.

“What’s wrong, Ash?”

“I said I didn’t want to play. I...can’t. It’s too soon.”

“Now, now, don’t give up so easily. You’re sitting much too stiffly and your fingers aren’t flowing. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you sound out of practice. Very out of practice. When did you play last?”

I don’t have to lie on this one. “It’s been a while.”

“Why?”