and spinning and lighting her with energy. She struggled to remember a time before she knew him.
She breathed slower and deeper.
She is a concert pianist, making a name. She has a gig at the Wigmore Hall. Her dress, long and burgundy, her hair swept off her neck. She is playing Bach. No, she is at the Festival Hall performing the E minor Chopin piano concerto. Her hair is loose, her body a conduit for the music. She is playing how she has always wanted to play. He is watching her, transfixed by her, eyes spilling tears. The audience bellows and stamps when she finishes, the conductor takes her hand as if in shock, hardened orchestral players wipe their eyes. She goes to her dressing room for a few minutes alone. There is a hesitant knock at the door. He stands at the threshold, unable to speak. Slowly he reaches out a hand…
“ Catherine! ” Michael’s voice is a roar, a scream, a sound she has never heard before. And there’s another scream from the wheels as they leave their lane and she sees the barriers rushing up to meet them. One of them twists the wheel, sends them ricocheting back into lane but they don’t stop there and a horn bays like a wolf at their heels. Then they’re over in the next lane and she waits for the bang but Michael is holding the wheel with her, and together they steady the panicked car.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Every part of her is shaking.
“Pull over.”
“But you’re not allowed…”
“Pull over now!”
She turns the car onto the hard shoulder and brings them to a stop. For a whole minute they sit in silence, panting like they’ve been sprinting. Catherine lays her head on the steering wheel and her shoulders heave. His voice, that cry, seems to echo round and round them. She feels a hand on her shoulder.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“I – no – I just…” She doesn’t know what to say. She nearly killed them. She’s never gone that far before, lost herself so completely.
Miss Jarret?
Sorry. Yes, I drove. The journey was fine, from what I remember.
We haven’t yet located Mr Gardner’s car. Do you know where he kept it?
Oh. No, he dropped it off at mine and picked it up on Sunday. I think he rented a garage somewhere.
And you have no idea where?
Sorry, no. Do you think…?
Let’s leave it there for now.
Scene 10
And so your first meeting of the — what was it? — Friday Folly. Was it what you were expecting, Miss Laurence?
Expecting? She had no idea what to expect. Up until an hour before she was still considering a tub of ice cream and an episode of Friends as a safer alternative. Hamlet had just finished and she could feel the downer hovering over her like a cloud, looking for a point of entry. Something out of the ordinary would be more likely to fend it off.
So she went, as Seth knew she would. Her newly washed hair had dried into soft spirals with no hint of frizz: a good omen. She arrived outside 15 Linfield Gardens at just gone eight – too eager, too early. It was one of those majestic rows of white, Regency houses where London showed its best side. She walked on for a few more minutes and stopped in the shadows to prepare, closing her eyes and breathing slowly as if she were going on stage. A lone breath of wind found its way down the neckline of her coat and made her shiver. Her cue.
As she approached the house she heard voices from an open balcony door on the first floor. She buzzed Flat B. For a second nothing happened. Then the intercom blared into life with the sound of raucous laughter and a man shouting, “Hello?”
“It’s Rebecca.” Now she wanted to go home.
“Come in, first floor.” She was buzzed into a grand old hallway with a marbled staircase and shiny black bannisters. She mounted slowly, admiring the carved cornices but in reality buying herself a little time. Chatter swirled above her head, increasing in volume as she climbed. And then there was Seth in a white shirt and jeans, smiling and holding open a
She breathed slower and deeper.
She is a concert pianist, making a name. She has a gig at the Wigmore Hall. Her dress, long and burgundy, her hair swept off her neck. She is playing Bach. No, she is at the Festival Hall performing the E minor Chopin piano concerto. Her hair is loose, her body a conduit for the music. She is playing how she has always wanted to play. He is watching her, transfixed by her, eyes spilling tears. The audience bellows and stamps when she finishes, the conductor takes her hand as if in shock, hardened orchestral players wipe their eyes. She goes to her dressing room for a few minutes alone. There is a hesitant knock at the door. He stands at the threshold, unable to speak. Slowly he reaches out a hand…
“ Catherine! ” Michael’s voice is a roar, a scream, a sound she has never heard before. And there’s another scream from the wheels as they leave their lane and she sees the barriers rushing up to meet them. One of them twists the wheel, sends them ricocheting back into lane but they don’t stop there and a horn bays like a wolf at their heels. Then they’re over in the next lane and she waits for the bang but Michael is holding the wheel with her, and together they steady the panicked car.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Every part of her is shaking.
“Pull over.”
“But you’re not allowed…”
“Pull over now!”
She turns the car onto the hard shoulder and brings them to a stop. For a whole minute they sit in silence, panting like they’ve been sprinting. Catherine lays her head on the steering wheel and her shoulders heave. His voice, that cry, seems to echo round and round them. She feels a hand on her shoulder.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“I – no – I just…” She doesn’t know what to say. She nearly killed them. She’s never gone that far before, lost herself so completely.
Miss Jarret?
Sorry. Yes, I drove. The journey was fine, from what I remember.
We haven’t yet located Mr Gardner’s car. Do you know where he kept it?
Oh. No, he dropped it off at mine and picked it up on Sunday. I think he rented a garage somewhere.
And you have no idea where?
Sorry, no. Do you think…?
Let’s leave it there for now.
Scene 10
And so your first meeting of the — what was it? — Friday Folly. Was it what you were expecting, Miss Laurence?
Expecting? She had no idea what to expect. Up until an hour before she was still considering a tub of ice cream and an episode of Friends as a safer alternative. Hamlet had just finished and she could feel the downer hovering over her like a cloud, looking for a point of entry. Something out of the ordinary would be more likely to fend it off.
So she went, as Seth knew she would. Her newly washed hair had dried into soft spirals with no hint of frizz: a good omen. She arrived outside 15 Linfield Gardens at just gone eight – too eager, too early. It was one of those majestic rows of white, Regency houses where London showed its best side. She walked on for a few more minutes and stopped in the shadows to prepare, closing her eyes and breathing slowly as if she were going on stage. A lone breath of wind found its way down the neckline of her coat and made her shiver. Her cue.
As she approached the house she heard voices from an open balcony door on the first floor. She buzzed Flat B. For a second nothing happened. Then the intercom blared into life with the sound of raucous laughter and a man shouting, “Hello?”
“It’s Rebecca.” Now she wanted to go home.
“Come in, first floor.” She was buzzed into a grand old hallway with a marbled staircase and shiny black bannisters. She mounted slowly, admiring the carved cornices but in reality buying herself a little time. Chatter swirled above her head, increasing in volume as she climbed. And then there was Seth in a white shirt and jeans, smiling and holding open a
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