I didn’t see what his groupies saw in him. I mean, yes, he was good looking in a dark, dangerous sort of a way, but it wasn’t as if he was bulging with muscles. He was more lean and wiry, like a panther. Was it just the rock star thing, even if the closest he’d got to stardom was playing in local bars?
The notes were flying now, my breath coming in quick little gasps. Playing fast is a bit like skiing downhill on the very edge of control. It can be heady and brilliant when it goes well. This wasn’t going well, so it was just terrifying.
He’d smelled good. Sort of clean and outdoorsy, like the air after a storm. That was new to me, the idea that a guy would have a particular scent. I didn’t get up close with many men. Okay,
any
men. I knew my fantasies were now going to have to include an extra element.
Not fantasies of
him,
obviously. But whatever nameless, faceless guy I thought of late at night, as my hand slipped between my thighs, I’d now give him a scent. Not even
that
scent, necessarily.
The bow lanced off at an angle, shrieking in protest. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting my hair fall down my back. What was wrong with me? I’d nearly fallen—that was all. I hadn’t even been hurt. Why couldn’t I get it out of my mind?
Because I’m trying to distract myself from the real problem,
I decided.
It was my senior year, and my final year recital was looming on the horizon—ten weeks, three days and counting. I’d have to perform the Brahms, together with my duet partner Dan on violin, for a panel comprising three Fenbrook judges. That in itself was scary, but it was a good piece, I had a great partner and I was certain we’d get a good grade. That wasn’t the problem.
Also on the panel would be two talent scouts. One I didn’t care about—some guy from a record label who was really there for the non-classical musicians. But the other would be from the New York Philharmonic. Impressing him was my one shot at scoring a trial and maybe, just maybe, saving a dream that was close to slipping out of my grasp forever.
My dream, or my father’s dream. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.
My phone buzzed to tell me to meet Natasha for coffee and I stared at the clock disbelievingly. My practice hour was up, and I’d barely scratched the surface of the music.
Great.
***
There are two places that are so much a part of Fenbrook, they might as well be on the official map. One is Flicker, a movie-themed bar just down the street. The other is Harper’s, a café and deli that’s practically next door. If Harper’s ever closed down, about eighty percent of Fenbrook students would die of starvation.
Both places rely heavily on students for their staff and it’s not unusual to look around and find that literally everyone in the room, on both sides of the counter, is an actor, a dancer or a musician.
When I walked in that day, the barista was a guy who I’d seen in a poster for some off-Broadway satire about the financial crash and the woman wiping down the tables was an oboe player I sometimes had classes with. And sitting all by herself at a table in the center of the café was Natasha, a junior year dancer.
I was a senior, but almost all my friends at Fenbrook were juniors for three very good reasons. Firstly, my father made me start high school a year early. My friends were in the year below, but that meant they were my age: twenty-one.
Secondly, being juniors meant they weren’t stressed out by final year recitals or performances. That was annoying, sometimes—it meant they all wanted to go out drinking while I wanted to work (to be fair, that had been the case even in my freshman year). But the advantage was that we didn’t talk about work the whole time as I would have done with other seniors. Being with them was an escape. Except for Dan, my recital partner, none of them were musicians for the same reason.
Thirdly, I’d started Fenbrook a semester late. The other freshman students had already formed tight-knit groups by the time I arrived and I was a year younger than all of them. I pretty much hunkered down and didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the year. It was only when the next year’s students started that I came out of my shell a little and made some friends.
So that was me. The final year, geeky musician amongst a group of vivacious, beautiful dancers and actresses. The odd one out. The straight man, if you will. I loved them all, and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
Natasha was asleep, or close to it, slumped down with her head on her hands. I got a triple shot Americano for her, a latte for me and carefully sat down. She didn’t move.
I pushed the coffee nearer to her sleeping head. Her hair was almost the same shade of chestnut as mine, only hers was always soft and wavy and sexy when she let it out of her dancer’s bun, while mine was a frizzy mess.
The smell of coffee caught her nostrils and they twitched like a rabbit’s.
“...and then we decided to get married, so we’re moving to Mexico,” I told her.
She sat bolt upright. “WHAT?!”
Despite my worries, I smirked. “Nothing. My life’s as boring as always. You can go back to sleep.”
She shook her head. “Karen, it’s too early in the morning for tricks like that.” She sipped her coffee and closed her eyes in bliss. “How’s your lullaby?”
I stiffened. “It’s not a lullaby. Brahms composed all sorts of things apart from—”
“Okay, okay, how’s the
Brahms?”
“Awful.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. I know you—you’ll be amazing as always
.”
“Amazing isn’t good enough. It needs to be perfect, or I let Dan down. I let everyone down.”
“You have months until your recital.”
She was right. It was still winter, and I wouldn’t face the hell of the recital until spring was taking hold (Fenbrook has a short final year, to give us an extra long summer break before we hit the real world). I had two months and change, but that isn’t as long as it sounds when you’re trying to get something absolutely right. I knew how fast those weeks would burn away as the date crept closer, and while everyone else was just trying to graduate, I’d be trying to impress the scout for one of the best orchestras in the world.
“You’ll be fine. This is what you
do.
” She tried to stifle a yawn and failed.
“Why are you so tired?” I asked.
She looked at me guiltily and I saw her flush.
“Oh,”
I said delightedly. “How
is
your billionaire?”
“
Millionaire.”
“Same thing.”
The previous summer, Natasha had been propositioned by Darrell, a rich guy who wanted her as his “muse.” She’d danced for him at his mansion and they’d wound up in some sort of breakneck romance full of hot sex.
And tears.
One night in my apartment during winter break, aided by Chardonnay and candlelight, she’d told me how she’d been self-harming for years, unknown to everyone but her roommate. She’d been wracked with guilt over something that happened when she was fifteen—something she still didn’t feel ready to tell me about. Darrell had found out and it had nearly killed their fledgling relationship. He’d had his own issues, too. They’d wound up helping each other and, eventually, had worked things out. As far as I knew, Natasha hadn’t gone back to cutting herself—she certainly
seemed
happy.
“Darrell’s okay. Sort of at a loose end. You know he quit his job?”
I nodded. I didn’t know the details, but I knew his job had been some sort of soul-sucking, bad karma thing in the defense industry and when it came between them he’d told the company where to go. I tried to imagine what that would be like—to have someone who cared so much for you that they’d give up their whole career: I couldn’t.
“He’s trying to work out what to do. I think he needs a project—it’s been months. Right now, he’s just taking me to Fenbrook in the mornings and then sitting around the house. Or he and Neil go on some long blast on their bikes.”
Neil was Darrell’s friend, a huge, scary-looking biker who—I still couldn’t wrap my head around this—had somehow got together with Natasha’s flat mate, Clarissa. What the attraction was, I had no idea. She was all Prada and champagne parties and perfectly-styled blonde hair, and he was all muscles and attitude and whispered comments in her ear that made her flush and squirm and…okay, I could sort of see the attraction.
Natasha sipped more coffee. “Anyway, I don’t know if it’s because he’s not working on anything, but he’s….”
I waited. “Yes?”
She shrugged, blushing a little. “Insatiable. You know how it is, when they’re like that.”
I really don’t,
I thought, a little angrily. I wasn’t what you’d call experienced, when it came to men and sex. In fact, you know that thing where you’re the exact opposite of experienced? I was that.
Yes, at twenty-one. I know, okay?
Of course, I hadn’t shared that with my friends. I’d lied when the subject had come up, and invented a firefighter (no, I don’t know
why
a firefighter, I was thinking on my feet) who’d seduced me at eighteen—that seemed believable. Since I’d come to Fenbrook, there’d been various attempts to set me up with someone, none of which had got past the first clumsy kiss.
“Remind me,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
Natasha checked there was no-one listening and leaned forward. “It’s not the nights. I mean, you expect the nights. The nights are great. But as soon as we get home…last night he just shoved me up against the wall.”
I swallowed. “Really?” I tried to sound only vaguely interested.
“The night before, we didn’t even make it home. He turned off the highway and took me into the forest, and then—”
I was leaning forward myself, now. I couldn’t help it. “Up against a tree?”
Natasha was suddenly staring fixedly at her coffee. “Um. There was a log on the ground, actually. He bent me over it.”
Something darkly hot swept through me. Was it wrong, that I was
this
interested? What choice did I have, given my total lack of a sex life?
Natasha was lost in the memories now. “And then last night, he gave me this massage, and it went on for hours. It felt incredible—I think it’s because he’s used to making things, you know? He’s so dexterous. And I was on my back—this is, like, two in the morning, now—and suddenly he starts going down on me—”
“Right,” I said, my face flushing. “Okay—”
But she was on a roll. “And it went on for hours—I mean, it can’t have been hours, but it
felt
like hours, I was just like—”
“Mm-hmm, got it—”
“I mean, I was on the
ceiling
, just floating higher and higher, and then he put his tongue—” She glanced up at me and broke off. “Oh. Sorry. Too much?”
“Not at all,” I said lightly. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
She yawned. “Happy but exhausted,” she said apologetically. “Hey, you’re coming out tonight, right?”
I considered. Bars were really
not
my thing, but I knew I needed some breathing space away from the music, even if just for a few hours. Preparing for the recital was a marathon, not a sprint. I had to pace myself, or I’d be risking a repeat of Boston.
Don’t think about Boston.
“Sure,” I told Natasha.
She grinned. “Maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll meet a billionaire who wants me to play the cello for him in his batcave.”
“It’s just a basement, not a—You’re as bad as Clarissa!” She drank the rest of her coffee and then frowned. “Wait, what time is it?”
“Twenty after ten.”
“Shit!
Practice started five minutes ago. Miss Kay’s going to kill me!”
She ran for the door, long dancer’s legs eating up the distance, and I was left alone. A good thing, because thinking about Boston, even just for a second, had started a chain reaction in my head and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else unless I let it run its course. I sat there sipping coffee, outwardly calm, and let the memories surge up inside and consume me.
***
A decision had been made in my life, many years ago now. So long ago that I didn’t know exactly when it was made, or even who’d made it: me, or my father. I honestly had trouble remembering a time before it.
The decision was this:
I was going to play with the New York Philharmonic.
That’s a cute dream and a nice ambition when your father’s a normal guy. When he’s a concert pianist with a string of bestselling albums, things are different.
As I began to show promise, he told the neighbors. I’d sit there, little face a mask of concentration, and play
Bach Cello Suites
and he’d say,
“She’s going to play with the New York Phil one day.”
At school, he’d pick me up outside the gates and whisk me off to youth orchestra practice and then to more practice at home. At first I had time for other things, like girl scouts—mainly at the insistence of my mom. Then she left, and one by one the other activities stopped. At twelve, I did my first big solo:
Haydn’s Cello Concerto
in front of a hall full of people, throwing up in the bathroom beforehand and then nodding and smiling when my dad asked if everything was okay. The man doing the announcements said I was
Karen Montfort, who’s already tipped for the New York Philharmonic,
and I remember feeling both proud and uncomfortable, although I didn’t know why, then.