Sorry about the wait - still without internet access at home (although not for much longer), sick son etc etc - I know excuses, excuses - well something for a Friday afternoon for you.
Chapter Eight
Four days, ninety-six hours – it was a lifetime and it was no time at all. I spent the rest of the working week holed up in my den; my Mother curiously understanding, climbing the two flights of stairs to bring me sustenance and gently pull me back into the world I would temporarily leave behind, but otherwise leaving me in peace.
By Thursday night I was exhausted to the very core of my being, too tired to even be jumpy. However the sheets of music that sat in my binder were as perfect as I could get them. They contained my heart and soul, never before had I composed like this, with such fervour and unrelenting passion. I could understand why my work was never like this before, for although it had been technically perfect, it lacked the pain and anguish that went into this piece of music.
Forty minutes of pure ecstasy that swept the listener up; pulling them along on a journey of hate, deceit and then overwhelming love. I played it for my parents and was mollified to see my mother in tears and my father's eyes glazed with moisture. Unfortunately the one person whose approval I craved was unavailable. In light of our acrimonious parting I did not feel brave enough to visit her, even on the pretext of friendship. I would just have to wait until the piece was recorded and make sure she heard it then.
Despite all attempts to find another name for the music, I could not bring myself to change the title. Therefore emblazoned at the head of each page of score was the name, Ali's Dance.
With my parents support I had chosen my clothes and arranged for my father to drive me to the studios. They had been reluctant to lend me the car for the whole day, pointing out that sheer exhaustion would make it difficult to drive home in the evening. Once again their sheer unselfishness meant that my father would take me and catch the train into London from the nearest station, returning in the evening to pick me up and drive me home. It was like being a teenager again.
Therefore it was eight o'clock on a Friday morning when I turned up at the studios. I had spent hours here with various bands and singers, recording and fine-tuning their work. I had launched several careers from these very rooms, spending days with the soundmen, going over every second of recording with a fine-toothed comb, cutting and tweaking until the music was perfect.
Now when I approached the reception the security guard looked me over carefully. In the past he never gave me a second glance, for I would screech up in my car and swagger in; the cut of my suit and my air of arrogance enough to let him know that I was not to be questioned or stopped.
In contrast my approach now was hesitant; my clothes fitted me clumsily, the trousers hanging off my narrow hips and the jacket borrowed from my father. If that didn't serve too make me look like a man dressed from a charity shop, then the damn mask made anyone look at me twice.
"Your name please?"
"Eric St. John, Gin Sounds," I said with as much authority as I could muster, scared and annoyed that I was being challenged at the first hurdle, it did not do my dwindling confidence any good.
"Mr St. John, I didn't recognise you, sorry, I have you down…" the security guard went into a stuttering apology.
"No, please don't worry, is Devon Saunders here yet?"
"No, sir, but Pete Grey and Mattie Burns are."
"I am going straight through to the studio, would you let them know I am here?" I didn't want to be challenged again.
"Yes, yes of course," the man was determined to make up for his lack of tact earlier, practically ushering me in the right direction.
I slipped down the corridor and into the high ceiled brightly lit room. It was laid out with music stands and seating for a small chamber orchestra as I had requested, the conductors podium in front and slightly off to one side the piano. I walked up to it and sat down, lifting the lid and pressing down on the ivories. The notes rang out; tuned to perfection bringing a smile to my face, before I bent down and retrieved the score.
Fed into the computer it was no longer the scribbled work of earlier days, but a clean clear progression of music, all the parts separate and combining. Technically detailed, I knew that it would take most of the day to rehearse and tweak, we would be luckily to get it onto reel before late afternoon. I hope we could start soon.
Already there were signs that members of the orchestra had arrived, their precious instruments scattered around the room. Most people would have gone in search of caffeine and food to fuel tem through the day, but I was too nervous to eat and so instead sat on the piano stool and reviewed my composition.
That was how they found me half an hour later, my eyes closed, fingers gliding over the keys of the piano, pressing down so lightly that only half the notes rang out into the room, the rest being heard only in my head. I was so immersed in my work, that at first I did not notice that I had an audience and it was only at the end of a movement that the smattering of applause made me look up.
I recoiled in shock and alarm, unaware that people had gathered, apprehensive that they had a chance to view me before I saw them. I felt very defensive with my position, being surrounded on the piano stool by a crowd of musicians. Yet their faces were eager, fascinated, pleased. None of them held the look of horror and disgust that I usually witnessed around town, none of them seemed that interested in my looks, only in what I was playing.
The people parted like the Red Sea and Mattie Burns, whose job it was to conduct the rabble of players and turn them into an orchestra; moved through the pathway.
"Eric," his greeting was chummy as I stood to say hello, throwing his arms around me and patting me on the back, before pulling back and looking at me in the eye. I gazed back at him; waiting for any sign of fear or horror, the slight sliding away of the eye, looking downwards rather then at me, but he held my gaze firm. "It's good to see you. I have a feeling we are in for a treat today."
I gave a small smile in return at his encouraging words. "I wouldn't make proclamations like that until you've seen the score," I replied, bending down and handing the bound paper to him. "It could be your worst nightmare."
"If what I just heard was anything to go by, then I don't think so."
"But I wasn't playing!" I looked at him in shock, but he gave me a knowing smile.
"We were testing the recording equipment and it was coming through crystal clear in the sound booth!" He laughed jovially at my look of anguish. I had not wanted him to hear it that way. Purposefully I had not sent him an advanced copy as I was hoping to play it to the assembled masses first. My playing had been no more then a warm up for my stiff fingers and jittery nerves.
"Right. Is Dev here yet?"
"No, he called Pete about ten minutes ago to say he was running late and to start without him. He'll be here mid-morning."
"I understand." I understand only too well Dev, you are in bed with someone. Took my lessons to heart it would seem. "Well, we had better start then, how do you want to do it?"
"Complete run through, let the rabble find their way, get use to the piece and you can tweak as you need. Then we'll concentrate on the individual parts I think. Agreed."
"Certainly," Mattie knew his stuff, there was no point arguing with the voice of experience. I flexed my fingers slightly, noting that my carefully tended fingers had already started to blister. It was going to be a long day.
Never had I thought a truer sentiment. Four hours later when we broke for lunch I was near screaming point. How difficult could it be to get forty minutes of music to a point where it was recordable? Mattie was almost happy, but I was still unsure. There was something missing, something that did not play as it sounded in my head.
I sat, shooting death stares at the polished ebony of the piano, cursing it's pitch, my ability, the orchestra, but most of all the whole damn idea of mine that this piece of music was good enough to record.
Exhaustion flooded through my veins so that I could barely lift my head. It was fear of failure that kept me going now.
"Eric, you coming to lunch?" Pete interrupted my thoughts and I lifted my head to look at him, shaking my head mutely, too exhausted to bother talking. He looked at me with concern, uncertainty crossing his face as if he was not sure I would appreciate his thoughts. Normally such a subtle reaction would have me at his throat, but I was tired too care. "Why not go and take a break in my office, have some time to yourself?" He offered carefully. "It's a bit more peaceful then here."
I cracked a small smile in the wall of my face. "Thanks Pete, that's kind." I bent down stiffly and retrieved my parcel of foil wrapped sandwiches, kindly made by my mother that morning and left without another word to the small huddle that stood off to one side.
I could hear them clucking like hens, no doubt discussing the disaster that was this mornings rehearsal, wondering how they were ever going to get anything out of this session. I could barely find the energy to care as I wandered up the corridor and into Pete's large office at the end.
Carefully shutting the door behind me, I cracked a smile at the welcoming sight of my friend's hermitage. Paper was stacked in neat piles on his desk, a floor to ceiling case held hundreds of compact disks and a music system. Apart from a poor copy of Monet's Water lilies the room was bare. It needed no adornment for the large window overlooked the riverbank and down to the Thames was a picture in itself.
I gingerly lowered myself on to the sofa, swinging my legs over so that I lay out on its length, my legs propped up on the arm, too long to fit neatly. Unless I adopted a foetal position it was impossible to lie on it comfortably. More then once I had attempted to get a few hours shuteye on the unyielding cushions. Pete refused to get anything more comfortable, claiming that to do so would mean he would have no reason to go home. Certainly the rest of his life was within these walls.
Glumly I unwrapped my sandwiches and morosely munched on the carefully cut pieces of bread. The thought of having to go to the pub with Mattie, Pete and the First Violinist, to sit there and listen to their laughter and jokes and have to join in with their conversation was not my way anymore. I felt that if I avoided intimate groups of people, then I would not have to be cross-examined. I knew the questions on everyone's minds. When was I returning to work, why had I composed, what did I think about my new appearance.
I glanced over to the window and recoiled in disgust, for the bright light caused my reflection to shine in the plate glass. Hair hung raggedly around my visage, the effort of keeping up this morning too much for the hair band that had held it back. I vaguely remember feeling it ping apart as I had tugged at the tail at the back. The ill-fitting suit jacket had been discarded and I sat there in a t-shirt, one arm bare, the other wrapped in its elastic bandage. Looking at my hand I could see that the blisters had opened once again, the blood and pus smearing over my hand and the glove. It was a disgusting sight.
I wrestled with the zipper and peeled off the filthy article of clothing, holding my right hand in front of my face and turning it around in the light, looking at it's appearance. It resembles a plucked chicken. Thankfully I had bought a small first aid kit with me, although had left it with my bags in the recording hall.
I morosely popped the last piece of sandwich into my mouth and left the safety of the office to retrieve the rest of my possessions. There would be no one there at the moment and I could perhaps tinker with the score a little more, try and find out what was not working. It was so frustrating for yesterday I felt it could not have been improved on. Now the music seemed to no longer fit together, the movements jarring uncomfortably.
I was right about the hall being deserted, the air heavy with the perspiration of over thirty people crammed into a relatively enclosed space. I sat on the piano stool and drew my bag towards me, bending over to retrieve a clean glove and some cream to keep the skin moist.
"Oi, s'cuse me, you know where Mattie Burns, Eric St.John and Pete Grey is?" The voice rang out across the room; it's flattened vowels and estuary twang identifying the owner. The question hung in the air, obviously intended for me as the soul occupant in the room.
I stiffened in my uncomfortable pose; head down by my knees as I rooted through the bag. It was with hesitation that I lifted my head and sat upright, keeping my back to the speaker, not wanting to see them, or them to see me.
"No," I threw my voice as much as I could, try to discourage the speaker from approaching any nearer.
"They'll be in the pub then. What's the nearest one to here?"
"I don't know." I still kept my back turned and tried to discourage the conversation.
"Right," I could tell from the negative tone of voice that it was working, for the owner sounded well and truly peeved. "Thanks, for nothing." I heard him turn and talk to his companion, a woman if the sharp clipping of heels on the wooden floor were anything to go by.
Once I judged them safely away, I moved to the men's room where I washed my hand, re-creamed it and put on a fresh glove. It was unfortunately bright purple, being a spare; its garish colour drawing attention to its existence, unlike the flesh toned ones I usually wore.
With a good half an hour of lunch left I sat in front of the ivories once again and critically examined the score. The strings and woodwind pieces were right; it was the entry of the piano, far too dominating in the first and then no strong enough in the second. I needed to reorganise the music so that it led the orchestra, not fought it, that was the mistake. I need to work with Ali on this, not fight her.
The thought startled me so much that I looked up, glancing around the room as if I would find someone who spoke the words. It was, of course, as empty as when I had started, but the idea stayed with me. I had written this for Ali and where the piano jarred with the rest of the music was where I had allowed my discontent to get the better of me.
With this knowledge in mind I quickly worked through, changing some of my entries and adding another few lines that sprang into my head. It was suddenly blindly easy again. Maybe we would get to record this after all.
"There he is, at the piano, where else did you expect to find him?" Mattie's voice interrupted my peace and I put my pen down with a sigh, turning to face my audience and recoiling slightly.
I had expected to see Dev with the crowd, but I had not expected his arm to be around Elisa. I swallowed hard and stood up, my eyes glancing over my assistant and my former bed partner.
I carefully noted how she shrank back against him slightly, her hand grasping blindly backwards to hold his, as if my appearance was too much for her. Her eyes travelled the length of my body, coming to rest on the mask before glancing wildly over my shoulder, trying to find anywhere to focus but my face.
"Dev," I said and I knew that my voice carried the displeasure I felt with the little chit he had on his arm. It was partly her fault that I was this way, if she had demanded a screw then I would have…No, I could not blame her for my misfortune. As my father had said many a time it was an unfortunate accident. I could not place the guilt at her feet, she was just a naive little teenager, star struck by the cruel world of show business.
"Gin, bloody hell." He broke the contact with Elisa, leaving her standing and approached me, taking in my appearance, a smile on his face. We stood facing each other for a couple of seconds before we fell into each other arms, pounding each other on the back, before drawing back. "What the fuck had happened to you?" That was Dev's way, direct, forthright. He didn't beat around the bush.
"I thought you knew."
"Nahh, the powers that be just said you was off sick. The rumours were that you had either had a nervous breakdown or you was in rehab. You didn't return my calls, reply to your e-mails. Then you phone me out the blue. I thought you'd decided to disappear and compose. Got fed up of.."He lowered his voice and nodded towards his companion. "You know who."
"No, I've been recuperating at my parents actually." I glanced down at his shoes. "Haven't really felt like being in contact with anyone."
"Can understand that. So you've been locked away composing. Cor, I'm gonna have to call you the Phantom of the bloody Opera now."
"Dev, no please, it's bad enough. No jokes, I can't handle it."
"All right mate, as it's you." He winked before turning and gesturing for Elisa to join us. "Come here love, he doesn't bite, at least not anymore." There was a smattering of laughter at the crude joke and the girl moved reluctantly forward to join us, trying to keep her eyes away from my face.
"Hello Eric," her voice was small, quiet and she glanced up at me, before taking great interest in her manicure.
"Elisa, how are you getting on?" I tried to sound as professional as possible, but could not help a quaver in my voice at her disregard.
"Fine, we've nearly finished recording the second album," she mentioned with another quick glance at me. "Where did you get to then? You just disappeared."
"I was in an accident. I got burnt." I held my purple covered hand up in front of my face, so that she could clearly see it. "I am now officially a burn victim." I watched for any sign of remorse or feeling and too my horror saw tears well up in her eyes.
"Oh god Eric, I am sorry," she sobbed into her hands. "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to drive you away. I've felt so guilty. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I made Dev bring me here today to see you, I just didn't think you would be so…" she trailed off and waved her fine little hand at me, all the while crying prettily. "Damaged." The word came out on a sob.
It was a sight to break a man's heart, any man except me; the sight of her sobbing only made me dislike her even more. She was a consummate actress when it came to playing her audience and at this moment everyone's eyes were upon her. I knew that she was hoping I would stick to my role.
"That's all right Elisa, it is not your fault," I replied stiffly, sticking to the unwritten script. "Just an unfortunate accident." At my words she sniffed again and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, the tears drying instantly. Watching her I was reminded of blue tear filled eyes, the thought bringing me back down to why I was here today. "However, we are very busy, so I would appreciate it, if you let us get on."
I saw the warning frown on her forehead, displeasure at being told what to do. In my former life I use to gain great pleasure from making her frown, riling her for my juvenile amusement. Now, I was fed up, I didn't know what her agenda was and I didn't care, I just wanted to record my music.
I turned my back on her and the gathered audience and went and sat at the piano again, fed up to the core of being labelled and studied. Her insensitive words cut me to the core, damaged goods, no use to her anymore.
Everyone picked up on my mood and dragged themselves away from the soap opera in the midst, returning with good natured grumbling to their seats, picking up instruments, checking the tuning and settling down, whilst I reviewed the changes I had made to the score with Mattie.
Unfortunately Dev did not seem to pick up on the undercurrents, for rather then leaving with Elisa, he took her up to the booth, letting her witness my outpouring of musical passion from on high.
Thankfully as I began to play I forgot, forgot all about her presence and her hurtful words, forgot about Dev and the orchestra around me. Forget about the frustration of the morning. At the moment it was only me, the music and an image in my head, of a girl dancing.
Once again my parents were right. When my Father collected me at six o'clock that evening I was exhausted to the core. Yet it was a happy fatigue, for we had managed to get the music on to disk. Forty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds of my composition, was sitting at the studios, waiting for my next move.
"So how are you going to release it?" my Father asked with curiosity as we sat in a queue of traffic that fled London for the weekend. "Are you going to compose more pieces, how does it work?"
"Well," I shrugged, feeling my aching shoulder muscles roll under the coat and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "I suppose I shall send samples to the record labels, possibly to a couple of contacts I have in the movie industry and try and get on either Radio 3 or Classic FMs play list. If it succeeds as an individual piece then that is fantastic, if not, Pete will store it up and I shall try and compose some more, see if I can make it into an album. I just wanted to test the water really."
"Do you have any spare that your old parents can listen to?"
"Dad!" I laughed. "Yeah, I got a few to pass around." That was the end of the conversation, for the warm stuffiness of the car crept into my senses and I found myself settling back into my seat, my eyelids drooping closed with tiredness and my head lolling on my shoulder. The smooth ride and the drone of the radio were a comforting presence and before I knew it, I was more soundly asleep then I had been all week.
I stumbled out the car and into the house, the cold winter's evening freezing my breath into a plume of white as I groggily made my way into the house. I had been uncomfortably asleep all the way home and now just wanted to fall into bed and try and restore the hours of shuteye that I had lost during the week.
"The conquering hero returns," my Mother cheered as I clumsily walked into the kitchen, head bent, shoulders hunched in tiredness. I did little more then glare at her in a woefully tired way. "I think you need a bath and bed Eric," she suggested with a look at me. "You look exhausted. Shall I bring you some soup up on a tray?"
I wanted to snap at her that I was simply tired and not ill, but the idea of sitting in bed, listening to the recording and sipping at a mug of hot soup was sheer bliss after the hours spent hunched over the keys of a piano.
Shucking off my shoes, I wearily climbed the stairs, my mind stuck on the thought of a relaxing bath before sleeping. "Ow," an involuntarily yell came from my lips as I treaded on something hard and plastic, lying at the top of the stairs. I kicked the object with my foot and watched as it skittered across the carpet, coming to rest a metre or two away. Narrowing my eyes I saw that it sat at an angle, a round of plastic with a teat on the end. Curiosity aroused I bent over and picked it up, holding it up to the dim light coming from downstairs. "A dummy?" I questioned, looking at the unmistakable pacifier in my hand, narrowing my eyes at the object. I could not understand why something like this would be in my house - we didn't know anyone with children, let alone babies.
Suddenly my blood froze, as I realised whose the owner of the dummy must be. Surely it was Teresa's! Was Ali here? Is my mother inviting her over behind my back?
I leant against the wall as another wave of exhaustion came over me, unable to barely keep my eyes open. Yet even in my state of tiredness I could not help but feel a certain joy that Ali was obviously in contact, that she spent time here.
Patience that is what I needed, for it was only with time that I could play my hand. My fingers closed around the small plastic soother and squeezed as hard as I could, as if it were a talisman of Ali and her daughter.