Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One JENNAH
Chapter Two FLYNN
Chapter Three JENNAH
Chapter Four FLYNN
Chapter Five JENNAH
Chapter Six FLYNN
Chapter Seven JENNAH
Chapter Eight JENNAH
Chapter Nine FLYNN
Chapter Ten JENNAH
Chapter Eleven FLYNN
Chapter Twelve JENNAH
Chapter Thirteen FLYNN
Chapter Fourteen JENNAH
Chapter Fifteen FLYNN
Chapter Sixteen JENNAH
Chapter Seventeen FLYNN
A Voice in the Distance
Also by Tabitha Suzuma:
A Note of Madness
From Where I Stand
A Voice in the Distance
tabitha suzuma
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ISBN 9781407042879
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
A VOICE IN THE DISTANCE
A DEFINITIONS BOOK 978 1 862 30355 3
First published in Great Britain by Definitions,
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
A Random House Group Company
This edition published 2008
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Tabitha Suzuma, 2008
The right of Tabitha Suzuma to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 9781407042879
Version 1.0
Set in New Baskerville
Definitions are published by Random House Children's Books,
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
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Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
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THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For Tiggy, of course
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my deepest thanks to: Tansy Suzuma for her help and encouragement, Thalia Suzuma for never mincing her words, my mother for her time and effort, Akiko Hart for her support and friendship, Jonathan Middleton for his musical expertise, Adrian Vos for his medical expertise, Linda Davis for her patience, Tracey Paris for another superb cover, Sophie Nelson for her eye for detail, Clare Argar for her hard work, Charlie Sheppard for her edits and her friendship, and of course Tiggy Suzuma for the music.
Chapter One
JENNAH
'Chuck me the tea towel, would you? Not that one, it's wet. The one by the kettle. Thanks. Are you sure we've got enough glasses?'
Harry shoots me an exasperated look as he grapples with the bottle opener. 'D'you want me to count them again?'
'No. I'll just put these ones out too. Oh God, they're filthy.'
'Here, give them to me,' Harry says firmly. 'Now will you just sit down and have a drink?'
'I can't get drunk till everything's sorted,' I protest. 'Otherwise dinner won't even happen. Where have you put the cake?'
'On the table. We're short of three candles but I'm sure Flynn won't be counting.'
I move across to the adjoining living room to examine the table for the umpteenth time. Some of the wineglasses look decidedly streaky and the tablecloth badly needs ironing. The sideboard and a small table have been pushed together to create one long table. My mother would remark that the cutlery is in need of a good polish. We had to borrow some extra plates from the downstairs neighbour and two of them are decorated with Beatrix Potter characters. The cake looks positively lopsided and the icing seems to be turning orange. I suddenly feel exhausted.
'Here.' Harry hands me a glass of red wine as I sink down onto the sofa. 'It's going to be fine, Jen.'
I fiddle anxiously with the stem of my glass. 'What if everyone's late? What if Flynn gets here first?'
'No one's going to be late,' Harry tries to reassure me. 'Everyone knows it's a surprise party.'
I leave Harry to tend to the goulash and go into the bedroom to get changed. As usual, the mess is not mine: Flynn's jeans, T-shirts and hoodies are strewn over the carpet, musical scores spilling off our shared desk. My clothes land on top of the overflowing laundry basket and I wriggle into a black dress I bought during the summer holidays but never got round to wearing. Too tight – oh, no. The blue dress instead? No time. Stockings to hide pasty legs; high heels have disappeared, only Flynn's trainers are under the bed. OK, shoes last, move on to the bathroom. Soap in eyes, ouch. Front of dress, soaked. Flyaway hair – up or down? Up. Hairgrip won't grip. Now I look like I've been dragged backwards through a bush. Hairgrip back out, start again—
'Jennah, we're short of two chairs!' Harry calls from the kitchen.
Can't talk, hairgrip in mouth. Grunt instead.
'Jennah!'
Spit out hairgrip. 'The swivel chair in the bedroom!'
Hair finally done, still too wispy – it'll have to do. Make-up. Face not dry, mascara blots. The sound of Harry dragging the chair down the corridor. 'We're still one short.'
'Piano stool,' I call back. Blusher or no blusher? No need, already look like a stressed-out tomato. The buzzer goes. Already? I find my shoes underneath Flynn's music bag and shove them on, turning my ankle as I attempt to run for the door.
When I finally limp back to the living room, Kate is there, throwing streamers across the tablecloth. 'I brought decorations,' she says. 'Oh wow, you look stunning, Jen. Is that a new dress?'
'Newish.' I give Kate a quick kiss on the cheek. 'How are you? I'm stressed.'
'Don't be stressed. The table looks beautiful and the food smells great. Breathe!' Kate commands.
'Why are you hobbling?' Harry asks as I go over to the stove to check on the goulash.
'I think I sprained my ankle.'
'Doing what?'
'Putting on my shoes.'
Harry and Kate start to laugh.
'Do you want me to cut up the bread?' Kate asks.
'Yes please. Thank you. God, the table looks like a bar.'
'I told you we didn't need all these glasses,' Harry says.
'But some of them are bound to get broken,' I point out.
'Jennah the eternal optimist!' Harry teases.
The buzzer goes again and the small flat begins to fill. Harry and Kate are doing the drinks. I return to the relative calm of the kitchen to taste my goulash, burning my mouth. I wonder, not for the first time today, what will happen if all the food turns out to be inedible. I suppose, as Harry kindly pointed out earlier, that there is always bread and cheese. In the room next door, t
he stereo bursts into life and it sounds as if the evening is underway. I check my watch. All we need now is the birthday boy. And if he has any inkling of what is in store for him, he is likely to do a no-show.
I think I have done a pretty good job of keeping things under wraps. I did the shopping in the morning and then dropped it off at Harry's so as not to give the game away with a fully-stocked fridge. As arranged, a mate from uni, André, swung by in the early evening to take Flynn out for a birthday drink. As soon as the coast was clear I called Harry, who drove round with a car-load of extra stools and chairs, some tablecloths from his mum's linen closet and five bulging supermarket bags. The last two hours have been a cooking frenzy and now I feel wiped out and the party hasn't even begun.
Harry comes in backwards through the swing doors that separate the kitchen from the living room carrying three bottles of wine. 'More booze,' he says. 'I'll put these ones in the fridge.'
'Are there enough thingies out there?' I ask him, rapidly peeling some potatoes.
'You need to be more specific, Jen.'
'Snacks.'
'Masses.'
'Is everyone here?'
'Yes. And André's just texted to say they're on their way. You couldn't have timed it better. People are here, food is ready' – he stirs the goulash, prods the meat and turns down the heat – 'now all we need is the hostess.' He grabs me round the waist and pulls me firmly away from the stove. Before we reach the swing doors, I stop him, laughing suddenly. 'Are we crazy or what?'
'Flynn's never going to forgive us,' Harry agrees with a grin.
As we go out into the living room, the buzzer goes. Kate answers. She gestures frantically at everyone to hush. Someone turns off the music and everyone stops talking. The overheated room vibrates with silent, repressed energy. Kate leaves the front door ajar and retreats quickly to the back of the room, out of the line of fire. There are voices from the stairwell outside. The room collectively holds its breath . . .
'SURPRISE!'
Flynn looks as if he has been punched in the stomach. Hard. Oh God, please smile. There is a deafening silence as we all wait for his look of shock to turn to one of joy. It doesn't happen. Harry bounds to the rescue. 'Happy birthday, old man!' He gives Flynn a hearty slap on the back and hands him a drink.
'Jesus,' Flynn says softly, accepting his drink, and manages something that could pass for a smile. The tension breaks as people come forward to greet him: André is talking about how he nearly gave the game away and everyone starts chatting again and the music is switched back on. I allow myself to breathe. Caught in a group with André and Harry and a couple of uni people, Flynn begins to look a fraction less horrified and my heart rate starts to drop. Relieved, I gulp at my drink and am able to laugh with Kate.
'I wasn't sure who he looked ready to kill first, you or Harry!' she is saying.
'I'm going to say it was all Harry's idea!'
'Watch out,' Kate warns. 'Harry will be blaming it all on you.'
I laugh and serve up the goulash, and top up people's drinks and take the second batch of sausage rolls out of the oven and mop up the contents of an overturned wineglass. I am introduced to somebody's girlfriend and to somebody's brother, then an annoying trombonist called Andy starts talking to me about perfect syncopations. I watch Flynn covertly from across the room. He looks as if he is smiling through gritted teeth. He is talking to an organist – Holly something – who keeps flicking her long plume of hair into his face, causing him to nervously jerk his head back each time. I am amused because rumour has it that Holly fancies Flynn, even though he is blissfully unaware. A lot of girls at the Royal College fancy Flynn, especially now that he has begun to make a name for himself on the competition circuit. He was known as 'that crazy Finnish pianist' for a while after news got round about his bipolar disorder, but that has faded from most people's minds now.
When I eventually manage to extract myself from Andy, I dive back into the kitchen to open some more bottles of wine and meet Harry over the kitchen table.
'All right? Less stressed now? The food's going down well,' he says.
I manage a smile. 'Yeah, it's going OK, isn't it? Has Flynn got over the shock?'
'A few more drinks and he'll be fine.' Harry grins.
We return to the other room and somebody cranks up the music and a few people start to dance and I sink onto the arm of the sofa, utterly spent. Someone trips over my foot and someone else half falls into my lap and the smell of hash mingles with the smell of cigarette smoke and I try to have a conversation with Kate by yelling in her ear. I am just relieved we had the foresight to invite all the people in the building. Harry comes over and squeezes onto the sofa. Kate snuggles up against him and closes her eyes.
'Where's the birthday boy snuck off to then?' Nadim, a percussionist, shouts to me over Harry's head.
I shrug and perform a quick scan of the room, realizing I haven't seen Flynn for a while.
'Are you planning on getting up for orchestra rehearsal tomorrow morning?' Harry yells in my ear.
'Hardly!' I yell back.
'Old Riley's going to have a fit when half the members of the orchestra pull a sickie!' Harry laughs.
'Don't care, I've got my excuse!' I shout.
'What's that then?'
'Sore thumb.' I waggle it. My flute has been gathering dust on the shelf for nearly a week now.
'Due to . . . ?'
'RSI – repetitive strain injury,' I reply. 'Otherwise known as overwork. Not something you would know much about, Harry,' I tease. Harry is known to practise the cello for as little as two hours a day.
'Laugh as much as you want, but next year I'll be making millions writing the score for the next James Bond film, while you and Flynn tour the country as struggling musicians!'
I thump him, narrowly missing Kate. 'No way! You got the place on the Music Tech MA?'
Harry grins. 'Yeah. The letter arrived this morning.'
'Harry, that's fantastic!'
Harry nods. 'Must admit it's a relief to know what I'll be doing after finals.'
'Tell me about it. My mum's been going on at me all year about applying for jobs.'
'Flynn hasn't managed to persuade you to accompany him on his little jaunt round Europe then?' Harry asks, referring to the concert bookings Flynn has lined up for after we graduate.
I give a rueful smile. 'I have my life too, Harry.'
'Of course, of course. I just meant . . . he'll be lost without you, Jen.' Harry gives me a wink.
'There are the holidays,' I point out. 'And if I manage to save some money over the summer, I should be able to fly out to a couple of his concerts.'
'Yeah, I'm definitely going to try and make the Berlin one,' Harry said. 'Thank God for EasyJet.' He holds Kate's head against his chest as he leans forwards to grab a bottle of red from the coffee table. 'More wine, Jen? Kate's out for the count. Maybe I should take her home.'
'You can't go yet – we haven't even had the birthday cake,' I protest, peeling myself off the sofa. 'I'll go and light the candles.'
I borrow someone's lighter and steady myself against the side of the table as I begin lighting the candles. There seem to be hundreds of them all of a sudden. I realize I'm drunk – thanks to Harry's top-ups and the fact that I haven't got round to eating much today. I drop the lighter onto the cake, then burn my little finger trying to retrieve it. Ellen, a fellow flautist, kindly offers to help. I hand her the lighter. 'Where the hell's Flynn?'
'He went off ages ago,' Ellen replies. 'We thought the two of you had gone out somewhere.'
'No, I've been sitting here the whole time,' I protest, suddenly annoyed. 'Oh, this is great! So now I'm supposed to blow out the candles for him?' I move away from Ellen, taking a bite of French bread to try and soak up some of the alcohol, and hurry out into the corridor, kicking off my tottery shoes as I go.
Somebody is throwing up in the bathroom. I leave them to it and continue on down towards the bedroom. I open the door a
nd fumble for the light switch but can't find it. I trip over a large pile of coats and bags spilling off the end of the bed. Cursing, I pick myself up off the floor. The curtains are open, revealing a tall pane of black night. From the light coming in off the street, I can make out a figure sitting against the wall.
'Flynn?'
No answer.
'Flynn?' I take a step closer and nudge the figure with my foot.
'Yep?' His voice startles me. He sounds matter-of-fact, conversational even, as if it is perfectly normal to be sitting here, alone in the dark.
'What are you doing? Everyone's asking where you are.'
'Oh, right.'
I wait. He doesn't move. I can make out the contours of his face. His eyes are bright in the darkness.
'Was this a stupid idea?' I ask quietly.
Flynn suddenly stands up and takes my hand. 'I love you,' he whispers. 'Let's get out of here.'
'What?' I say stupidly. I don't know which throws me more – Flynn telling me he loves me, or his suggestion that we ditch the party we are hosting. 'What are you talking about? We can't just walk out!'
'Yes we can,' Flynn answers. 'The fire escape. Everyone else is too wasted to even notice.'
'But . . .' I wish I could clear my head and find a suitable reply. Even in my less-than-sober state, I know that Flynn's suggestion is ridiculous. But he is already pulling me firmly towards the bedroom window.
'Wait!' I say urgently. 'I haven't got any shoes on.' As if that is the only reason I shouldn't be climbing down a fire escape in the middle of the night.
'You can have mine,' Flynn replies. 'Let's just get out of here first.' He heaves up the sash window and a blast of cold night air hits me in the face.
'This is crazy, Flynn. I've had too much to drink, I might fall,' I protest, but he has already clambered out onto the narrow metal ledge.
'I've got you. Come on, climb out. It's perfectly safe.' His arms are around me. I find myself swinging a leg over the windowsill. My stockinged foot meets with cold, wet metal. 'Eek, it's freezing!'
Flynn has one arm around my waist, the other on the narrow rail that flanks the spiral steps dropping down into the street below. We begin our slow backwards descent. I hold onto each step as I climb down. Even tipsy, I'm aware that if one of us slips on the wet metal, it could be bad. By the time we reach the pavement I am shivering hard. Flynn takes off his trainers and I step into them. They're warm. I start to laugh. We are standing under the orange glow of the streetlamps – me in my strappy black cocktail dress with a pair of enormous blue and white trainers on my feet, Flynn in his jeans and holey socks. He takes off the suede jacket I gave him for his birthday and puts it round me. I push my arms into it gratefully. Then he grabs me by the hand and breaks into a jog. I clump behind him in the oversized trainers, panting and laughing into the cold night air. 'Where are we going?' I gasp. 'This is so bad – I left Ellen to light the candles on the cake, everyone's going to be looking for us . . .'