A Voice in the Distance

  'I know. He doesn't seem himself. Maybe he's stressed about the competition and this is his way of dealing with it. He's been acting pretty weird all day.'

  'He's g-getting manic again!' I sob.

  'No, no. I'm sure it's just the stress of the concert . . .' Harry tries to reassure me.

  'It's not that! He is getting m-manic again! He's stopped taking his lithium!'

  There is a silence. I hear Harry inhale sharply. Then he starts to walk, taking me by the hand. 'Come on, let's go to a café and sit down.' He reaches down into the pocket of the jacket I am now wearing and retrieves his mobile. I hear him speak to Kate, tell her he is taking me to a quiet place to calm down. I hear him assure her I'm going to be fine. I wish I could be so sure.

  In the gentle warmth of the near-empty café, Harry and I face each other over two cups of steaming coffee. I use the napkin to wipe my face as best I can, scraping my hair back, trying to shed the role of hysterical-cryingfemale. Harry's face is pinched and grave.

  'Are you sure?' he asks me.

  I nod and sniff, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. 'I found all the boxes this morning. There were a whole two months worth, all crammed into the drawer.'

  'And you haven't confronted him?'

  'I didn't want to mess up his chances in the competition!'

  There is a silence. Then Harry sighs. 'Yeah, I can understand that.' He is frowning down at the tabletop, his brows knitted together in thought. 'Oh fuck,' he breathes.

  I bite my lip, inhaling deeply. Harry looks up at me. 'Any idea why?'

  I tell him about the conversation I overheard about the tremor in Flynn's hands.

  'That would make sense,' Harry responds. 'I remember him complaining about his hands shaking when he first started taking the drug.'

  'But then it wore off,' I protest. 'I'm sure it would have this time if only he'd given his body a chance to get used to the higher dose.'

  'He's still taking his anti-depressants though, right?'

  'I – I think so. I didn't see any of them lying around.'

  'Then he probably is,' Harry tries to reassure me. 'Which is something. It will hopefully keep him from dropping down as low as he did at Christmas. The problem now is how to stop him from getting too manic.'

  'I've got one of the packets of lithium with me,' I tell him. 'Maybe we could crush a pill and put it in his coffee or something . . .' I am grasping at straws.

  'It wouldn't work long-term. And he'd guess what you'd done as soon as the side-effects came back,' Harry replies sensibly. 'I think the only thing you can do is talk to him about it. Tell him you know. Tell him how upset and frightened it's making you feel. Try and persuade him—'

  'Tonight?' I look at Harry, softly aghast.

  'No, no, you're right. You can't do anything until after the concert,' Harry says. 'And even if you did manage to talk him into taking a pill tonight, it wouldn't do him much good for tomorrow. Apparently that stuff takes weeks to kick in.'

  We finish our coffee in silence. We walk back to the house, Harry's arm linked with mine. I am no longer crying and I do feel slightly better. But I wish there was some way of avoiding Flynn.

  I apologize to Diane about three times that evening. Finally she gives me a hug and says if I apologize again, she is going to throttle me. I meet Kate on the stairs outside the bathroom and she asks if I'm all right. I nod and force a smile.

  I take a very long time in the bathroom, thawing gently under the steaming shower, hoping against hope that when I return to the guest bedroom, Flynn will have dropped off to sleep. But he is sitting fully-dressed against the headboard, doing finger exercises against his thighs. I go over to the mirror and start brushing out the wet tangles in my hair.

  'Where did you take off to so suddenly?' he asks me casually.

  I take a deep breath and don't turn round. 'I wasn't feeling very well. I just needed some air.'

  He says nothing. I glance at him in the mirror and see that he's gone back to doing his finger exercises. He doesn't seem in the slightest bit perturbed by my lame excuse. I bite my lip, hard, and concentrate on my hair. 'We should get an early night,' I say. 'Because of tomorrow.' It is not yet ten o'clock but I just want to turn off the light and crawl into bed.

  'Yeah, OK.' Flynn has his sheet music spread out over the duvet. He doesn't even look up.

  I finish with my hair, glance at my puffy eyes in the mirror and decide I have had enough of this day. I climb into one side of the bed and pull the covers up to my chin. 'Goodnight,' I say.

  'Are you going to sleep right this second?' Flynn asks, sounding surprised.

  I decide it's better if I don't answer. Perhaps, if I try hard enough, I can will myself asleep even with the overhead light on.

  After a few minutes there is the sound of shuffling papers, creaky floorboards and the zip of his rucksack opening and closing. I can hear Flynn kicking off his jeans, not bothering to pick them up off the floor. I feel his weight descend onto the mattress. I hug the duvet tighter around me. He rolls over. Suddenly his arms are around my waist, pulling me backwards towards him. 'No,' I protest, pulling away. 'I'm sleepy.'

  'You're not sleepy.' Flynn's breath is hot against my neck. His arms tighten around me. 'You so turn me on when you play hard to get.'

  I half turn my head. 'I'm not playing hard to get,' I say coldly. 'I'm really tired and I'm not in the mood. Goodnight.'

  I press my cheek back to the pillow. Flynn's hands slide up beneath my T-shirt.

  I shove him hard. 'Get off me!' I surprise myself with the force of my own shout.

  There is a silence. I roll over onto my back. Flynn is propped up on one elbow, looking down at me, his face registering hurt and bewilderment. I reach out and switch off the light.

  The following afternoon Harry, Kate and I do some sightseeing while Flynn is in rehearsals at the concert hall. After trailing round the small city for a few hours, we reconvene in a café and spend the rest of the afternoon sipping lattes and eating waffles. At half past six we make our way back to the Palais des Beaux-Arts, a vast, grey, stone-pillared monument lined with flags. We feel distinctly under-dressed and bedraggled from the persistent drizzle as we follow the elegantly turned-out French and Flemish speakers into the large auditorium. Normally this would be the moment when my heart starts to pound, when I feel myself oscillating between pleasure and pain. But today I feel only a dull ache, a hollowness. Harry and Kate make up for it though, keeping me entertained with nervous, excited chatter and poring over the order of play, counting Flynn's place in the running order. I try to join in, but my cheek muscles ache from the effort of smiling. I am relieved when the lights go down and a hush descends.

  The first few competitors are good, really good. As usual the standard is impossibly high and, not for the first time, I am relieved I decided against pursuing performing as a full-time career. All this competing, all this trying to make a name for yourself. You have to be good, so good, not just a workaholic but also obscenely talented. And the higher you go, the greater the investment of time, money and energy, the steeper the fall . . . It's at times like these that Kate can feel relieved about her music therapy course, that Harry can feel comforted by the thought of a career in music technology, that I can feel thankful that I love teaching and music teachers are in demand. We listen to a dazzling Beethoven concerto, followed by a staggering Brahms concerto, followed by a magnificent Grieg concerto. Then Kate's elbow digs painfully into my side and we all three hold our breath.

  Flynn comes on, as always looking completely alien to me in his black suit and blue tie. Only the shock of fair hair bears any similarity to the scruffy boyfriend who kissed me goodbye that morning. I notice Professor Kaiser's back stiffen, two rows in front. Flynn sits, spends an eternity adjusting the stool, touches the pedal and the keys. As usual when he performs, he looks scarily serious, his blue eyes fierce. The conductor turns. Flynn looks up at him, presses his lips together, then nods. The conductor turns back to face th
e orchestra. The silence is overpowering.

  As soon as the dramatic introduction to Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto begins, I know I am going to cry. I bite my tongue even though the lights are dim because I figure I cry far too much over Flynn as it is. It's not the piece – I've heard it millions of times before – but something about seeing him in front of an audience, vulnerable, exposed. I know how much practice has gone into this concerto, just for this one moment. I know how much he wants to win. It's not that the other competitors don't deserve to win too, it's just that Flynn, with all he has to cope with, somehow seems to deserve it more. I try to concentrate on being objective, try comparing his performance to the three who have gone before him, but it's hard. There is something singular, distinctive, indefinable about his playing that allows me to recognize him even with my eyes closed. I find myself holding my breath as he goes through the series of impossibly difficult cadential harmonies that I know he was having difficulty with in his last lesson. I stare at his profile, the eyes narrowed in concentration, the colour high in his cheeks, and I think, I love you, I love you so much. Kate glances at me and takes my hand, squeezing it tight as Flynn races through a dramatic volley of chords. The second movement is exquisite. He makes the piano sing. The final movement is dark and dramatic: he plays with an explosive anger that is almost frightening. The final sequence of arpeggios practically sweeps him off the piano stool. The audience erupts.

  He shakes hands with the conductor, bows briefly and then exits the stage hurriedly, as if late for another appointment. We have to sit through another three concertos before the interval, during which the judges cast their votes. I make polite conversation with Professor Kaiser in the foyer while Harry and Kate play 'spot the music parent'. When we are called back to the auditorium, my knees suddenly feel weak.

  After a speech, the prizewinners are announced. Third prize goes to a Japanese girl. Second prize makes me hold my breath. It isn't Flynn. First prize . . . As usual there is a dramatic pause. I feel as if my heart is going to burst . . .

  'Flynn Laukonen.'

  Harry and Kate leap to their feet. The audience bursts into applause. Harry and Kate are jumping up and down. I haven't moved. Harry is grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me brutally. 'He won, he won, he won!'

  The people sitting around us turn in their seats to look at us with a smile. Flynn comes onto the stage to accept his award. It is a giant steel treble clef – not very original. But he also gets a cheque for 12,000 euros. That will come in useful for paying the rent next year. He looks embarrassed, but pleased. There are the handshakes from the judges, handshakes between competitors. He is escorted to the front of the stage to pose for photos. Everyone is on their feet.

  An hour later, we are still outside the artists' entrance waiting for Flynn. Professor Kaiser has gone back inside to try and fish him out. As usual there are press interviews and photographs, which always take ages. Kate is lying on the low wall, her head in Harry's lap. I am sitting on the steps, looking out into the street, counting the passers-by. After what seems like an age, the professor comes back out to say that Flynn is on his way. After another boring half-hour, Flynn finally emerges.

  'Whey-hey!' Harry slaps him on the back and Kate leaps forward to hug him.

  'You deserved it, you were so the best!' she exclaims.

  'You came alive in that final movement! I think it was your greatest performance yet!' Professor Kaiser enthuses.

  'You blew the competition away. It was no contest!' Harry raves.

  Flynn looks flushed and sweaty from all the attention. His eyes look past the others, searching beyond them. I hang back, suddenly uncertain, suddenly empty and afraid. If Flynn is told that he has never played better, if he is told he blew the opposition away, what chance is there he will ever start taking his lithium again?

  Chapter Thirteen

  FLYNN

  I am relieved to finally get out of the building, away from the cameras and journalists and judges and other competitors, and back to my friends. It's always the same when you win a big competition. You just want to go home and savour the feeling, but suddenly there are all these strangers who come up and shake your hand and talk about your performance, acting like long-lost friends. We walk Professor Kaiser to his hotel and then take the bus back to Harry's – we are spending one more night there before catching the Eurostar back to London in the morning.

  Harry and Kate are ebullient, advising me on ways to spend the money, but Jennah seems strangely withdrawn. Normally she would have run up to me and given me a hug and a kiss as soon as she saw me, but this time she doesn't. I feel kind of hurt. She seems distant somehow, pensive, almost sad, and it breaks my heart. She has been strangely on edge this whole trip. I sense there is something bothering her, but she doesn't seem to want to talk to me.

  On our way back to London the following morning she is still the same, only talking when asked a question, otherwise sitting back, hugging her coat around her as if she is cold, barely teetering on the edge of our little group. Harry and Kate don't seem to notice, or if they do, they purposefully don't comment, just chattering on with me regardless. I find myself filled with an energy, a joy, a sense of purpose to my life that I don't remember having since winning my last major competition seven months ago. It is wonderful to reclaim that feeling.

  We arrive home sometime after noon and the flat seems smaller, brighter, than when we left it. The idea of practice once again makes me fizz with excitement, and within minutes there are people calling to congratulate me – Rami, my parents, friends from the RCM. I lie with my legs hanging off the end of the sofa, chatting on the phone, while Jennah unpacks and puts a wash on, moving soundlessly through the flat. When I finally hang up the phone, I leap up and envelop her in a bear hug but she only pushes me off and tells me I smell. So I go and have a shower, returning ten minutes later in boxer shorts and wet hair, only to find her poring over books at her desk. I try to distract her by kissing her neck.

  She wriggles away. 'Flynn, not now.'

  'I'm not doing anything, I just want to kiss you!' I exclaim, the hurt sounding in my voice.

  She goes back to her books. 'Well, I'm trying to study. Finals are in three weeks in case you'd forgotten.'

  'That's ages!' I sweep the books off and plonk myself down on the desk in front of her. 'Study me, I'm far more interesting!'

  She gets up and starts picking her books off the floor.

  'Hey!' I protest.

  She ignores me so I pounce on her, tickling her and wrestling her to the ground.

  'Flynn, get off!'

  'You wanna fight? I'll give you a fight!' I laugh, pulling her down on top of me.

  'I said, get off !' She pulls away angrily and I am forced to let go. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks suddenly furious. I prop myself up on my elbows and blow the hair out of my eyes. 'What's got into you?' I ask in bewilderment.

  She stares at me for a moment, breathing hard. 'Would you lie to me?' she demands abruptly.

  'Of course not!' I exclaim, reaching out to try and tickle her foot. 'I would never lie to you. You're my soul mate, the love of my life—' I break off suddenly as I catch sight of her face.

  'You really expect me to believe that?' she suddenly shouts.

  I sit up, feeling the smile die on my lips. 'Jennah, what on earth . . . ?'

  She shakes her head, as if in disgust, and walks out of the room.

  I catch up with her in the bedroom and force her round to look at me. 'What have I done?' My voice rises.

  'You know what you've done! You've lied to me! You systematically lied to me for months and months!' she yells, the anger hot in her cheeks.

  I start to feel frightened, even though I don't understand. 'Jennah, you're crazy, I haven't lied about anything – what the hell are you on about?'

  'Oh yeah?' she shouts. 'Oh yeah?' She turns and disappears down the hall into the bathroom, returning moments later with a drawer from the medicine cabinet. 'The
n what the hell are these?' she yells, emptying the contents of the drawer onto the carpet.

  I stare down at the eight sealed packets of lithium carbonate I have been cramming into the drawer for the past couple of months and my heart literally stops. There is a long silence. I feel like all the breath has exited my body.

  'Oh shit.'

  'Yeah, that's right, oh shit.' Sparks fly from her eyes. 'Oh shit, the stupid girlfriend's finally found out.'

  I feel myself flinch. 'Jennah, listen, I can explain . . .'

  'Don't bother,' she says quietly. 'You weren't going to before, so what's the point?'

  I can feel my heart thudding painfully in my chest. I hold up my hand. 'No, no, listen. I had a problem, with my playing—'

  'You told me it wasn't a problem,' she says. 'You told me the hand tremor was just a minor inconvenience. So you were lying about that too?'

  'Listen,' I say desperately. 'I didn't want to worry you—'

  'That's not true, is it?' she shouts, her eyes blazing. 'That's not true either. You didn't tell me because you didn't want me to try and persuade you to keep taking your meds!'

  She is right, of course. I stare at her like a rabbit caught in headlights. I say nothing.

  'Flynn, after everything we've been through.' Jennah's voice is flat, emotionless. 'I can't believe it.'

  'I don't need the lithium,' I hear myself say. 'It's been two whole months and I'm managing fine without it. The bipolar diagnosis was a mistake. I just have mood swings from time to time, like everyone else—'

  'Oh my God!' Jennah looks like she is trying to pull her hair out. 'What the fuck are you talking about? Five months ago you tried to commit suicide!'

  'I'm just a depressive then. All I need are the antidepressants and I'm still taking those—'

  'You go completely manic too! What about the paint? What about the first time I came to visit you in the psychiatric hospital? What about two nights ago at Harry's parents'?'