by Dani Atkins
I wandered out through the makeshift curtain separating the musicians’ backstage area from the main marquee and saw him straight away. He was standing beside one of the tables to the left of the stage, chatting and laughing with a couple of its occupants. For no reason that I could see, he suddenly turned in my direction as though he had been summoned by name. He said something to his companions, clapped one of them on the shoulder and then straightened up and began to weave his way towards me. For one stupid moment I thought of pretending I hadn’t seen him and diving back through the curtain, an area which was out-of-bounds for the ball guests. There was no reason for this sudden fearfulness. He certainly didn’t look menacing as his eyes held mine, and he made his way confidently towards me through the crowd of guests, some of whom were beginning to look decidedly inebriated. David looked devastating in a dinner suit, which fitted him far too perfectly to have been a rental, as though he’d just stepped out of an advert for the type of glamorous jet-set lifestyle no one actually lived. He had undone his bow tie and it was now loosely draped around the unbuttoned collar of his crisp white shirt. I never could understand why that should look so sexy and attractive, but it had never looked more so than it did on him and made my throat constrict in a way I couldn’t quite control.
‘Hello, Drunk Girl. So you’re a musician,’ he said, his mouth curving in an easy smile. ‘You play the cornetto.’
Despite myself, I could hear the amusement in my voice as I corrected him on every count. ‘I told you before, I wasn’t drunk. And that’s an ice cream, not an instrument. And it’s not even what I play anyway. I’m a trumpeter.’
His eyes twinkled, even more brightly than the lights glinting down on us from the ceiling, and I realised he had once again been teasing me. ‘You play very well,’ he complimented. ‘How long have you been with Moonlighters? I don’t remember seeing you at any of their shows before.’
I glanced down at my narrow banded wristwatch, a gift for my fourteenth birthday, which was still keeping perfect time seven years later. ‘Just under two hours, actually,’ I replied, ‘I’m depping.’
‘Of course you are,’ he responded with a knowing nod, then bent his head so close to mine that I caught the fragrance of his spicy aftershave. ‘What is that, exactly?’ he added on a whisper.
I smiled. I was so used to speaking only with fellow musicians or my housemates, who were also music students, that I tended to forget that not everyone was familiar with the vernacular. ‘Standing in for someone who’s sick,’ I explained. ‘This isn’t really the type of music I normally play.’
‘Heavy metal more your thing, huh?’
I glanced up at him through my lashes. He was quick-witted and sharp, and suddenly I felt like I was swimming in waters way out of my depth. ‘I play for the University Philharmonic,’ I said proudly. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ve been to many of our performances?’
He smiled, and I noticed his eyes crinkled up at the edges when he did so, making him look even more breathtakingly good-looking. ‘Now, why would you think that?’
I gave an embarrassed shrug, regretting my comment and not making things much better when I added, ‘I don’t know, you . . . your friends . . . you’re not the kind of crowd we usually get in our audiences.’
‘You sound a little prickly and defensive about your musical tastes, Tipsy Person.’
‘Still not drunk,’ I corrected. ‘And I only meant that it doesn’t seem like your type of music. I doubt you could even name three classical composers.’
‘Ah, a challenge,’ he said mockingly. ‘I do love one of those,’ and suddenly I wasn’t sure if he was just referring to the names of the musicians, or something else altogether. Nevertheless his brow furrowed attractively (and how was that even possible?) in concentration. ‘Erm, Beethoven, Bach . . . and . . . er . . .’
‘Bartók, Berlioz, Bertini, Bizet, Brahms—’
‘Wow, it’s all about the Bs with you, isn’t it?’
‘Bollocks.’
‘And another,’ he said jokingly. ‘Do you take everything so seriously, Intoxicated One?’
‘Do you take nothing seriously?’ I countered.
‘It’s all about balance,’ David replied. ‘And this is a party. You’re allowed to have fun. All work and no play . . .’ he left the words hanging in the air.
‘Gets you a First,’ I finished, unwittingly revealing my three-year educational blueprint.
I was actually quite grateful for an excuse to step out of the sparring arena when I heard the sound of a small bell tinkling lightly from the green room behind us. ‘I have to go, we’re back on now.’
‘What time do you finish playing?’
‘Not for another forty-five minutes,’ I replied, already turning to go. But his hand reached out to lightly clasp my wrist, preventing me from leaving.
‘Join me for a drink at our table when you’re done,’ he invited unexpectedly, inclining his head towards one of the noisiest in the room. I looked at the table he had recently vacated. His large group of friends were laughing uproariously at something, apart from two couples who were indulging in the kind of public display of affection that usually prompted someone to yell ‘get a room’. Everyone looked as though they were well into the party spirit and they were certainly dressed for the event, in expensive-looking prom dresses and dinner suits. As I watched, one of the waiting staff approached their table carrying a tray loaded with four bottles of champagne. The group cheered raucously at its arrival. I wondered, for the first time, if David himself might be a little drunk, although I could detect nothing in his manner to indicate that he was.
I shook my head, and gave a small tug, releasing my wrist from his grip. ‘Sorry, we’re not allowed to,’ I lied, improvising wildly. ‘We’re not permitted to socialise with the paying guests.’
‘How Dickensian.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s the rules.’
His eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘They’re made to be broken.’
‘Not by me, they’re not.’
I was shaking my head gently as I disappeared through the gap in the curtain to rejoin the other members of the band, never realising for a moment that I had just met the man who was going to change my entire life.
Charlotte
‘I’m sorry? What kind of virus did you say?’
The doctors had brought me to a small room behind the nurses’ station. There were no papers on the desk, and no name on the door. It was a bleak room and that had seemed horribly symbolic. The senior doctor, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, had a thick russet-coloured beard that was threaded with strands of lightly greying hair. Distractingly he looked more like a lumberjack than a consultant. The younger doctor quietly shut the door, closing out all sounds of the ward behind us and the consultant invited me to sit down. When I’d declined he had been quietly insistent, ‘Please, Mrs Williams, take a seat.’ That was when I began to feel truly afraid. Was what he was about to say so alarming that I literally wouldn’t be able to stand after he’d delivered his words? Perhaps.
‘Viral cardiomyopathy,’ supplied the doctor. He reached across the space between our chairs to lay a stilling hand lightly on both of mine, which were twisting together in origami knots of anxiety. That small human gesture was when I knew we were in real trouble here. I forced my hands to be still.
‘But you can give him something for it, can’t you? If it’s a virus you can still treat it, can’t you? With antibiotics . . . or something?’
I glanced over at the younger doctor who had accompanied us. He was fiddling awkwardly with the end of the stethoscope hanging around his neck, and I suddenly realised why he was here. It was to learn how you delivered really bad news to a patient’s relatives. Well, he’d have to learn it at another time, with another patient, because I just wasn’t going to accept this diagnosis. I looked back at the senior consultant who was regretfully shaking his head from side to side.
‘Viral cardiomyopathy occurs when viral infec
tions cause a condition called myocarditis, which results in a thickening of the myocardium and dilation of the ventricles.’
I shook my head impatiently. ‘In English please,’ I said.
For the first time I saw the man behind the physician; he was there in the softening of his gaze as he met my eyes. ‘In layman’s terms your husband—’
‘David,’ I supplied.
‘David,’ continued the doctor, ‘has caught a virus that has attacked the muscles of his heart, damaging them.’
I swallowed visibly. ‘So how are these muscles fixed? How do you make them better again?’ He was silent. ‘What are you saying to me? That they can’t be fixed?’
The doctor inclined his head slowly, I guess to allow me time to absorb the words that were set to alter the course of my future. Only I didn’t realise that then.
‘In real terms David is going to suffer from increasing shortness of breath, fatigue, and dizziness. We need to carry out further tests, and explore ways of alleviating some of his discomfort. But at this point you have to be aware that he is going to have to radically adapt his lifestyle to his condition as we try to find a way of slowing down the deterioration.’
‘And if you can’t slow it down?’
The doctor looked like he really wished I hadn’t asked that question, but he must surely have known that I would. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?’
I shook my head emphatically. ‘No,’ I said, surprising both of the medics with my vehemence. ‘Let’s cross it now. I need to know. Is he . . . will he . . . ?’ For all my show of strength, there was still no way I was ever going to be able to get that question past my terrified lips. I tried it another way. ‘Is . . . is his condition life threatening?’
It took seven seconds, I counted each one of them, for the doctor to deliver the very worst news I had ever received. ‘It can be.’
Ally – Nine Years Earlier
I made a concerted effort not to even glance in the direction of his table for the last set. Even so I imagined I could feel his eyes on me, boring through the darkened room like lasers. When I wasn’t actually playing, I kept my gaze determinedly fixed on my music stand, feigning concentration. Our last number, In the Mood by Glenn Miller, was one of the band’s signature pieces, and almost before the final notes rang out, the crowd rose to their feet and began to cheer in a deafening standing ovation. It was worlds away from the muted applause I was more accustomed to, and surprisingly I rather liked it. Buoyed up by the audience reaction, my cheeks felt warmly flushed as I bowed low alongside the other performers and left the stage.
Amid the back-slapping and congratulations in the green room, it was easy to pass unnoticed as I gathered up my belongings, stowed my trumpet back in its case and slipped on my jacket. I was cinching the belt tighter around my waist when the band-leader came up and threw his arm around my shoulders, his earlier stress now completely dissipated by the successful performance. He thanked me at least five times (I counted) for helping them out.
‘I really enjoyed it,’ I said, and was surprised to find that it wasn’t just a polite lie. Maybe David-whoever-he-was had been right. Maybe I was in danger of taking myself too seriously. Maybe I did need to lighten up a little.
‘Honestly, you should try out next time we audition,’ the leader urged. ‘You’d be sure to get in.’
I gave a whimsical shrug, still a little on a high from the show. ‘Maybe I will. Anyway, I’m happy to have helped you out.’ I turned to go.
‘Look, we usually finish off at one of the campus bars after a gig. Why don’t you join us?’
It was my second unexpected invitation of the evening, and unlike the first one I found myself wavering for a moment before turning him down. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have to catch an early train back home in the morning. Maybe another time.’
I stepped out through the flap at the back of the marquee. The temperature had dropped quite dramatically during the evening, and my breath now billowed out in an icy plume, like chilled dragon flames. I glanced around, the whole area appeared to be deserted, but I was used to walking at night on my own. I adjusted my hold on the handle of my trumpet case, suddenly regretting my decision not to wear gloves. I had taken no more than two steps from the marquee when his words pierced through the darkness, halting me.
‘I knew it.’
I recognised who it was immediately. I had a good ear, and his voice was quite distinctive. So there was no reason to be afraid, no reason for my heart rate to have suddenly increased fourfold within my chest. I slowly turned my head and saw him leaning up against one of the sparkling illuminated trees, a glass of champagne in each hand.
I hesitated for just a moment before stepping towards him. ‘Knew what?’
‘That you’d stand me up. That you’d go scurrying off before the stroke of midnight, like Cinderella, clutching your trombone.’
‘It’s not a—’ I stopped and shook my head. He was playing with me, I realised that. I was amusing to him, an interesting diversion, a piece of light entertainment, and I still had absolutely no idea why.
‘You didn’t come to my table,’ he scolded me gently.
‘How do you know, if you were waiting out here?’ I countered.
‘Touché,’ he said with admiration, and held out one of the glasses to me. I was going to say no, really I was, but instead I found my chilled fingers reaching out to take hold of the delicate stem.
‘I knew you wouldn’t come,’ he said quietly.
‘Did you?’
‘But I also knew that deep down you really wanted to.’
‘Did you?’ I repeated, not bothering to disguise the obvious scepticism in my voice. ‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
He grinned at that. ‘Not at all. For instance, right now I’m not sure if you’re going to drink that glass of very palatable champagne, or throw it all over me.’
‘People only do that in books or films,’ I informed him. ‘In real life it’s a waste of a perfectly good drink.’ I raised the glass to my lips, preparing to sip, but his hand came out to stop me.
‘Not so fast, Wasted Girl. We should make a toast.’
‘One of us may be wasted, but I’m pretty sure it’s not me,’ I informed him. True, his speech wasn’t slurred and he seemed perfectly steady on his feet, but they’d consumed quite a few bottles on his table, and it was hard to believe he hadn’t joined in.
He tutted disapprovingly at my comment, then raised his glass aloft, nodding at me encouragingly to do the same. Slowly I held up my hand with the champagne flute.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered.
‘Sshh. You’ll ruin the moment.’
I bit my lip. Definitely drunk, I decided. I would just play along. Take a sip and then get home. I still had a lot of packing to do before leaving in the morning.
‘To us. To a long and happy relationship.’
‘I’m not drinking to that,’ I protested.
‘I don’t think it’s legally binding,’ he offered on a conspiratorial whisper.
I shook my head, wondering how I had got into this stupid situation in the first place. It was completely out of character for me.
‘Go on,’ he urged. He really wasn’t going to let this one drop, it would seem.
‘Okay, whatever. To us,’ I said on a rush, and swallowed down an enormous gulp of champagne, and passed him back the glass. ‘Thanks, now I really do have to go.’
‘Then let me walk you,’ he suggested, taking both our glasses and placing them at the base of one of the trees.
‘Don’t be daft, you don’t even know where I live.’
He gave a shrug which looked both boyish and charming. ‘Can’t be that far. Anyway, I have a thing about letting pretty young woman go wandering off into the night unaccompanied.’
I dipped my head, letting the fall of my long hair hide my look of sudden embarrassment. I wasn’t good with compliments and was pretty sure he was
still just toying with me. ‘At least let me walk you to the main road,’ he suggested, and despite all my good intentions, I agreed.
It was only a few minutes’ walk and when we got there I was pleased to see there were still plenty of small clusters of students milling around. ‘I’m fine from here,’ I assured him, feeling suddenly awkward under the bright orange glow of the street lamps. ‘You should probably go back to your friends at the ball now.’
‘I’d like to see you again,’ David said, handing me back the trumpet case that he had taken from my hands as we walked. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Going home, back to Hertfordshire,’ I told him.
‘How about meeting me for coffee before you leave?’
I shook my head, but he wouldn’t let it go. Somehow I got the feeling that not many girls turned him down when he asked.
‘I really think you’re going to need some caffeine to sober you up after the night you’ve had,’ he declared solemnly.
I could feel my lips starting to curve. He really was very funny and I was drawn to him in ways that were starting to worry me a little. ‘I tell you what,’ I suggested. ‘If you really want to see me before I go, I’m going to be stopping off at the campus coffee shop at half-past-seven in the morning.’
‘Half-past-seven!’ he exclaimed, in the tone of someone who had genuinely thought there was only one of those a day, and it was definitely in the p.m.
