A Voice in the Distance (2 page)

'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 . . .'

We are heading across the busy main road, pausing
in the middle to try and dodge the traffic. A taxi takes
pity on us and flashes its lights to let us past. As soon as
we reach the pavement we break into a run towards the
open gates of the park.

'Flynn, ow – ow – I've got a stitch.' I dig my fist into
my side and bend double, still being pulled along
relentlessly. The slap of my feet against the footpath
slows as we leave the bright lights of the high street
behind us. Tall trees reach up towards a velvet sky
sprinkled with stars. Flynn drags me up a small hill and
down the other side, towards the lake. Finally we come
to a halt, and I collapse face down on the wet, cold grass.

After several minutes of desperate gasping, the
pounding in my head begins to recede and my lungs
cease to cry out for air. I lift my face from the dampsmelling
earth and prop myself up on my elbows,
looking across at a large shimmering expanse of water,
silver in the moonlight. The swans look ghostly, gliding
effortlessly by.

Flynn has walked down to the water's edge and is
standing, hands in pockets, gazing out. I watch him for
a moment or two but he is completely still. I pull myself
up to a kneeling position and button the jacket around
me.

'Flynn?' I say.

He doesn't move.

'Flynn?' I stand up slowly and walk towards him. At
the rim of the lake I take his hand and lean against him.

'Isn't this better than a room full of people?' He
looks at me, his eyes bright.

'I suppose.' I pull his arm around me. 'But colder.' I
look down at his feet and start to laugh. 'God, look at
your socks, they're soaked!'

He ignores me and leans forwards and his mouth
meets mine. I teeter for a moment and try and pull him
back, away from the water's edge. 'Careful,' I say.

He refuses to move back and tries to kiss me again.

'If you fall in, don't think I'm going to rescue you,' I
warn. I pull him back towards me and we sit down on
the grass. 'Happy birthday, by the way.'

He looks at me and smiles. My heart does a funny
fluttering thing in my chest. Even though it's been over
two years, it still feels so strange that we are together. I
have known Flynn since we were eleven, ever since I met
him and Harry at music camp and we started hanging
around as a threesome. I've fancied him for years.
Apparently he's fancied me for years. But it took us a
long time to get together.

'Thank you for the party,' Flynn whispers in my ear.

I start to laugh. 'Yes, well, I can see that you enjoyed
it.'

He laughs too. Then kisses me again, so hard I can
feel my teeth digging into my lip. He pushes me backwards.
I wrap my arms around him and look up at the
stars. I wonder if it's possible to explode with happiness.

He is kissing my neck with a familiar urgency. I ruffle
his hair and wriggle under the weight of his body.
'Ouch, your keys are cutting into my leg!'

He props himself up on one elbow and digs the
bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket, tossing them away
onto the grass. His mouth descends back over mine. He
kisses me harder, his fingers in my hair. I close my eyes
but a sudden sharp pain from the side of my head forces
them open again. 'Ow – ow – Flynn, my hair . . .'

He tries to disentangle the offending strand from the
clasp of his watch. His face is flushed, his breathing
laboured. I screw up my eyes in pain as I feel several
hairs being ripped straight out of my head.

'Oh God, it's really hurting!'

'I'm trying!' Flynn exclaims. He snaps open the clasp
of his watch, pulls it off his wrist and disengages the last
remaining hairs. The watch slips from his fingers and
smacks me on the forehead. 'Ouch!' I yell.

'Sorry, sorry . . .' He tosses the watch into the grass
and lowers his face back to mine. I taste his lips, his
mouth, his tongue . . . There is something digging into
my back, just against my spine. I try to ignore it. Flynn
shifts against me and the pain intensifies. It feels like a
twig – a twig with a knobbly bit sticking out, jabbing into
my bone . . . Maybe it's not even a twig, maybe it's a
piece of glass—

'For heaven's sake, what is it now?' Flynn shouts as I
wince with pain.

'I'm lying on something – just get off me for one
second . . .'

Flynn pulls himself up to a kneeling position, breathing
hard. 'I swear to God, Jennah, if you think this is
funny . . .'

'I don't, I don't!' I sit up and feel behind me in the
grass. 'Look, it was a stone! Look how sharp—'

Flynn tries to pull me back down onto the grass, but
there is a rustling sound coming from the path behind
us. I pull away and hold my breath. Between the trees I
can make out the figure of a late-night jogger. I motion
to Flynn to be quiet. He heaves a loud sigh and drops
back onto the ground with his arms spread out. I watch
the man continue along the path, around the curve
of the pond and over the grass towards the gate. I look
down at Flynn. He has his eyes closed.

I start to laugh. 'I don't really think I'm the outdoorsy
type.'

He opens his eyes and sits up. 'What about being
adventurous and spontaneous?'

I laugh and lean back on my hands, resting my head
against his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' I start to giggle again.

He glares down at me. 'You are
so
not forgiven.'

I inhale deeply and look up at the night sky. 'Oh,
look at the moon!'

It is round and full, a large cardboard cut-out hanging
low in the sky. 'Make a birthday wish,' I say.

Flynn closes his eyes. There is a silence. Then he
opens them.

'Done?' I ask.

'Done,' he says.

'What was it?'

He glances at me. 'Can't tell you or it won't come
true.'

'Oh please!' I say. 'Please, just one tiny clue?'

He looks at me and smiles. 'Something about you.'

I teeter on the edge of wakefulness, the pink glow
behind my closed eyelids suggesting it is already late
morning. Voices drift up from the street below and I find
myself gliding effortlessly into a meadow as sleep takes me
again, spiriting me along, weightless as a breeze. The
voices take on the form of two old men sitting on a bench
in the middle of a forest, and I brush the tops of their felt
hats as I pass, and then I feel myself rising up, towards the
dappled sunlight falling between the leaves. The trees are
hundreds of metres high and the sun is nothing but a
shimmering corner of distant gold. I'm rising, rising,
reaching out, trying to touch the tops of the trees and the
clear blue sky that I know lies above. I wake.

The room is flooded with sunlight, slanting in
through the partly drawn curtains. Around the bed,
remnants of a late night – clothes on the floor, an overflowing
laundry basket, a toppled pile of library books,
a scattering of hairgrips across the carpet. Beside the
window, the desk is piled high with clutter from
the living-room table – bills and uni notices and
photocopies and lever-arch files. Beside me, her head
falling off the pillow, Jennah lies sprawled on her front,
her arm hanging off the side of the bed. Her shoulder
blades are visible under the thin white T-shirt she sleeps
in and a fine golden down covers her bare arms, still
tanned from the hot summer. Her long chestnut hair is
spread out across the white pillow. I roll onto my side,
propping myself up on one elbow to look over at her
still-sleeping face. Her lashes are dark against her cheek.
I lean over her slowly, carefully, and kiss her forehead. I
want to do more but I stop myself, afraid of waking her.
I content myself with looking at her instead. I was
touched that she went to all that trouble yesterday –
once I got over the initial shock of finding our tiny flat
crammed full of people. I remember the descent down
the fire escape and smile to myself. That was the highlight
of my day. Leaving the heaving flat and walking
through Hyde Park with Jennah. Kissing her next to the
moonlit water. I break my resolve and reach out a hand
and stroke her cheek. She sighs and stirs but does not
wake. I still can't believe it. Still can't believe she is here,
with me, in our flat, in our room, in our bed. Still can't
believe she is my girlfriend.

I get up quietly and pad to the bathroom. When I've
finished peeing, I pull on some jeans and go into the
kitchen to put the coffee on. I fill a tall glass with tap
water and take my pills at the sink, looking out over
the small back gardens. I put two slices of bread in the
toaster and peel and cut up an apple. Hm, apple
and toast, not exactly a luxurious breakfast. There are
some tinned cherries in the cupboard. I open them and
add them to the apple slices. I put some honey on top
for good measure. The toast pops up and I spread
butter and jam. I make up a bowl of cereal and put the
lot onto a chopping board. I carry it back to the bedroom.
She is still asleep. I sit cross-legged on the floor,
the chopping board on my knees, and look hard at her,
willing her to wake. As I watch her sleeping, I feel
suddenly frightened – frightened that all this could be
taken away. She blinks at me and smiles.

'Morning, you.' She rolls onto her side and stretches.
'What time is it?'

'Twelve.'

She sits up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. 'What are you
doing down there?'

'I brought you breakfast.' I carry the chopping board
over to the bed.

She kneels up and kisses me as I hand her a mug of
coffee. 'Has anyone ever told you you're an angel?'

'Well, it
is
the weekend.'

She smiles down at the chopping board. 'You made
fruit salad!' She tucks in while I sip my coffee. She tries
to feed me cherries. I decline. I can never eat till the
caffeine has kicked in.

'Ah, Sunday,' Jennah says between sips of coffee. 'My
favourite day of the week.'

I give a wry smile. 'I take it you've blanked out
yesterday then?'

She gives me a look. 'Oh God, is the mess awful?'

I pretend to consider the question for a moment.
'Depends how you define
awful
.'

We get up soon after and attack the living room.
Jennah is something of a neatness freak. I am not. But I
try. When the last ashtray is emptied and the final rubbish
bag carried downstairs, I get stuck into the mountain of
washing-up and Jennah does the vacuuming. An hour
later and we collapse together into a hot bath.

It is late afternoon before I get down to any serious
practice. Jennah has an essay to do for her Psychology
of Performance module so I use the keyboard and headphones.
I am halfway through my third hour when my
brother comes by to take me out to supper. Jennah
won't come because her essay is overdue.

'So how are things?' Rami asks as our food arrives.
We are in a pizzeria, sitting at a small table next to the
window overlooking the street. 'Have lectures started up
again yet?'

'Yeah, we've got a shitty timetable this year,' I reply.
'We don't even have Fridays off any more.'

'My heart bleeds,' Rami says. 'And I bet the ten
o'clock lectures are a real shock to the system after the
three months' holiday.'

I take a gulp of Coke and shoot my brother a look.
'Finals are only eight months away. I don't remember
you being so glib when you were cramming for your
medical exams.'

'Oh right, and I suppose a sound knowledge of the
human anatomy and embryological development is the
same as listening to a piece of music and saying how it
makes you feel—'

I take a swipe at Rami's head. 'Fuck off.'

Rami grins. 'Sorry I couldn't make it yesterday. There
just wasn't anyone to cover my shift.'

Rami and his wife Sophie are doctors at the same
hospital and often work at weekends.

'Sounds like you all had a cool time. Did you really
not see it coming?'

I shake my head. 'Jennah seemed a bit on edge in the
morning but I thought she was just having an essay crisis.'

'How are things going with you two?'

'Fine,' I reply guardedly. I tend to be reluctant to
discuss the subject of my love-life with my older brother,
who, being twelve years my senior and happily married
with a baby daughter, feels it his duty to dole out barrels
of unwanted advice.

'I know it's only been a couple of months, but do you
think it's working out, the two of you living together?'

'Yes.' I nod vigorously, unable to hide my enthusiasm.
Rami starts to smile.

'What?' I demand, my cheeks hot.

'You have that look.'

'What look?'

Rami is grinning. 'The loved-up look. And now
you're going red.'

'Fuck off!' I say again loudly. The waitress turns in
surprise.

I press my fists to my cheeks and lower my voice. 'So
how's work?'

'Uh-uh. You're not getting off that lightly,' Rami
protests. 'How are you finding it, living with a woman?
Bet you're having to shower on a slightly more regular
basis!'

I kick him under the table but laugh despite myself.

Rami picks up his glass. 'Well, cheers. Happy
birthday.'

I smile. 'I think it's going to be a good year.'

Harry is seated at the kitchen table when I arrive back at
the flat. Jennah is at the counter, making coffee. Harry
is my closest and oldest friend. We shared a flat together
during our first three years at the Royal College of
Music. We are opposites in every way. He is a beanpole
with black corkscrew curls and a permanent look of
amusement on his face. Despite being a talented cellist,
he has his feet firmly on the ground and is essentially
conformist. He is a good guy though. I see less of him
now that Jennah and I are living together – the
dynamics of the group have changed since we used to
hang around as a threesome – and of course there is his
relationship with Kate.

'Hey, it's the birthday boy!' He gets up and slaps an
arm round my shoulders.

'Not till Tuesday actually. How's it going?'

'Crap,' Harry says bluntly. 'I've got an essay for
tomorrow.'

I laugh. Harry is renowned for making heavy weather
of essays.

'Coffee, Flynn?' Jennah asks me.

'It's all right, I'll make it.'

Jennah takes a cup off the rack. 'It's already made.'

I sit down at the kitchen table opposite Harry. 'Did
you have fun last night?' I ask him.

'It was a good night,' Harry replied. 'And I can't
believe you two have got this place looking spotless so
soon after. Talk about nesting instincts . . .'

I flick a grape across at Harry's head. 'Shut it!'

'And where the hell did you disappear to, anyway?'
Harry wants to know. 'Ellen ended up blowing out the
candles herself.'

Jennah's gaze meets mine and I try not to smile.

Harry notices. His eyes widen with a look of amused
horror. 'Don't tell me you were . . . Oh no, you
weren't—'

'It's not what you're thinking!' Jennah squawks, turning
pink. 'My God, you men only have one thing on the
brain! We went for a walk in the park!'

'Well, we didn't exactly do very much walking,' I
interject, determined to wind her up.

Harry begins to laugh.

Jennah gasps in outrage. 'We sat and watched the
swans on the lake, thank you very much, Harry!'

Harry is still laughing. 'Now could that possibly be a
euphemism for—'

Jennah yelps and whacks Harry on the back of the
head. Harry cries out in mock outrage. 'Aargh! Is this
how she treats you, Flynn? Whacking you if you don't
make the bed in the morning, whacking you if you
don't put the loo seat down—!'

Jennah pretends to throttle him. I laugh.

We spend the rest of the evening together. Jennah is
meant to be helping Harry with his essay but not a lot of
work gets done. She uncorks a bottle of wine and we
end up playing a rather drunken game of What's That
Tune? Harry provokes no end of hilarity when it
transpires he can't sing when pissed.

'Listen! Listen!' Harry is shouting, bouncing up and
down on the sofa in annoyance. He tries the song again,
a lengthy string of
na-na-na-nas
, accompanied by some
rhythm-less drumming on the coffee table.

'Theme tune from
Lord of the Rings
!' I shout. 'No,
Star
Wars, Star Wars
!'

'Stop doing action films!' Jennah wails. 'That's not
fair, I told you—'

'
Listen!
' Harry yells, drowning out our protests.
'
Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!
' He karate-chops the
coffee table for emphasis.

'Oh my God, it isn't even a tune!' Jennah yells. 'I
know, it's rap! It's a rapper! Eminem!'

'Are you tone deaf or what?' Harry yells at her. 'Of
course it's got a tune! It's in F minor, you idiot!
Na-nana-
na-na
. . .'

'Couldn't you at least choose a different syllable?' I beg.

'I'll give you a clue,' Harry offers generously.
'Something to do with strawberries and cream.'

'I know! I know!' Jennah dives off the end of the
couch, sprawling at Harry's feet. 'The Wimbledon
tune!'

'Ta-da!' Harry declares, holding out his arms.

'No way!' I roar. '
Na-na-na-na
is the Wimbledon
tune?'

'It's not the kind of thing you can really sing.' Harry
is defensive.

'The Wimbledon tune sounds nothing like that!' I
yell, jumping to my feet. 'That's crap! The Wimbledon
tune is completely different! It goes like . . .' I hesitate,
trying to think.

Harry explodes with a triumphant guffaw. 'You see!
You can't sing it either!'

'I've got it, I've got it!' I
la
a few bars.

'That's what I said!' Harry yells.

We don't get to bed until three in the morning, by
which time Harry has passed out on the couch. I sleep
lightly and wake at dawn. I have noticed that I need less
and less sleep lately, which pleases me. Since being
diagnosed with bipolar disorder two and a half years
ago, I have been taking a mood-stabilizer, a drug called
lithium, which is supposed to iron out my moods. It
does the trick – stops me from swinging between being
hyper and awake all night, to depressed and unable to
get out of bed. But the side-effects – feeling sluggish and
often queasy – are a right pain. Recently, however, I
seem to be getting some of my old energy back, and I'm
delighted. The Royal College of Music is a pressurecooker
environment at the best of times, filled with
aspiring young musicians dreaming of stardom and prepared
to make a hell of a lot of sacrifices to get there.
You need to be on top form just to survive, just to keep
up with the rest, let alone get ahead. And if you want to
stand a chance of making it as a professional musician
in the big wide world, you
have
to get ahead, even while
still at uni. You have to find a way of rising above the
rest, of sticking out from the crowd. And the only way to
do that is to practise, practise, practise, and then go out
and win a hell of a lot of competitions. I have won three
international competitions this year and I've already
received a handful of concert bookings for after I
graduate. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

I drink some coffee and make the most of my early
morning by donning my headphones and grinding
through twenty pages of Czerny at my keyboard. Harry
rolls off the couch just before nine, downs a coffee and
some aspirin before heading to lectures, still looking
half asleep. I remember I have an essay to write for my
Aesthetics and Criticism class but push it to the back of
my mind for now. One lesson I have learned from my
cognitive therapy sessions with Dr Stefan is to compartmentalize
– to arrange the different parts of my life like
pigeon-holes in my brain and only focus on one
compartment at a time. It's supposed to stop you from
feeling overloaded, although the hundreds of pigeonholes
I see whenever I try this technique still manage to
freak me out every time.