7 August 2020 - Morning Wattpadder's
This is the next instalment of my editorial changes to Phoebe's Performance. For those of you who haven't read this novel so far - please feel free to continue on reading the rest of the book or wait for the next batch of editorial changes which will be to the first section of this book and the set-up.
Happy reading!
xx
Alicia
"Kath," he says, his voice is soft. He doesn't know why she's here but surely this is a sign, an important sign. "I'll have to leave soon."
"Too bad." She pouts.
He decides to bridge the gulf between them by crossing the room. He stands a few centimetres in front of her leaving the slightest gap between their bodies. As she straightens to meet his six-foot height he realises she's the perfect kissing distance.
He glances at her lips making his intention clear. His hand cups beneath her chin, his fingertips slide over her cheek. Her skin is like silk and he pictures the body which hides beneath her short alluring skirt. The timing between them has never been right but today the stars seem in alignment. Reality is moments away from catching up with his imagination where he's kissed her lips and all the other sweetest places. He just has to make it happen. A groan escapes his mouth as a pair of sparkling eyes bedazzle him, daring him to make his move.
He leans forward, his lips are centimetres from hers when she visibly swallows. He hesitates. She turns her head and looks away.
Confusion sweeps over him and with military speed he pulls back. "My bad." His embarrassment is acute but he gives into a spiel of awkward laughter where the sound echoes round the dressing room. He moves swiftly to the piano and sits on the stool.
"Not at all," she replies.
Not at all? Not at all? Her retort is too ambiguous and he's baffled by the meaning. The rejection repeats itself in his head, the way she turned her cheek and then looked away. How could he have misread all the signals? This is the reason he never made a move when she worked for him.
He feels safe at the piano. Thoughts swim mercilessly round his mind as subconsciously his strong hands dance and stretch over the keyboard. They're million-pound hands, that's what he's insured them for anyway. At least he has his piano. Playing the piano is always therapeutic. This instrument has felt all sorts of his pain and of course his happiness too. Guess that's why he dedicated his life to becoming one of the best pianists in the world and he's not even thirty.
The sound of high heels tapping on the linoleum floor disrupt the sonata and his fingers rest on the keys. She's probably going to leave now. Anguish grips his chest because he still doesn't understand exactly where they went wrong. They didn't even get a chance to start out.
He's about to leap from the instrument when to his surprise she's not at the door but by his side. "Move over," she instructs, tapping his shoulder. He shuffles, making space on the stool for the pair of them. She sits and his chest squeezes. His head is thick with thoughts. He just doesn't understand her. "Why are you here?" he asks.
Her indecision is apparent as she toys with her hands.
"It doesn't matter." She meets his gaze, a sad smile on her lips.
"It matters."
"How can it...you're going to New York."
"You're cross about me going to New York?" He tries to wrap his mind around what she's saying, he tries to navigate this new territory. "But I've got to, it's my career."
"Surely you've got a choice."
"Come with me," he suggests and he tries for a second time, reaching for both her palms. He gently squeezes them to his chest. He kisses the back of them.
"Your career always comes first." Words catapult out of her mouth; her anger is palatable. "Forty cities in forty days and then maybe you'll have time off."
"There are six weeks in between."
"And then?"
"Asian tour."
"In your six weeks off, you'll be preparing for that." She sighs and retracts her hands. "I bet you're booked for the year."
"Are you mad because I've got a career?"
"I'm sorry. It's fine. Seriously. I know your career has to come first. I expected all this. I did truly."
"You know it won't last forever. You get your chance, your green light and you've got to give it everything."
"I know this is your chance." Tiny lines appear on her forehead. "I don't think it's a good idea that I go to New York with you."
"Why?"
"It will complicate things."
He tries to digest this statement. Women are like cats sometimes, a complete mystery. "Do you want to complicate things?"
A flicker of something flashes across her expression. "David asked me to marry him," Kathleen says.
He feels like the carpet has been pulled from beneath him. He jolts up from the piano stool wondering what he can possibly say in response. Is this why she's here? To ask permission? Or to hurt him?
The words are like tiny little bullets darting through his heart. "I didn't even know you were dating," he says, only managing to hold his emotions together. He bites hard on his lip, thankful he's not facing her. What's he supposed to say? Don't marry my best friend? Pick me instead? Even those questions would be a betrayal to David.
Otto blitzes to the clothing rack and pretends to check the contents of his dry-cleaning bag. His heart thunders in his chest. He focuses on the dry-cleaning bag. If she says 'yes' the action is irreversible, there can be no going back from marrying his best friend. None. Ever.
The welcome tapping of knocking sounds on the dressing room door.
"Come in," he calls and there's a slight whoosh when the door swings open. He turns to face his assistant who brushes water from her hair. "Is it raining out?" he asks, a concrete smile plastered on his face.
Clara nods. "Cats and dogs."
"Paparazzi tonight?"
"That coffee with Taylor Swift didn't help." Clara hands him a baseball cap and sunglasses. "We'll take the emergency exit, there's a flight of stairs to the garage where the limo is parked. The stairs are mighty slippery so be careful. Shall we?"
He pulls on the baseball cap, fits the sunglasses and nods.
He turns to Kathleen where she dabs her cheek, wiping away tears. "It's been good to see you," she sniffs.
"David's one lucky man." As he kisses her cheek his heart breaks a fraction. "Goodbye Kath."
He swivels on his feet to follows Clara and they begin their backstage walk without a glance in Kathleen's direction.
"Can you please get David on the phone?" he asks his assistant.
He can't allow himself the time to think about her, to grieve what might have been. There never was anything more than a friendship...yet a feeling in the pit of his stomach tries to forget that he thought he'd found a soul mate. A question hovers in the back of his brain: is it all worth it? Because of course it is. Of course. Being a professional pianist, a musician, a superstar, doing what you love every day of your life is the best feeling in the world. It's better than sex.
But is it better than sex with Kathleen?
As he follows Clara's hasty walk through the grey backstage hallway he can't help feel like he's lost something monumental. Memories of Kathleen run thick and fast through his mind, he can barely concentrate on waving and thanking his stage crew as he shoots past them. He throws another glance over his shoulder but Kathleen's not there.
They approach the emergency exit door and Clara opens it. He steps from the building, rain pelts outside. He hears the click as Clara shuts the door leaving Kathleen somewhere on the other side of the building. The door feels so symbolic, another barrier, a permanent one.
Clara erects an umbrella and hands it toward him. He shakes his head. "No thanks," he says, needing the feel of the rain on his skin.
"David for you." Clara hands him a mobile phone.
"You go ahead," he says, the droplets soothing him somewhat, clearing his mind, sorting out his jumbled feelings.
He inhales as Clara descends far enough down the staircase toward the garage. He forces his lips up, tries to smile. "David," he says into the phone, as jovial as possible. "You're one lucky bastard."
There's static on the line. He puts his leather bag down by the stairs for a moment so he can wave the phone round trying to get a signal. He'll get nothing once he's in the garage. "Can you hear me?"
The response is garbled and fuzzy. From the corner of his eye Clara waves frantically and he turns around, Kathleen's followed him out of the exit and she stands in the rain. Hope swells in his chest and he immediately hangs up on David.
"Why did you have to pick New York?" Kathleen shouts. "Every single time you always pick your career. Every single time."
"What do you want me to say Kath?"
"I want you to tell me that you love me."
"Did you say 'yes'?" Otto asks. "Did you say you'd marry David?"
"I think I might," she whispers.
He stares at her for a heartbeat. Perhaps it's a heartbeat too long because she races towards the stairs, she slips slightly but recovers her step. She doesn't worry about holding onto the bannister as she runs down the stairs in the high heels.
Otto feels the water seeping into his skin. A jolt rushes through him. She hasn't actually made her decision. She hasn't said 'yes' yet. He flies after her, realising he's hanging onto a slither of hope. Private jets do wait but women, well, they're a different beast all together. He has to catch her, he has to tell her he loves her, that he's always loved her. He has no idea what they'll do about David but surely that's why she's here. Surely that's why she hasn't said 'yes'.
He loses his footing on the top step.
At first, he doesn't realise he's falling, backward and downward. To his horror, his feet don't find a strong landing as he tumbles. He feels himself connecting with the concrete step after concrete step. His hands wrap round his head and body for protection. He rolls and bounces, down, down, down the steps.
There's a scream, probably his own and a crack. Then there's silence as he finds himself at the bottom of the staircase. Clara is looming over him. "Are you okay?" She kneels beside him.
"Is Kathleen still around?"
"Jumped in a taxi Mister Arnold." Clara pauses. "Are you okay?"
"Did you hear where to?" He winces as he rubs his head. His head hurts badly.
"I did catch the address."
"You're a miracle worker Clara." He sits up, feeling more than tender as he assesses the flight of steps he's fallen down. He knows it will be a miracle if he's all in one piece. Pain ricochets round his body. He winces as he leans his weight against Clara to stand up.
"Why don't you just stay put for a bit," Clara begs.
But he's on his feet, he stretches one leg, and another. Then he recognises the expression on Clara's face, fear. Her whole face turns pale and her eyes widen. "They'll be able to fix it." Her voice is soothing and hypnotic. "They'll fix it. I'm sure they'll fix it."
"I'm sure I'll be fine."
But Clara begins to cry and he thinks she must be in shock. He feels a little shaken too to be honest. But he then looks at what she's staring at. His hand. His right hand must have taken the brunt of the fall. It's misshapen and bent. There's a thumping in his chest as his brain begins to wake up with the implications of this break. He's a concert pianist and he's broken his hand. Yes, the hand might have saved his life but...
A wave of nausea washes over him. "Find the best surgeon," he instructs. "Cancel New York." His voice is strong, not betraying the anguish and fear beginning to terrorise his thoughts.
"Now Mister Arnold?"
He nods his head as Clara opens the limo door and he slips inside. He can barely look her in the eye. What will happen? What will happen to his career? He just lost Kathleen. And now, could it really be possible that he'll lose the other love too? Losing the piano would be like losing his life.