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Impressive. To be able to dance about a complex score, picking out different instruments and transposing them onto the piano spontaneously, took skill and natural ability.
My breathing refused to regulate. I panted out the first few notes, unable to hold my breath for more than a few notes, a ridiculous lack of control for somebody of my standard. I fumed at my ineptitude and raised a hand to stop. “Let me warm up a bit.”
I stared out of the window. The frost still hung about on the tips of the evergreens, a white dusting reminding me of the cold winter. Indoors, my feet rested on underfloor heating—deliciously warm and calming. I drew in a lungful of air and picked an easy scale and I flew up and down without difficulty. My fingers unstiffened. My lungs emptied and my head lightened with the loss of oxygen. Nettie and I became one again.
“I’m ready.” I turned back to Stefan, grateful for his patience. He lifted his fingers above the keys and gave me an introductory passage. Our eyes met, he gave me a tiny nod, my cue, and I blew out the first note of the solo.
For an hour, I reveled in the gorgeous acoustics of Stefan’s studio. Nothing like my dire little house and its brick walls. My vibrato tone sang out, finding a new depth and quality. Each time we repeated the piece, my confidence grew and I imagined the orchestra around me, making me complete. We broke off every few bars, and Stefan offered me advice on my tonguing or dynamics. Little words of encouragement or reminders to articulate the melody, bring it out. I had to compete with a whole orchestra.
“Well done,” said Stefan. He eased back from the keyboard and cocked his head to one side. “I still think you can do better.”
I sank down on my heels. What? I had given my all. It had to be the best I’d ever done.
“You have a natural embouchure. I can see your facial muscles working about your mouth. Kind of cute.”
I flinched at the cute. Dad had called me pretty.
My hands went clammy. A sudden reaction to the way Stefan sat at his piano. He supported his elbow on the shelf above the keyboard, leaning slightly to one side. About his face, the brace of curls hugged. Shorter hair would suit him. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers through his tousled locks, pull them a little straighter and away from his eyes. His magical eyes glinted in the bright halogens above our head.
“Cute?” I murmured.
“Yes. I’ve been watching you breathe. It’s what is letting you down. Your breathing.” He sat up straighter and pressed his hands to his stomach. “You need to do it from here, not here.” He touched his shoulders. “Diaphragm.”
I knew about breathing from the diaphragm, but I had a tendency to play the clarinet sitting down, not standing up, constraining the movement of my tummy muscles.
He taught singing. I remembered. “Who do you teach? Vocal lessons, you said you teach.”
“A few kids. You know, parents think they’re the next X Factor contender. Rather unproductive but pays well. A couple of budding sopranos from local operatic societies and a tenor.”
“You’re a singer?” I fingered Nettie’s keys.
“I had lessons. Sang in a few concerts. Composing is my passion.” He rose. A tall man. Solid but lean.
My lungs were definitely picking up a pace.
He tapped his ribs with the tips of his fingers. “Here.”
I nodded and put the clarinet in my mouth, imagining my diaphragm sinking into my pelvis. I played a long note, trying to keep it pitched perfectly. By the end, my head buzzed and flashing stars appeared before my eyes.
“Play me something you like.”
Another step toward me.
“Close your eyes and relax.”
Play something. I racked my brain. Then the obvious slipped in. Before continuing, I took a sip of water from the glass. I licked my lips, running my tongue around them. He followed the rotation of my tongue with his widening eyes. I showed him my pearly white teeth. My pride. I looked after them well.
He smiled. A radiant Stefan smile. I was learning to recognize them. I slipped the clarinet back in my mouth and closed my eyes. Mozart’s clarinet concerto, second movement. I’d learned it years ago, when it had been far too difficult for me. Now, I thought I’d mastered it. I would never perform at The Proms or a concert hall, but I could carry the melancholy melody and let it soar.
The room’s acoustics were perfect. Truly a pleasure to play in the surroundings. When I had finished, I opened my eyes and he had moved even closer. I hadn’t noticed. He circled me and came to stand behind me. He touched my waist.
“More. More from here.” He rested the palm of his right hand on my belly.
I shivered. Behind me, he radiated heat. A delightful warmth.
He pressed his heavy hand on my navel. “Push it out.”
I sucked in as much air as I could and forced out my stomach, letting my pelvis drop, creating a vacuum in my lungs.
