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Looking back to the orchestra, I try to take a deep breath to staunch my grief, but it’s too dim for anyone to notice anyway. I could be weeping at the top of my lungs, and still, no one would hear me with the orchestra’s full-bodied sound enveloping the performance hall.
My heart hangs on the verge of overwhelming heartbreak as I sit in the box overhanging the stage. The London Philharmonic Orchestra is effortlessly playing Fauré’s Pavane, the pizzicato of the strings punctuates every one of my breaths at the same time as the wind section covers me in head to toe goose bumps. Teeth clenching in preparation for the devastating climax, my fingers busy themselves with the white brocade flowers on my yellow dress.
The falling notes, the way they trill like autumn leaves on a gust of wind, make it impossible for me to breathe properly, like I’m about to fall.
I know it’s not the neckline of my dress that’s doing it, but still I fist the fabric at the hollow of my throat and give it a soft tug, despite knowing it’ll make little difference to my breathing capability.
Dragging in a desperate wisp of air through my nose, my briny tears slip down the back of my throat with the loaded air. I’m trying so hard to get myself together that I miss the finale of the piece. I’m left with nothing but roaring and jarring applause ringing in my ears as my eyes fix on the black clad orchestra. They turn the pages of their program, looking completely unaffected. So composed, considering they’ve crushed my heart.
It’s unbearable to look at them for a second longer, and as my gaze lifts it falters on another. My eyes hold his across the quaint auditorium and my heart stutters before it races in my tight chest. He’s far enough that I can’t tell their colour, but something about their sloping set captures me. Something about the way they narrow on me, like they can see all th
e things ravaging my head and my heart.
I’m unable to look away with the way his unwavering gaze holds me, it feels like fire will rain from the sky and scorch me. Balling my hands on the armrests of my seat, my fingers press the buttons on my long sleeves into my wrists so hard that it pinches as the choir’s woeful voices render me immobile.
They’re singing Mozart’s sorrowful requiem meant to mourn true, undying, holy love and I don’t know how long I’ve sat here, my unmoving gaze blurring and distorting the eyes looking right back at me from across the room. The soft lights in the box opposite ours allow me to make out the deep set of his eyes. So deep that I might fall right into their abyss.
Completely entranced by them, I jump as my brother’s hand rests on mine.
“You all right?” His question is barely audible through the melancholy of the voices wailing, Lacrimosa, in a tongue so old that it sounds otherworldly.
“Yes.”
Looking back to the shadowed box, I’m met with an impassive side profile that rivals that of aristocracy.
His cheekbones are so high that they glow in the dim light, and the way his tongue runs over his lip before he pulls it into his mouth, has me doing the same.
There’s a forceful tug in the pit of my belly, right where my heart has fallen. It’s new and strange, and it feels taut like pulled rope, and it has me unable to look away. The urge to watch him is disconcerting and it makes me feel at odds with myself, because I’ve never felt like this before. Like the world around me and everything in it has disappeared.
Forcing my gaze back down towards the stage, my eyes dart back as he glances back at me. His head barely turns, but I can feel his fixed stare. And with the heated weight of it, my thoughts scramble, my heart adding an extra beat to its rhythm as goose bumps breakout across my skin.
Jesus, my aching lungs haze my head, and as the corner of his mouth quirks up it seems impossible for me to gather my wits.
Before I can stop myself, I’m rising from my seat. Forcing my eyes away from the stranger, I shake my brother’s hand off mine and smile the best I can. I slip past him and his girlfriend, behind the red velvet curtains, until I burst through the door of our grand box. Closing it behind me as the cool air engulfs me.
Oh, God. What the hell is wrong with me?
My body plasters to the wall, my skin becoming clammy as it cools rapidly. And trying to collect myself quickly as the door beside me opens, I fix another smile on my face.
“What’s wrong?” Christopher asks, as he takes his phone from his pocket, checks it and quickly slips it back in.
“It’s really warm in there.”
It’s actually a combination of things. The heat. His stare. The way my heart is thrumming…I’d begun to forget that it could drum like that.
Narrowing his honeyed eyes on mine with a lopsided smirk he asks, “Want a drink?”
I give him a nod, turning on my heels towards the very conveniently placed champagne bar. Christopher’s hand rests on my waist as we walk in synchronized steps through the quiet parqueted corridor.
“I miss Grandad.” He says it out of nowhere with a light squeeze of his hand. Pausing by the entrance to the bar, I look up to find a melancholy expression on his face. “Feels wrong being here without him.”
“Me too.” I whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek which he fails to wipe off as usual. It’s been his thing since I can remember. The almost seven-year age gap between us did nothing to alter our closeness, and we’ve always had our little jokey jibes at one another. But since our grandfather’s freak helicopter crash things have changed.
Trying to lift the mood, he grins down at me from his six-three height, “Brut, Demi-Sec or Rosé?”
“Surprise me.” Forcing a smile to match his grin, I take a step away from the bar entrance and turn to him. “I need to powder my nose.”
Christopher chuckles at the voice I put on, like my mouth is filled with too ripe, sickly, squishy plums.
