glared at her.
‘Not the alcohol, I hope?’
The glare intensified. ‘It’s not that kind of party. It’s for Luc’s nephew. He’s …’ God damn her snooping. ‘He’s nine.’
She blinked at him. A child’s party …? Then the tiniest of smiles crept onto her lips. ‘Please tell me you’re dressing as a clown.’
He threw his arms up and walked across the room from her. ‘Do you seriously think that a garden-variety clown would be the best I can do?’
‘No, I expect you’d be a miserable, creepy clown.’
He paused, uncertain whether he’d just been insulted. ‘Right. Exactly. Thankfully, Tim’s not into clowns.’
‘What is he into? And why are you trying so very hard not to say?’
He huffed a long breath. ‘Warriors.’
Those expressive brows folded again. ‘Soldiers?’
He guided her from the bar again without touching her. ‘Old school. Swords and shields type of warriors.’
Out of the corner of his vision he saw her press her lips together to stymie the smile he was sure was wanting to burst forth. ‘A boy after your own heart, then?’
‘That’s what Luc said.’
She walked beside him. ‘Okay, so for the princely sum of one child’s birthday party we now have front row access to the Berlin Philharmonic?’
He shrugged. ‘That should give you an idea of how not a big deal this trade is for Luc.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or how very big a deal a kid’s birthday party is for you.’
He grunted and pushed through the doors back into the foyer, holding it open for her. The noise from the mounting audience surged and washed over them.
‘Are you coming or staying?’
It wasn’t too late to scalp the tickets out front for a profit.
She let the smile loose, finally. Smug and a little bit too appealing. ‘And forgo the chance to make you have to get your Spartacus on?’ She pushed past him and spoke into the crowd. ‘Not on your life.’
Shirley shuffled in her seat as the applause for the conductor finally died down. She had no idea who he was but every other person there clearly did, judging by the adulation. The white-haired man turned his back on the audience and sorted his music in the descended hush. The perfect acoustics of the venue meant that everyone heard it. Even the shuffling of music sheets sounded good.
Of course, her mother would have chided. Beethoven wrote it.
It was hard, as it always was, not to regret her mother’s absence. How she would have appreciated this special moment. Then again, if she’d been alive, would any of them have thought of doing it? She’d barely gone to the movies in all of Shirley’s childhood, let alone anywhere this special.
That was the awful irony about bucket lists.
‘Ready?’ Hayden leaned in and whispered. His shoulder brushed hers and the heat pumping off him surged.
The final murmurs from the rows of seating behind and above them stopped and, though nothing in particular was said, the orchestra locked their eyes on the white-haired man in front of them the moment he raised both arms and held them there.
Shirley’s breath held, too.
And then they came … The first distinctive notes of Beethoven’s Fifth symphony.
Da da da dum …
Da da da dummmmm.
This close, the music was virtually a physical impact. Its volume. Its presence. The hairs curling around her face blew and tickled in the breeze generated only by the synchronised speed of the string section as they commenced their furious playing.
She still hadn’t breathed.
Hayden glanced sideways at her as the galloping, excitable violins grew in pitch and strength and she sat up straighter. It wasn’t until the trombone had its momentary solo that she heaved in her first breath.
And still he looked.
Amazing, this close, this live. The passion of the performers poured off the stage and washed over her. The drama of the conductor’s jerky directions, the rolling synergy of their notes.
Her eyes fell shut.
The music fluttered against her face as it entered the gentle, lyrical interlude which grew and grew.
This was what Beethoven must have experienced when he could no longer hear his music.
And then it came. The discordant counterpoint.
Her eyes opened and she glanced to her right. Hayden was still looking at her. She took a deep breath and returned her full attention to the hammering orchestra. Minutes passed, planets orbited, the poles melted. The music softened for a momentary reprieve. The poignant, forlorn aria of a lone oboe—she wondered how she’d never noticed it before when her mother cranked up her Best of Beethoven.
And then the tumbling notes, the controlled descent before returning to the power of the full orchestra for the climax which ended so very like it had begun. Her chest heaved, her heart beat in synch with the strokes of the musical genius. Her body flinched with the explosive closing notes, and she pressed her lips together to stop from crying out.
And then … nothing.
Silence.
The conductor lowered his baton. The orchestra breathed out as one—long, slow and silent.
Shirley turned, breathless, to Hayden. She couldn’t clap because no one else was. She couldn’t leap up and shout for more, though it seemed ludicrous that music like that wasn’t supposed to be celebrated loudly. She could only look at him and hope that her excitement and appreciation were written in her eyes. Her fingers curled around his, hard, as though she could press her thoughts straight through his skin.
His return gaze was complex. Curious. As though she were an alien species he’d just discovered under a rock. But mostly laden with an unexpected quality.
Envy.
Someone behind them coughed. Someone else murmured as the orchestra quietly turned to the next piece. To them this was just another performance. Seven minutes of top-shelf proficiency.
To Shirley it was one of the most extraordinary things she’d ever done.
The audience murmuring grew loud enough that she risked a whisper. But while she might have been able to coordinate her lungs to push air through her voice box, she couldn’t quite make the sounds into a meaningful sentence.
‘Hayden …’ she got out.
He
