the conductor disappeared from the stage, only to return seconds later with a camp flourish to take another set of bows.
‘Magnificent,’ muttered Zoë’s father, nodding approvingly as they started to shuffle along the row.
Zoë looked at Tamsin and smiled. Their annual winter concert was nominally a treat for the whole family, paid for by their parents in lieu of Christmas presents, but the appreciation was always somewhat one-sided.
‘Shall we go for a drink?’
Zoë nodded, catching her sister’s eye again. Clearly the glass of wine in the pleasant café overlooking the Thames was their mother’s favourite part of the evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy concerts or that she was overly fond of wine; she just couldn’t relate to classical music. Debussy and Wagner hadn’t featured on the Croydon council estate where she had grown up.
‘It’s such a pity you don’t play anymore,’ said their father, handing his daughters their glasses of wine. ‘You were both so talented.’
As a barrister, Rupert Kidd, QC was an expert in extracting the response he wanted. Zoë had discovered long ago that her father, though now in his fifties and approaching retirement, found her no match in an argument. She had developed a mechanism to suppress her instinct to rise to the bait.
‘Tamsin still sings,’ their mother pointed out. ‘You’re still a member of the Inns of Court Choir, aren’t you, darling?’
Zoë looked at her sister, torn between vindication and irritation. It wasn’t jealousy that she felt; more just the sting of injustice. Tam, in their parents’ eyes, could do no wrong.
‘But the orchestra…’ Their father wore a pained expression, which landed, predictably, on Zoë. ‘It’s such a tremendous thing to be involved with. Didn’t you enjoy being part of the first violin section?’
‘Of course I enjoyed it,’ she began, glancing at her sister, who was looking intently into her wine. Zoë knew where this was leading. It was a trick question. If she replied negatively, she would be implying that all those evenings spent practising for her violin exams and – more to the point – all the time and money her parents had lavished on her musical education had been for nothing. And that wasn’t the case. She had enjoyed playing the violin and she knew that her classical training was, in part, what made her the singer-songwriter that she was today. But if she said yes, she would face more questions about why she didn’t still play the violin, why she insisted on chasing her silly dreams with Dirty Money. She didn’t want to go there tonight.
‘But not enough to stick with it,’ finished her father.
Zoë took another gulp, willing herself to remain calm – to swim away from the bait. ‘I…’
She fought to explain herself in a way that somehow avoided the subject of the band. ‘It didn’t feel right, just playing the dots on the page.’
Her father frowned at her, looking mildly amused. ‘You would have preferred to play something other than the dots on the page?’
Zoë hesitated, wishing she could fashion an argument as quickly as her father. She knew what she meant. Watching the violinists tonight, their identical movements dictated by the flick of the conductor’s wrist, had reminded her why she’d given it all up. They were like foot soldiers in an army, following rules and taking instructions – never thinking for themselves. Zoë didn’t want to be part of an army. She wanted to fight her own battles.
‘I’d rather have a chance to express myself,’ she said, realising that she was sailing dangerously close to the wind. ‘But I guess Tam still enjoys her music. Tam, d’you do concerts with the Inns of Court Choir?’
Without hesitation, Tamsin took up the mantle, sharing news of upcoming performances and swiftly moving on to the subject of her bumbling choirmaster and then the Inns of Court dog, Monty. That was why she made a good barrister, thought Zoë as she sank into her glass of wine with a grateful smile.
Conversation meandered through Tamsin’s court cases, then on to Zoë’s work, at which point people’s eyes started glazing over. Try as her parents might, they couldn’t show genuine interest in the inner workings of Chase Waterman Plc., no matter how pleased they were that she’d taken the role. There really was nothing to get excited about when it came to balance sheets and write-downs.
Zoë’s father emptied the last few droplets of wine from the bottle as his wife rummaged in her handbag.
‘There you go,’ she said, handing Zoë a small plastic parcel.
Zoë unwrapped it and smiled. The label on the jam jar had faded, but the contents were still intact. There were probably over two hundred plectrums in total, collected by the members of Dirty Money throughout their university years. They came from all over: Gigs, friends, festivals…Some were freebies, some had been bought, some borrowed and never returned. Zoë turned the jar round in her hand, feeling suddenly emotional as the memories came hurtling back.
‘Have you got my…’ Zoë glanced under the table and then looked at her mum, frowning. ‘Guitar?’
An awkward glance passed between her parents.
‘Mum?’
‘Well…no. I’m afraid we gave it to the charity shop.’
‘Wh—’ Zoë couldn’t speak. She looked at her mother, then her father, then down at the table. This was no oversight on her parents’ part. They hadn’t accidentally put the guitar in the wrong pile. Zoë had explicitly asked them to keep it aside. They had thought about this and acted with the sole purpose of proving a point.
‘We assumed you wouldn’t mind,’ said her father, raising his eyebrows as though nothing was amiss.
‘You hadn’t used it in years,’ her mother added.
Zoë could feel her breathing quicken. She felt angry and hurt and sad all at once.
‘I loved that guitar!’ she cried, unable to keep the wobble from her voice.
‘Yes, um…’ Her father looked around the restaurant. ‘Don’t make a fuss, now.’
‘You haven’t even seen it in years,’ her mother went on.
Zoë’s chest was heaving, her bottom lip quivering ominously.
‘That’s not the point,’ she managed, as the pressure built up behind her eyes.
They all knew what the point was. It wasn’t anything to do with how much or how little she used that guitar. The point was one they’d been avoiding for years – the point that her parents refused to accept her for who she really was.
They saw her in a particular light – the light in which they wanted to see their daughter. They saw the successful young professional, a high-flying financier. They turned a blind eye to the traits they didn’t like – or worse, tried to stamp them out. They detested her dogged resolve to take an alternative path. That was the point here, although Zoë couldn’t say it because tears were choking her throat.
‘You’re getting all het up over nothing,’ chided her mother, pushing a tissue in front of her.
Zoë
