“This one’s reserved for Knightsbridge students, and I grabbed the spot just a bit ago, so I’m not sure what he’s doing here. Let me go talk to him.”
“No! Well, maybe after this song.”
She rolls her eyes and walks over to him, and I launch out after her to join her.
I take a deep breath, and try not to let him affect me because I have been a swooning mess since I got here. I hate confrontation, and I just want this over with.
“Hey, didn’t see your name on the schedule,” Sophie says.
He looks up, and his fingers stop picking at the strings. His eyebrow curls, so I hold up my oboe. I fill the silence. “Yeah, um, I’m supposed to play here, now, I think. Did we double-book? Is this not how it works? Should I come another time?”
He smirks, and his eyes light up. I can’t help but smile at him.
“Play with me,” he says. His voice is unusually deep, unmistakably not British.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He points to my case. “That a clarinet?”
“Oboe. Look, I’m not even playing a full set. I just need video evidence of me playing here for, like, a few minutes; then you can start playing again. And”—I point to his empty guitar case—“if anyone throws in some money for me, which they won’t, it’s all yours.”
His fingers run over the strings, and the chords melt deep into my core. The tune is playful, mocking. It matches his all-teeth side smile. I wish I’d shut up and let Sophie deal with this, and I wish she’d come save me. But she’s now just hanging back with a sly smile like she’s enjoying this.
“Also, I can’t play with you. We don’t know the same pieces. I don’t think there are oboe and classical guitar duets. I’m likely to piss enough people off with this squeaky thing on my own.”
“What pieces do you know? I can figure it out and pluck along. People will think we planned it.”
“The Bach Partita for Oboe in G minor was my audition piece.”
His eyes light up. “I thought I remembered you. You auditioned for Knightsbridge last year, right?”
I sigh. “Let’s not talk about that.”
For once, he’s the one who looks uncomfortable. “Right, sorry.”
I’ve started putting my oboe together, more out of necessity than anything. Double reed instruments—where you basically make the noise by tying two special reeds together—are peculiar in every way. On the walk here from Hyde Park I had my reed resting tip-down in a cup of water. I took it out and let it rest a few minutes back in its case. If you don’t do this right, you can’t play well.
If I wait any longer, I’m going to have to repeat the entire process, and I already threw out my cup of water. So, I don’t really have a choice.
I nod as I push in the reed and feel the familiar squeak of the cork padding as it slides in. I stand and bring it to my lips, take a deep breath from my diaphragm, and release it into the oboe. I run through quick scales, arpeggios, and do the quickest warm-up I can think of.
He side-eyes me, stops playing altogether. “Did you just run through the world’s fastest version of ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’?”
“You know it?”
“There are people who don’t? It’s, like, the best film score of all time.”
My features lighten, and I show some teeth too. (Then quickly cover them, because his are ten times whiter than mine, I’m sure.)
“Play it with me,” he says. “I can figure out the background, just play the first note.”
I sidle up next to him and look out in front of me. Stark white subway tiles creep along the wall, stopping to highlight the Marble Arch station sign under the tube’s classic branding—red circle, blue rectangle. I take note of the advertisements along the wall too. Two book ads stare at me, asking what I would do if my family was in danger, or what if my wife’s secret could ruin my entire life.
It’s all a bit melodramatic.
I play the first note of the piece and wonder if we’re any different from the ads. Trying to stand out when everyone wants you to fade away. Grabbing people’s attention, then making them roll their eyes.
And suddenly I’m playing. It all kind of disappears. Not my worries, of course—I’m still very much aware people can see me and are probably judging me. But it softens, at least. My