A Voice in the Distance (16 page)

The first few competitors are good, really good. As
usual the standard is impossibly high and, not for the
first time, I am relieved I decided against pursuing performing
as a full-time career. All this competing, all this
trying to make a name for yourself. You have to be good,
so good, not just a workaholic but also obscenely
talented. And the higher you go, the greater the investment
of time, money and energy, the steeper the fall . . .
It's at times like these that Kate can feel relieved about
her music therapy course, that Harry can feel comforted
by the thought of a career in music technology, that I
can feel thankful that I love teaching and music
teachers are in demand. We listen to a dazzling
Beethoven concerto, followed by a staggering Brahms
concerto, followed by a magnificent Grieg concerto.
Then Kate's elbow digs painfully into my side and we all
three hold our breath.

Flynn comes on, as always looking completely alien to
me in his black suit and blue tie. Only the shock of fair
hair bears any similarity to the scruffy boyfriend who
kissed me goodbye that morning. I notice Professor
Kaiser's back stiffen, two rows in front. Flynn sits, spends
an eternity adjusting the stool, touches the pedal and
the keys. As usual when he performs, he looks scarily
serious, his blue eyes fierce. The conductor turns. Flynn
looks up at him, presses his lips together, then nods.
The conductor turns back to face the orchestra. The
silence is overpowering.

As soon as the dramatic introduction to Rachmaninov's
Second Piano Concerto begins, I know I am
going to cry. I bite my tongue even though the lights are
dim because I figure I cry far too much over Flynn as
it is. It's not the piece – I've heard it millions of times
before – but something about seeing him in front of an
audience, vulnerable, exposed. I know how much
practice has gone into this concerto, just for this one
moment. I know how much he wants to win. It's not that
the other competitors don't deserve to win too, it's just
that Flynn, with all he has to cope with, somehow seems
to deserve it more. I try to concentrate on being
objective, try comparing his performance to the three
who have gone before him, but it's hard. There is
something singular, distinctive, indefinable about his
playing that allows me to recognize him even with my
eyes closed. I find myself holding my breath as he goes
through the series of impossibly difficult cadential
harmonies that I know he was having difficulty with in
his last lesson. I stare at his profile, the eyes narrowed in
concentration, the colour high in his cheeks, and I
think,
I love you, I love you so much
. Kate glances at me
and takes my hand, squeezing it tight as Flynn races
through a dramatic volley of chords. The second movement
is exquisite. He makes the piano sing. The final
movement is dark and dramatic: he plays with an
explosive anger that is almost frightening. The final
sequence of arpeggios practically sweeps him off the
piano stool. The audience erupts.

He shakes hands with the conductor, bows briefly
and then exits the stage hurriedly, as if late for another
appointment. We have to sit through another three
concertos before the interval, during which the judges
cast their votes. I make polite conversation with
Professor Kaiser in the foyer while Harry and Kate play
'spot the music parent'. When we are called back to the
auditorium, my knees suddenly feel weak.

After a speech, the prizewinners are announced.
Third prize goes to a Japanese girl. Second prize makes
me hold my breath. It isn't Flynn. First prize . . . As usual
there is a dramatic pause. I feel as if my heart is going to
burst . . .

'Flynn Laukonen.'

Harry and Kate leap to their feet. The audience bursts
into applause. Harry and Kate are jumping up and down.
I haven't moved. Harry is grabbing me by the shoulders,
shaking me brutally. 'He won, he won, he won!'

The people sitting around us turn in their seats to
look at us with a smile. Flynn comes onto the stage to
accept his award. It is a giant steel treble clef – not very
original. But he also gets a cheque for 12,000 euros.
That will come in useful for paying the rent next year.
He looks embarrassed, but pleased. There are the handshakes
from the judges, handshakes between competitors.
He is escorted to the front of the stage to pose for
photos. Everyone is on their feet.

An hour later, we are still outside the artists' entrance
waiting for Flynn. Professor Kaiser has gone back inside
to try and fish him out. As usual there are press interviews
and photographs, which always take ages. Kate is
lying on the low wall, her head in Harry's lap. I am
sitting on the steps, looking out into the street, counting
the passers-by. After what seems like an age, the
professor comes back out to say that Flynn is on his way.
After another boring half-hour, Flynn finally emerges.

'Whey-hey!' Harry slaps him on the back and Kate
leaps forward to hug him.

'You deserved it, you were
so
the best!' she exclaims.

'You came alive in that final movement! I think it was
your greatest performance yet!' Professor Kaiser
enthuses.

'You blew the competition away. It was no contest!'
Harry raves.

Flynn looks flushed and sweaty from all the attention.
His eyes look past the others, searching beyond them. I
hang back, suddenly uncertain, suddenly empty and
afraid. If Flynn is told that he has never played better, if
he is told he blew the opposition away, what chance is
there he will ever start taking his lithium again?

I am relieved to finally get out of the building, away
from the cameras and journalists and judges and other
competitors, and back to my friends. It's always the same
when you win a big competition. You just want to go
home and savour the feeling, but suddenly there are all
these strangers who come up and shake your hand and
talk about your performance, acting like long-lost
friends. We walk Professor Kaiser to his hotel and then
take the bus back to Harry's – we are spending one
more night there before catching the Eurostar back to
London in the morning.

Harry and Kate are ebullient, advising me on ways to
spend the money, but Jennah seems strangely withdrawn.
Normally she would have run up to me and
given me a hug and a kiss as soon as she saw me, but this
time she doesn't. I feel kind of hurt. She seems distant
somehow, pensive, almost sad, and it breaks my heart.
She has been strangely on edge this whole trip. I sense
there is something bothering her, but she doesn't seem
to want to talk to me.

On our way back to London the following morning
she is still the same, only talking when asked a question,
otherwise sitting back, hugging her coat around her as
if she is cold, barely teetering on the edge of our little
group. Harry and Kate don't seem to notice, or if they
do, they purposefully don't comment, just chattering on
with me regardless. I find myself filled with an energy, a
joy, a sense of purpose to my life that I don't remember
having since winning my last major competition seven
months ago. It is wonderful to reclaim that feeling.

We arrive home sometime after noon and the flat
seems smaller, brighter, than when we left it. The idea of
practice once again makes me fizz with excitement, and
within minutes there are people calling to congratulate
me – Rami, my parents, friends from the RCM. I lie with
my legs hanging off the end of the sofa, chatting on the
phone, while Jennah unpacks and puts a wash on,
moving soundlessly through the flat. When I finally
hang up the phone, I leap up and envelop her in a bear
hug but she only pushes me off and tells me I smell. So
I go and have a shower, returning ten minutes later in
boxer shorts and wet hair, only to find her poring over
books at her desk. I try to distract her by kissing her
neck.

She wriggles away. 'Flynn, not now.'

'I'm not doing anything, I just want to kiss you!' I
exclaim, the hurt sounding in my voice.

She goes back to her books. 'Well, I'm trying to study.
Finals are in three weeks in case you'd forgotten.'

'That's ages!' I sweep the books off and plonk myself
down on the desk in front of her. 'Study
me
, I'm far
more interesting!'

She gets up and starts picking her books off the floor.

'Hey!' I protest.

She ignores me so I pounce on her, tickling her and
wrestling her to the ground.

'Flynn, get off!'

'You wanna fight? I'll give you a fight!' I laugh,
pulling her down on top of me.

'I said,
get off
!' She pulls away angrily and I am forced
to let go. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks suddenly
furious. I prop myself up on my elbows and blow the
hair out of my eyes. 'What's got into you?' I ask in
bewilderment.

She stares at me for a moment, breathing hard.
'Would you lie to me?' she demands abruptly.

'Of course not!' I exclaim, reaching out to try and
tickle her foot. 'I would never lie to you. You're my soul
mate, the love of my life—' I break off suddenly as I
catch sight of her face.

'You really expect me to believe that?' she suddenly
shouts.

I sit up, feeling the smile die on my lips. 'Jennah,
what on earth . . . ?'

She shakes her head, as if in disgust, and walks out of
the room.

I catch up with her in the bedroom and force her
round to look at me. 'What have I done?' My voice rises.

'You know what you've done! You've lied to me! You
systematically lied to me for months and months!' she
yells, the anger hot in her cheeks.

I start to feel frightened, even though I don't understand.
'Jennah, you're crazy, I haven't lied about
anything – what the hell are you on about?'

'Oh yeah?' she shouts. 'Oh yeah?' She turns and disappears
down the hall into the bathroom, returning
moments later with a drawer from the medicine cabinet.
'Then what the hell are these?' she yells, emptying the
contents of the drawer onto the carpet.

I stare down at the eight sealed packets of lithium
carbonate I have been cramming into the drawer for the
past couple of months and my heart literally stops.
There is a long silence. I feel like all the breath has
exited my body.

'Oh shit.'

'Yeah, that's right, oh shit.' Sparks fly from her
eyes. 'Oh shit, the stupid girlfriend's finally found
out.'

I feel myself flinch. 'Jennah, listen, I can explain . . .'

'Don't bother,' she says quietly. 'You weren't going to
before, so what's the point?'

I can feel my heart thudding painfully in my chest. I
hold up my hand. 'No, no, listen. I had a problem, with
my playing—'

'You told me it wasn't a problem,' she says. 'You told
me the hand tremor was just a minor inconvenience. So
you were lying about that too?'

'Listen,' I say desperately. 'I didn't want to worry
you—'

'That's not true, is it?' she shouts, her eyes blazing.
'That's not true either. You didn't tell me because you
didn't want me to try and persuade you to keep taking
your meds!'

She is right, of course. I stare at her like a rabbit
caught in headlights. I say nothing.

'Flynn, after everything we've been through.'
Jennah's voice is flat, emotionless. 'I can't believe it.'

'I don't need the lithium,' I hear myself say. 'It's been
two whole months and I'm managing fine without it.
The bipolar diagnosis was a mistake. I just have mood
swings from time to time, like everyone else—'

'Oh my God!' Jennah looks like she is trying to pull
her hair out. 'What the fuck are you talking about? Five
months ago you tried to commit suicide!'

'I'm just a depressive then. All I need are the antidepressants
and I'm still taking those—'

'You go completely manic too! What about the paint?
What about the first time I came to visit you in the
psychiatric hospital? What about two nights ago at
Harry's parents'?'

'What are you talking about?'

'You were horrible to me!' Jennah shouts, her face on
fire. 'Even though I was dying with embarrassment, you
were going on and on, laughing at me, making me out
to be some kind of neurotic bitch, grossly exaggerating
everything!'

'Hey,' I protest. 'But that was funny—'

'Only to you! That's what you're like when you're
manic! You're only aware of your own feelings, never of
others'! Everyone was embarrassed, I was practically in
tears, and you just kept on and on and on!' Her anger
frightens me. 'You were so wrapped up in yourself you
didn't even notice when I ran out on dinner, and it was
Harry who had to come after me!'

'I thought – I thought you'd gone to the loo or
something—'

'No you didn't!' Jennah yells. 'You didn't think anything.
Because the only person you care about when
you're manic is
you
!'

I stare at her. For a moment it feels like she hates me.

She sits down on the end of the bed. Suddenly she
looks exhausted. 'I'm so tired, Flynn. I'm tired of the
ups and the downs and the hospitalizations and the lies
. . . You don't know what it was like, seeing you in that
hospital bed, wondering whether you would ever wake
up, wondering which would be worse – for you to be
brain-damaged or for you to be dead!' She bites her lip
and her eyes fill up. 'I can't take this any more!'

I feel my heart beat faster. 'OK, OK,' I say quickly. 'I'll
go back on the lithium if it means so much to you.'

'It's not only that, Flynn. I need to know that I can
trust you, that you're going to be straight with me, that
you're not going to try and take me for a fool. I need to
trust you to talk to me about things like the side-effects
– and not just to Sophie because she's a doctor—'

'But she's a neurologist,' I say. 'I thought she might
be able to help me.'

'But just because I'm not a doctor doesn't mean you
can't talk to me too! I have a right to be involved, Flynn.
Because I care about you, because I worry about you,
and because I too have to put up with a lot of the shit
stuff.'

I go over to the end of the bed and sit down beside
her. 'I know you do,' I say, taking her hands in mine. 'I
know you do and I'm sorry. I promise, I really promise
I'll be straight with you from now on. Please, please trust
me again.'

She puts her arms around me. 'I love you, you fool. I
just want you to be well and happy. And lithium keeps
you well, Flynn. You know it does.'

That evening I intend to start taking my lithium again. I
really do. I stand in front of the bathroom sink, the
small white pill held between my finger and thumb. I
look at it and think how tomorrow I will be feeling
normal again. The white-hot energy will have left my
muscles and my hands will feel twitchy and trembly as
soon as I sit down at the piano. And then another
thought occurs to me. The Queen Charlotte. No way
would I have won that competition if I'd still been
taking the meds. And in two months' time there is
another competition, the Leeds International, even
bigger than the last. Without the lithium I have a chance
of winning it, I know I do. Winning major competitions
straight out of university is crucial if you are to make a
name for yourself on the concert circuit. And without
the meds I can win them all, I really can. Suddenly I
realize that Jennah isn't inside my head; she doesn't
know. She just apes what the doctors say –
You must keep
taking your lithium, you must keep taking your lithium
–
because she thinks that because they are doctors they
must be right. But only I know what I can and cannot
achieve. At the end of the day, it's all in the mind – quite
literally. I am sure I can control the bipolar disorder, I
just have to figure out a way. I know there is a way, there
must
be a way. Winning the competition last night was
effortless and fun. Playing like I am now, there is
nothing I cannot accomplish, no title that is out of my
reach. All I have to do to beat the bipolar is to exercise
some powerful mind-control. I can do it, I
can
. And
when I succeed, Jennah will be happy. She will be so
happy to have a boyfriend who is the best concert
pianist in the world and whose mind isn't slowed down
by drugs. I'll make it work. I
will
.

Every evening I resume taking the three small white pills
out of the blister packet. For the first few evenings
Jennah hovers in the bathroom to check. But I slide
them under my tongue and then spit them down the
sink as I finish brushing my teeth. It is that easy. And
the white-hot energy remains.

Finals pass in a crazy blur. I don't sleep much because
I don't need to, and also because I find it hard to stay in
one position for long. I spend most of the day cramming
– as usual I have left it all till the last moment – and most
of the night practising. Professor Kaiser has entered me
for the Tchaikovsky competition. If I reach the finals –
when
I reach the finals – I get to fly out to Moscow. If I
can win that one, my career will be launched. I have
already started getting concert bookings for next year
on the back of the Queen Charlotte, and Professor
Kaiser has been acting as my agent.

Jennah, Harry and Kate organize study sessions
together, but they seem reluctant to have me around,
apparently because of my finger-tapping and kneejiggling.
I know that Jennah is regularly checking the
lithium in the drawer of the medicine cabinet, but as I
systematically take out the pills every evening and wash
them down the sink, she is not worried. The antidepressants
stop me from going down like before, and
the mania I control by myself. It's great. Gives me a real
sense of power. Especially as I'm fooling everyone. Even
Jennah. Of course, I will tell her eventually. But only
when I have proven beyond all reasonable doubt that I
can keep the bipolar under control. Professor Kaiser
comments on a spectacular improvement in my playing.
I only wonder why I didn't think of washing the pills
down the sink before.

The feeling of release as I walk out of my last exam is
tremendous. Results are still two months away but the
sense of freedom is overpowering. I spin Jennah round
and round until she begs me to stop. Harry and Kate
join us and we are all laughing with relief, slapping each
other on the back and yelling, 'No more lectures!' 'No
more historical studies!' 'No more transcendental
theory!' into the warm spring air. We rush home to
shower and change.

The party is in a basement bar in Covent Garden. It
is packed with finalists, a heaving mass of bodies and
noise. Music pounds over the top of it all, glitter balls
sparkle and fluorescent lights flash. The energy is
palpable, the air hot and heavy with the smell of
alcohol, cigarette smoke and perfume. Harry, taller
than everyone else, shouts over people's heads and
high-fives various mates. People I don't even recognize
come up to congratulate me about the Queen
Charlotte. I can't seem to stop grinning – normally a
party like this would give me the heaves, but tonight I
can't think of anywhere I would rather be than right
here in this crowd, laughing, shouting, bursting with joy.
Jennah, holding my hand, looks exquisite in a strappy
black dress and heels. A single pearl on a silver necklace
nestles against the curve of her collarbone and the earrings
I gave her for Christmas sparkle against her hair. I
am wearing chinos and a pale-blue shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, my hair spiked up, and I know we are getting
noticed for being such a great-looking couple. After
yelling with various people over the beat of the music
until my voice is hoarse, I finally manage to manoeuvre
Jennah over to the dance floor. She pretends to be
reluctant, but I pull her firmly by the hand and we
dance amidst the jostling, laughing, gyrating crowd. The
music continues to pound, the beat vibrating through
the soles of our shoes, and I pull her close to me, kissing
her neck, her cheek, her mouth. She laughs and draws
back to look at me, her eyes very bright.