SEBASTIAN
Stratford upon Avon
I don’t even get a chance to ring the bell before the heavy, old front door creaks open with a dramatic squeal. I jump slightly, not entirely surprised. Mum’s clearly been watching for me. The moment she sees me, she pulls me into a brisk hug, then steps back and scans me up and down like she’s running diagnostics.
“Sebastian! You made it at last!” she chirps, her voice as melodic as ever. She plants a brief kiss on my cheek and gestures for me to come in. “Come in, love! Your father’s just out running an errand… we’ve both been dying to have you home for a few days!”
I drag my unmistakable bright suitcase inside, and her finely sculpted face flickers with a flash of disapproval, quickly smoothed over by a polished smile.
Great start.
“Good thing Dad’s on his way,” I say, sighing in relief. “No way I’m getting this monster up the stairs by myself. I might’ve gone atinybit overboard this time…”
Mum gives me a look that’s hard to read.
“A tiny bit, yes. Though not just in terms of weight,” she mutters, then changes tactics. “But your father’s strong as ever. He won’t have any trouble lugging that upstairs.”
I pretend not to notice the dig and step into the elegant lounge. Everything is just as I remember it, immaculate, quiet, vaguely museum-like. And as always, thoughts of Dad surface almost immediately.
Sometimes I wish I took after him more. Aside from my hair colour, I’m all Isabel, small, lean, sharp-featured, green-eyed, and blonde. Dad, by contrast, has always been this broad-shouldered, imposing figure, shaped by decades of rowing and gym sessions. But for all his physical strength, it’s Mum you don’t want to cross.
Outside his world of finance and regattas, Dad’s always been a gentle presence, steady, silent, orbiting around Isabel like a loyal moon around a burning sun. And sometimes I wonder... if I hadn’t shown musical talent early on, would I have just become another tasteful detail in their perfectly curated life?
They were both nearing forty when I was born, long past the age of hopeful expectation. So when I finally arrived, I landed smack in the middle of a marriage already set in stone. I’ve often felt like an afterthought, welcomed, but not quite needed. Still, it was a peaceful home. No shouting, no chaos. Just… cool precision. Polished silence.
After Mum left her consulting job at Dad’s firm, she devoted herself, with the same relentless focus, to running the household. My childhood, the house, their social life, she managed it all like a CEO in pearls. And even now, well into her sixties, she’s breathtaking.
Today, she’s the picture of effortless control: a cream cashmere jumper with a structured collar, tailored black cigarette trousers that still cling elegantly to her long legs. Her honey-blonde waves are perfectly blow-dried, not a strand out of place. Objectively, she’s stunning.
We settle into the sitting room across from each other, me on the tan leather sofa, her in the violet chintz armchair. We even cross our legs at the same time. Typical.
“Mum, you look incredible,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Honestly, it’s like the years just skip over you.”
She beams, pleased. “Darling, you’re always so charming. And you’re looking well too, although…” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Perhaps it’s time for a haircut? I could call Louis, get you in by Thursday. And we really must go shopping while you’re here. You can’t be seen looking so… so…”
“Scruffy?” I offer, already grinning. “Mum, I’m twenty. I’m not exactly showing up to lectures in a three-piece suit.”
“No, no, of course not,” she says, waving the idea away. “But still, thank goodness you’ve finally stopped wearing that dreadful black nail polish. And I do hope you haven’t added any more of those horrid tattoos. A classical pianist ought to present a certain… decorum, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mum…” I say, gently but clearly, “We had an agreement. No nail polish during performances. No visible tattoos. I’ve kept to it.”
She nods, conceding the point, but not without a hint of triumph. “Yes, yes, that’s true. But May mentioned the other night there were cousins of the Queen at the Wigmore. Royal cousins, Sebastian. Do you realize what circles you’re starting to move in? Appearances matter.”
Of course they do.
I don’t respond. She takes my silence as defiance.
“Let me give you a life lesson, dear son: appearances matter. Especially in your field. Talent isn’t enough. The world is full of gifted musicians. What sets the successful ones apart is how they present themselves, how they move through the world, the circles they mix in, and the relationships they cultivate. You have to be the full package.”
I brace myself for the inevitable, some veiled lecture about my sudden disappearance after the concert, or a critique disguised as motherly concern. But just then, the front door thuds open. I exhale. Evan’s home. My lifeline.
Dad’s anger, on the rare occasions it surfaces, is nothing compared to Mum’s quiet, surgical precision. If I’m going to tell them who I really am, I’ll need more than just nerve. I’ll need calm. Space. A softer landing than this.
And damn you, May, for running your mouth again.
I rise to greet my father. Mum doesn’t move, still perfectly poised in her chair, her tone cool and controlled.
“Evan, darling, you’re back. I hope everything at the rowing club got sorted.”
