“Yes. The Emperor Concerto is a difficult piece, and Max and the conductor will have to work together to keep the timings right.”
“Oh.” Bo felt remarkably inept. She’d had Max to herself for weeks and weeks, and what had she learned about classical music in that time? That Beethoven was potentially a virgin? Bo scowled at her own idiocy; at the lack of time and energy she’d given to learning even a little bit about Max’s chosen career.
You learned he has sex after a performance,Bo’s mind reminded her, and her stomach flopped at the thought.
Max was performing tonight, and she knew, from his carefully curated Instagram account, that he’d performed substantially over the past six months. He hadn’t taken the year off he’d waxed lyrical to Bo about; hadn’t taken any time off to write his own music at all, in fact. No. Max had gone from concert to concert and tour to tour, the busiest he’d been in years. He’d even announced a new album. Was there someonenew in his life? Was there someone he was sleeping with after all these concerts? Someone to help relieve him of the tension performing inevitably brought on?
Maybe that’s why he sent you the tickets,Bo thought uncomfortably.To show you how well he’s doing, and how well he’s moved on. To show you who he’s moved on with.
No. Max wouldn’t be that tacky, Bo decided. He wouldn’t be that cruel.
“It must be about to begin,” Lisa interrupted Bo’s wonderings. “Look.”
Lisa gestured around them, where people were beginning to rush to their seats. Within a minute, the concert hall’s lights had dimmed, and a hush fell over the room. A hush which didn’t last long, as two figures emerged from the wings into the bright lights of the stage. The audience burst into rapturous applause, and Bo stared in amazement at Max standing before her, looking neat, tidy and decidedly un-Max like.
He was dressed in full white tie, with a black tailcoat worn over a starched white shirt and waistcoat. A white bow tie was at his neck, and his hair was brushed and shining. Everything about him looked polished and immaculate, and for the first time, Bo understood exactly why he’d hated wearing anything but the most comfortable clothing at home. His working hours were spent wearing uncomfortable clothing playing pain-inducing pieces of music. It was no wonder he preferred T-shirts, sandals and chinos to the restrictive formalwear his work demanded of him.
Bo’s heart fluttered in her chest when she saw Max shake hands with the lead violinist, before he bowed to the conductor, his back firm and straight. He turned to the audience, a small smile on his face, and Bo swore she saw his eyes flutter over the front row before he fell into a deep bow.
He’s looking for me,she realized.He’s looking for me in the audience, in the seats he reserved for me, but I’m not there.
Panic flew through her. Max was looking for her, and she wasn’t there. Regret at her hasty decision to sit in the seats Lisa had bought hit her hard, and she rued her cavalier attitude towards Max’s gift.
I was too proud,Bo lamented.I didn’t want to risk Max thinking I wanted to see him again, when I do, of course I do, and now he’s looking for me and I’m not there. What must he be thinking?
Was it too late to move now? God, it was, Bo realized. After a final scan of the front row, Max was taking his seat at his eighty-five-thousand-pound Yamaha, looking intently at the conductor, whose baton was held at the ready. The applause died down, and silence fell across the hall as everyone waited for the performance to begin.
“Is there an intermission?” Bo hissed at Lisa under her breath.
“What?”
“Is there an intermission? You know, a break halfway through?”
“You’re like taking a toddler out,” Lisa retorted. “If you needed to use the bathroom, you should have gone before the show started.”
“No, Lisa, I—”
Bo was abruptly cut off. A single note rang out as the orchestra burst into life, violins, violas and cellos suddenly playing in harmony. Max’s eyes were on the conductor for a moment, and then his hands came to life, his fingers a flurry up the keys. The orchestra fell silent, and then it was just Max. Max and his body and his hands and his music, filling every inch of the concert hall with the most intense sounds Bo had ever heard. She sat back in her chair, stunned.
“What is this?” she whispered to Lisa.
“First movement. The allegro,” Lisa whispered back. “Just listen.”
In their time together, Bo never heard Max play this. The music was quick and pulsing, Max’s hands swift and sure as he played. His upper body moved in time with his hands, and he wore an expression that was one of both concentration and feeling. Bo had seen Max wrapped up in his work in so many ways. She’d seen him sweat-soaked and annoyed, cursing at his piano, just as she’d seen him serene and calm, at peace with the music. This performance was something different though, with Max wrapped up in his work in an entirely different way. His eyes were only ever on the piano keys or the conductor, and he was straight-backed and almost stern-looking.
It was then that Bo realized she’d had the privilege of witnessing something that no one else in this hall had seen; Max, at his piano, in his home, rehearsing. Max said it himself: he never let people view his private rehearsals. He never let people watch him in those moments where he tried and tested the keys, searching for the perfect sound. Those moments were for him and his art. Those moments were raw, intimate and almost sacred.
And yet, he’d let her in. Bo stopped to consider this, wondering why Max had let her so blatantly intrude upon him in the moments when he was at his most vulnerable. Or was intrude the wrong word? Had she in fact been a welcome presence in that small study while Max practiced his art?
For twenty minutes Bo sat, entranced by the performance before her. Sometimes it was just Max playing, piano notes lapping at the air, while sometimes it was just the orchestra, thrumming and vibrant. When they met and played together though . . . Bo had never heard anything like it. It was intensely beautiful, like wine that was a little too rich or chocolate thatwas slightly too bitter, sweet and salty on the tongue. The music was complex, addictive and overwhelming, and suddenly Bo understood why Max had needed to lose himself in her the way he had after a performance. When both Max and the orchestra fell silent, Bo felt unaccountably teary and yet also filled with an exuberant kind of joy, and then—
And then.
Bo’s heart skipped a beat when the second movement began, because she knew this piece.Adagio un poco mosso,the music Max played the most for her, the one she’d heard many times over from the safe confines of his study. This music was softer and gentler; so achingly familiar to Bo that her chest felt tight with bittersweet wistfulness and longing threatened to overwhelm her. She’d fallen asleep to this piece, fallen in love to this piece, and to hear Max play it once again now, with a full orchestra supporting him, made silent tears of pleasure fall from her eyes.
The progress Bo thought she’d made unravelled before her eyes as she watched Max play the music she loved the most.I still love him,she thought, but the knowledge didn’t shock her. Instead, it felt as natural as breathing, as obvious as the colour of her eyes or shape of her lips.I still love him, and even years from now, when time has healed my wounds, a part of me will still love him,she realized.He’s part of me now, and there’ll always be a Max-shaped scar on my heart and a Max-shaped shadow in my soul, and that’s okay, because love is beautiful. He told me love was beautiful, and he was right.
The second movement jumped joyfully into the third, and when it was over and Max’s hands flew off the piano with a flourish, the audience burst into wild applause, with many leaping to their feet in a standing ovation. Bo remained seated however, shellshocked and overwhelmed, and Lisa leaned towards her.
