last. It didn’t feel like the truth, but then why was he doing it?
Maybe he felt sorry for me.
Chapter 5
8.45am.
I was standing outside Professor Harman’s office. I’d nearly stopped at Starbucks for coffee, but I’d worried that it might remind him of me knocking the last ones over his carpet. Also, the last thing I needed was more coffee.
I was wired. After I’d said goodbye to Connor, I’d rushed back into the bar and found the others. They were all delighted for me, if a little cautious about the idea of us working together.
“Just remember he’s not a musician,” Jasmine had said.
“Of course he’s a musician! He takes most of the same classes I do!” I’d told her.
“Yeah, he’s a musician, but he’s not a Musician with a capital ‘M’. Musicians are sort of….”
“Sort of like you,” Natasha said helpfully.
“And he’s not,” said Jasmine. “He’s more like—”
“A dancer?!” I asked, incredulously.
“No, not a dancer. Or an actor. A civilian. A normal person. Just…bear that in mind.”
I hadn’t understood, at the time. Now, I was beginning to.
I’d said that we should meet there at 8.45 to be sure of being there at 9:00. And if you agree to meet someone at 8.45, you get there at 8.30, right? Just to be sure.
I’d been there since 8.20. My watch ticked over to 8.46. Where was he?!
That morning, I’d printed out a calendar that covered the ten weeks until the recital. I’d blocked out my classes in pink, and the ones we had together in purple. His classes would be blue, as soon as he gave me his timetable. Then we could start blocking out rehearsal time in green.
8.47!
Maybe he was waiting in the wrong place? I should have got his cell phone number. But by the time I’d said goodbye I’d been emotionally exhausted, barely capable of thought.
8.48. I started to pace. What if he’d been in an accident? He could be hurt. Dying. And it would be my fault for getting him here hours before he’d normally waltz in. I couldn’t stop, officer. I guess the poor schmuck just wasn’t used to the intersection being so busy.
At 8.55, I ran to the stairwell to see if he was climbing up. Nothing.
Where are you, Connor?
8.59. What if he’d forgotten?!
9.00. What if he’s changed his mind?!
Footsteps, and I offered up a prayer to whoever would listen to please, please make them be Connor’s battered black boots.
The feet rounded the corner, and they were brown loafers. I looked up.
“Karen,” Professor Harman said, slightly wearily. “I see you, but not Mr. Locke. Can I take it you were unsuccessful?”
“No! He’s going to do it! It’s all agreed, he’s just—He’s running late! Just give him a few more minutes.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If this is indicative of how you two will work together, I really think it shows that this isn’t a good idea.”
“Professor Harman, please!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Karen. I gave you a simple deadline and your partner has shown he’s incapable of meeting even that. I was wrong to even entertain the idea.”
God, no! Not like this! Not just for the sake of a few minutes! “Professor!”
He opened the door to his office. “Sorry, Karen.”
We both stopped.
Connor, his feet up on Professor Harman’s desk, woke up and yawned. He checked his watch.
“You’re late,” he told us.
***
Luckily, Professor Harman was too shocked to erupt into full anger and, once Connor had been turfed out of his chair, he settled for irritation. He took out a fountain pen and wrote our names in a book (that’s the music department for you—in another twenty years, they’ll move to typewriters) and that was it. We were scheduled for the recital.
There was only one problem.
“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.
I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric
Maybe he felt sorry for me.
Chapter 5
8.45am.
I was standing outside Professor Harman’s office. I’d nearly stopped at Starbucks for coffee, but I’d worried that it might remind him of me knocking the last ones over his carpet. Also, the last thing I needed was more coffee.
I was wired. After I’d said goodbye to Connor, I’d rushed back into the bar and found the others. They were all delighted for me, if a little cautious about the idea of us working together.
“Just remember he’s not a musician,” Jasmine had said.
“Of course he’s a musician! He takes most of the same classes I do!” I’d told her.
“Yeah, he’s a musician, but he’s not a Musician with a capital ‘M’. Musicians are sort of….”
“Sort of like you,” Natasha said helpfully.
“And he’s not,” said Jasmine. “He’s more like—”
“A dancer?!” I asked, incredulously.
“No, not a dancer. Or an actor. A civilian. A normal person. Just…bear that in mind.”
I hadn’t understood, at the time. Now, I was beginning to.
I’d said that we should meet there at 8.45 to be sure of being there at 9:00. And if you agree to meet someone at 8.45, you get there at 8.30, right? Just to be sure.
I’d been there since 8.20. My watch ticked over to 8.46. Where was he?!
That morning, I’d printed out a calendar that covered the ten weeks until the recital. I’d blocked out my classes in pink, and the ones we had together in purple. His classes would be blue, as soon as he gave me his timetable. Then we could start blocking out rehearsal time in green.
8.47!
Maybe he was waiting in the wrong place? I should have got his cell phone number. But by the time I’d said goodbye I’d been emotionally exhausted, barely capable of thought.
8.48. I started to pace. What if he’d been in an accident? He could be hurt. Dying. And it would be my fault for getting him here hours before he’d normally waltz in. I couldn’t stop, officer. I guess the poor schmuck just wasn’t used to the intersection being so busy.
At 8.55, I ran to the stairwell to see if he was climbing up. Nothing.
Where are you, Connor?
8.59. What if he’d forgotten?!
9.00. What if he’s changed his mind?!
Footsteps, and I offered up a prayer to whoever would listen to please, please make them be Connor’s battered black boots.
The feet rounded the corner, and they were brown loafers. I looked up.
“Karen,” Professor Harman said, slightly wearily. “I see you, but not Mr. Locke. Can I take it you were unsuccessful?”
“No! He’s going to do it! It’s all agreed, he’s just—He’s running late! Just give him a few more minutes.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If this is indicative of how you two will work together, I really think it shows that this isn’t a good idea.”
“Professor Harman, please!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Karen. I gave you a simple deadline and your partner has shown he’s incapable of meeting even that. I was wrong to even entertain the idea.”
God, no! Not like this! Not just for the sake of a few minutes! “Professor!”
He opened the door to his office. “Sorry, Karen.”
We both stopped.
Connor, his feet up on Professor Harman’s desk, woke up and yawned. He checked his watch.
“You’re late,” he told us.
***
Luckily, Professor Harman was too shocked to erupt into full anger and, once Connor had been turfed out of his chair, he settled for irritation. He took out a fountain pen and wrote our names in a book (that’s the music department for you—in another twenty years, they’ll move to typewriters) and that was it. We were scheduled for the recital.
There was only one problem.
“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.
I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric
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