A Note of Madness Read Free Page A

each of the candidates had been required to give. ‘You didn’t believe in yourself. That’s your biggest problem, Flynn. You don’t understand your full potential.’ Whatever that meant.
    Six months later, Flynn still remembered the moment well. The audience had been made up almost entirely of students and music staff, the judges sitting in the front row. André had played just before him, with that self-assured, almost cocky manner with which he was playing now. The tilt of the head, the half-smile, the shoulders moving confidently with the music. Each little mannerism that screamed,
I know I’m damn good!
His playing looked effortless and what he lacked in emotion he certainly made up for in technical ability. Every piece, every note was precision perfect. Flynn knew he was out of the game before he even began. And, of course, he was right. He lost the flow in the first piece. The second piece sounded methodical and cold, even to his own ears. By the third, he was thinking about the notes, which obviously only spelled disaster.
    Professor Kaiser was outraged. ‘You never let yourself go!’ he exclaimed heatedly the next day. ‘You went through the whole audition like a robot, thinking only of the notes, never the feeling behind them! That was not the pianist I have in my study every day!’
    All in all, the whole experience had not been particularly pleasant. Flynn had gone out of his way to avoid maestro André after that. And now, that swayinghead, that tilted chin, the packed concert hall reminded Flynn of everything that he was not. He pulled his eyes away and gazed dully at the back of the conductor’s red neck instead. And, blissfully unaware, André played on.
    Harry bought them drinks in the lobby during the interval. He was the only one who wasn’t broke, so they let him. Jennah vanished into the throng to talk to a couple of friends. It was hot, too hot. Flynn found the atmosphere oppressive.
    The second half was even longer than the first. André played Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Flynn knew it well. He had been learning it for the past year and still struggled with the third movement. There was a standing ovation at the end. Jennah looked across at Flynn and gave him a sympathetic grin as he reluctantly got to his feet.
    ‘Wasn’t Professor Miguel’s conducting majestic?’ Jennah’s eyes were bright as they climbed up the steps of the Hungerford Bridge.
    ‘Majestic? You’ve been reading too many reviews,’ Harry said.
    ‘Well, what did
you
think?’
    ‘It was nice.’
    ‘Nice?’ Jennah snorted. ‘You can’t go round calling Beethoven nice, Harry.’
    ‘How’s soporific then?’
    ‘
What?
’
    ‘The last one was. I’ve always thought that piece was too long.’
    Flynn thought that Jennah might explode. But she only gave Harry a playful shove. He launched into an exaggerated stagger and leaned over the side of the bridge, arms dangling. Flynn and Jennah flanked him as the stream of people thinned, heading towards the station entrance on the other side of the river.
    Harry straightened up and leaned back, holding onto the rail and inhaling deeply. ‘Wow, look at that. London really is a beautiful city.’
    St Paul’s, the Gherkin and Tate Modern were lit up in pink and orange against an inky black sky. Flynn loved this bridge. The bright white light, the smooth walkway, the tall crisscrossing white posts reaching up into the darkness, making you feel as if you were aboard some luxury yacht. He had lost count of the times he had just stood here and looked out, at night, across the multicoloured city.
    When he had first moved to London six months ago, standing here had overwhelmed him completely, had made him believe that anything was possible. He had turned to face the Royal Festival Hall and whispered, ‘One day, one day I will play there. Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto with the Philharmonic. I will. Wait and see.’
    ‘Did
you
enjoy it, Flynn?’ Jennah asked him a