The keys were cool to the touch, firm in their resistance to being played, as if, like her, they were waking up after a restful sleep. Reluctant to give up their music easily.
The song began quietly, building into the rapidly oscillating arpeggios. When she closed her eyes, she could hear the flutes and clarinets and bassoons and other instruments the score was written for.
She swayed as she played, letting the music come through her rather than out of her. Nothing inspired her more than breathing her own life into the music she played.
The usual frustration bubbled—that pianists, because of their sporadic use, were rarely part of a full-time orchestra ensemble. That as much as she loved playing, the act of finding work had been more of a grind than she’d expected. But somehow, that had led her to the part-time job in the studio. To the job she’d actively avoided because of her father but had ultimately found a passion and talent for.
Cerys played the final note and let the ghosts of the notes she’d played disperse into the ether.
Applause made her jump, shocking her back into the present.
“You can play. Like, really fucking play, Cerys.”
“Thank you.” Heat filled her cheeks.
Jase walked over to her, rested his forearms on the baby grand. “I’m serious. I’m not a religious person, but there was something spiritual about that. You’re a proper musician.”
There was something in the way he said proper. A judgement that was clearly in her favour. “What do you mean when you say proper musician? As opposed to what?”
Jase shrugged. “As opposed to me.”
“What do you mean? You’re as much a musician as I am.”
“I appreciate the support, but that . . .” He gestured towards the piano. “That, was a hundred percent pure skill and technical talent and performance and”—he ran his hand through his hair—“see, I don’t even know how to describe it.”
Without recognising his voice as his instrument, he somehow felt less of a musician.
Less of a musician.
Where others may see his bravado and confidence as excess, he’d given her a small glimpse of how he really felt about himself.
A thrill rippled through her. This was why they were here. It was her job to lead him to become confident as a performer and in his own abilities, so he could fully contribute to the band.
“Why don’t you think of singing as a talent?” she asked.
Jase patted the lid of the piano and wandered towards the guitars. “Anyone can learn a couple of hundred words, open their mouth, and make a decent song come out.”
“No, they can’t.” Cerys stood and made her way to him. “It’s the reason the term pitch-perfect exists. Heck, one in twenty people have amusia, complete tone deafness where they sing off-key, yet to them it sounds perfect.”
Jase eyed her suspiciously. “Did you know the band were offered the deal, with or without me? We were dealing with some shit, still are, but Upper Street said they’d take the band with Matt singing or me, proof Matt can sing every one of our songs as well as me, right?”
“No. No he can’t. He can sing, for sure. He hits the notes way better than the average person. But you, when your weathered voice sings them, words come alive, it’s pure storytelling. It’s captivating. Why do you feel less?”
“It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m just a mouthpiece . . . a puppet.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“Do I fucking have to?”
“No. You don’t. But it might be helpful to.”
“The songs are Matt’s songs. The lyrics are his experiences. I’m just the way he shares his emotions with the world. He thinks I don’t understand him, but I do. I sing his truth, his pain, the stuff that happened to him every fucking time I stand on that stage.”
He made a move to leave the studio, but Cerys grabbed him by the arm. “No, don’t march off. Stand with it. Stand in it. Let the emotions you are feeling right now come out. What’s your truth of this?”
“Cerys, don’t. Stop . . . this . . .”
“This what, Jase? It’s okay to have strong emotions. It’s human to be angry, to hurt. But emotions are like waves. You have to let them pass through you or they’ll knock you over every single time, like they are now. And every time they knock you over, it’s with a promise that next time they’ll be stronger, taller if you don’t face them.”
“Don’t play psychology queen, Cerys. That’s not what happens to me.”
Cerys put her hand on his arm. “Isn’t it? Where does the anger come from? What makes you throw an instrument on stage at your brother? What makes you storm offstage when you don’t feel like singing? What makes you charge out of a recording studio that the record label is throwing money at to get an album out of you quickly? That’s you allowing those big emotions to knock you over.”
“Fuck off, Cerys.” Jase shook her hand off his arm.
“It’s what you’re doing now. I’m prodding at something raw. Something you don’t want to expose.”
Jase spun around on his heel. “Watch where you are treading, Cerys.”
“No. You could stop for two seconds. You could take a breath, right now when the wave is about to take you down, and breathe into those feelings. Ask yourself why you are having them? Where are they coming from? What are they rooted in? Just, please . . . Do that for me right now.”
The air in the recording studio hummed around her as if it still carried the energy of their words. The large vibrations of anger and hurt.
Jase shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor. She could see his chest heave as if he were sucking in large gulps of air.
Like a drowning man managing to get his head back above water.
Her own breathing was coming fast, but energy flowed through her body. From the tingling in her fingers, to the way her head spun with clarity.
Like any good outro after the crescendo of the rousing last chorus, the energy began to settle. The noise lessened. The roar quieted.
When Jase looked up at her, his face was stricken. “It’s a lot. Too much.”
She hurried over to him and gripped his forearms. “I know. But stay in it, Jase. I’m here.”
“What do I do with all this, Cerys?”
“We work through them all. One at a time. We make sense of them. What’s causing them . . . and not just what caused them today, but what the repeating habits are.”
Jase took his hands out of his pockets and reached for hers. His skin was cool and damp to the touch, such was his discomfort. “Cerys. I’m as thick as sandwich bread. I have a handful of GCSEs from school and not a lot else to go on. It’s amazing you have so much faith in me, but then, I think you have faith in just about everybody. But even your dad thinks my singing sucks.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
With her mouth open and shock reaching the corners of her eyes, Jase wasn’t sure how she couldn’t see it.
“Why else do you think I have to have singing lessons with you?”
“They aren’t singing lessons, Jase. They are vocal lessons. We don’t need to teach you how to sing, as in how to perform. The lessons are to help you with longevity. Is that why you’ve refused to take them? You thought they were because you weren’t any good?”