Page 161 of Pervade London
Penn-Rhodes awarded her a smile. “In the beginning, we must be prepared to fail. With failure comes learning. It’s only with constant practice that you can become a maestro.”
Salme Baker came from royal orchestra stock. Her mom was a senior cellist in the London Symphony Orchestra and that meant she had the advantage over us lesser mortals—not to mention owning a multi-million pound violin. She played well and I didn’t begrudge her that. It was the fact she’d taken a dislike to me for no obvious reason.
But today, my wielding a Stradivarius made me a worthy opponent.
“Ms. Baker, play without worrying about perfection,” said Charles. “Don’t try. Do.”
Salme rose to her feet with the grace of a dancer.
With her bow raised and her chin high she swayed to the music as the beautiful strains of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s “Concerto No. 3” filled the room. I imagined that’s how Mozart had imagined it being performed when he’d scribed those notes on parchment, proof to the ear she played exquisitely. If this was meant to represent her not trying, she’d just been anointed star pupil.
Charles had influence at the London Symphony Orchestra, the kind of pull that made us all sit up when he walked in. His assignments were taken seriously by students who wanted to make a name for themselves.
I’d just committed professional suicide when I’d stifled that yawn. I muttered a self-scathing remark under my breath and then realized everyone was looking at me.
“If you think you can do better,” chided Penn-Rhodes.
“No, I was…somewhere else.” That sounded just as bad.
“Up you get,” he invited me to play with a sweep of his chubby arm.
I pushed to my feet and hurried into the center of the room, waiting for permission to begin.
“Emily.” Charles raised his hand to stay me. “Let’s try something else.”
My gut clenched with tension at the unfairness of him favoring her. Something told me I was about to endure a humiliating test.
A test.Unlike the one James had given me in the House of Commons…
“Emily, focus, please.” Penn-Rhodes gave a nod. “Show us how you scale without obvious change in the note.” He bowed respectfully. “Let’s not shame that Stradivarius.”
The look on his face was pure speculation, a silent question as to how I’d gotten hold of this instrument.
Positioning my chin on the rest, fighting a case of nerves and feeling self-consciousness mixed with doubt, I slid my bow across the strings and produced an A-major 3-octave.
“Again, please.” Penn-Rhodes shook his head. “This is your time to impress, Emily.”
Was that a hint he’d put a good word in for me at the orchestra?
Salme was tapping her foot and it was an off-tempo rhythm. I pivoted away to avoid being put off.
“Face this way, please,” said Penn-Rhodes. “Eyes open.”
This meant Salme and her tapping foot was directly in my line of sight. I raised my violin again and repeated the single-note scales and arpeggios and increased the tempo.
Penn-Rhodes raised a hand to stop me.
Laughter rose from the class.
“Again, please,” he demanded. “Trust your violin. It knows more than you.”
The rest of the day went the same way—in each class I felt progressively off-kilter. Perhaps I’d fooled myself into thinking I had any talent at all.
I finally headed out of the Academy, my violin case feeling heavier.
The weight of defeat?
Farther down the pavement, I saw Salme chatting with a group of friends. I had to walk past them to get to the waiting SUV—the one with the bodyguard waiting beside it. He wasn’t the same driver who’d brought me here, which caused me to feel uneasy.
