1.

MINA POV

“He’s here again,” trills Jules, her voice a teasing sing-song over a dozen sets of headphones buzzing away around me. They only stress me out, I’ve never bothered with them before a performance. 

“What? Who?” 

“That dark, handsome, definitely Russian-looking guy?”

Clicking the roof of my mouth I move the heavy black curtain out of Jules’s hand a couple of inches higher. She’s right. There he is.

“Oh, I don't recognise him.”

Jules doesn’t need to know everything.

The dark-haired, forever serious Gurav is halfway through his piece, a demanding Chopin sonata. The audience is transfixed. Except for that stranger, subtly tapping away on his cellphone. A suit-wearing, tall, dangerously attractive man. A circle of seats around him are empty, highlighting him like a spotlight. A predator, hindered by the cage of a zoo.

Jules nudged me, her blue eyes bright and quick. “Yummy!”

How do I confess this is the man whose gaze almost made me fumble my last two performances? This has to be an error-free day. Yet here he is, no mistake about it. I’m up in ten minutes!

It’s only the final important performance of the course. Don’t fuck it up. Earn that new tattoo I’ve been promising myself. 

Suddenly the backstage seems claustrophobically small. Ropes, curtains and random, dusty crap everywhere. 

“Mina? I said look at that beast!”

“Hmm. What makes you think he’s even Russian?” allowing my eyes to wander over the immaculate cut of his gray suit, staring at him for a change. His broad, tall frame justifies the seat space. Almost. It’s still a dick move to book that many seats just so no random people touch him.

“He's got that…self-controlled man of steel thing about him. Like he could kill us all with his bare hands and still head out to a nice bar later.”

“Lucky us,” I reply witheringly. Someone tuts and we are forced to hush, eyebrows raised at each other like naughty schoolchildren, allowing the curtain to drop back down. 

The black stage floor displays a stately grand piano. Gurav’s sound is beautifully rich, the emotions of the song just ooze out in richly controlled, bass romance. 

“God, is he almost done?” Jules groans, never a fan of the actual music, she is just here for moral support and an unfiltered, dirty mind. “Fingers that fast yet so very very gay…I feel he’s wasted on the ungrateful men of this world.”

“Jules!”

The five-seat judges panel table lies just beyond the grand piano. Gurav tosses his head repetitively, dark hair flying back as he gets stuck into the meaty, pacy section. The judges are a morbid collection of frizzing hair, severe expressions and clicky pens. They love a dramatic head flick.

Those five seats need my attention more than any well dressed stranger. 

A childhood of practice, performances then even more practice. Missing parties, sports and proms. Choosing recitals, concertos and orchestras instead. Now three years at Dutton Conservatoire studying piano under the greatest masters, it's time to prove I was worth investing in.

Sadly, I’m over a hundred thousand dollars into a scholarship with no more funds coming. Two side-jobs playing wedding and dinner functions. 

As Miss Partridge pointed out last month, nobody wants a musical whore covered in tattoos as top billing for their pleasant evening out.

Jules threatened to take her bitchy little comments public, make some video go viral and expose her. I shrugged it off at the time. The people who make or break classical music careers are still a traditional crowd. Besides Jules is just on the hunt for something to make her tiny online presence blast off.

Miss Partridge won’t be the first or last person to judge my appearance. Maybe that’s Mr Russia’s problem. He's staring at me out of dislike. I kind of like it.

So today my cherry red hair is slicked back into a high bun, dulling down the brightness. My tattoos are covered under a polite, all black, fitted dress. When I’m my own artist, the sleeveless gowns I fantasize about wearing are going to unveil everything to the audience. That’s the dream anyway.

Jules wrapped up her Media Studies degree a week ago. Which explains her excitement to start eyeing up some fun. Once my final performance is over anyway. 

Drawn like a magnet, I lift the curtain again. The stranger is still there. God he’s handsome. Not that it matters. Mr Russia could be butt-naked and it wouldn’t distract me right now. 

Naked, sitting on the piano with a picnic basket full of brie, grapes and crackers, melted chocolate and a hotel suite key. I’d push him aside.

I think. Maybe not. 

It's been a while. 

“Just go talk to him if you like looking at him that much,” Jules smirks. “You don’t want to end up with Toby.”

“I’m not with him, Toby’s nice enough though,” I hissed back.

“There’s about a thousand things wrong with that sentence,” Jules tuts, rolling her eyes. 

“Okay, I'm done.” WIth a frustrated sigh I shut the curtain, close my eyes and quickly repeat my little rituals. Hair smooth. Neck and shoulders relaxed. Fingers alive and tingly but not shaky. Ready to make my soul sing into the very rafters of this old, gold and red velvet theater. 

“Well I’m not, so hush,” she jokes, lifting the black curtain up again. He must sense our staring. It’s getting embarrassing now. Her glossy, filled lips are pouting, one finger twirls her long blonde hair. 

“Tell me he’s not wrong in every good way. God I hope he’s some kind of gangster. Bratva isn’t it? Not Mafia? Ooh I bet he’s tattooed. What if he’s come to drag me away by the waist and take me into one of those soundproof rooms?”

“Soundproofed? He can take you now,” I joke, nudging her. Jules grinned, only to quickly drop the curtain as Mr Russia quickly looked up at us both. Shit.

A frown drew across his chiseled face. The same serious expression he had halfway through Hungarian Rhapsody No2 two weeks ago when I looked his way and almost lost my pacing. 

I’ve seen my Granny smiling at me while I played. Friends giving me the thumbs up, boyfriends blowing me kisses in appreciation of my talent. It never threw me before.

But this guy? Nothing. So why was he looking at me in the first place! Hopefully he’ll stick to his phone today. Keep those stormy eyes to himself.

Annoyingly, Jules does have a point, his dark hair only makes them stand out more. He's the kind of good looking that makes you question your moral standpoint on one night stands. 

Quite why he would be here on a rainy Wednesday afternoon to watch the Dutton Conservatoire Piano Finals I have no idea. He certainly looks like he has enemies to crush, billions to boast about. Maybe a traitor or two to torture. I smile to myself, I need to get a grip.

Valerie, a fellow pianist, gracefully peeps through a higher section of curtain and gives an approving little murmur. Dressed in a clinging black full-body leotard, she appeared ready to complete a gymnastic floor routine rather than play some lethally complicated Rachmaninoff.

Her voice is a delicate, breathy French lilt. “He does have an eastern, Russian accent, he refused to give one of his empty seats to my brother once?”

Jules’s smile grew devious. “God damn he’s totally a gangster,” she whispers, causing us all to start giggling. 

My excuses remain unfinished as a voice interrupts. “Mina! Mina Nighting!” 

“Here!” working my way through the line of stressed out musicians to find Toby. A few years older than me he has the soft, kind eyes of a labrador. Not take-me-to-bed eyes, more like take me for a nice walk and feed me a snack.

But he’s always been kind to me. When I got stuck in standstill traffic last year he adjusted the performance list on the quiet. Stuff like that. Nice guy things. 

He gives me a big, broad smile, all his dazzling white teeth on show. “Check your email.”

“What? I’m performing in like five minutes, this couldn’t wait?”

“I don’t think so. I just heard a rumor, check it. Come on!”

Rolling my eyes I reach into the safety locker and grab my cell. Scrolling past offers for cheap takeout, Temu and cabs something pops up. 

An email from the Columbia Orchestra. My dream position. The main, humungous orchestra Hollywood uses for film scores. A chance to be part of history.

“Shit no…no way. It’s Columbia. They've got back to me.”

“Is it true?” Toby checks, stepping a little closer, his smile beaming even brighter. “Did you get it?”

I open it and devour the text.

“Yes! Yes I’ve been offered it! I got it!” I squeal, before clamping a hand over my mouth. Applause rings out as Gurav delivers a delicate, withering exit. 

I don’t hear a thing. My body trembles, my eyes darting around trying to take in the news. “I’m going to LA! It’s a two year placement. Oh my god! Oh my god I can’t believe it!”

“Come here!” Toby smiles as I leap into his waiting hug. He’s big and warm and the fact I’m so over the moon allows him to hold me a little longer than I’d normally like. I’m no hugger. If I could wear anti-touch paint I’d be drenched in the stuff. 

“You deserve it Mina, I know this was the big one.”

Congratulations roll in from all my fellow students and friends. Except for Lily Kostina but that girl has been quietly staring daggers at me for months. All of us are moving on to new opportunities. This was the only one I really wanted. Film scores. The kind that makes people sob and hope and dream. They could be listening to my interpretation.

I can barely type back my flustered acceptance, assuring them I was grateful for their trust in me. 

My turn to perform arrived so quickly I barely knew what I was doing. Sitting at my stool, I took a deep breath and rolled up the long black sleeves of my dress, forgetting about the tiny constellation tattoo. 

With another deep, settling breath I leap into the piece. It’s so familiar, ingrained into my very soul. Except maybe it's the adrenalin or the fact I know Mr Russia is looking but I’m hanging by a thread. The smooth, gentle adjustment of my mezzo piano is barely softer than the mezzo forte. 

My inner voice screams: stop fucking this up. Focus!

My moment of triumph is rapidly turning to one of frustration. 

Instead of doubling down, staring at the keys and making my fingers obey, my vision flicks ahead. One hand on his chin a golden, luxury watch glinting. Cellphone no longer visible. He's focused on me. Nobody else. 

It does something I can't even explain. Tingles? Jitters? Doesn't even cover it. He’s watching. I’m watching.

But so are the judges. As the piece aches along until the end, I finish with violence. The finale bars ask for fortissimio, Well, I slam my fingers into the final chords, filling the theater with wrathful volume. 

All the while thanking God and everything in the sky above that this wasn’t how I played when I auditioned for Columbia. When I stand the applause is rapturous. But it means nothing. The crowd of families and well-wishers don’t know how close I came to having to stop playing completely. 

That piece was a trainwreck. 

I allow myself once final glance his way. Of course Mr Russia isn’t clapping. He’s just staring. Not clapping, his face still stern. He knows it was poor. Damn it. 

When I head backstage my fellow pianists know too. I get sympathetic grins, a couple of thumbs up before replacing their headphones. Jules stands there oblivious, her hands on her hips.  “You killed that one, did you break any fingers at the end!”

“Let’s get of here.”

“Damn right, we need to celebrate!!” Jules beams, grabbing our things. 

She’s right. One bad performance isn’t how I’m going to remember today. I need to shake it off. Shake him off. Mr Russian and his unimpressed stare. 

This is the day my dreams came true. That’s what matters. That email is everything I ever wanted.