Chapter One

Saturday, December 1st

Theo

It’s what must be the bleakest night of the year. The wind howls outside the building, dragging along the heavy rain, and only contributing to the completely foggy windows. To match the city’s mood, I feel bored and bleak all over, as I usually do on Saturday nights. As I glance at the tall windows, I catch blurry yellow and red lights glowing from the outside. London is moving on tonight, and so should I. By the state of the rain, I can tell leaving the Club before 2 a.m. will be impossible. I take a deep breath to steady my hands and focus on my timing. It’s absurdly cold, and my suit jacket is barely doing anything to keep me warm.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m playing, I’d be freezing completely. When the piece ends, I clasp my hands together, trying to get some semblance of warmth as the clinking of glasses and chatter keep on filling the atmosphere while I prepare for another piece. The regulars are scattered around, some of them are chatting at the bar, probably having a repeat conversation of the one they had last week, and some of them are alone at their usual tables, looking uninterested. I wonder how they find it enjoyable to come here every weekend, wearing stiff suits, ordering the same drinks and then having the same conversations over and over again, attempting to talk over the sound of the poor bloke playing the piano.

I’m poor sod who’s been playing here every week for over a year now. I start a new piece; a Rachmaninoff concerto the regulars enjoy. I know it by heart. It takes me no effort to play it, which leaves me room to get lost in my thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot their expressions changing for pleased ones. How easy it is to keep businessmen entertained.

For all the boring bits this job has, I do it mostly to keep myself sane. If I didn’t, I think I’d go mental. I don’t even need the money I’m getting paid. I just do this on the weekends to take my mind off Grad school, and to keep a connection with music.

Music has kept me sane for as long as I can remember. Sure, there’s been people, but the piano was my first love. I had my first lesson at four. I could play a proper piece before I could write full sentences. And here I am, playing bloody Piano Man and any other pieces that members request every Saturday. Sixteen years of classical training resulting in me playing covers of ballads the general public loves. My sets usually start with what I want to play. I usually open with a few Nocturnes while people start shuffling in. (It’s also a good warm-up after a long week.) Then I move on to instrumental versions of the music that I enjoy until requests start coming in, scribbled on the back of business cards, or on the thick, heavy cards the Club gives its members for this purpose.

I usually know how to play what they request. If I don’t, I can usually figure it out in under ten minutes by ear. It’s not like their requests are particularly outlandish. Not that music can be outlandish, anyway. In my opinion, it can only be described as diverse, colourful, personal. This Club isn’t any of that, though. This is the sort of place where you need an invitation to join. The crowd consists of old money types, who are stuck with their choices, evident in their lifeless eyes. Most are the drink-to-forget types. It’s the kind of place where real feelings and conversations aren’t allowed. Where it’s worse to be queer than to cheat on your long-time spouse. (Ha. If they only knew). I’ve seen everything here and it’s really no surprise my Father is a member too. Thankfully, he only comes on Sunday for lunch. He says drinking on a Saturday is too tacky for him.

I try not to mix with anyone. I get in just before nine, play my set, out around midnight, straight to my car and then to my empty flat only if I’m not feeling a midnight curry. The stability of having a job to look forward to makes the monotony of my life somehow bearable. Not that I don’t like my degree. I love Economics. And I love the dissertation I’m working on. I just hate spending all day in my flat, reading paper after paper for my research topic and then writing about it some more.

I wouldn’t describe my life as bad. My family is nice, although I don’t see them much, and I’ve had my two best mates, Bryce and Elias since we were in school. There’s the occasional hookup here and there too. People love me here too. I think some of them come just to hear me play. I take a look at the crowd, seeing them nod their heads along to the music while holding onto cocktails and sigh. As in music, I managed to wring myself dry at school so I could graduate top of my class in my master’s ­–it’s just– that’s it. There’s nothing else going on for me. I’m perfectly comfortable. It’s a good life, it truly is. But I’m just not excited about it. I can’t even remember what butterflies in my stomach felt like. In a way, I’m just like the regulars. Here every weekend, trying to forget about life for a while.

I am Theo Oblinger. I am the sole heir of one of the oldest British families. By this time, I should be announcing my wedding or going on a Bora Bora honeymoon, yet…I've been on this earth for 26 years, and nobody’s ever loved me. Sure, I’ve gone on dates, made out, had sex but I don’t think I’ve ever really been loved. My two serious relationships with their two messy breakups are a testament to it. Unfortunately, I tend to be the one who falls madly in love and then it gets too much for them. It always ends with me asking questions to the ceiling for endless nights after I’ve been dumped, so I’ve decided to stop trying altogether. Being alone used to bother me when I was younger. Especially when everyone in grade school or university started pairing up and I didn’t. But after a while, I decided it was for the best. I could only avoid heartbreak by avoiding falling in love altogether. Music proved to be a hiding place for me. I could write music instead of feeling like my life had no point when I was a teenager. Now, I can always argue I have this job to get out of any date that my friends try to arrange with me.

I’m just finishing a thousand years, one of my personal favourites (A Twilight song. Sue me.) when I see Lyla, one of the regulars, walking towards me, the top of her pale blue dress hiding under a darker, satin shawl. She places a coaster and a beer on top of my piano. I’ve seen her every Saturday since I’ve been here. She usually sits at the bar, nursing a double whiskey on the rocks. I try not to mingle, but during this time we’ve had a few chats, and she always insists on buying my drinks for me. When my aunt Ivy stops by, they usually sit and converse all night. I think she once mentioned they went to boarding school together.

Most of the regulars are over forty, and Lyla is no exception. There are a few younger clients, probably my age, but they come and go as they find partners, no longer needing the bar as their security blanket.

Lyla places a hand on my shoulder, “Rough night, eh?”

I frown and shake my head before replying, “I don’t think so,”

She smiles at me. She always seems like she’s miles away. “I think rain makes everyone melancholic, Theo.”

“Cheers,” I take a sip of my beer, letting the cold liquid cool my throat, “No, I think I’m just knackered, really.”

She shakes her head and gives me an almost motherly smile. Although I doubt I could recognise one if I saw it. It’s been a while since someone has given me anything remotely close to motherly affection.

“The owner’s son is here.”

I lift one of my eyebrows. I can't be arsed to care if another fresh-out-of-Cambridge brat decided to join this hellhole of a club. She tilts her head to the side, trying to point at him. I think about ignoring the gesture, but I take a quick look anyway since she’s pinning me down with her piercing blue eyes. He’s far away, alone at a table in the back corner, making it difficult to see him properly. Fit. Broad shoulders. Brown curly hair. He looks around my age, give or take a year or two. Definitely the type of bloke who can get girls faster than you can say “let's go out”. He's staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows as he fiddles with the knot on his tie.

“He looks out of place,” I say, as I start randomly playing a few notes of a piece that just came to mind.

She shakes her head as she grins and turns around, leaving me to go back to my reveries. I brush the thoughts of his boring blue eyes out of my head. Another Cambridge brat, fresh out of Uni, looking for someone to marry, then pop out a litter of blonde, spoiled rascals. I roll my eyes because I think that’s what Father would have wanted for me. I did go to Oxford, though, So I suppose I did meet half of his expectations. In some ways, I am also an overindulged brat. It’s just that I could never give Father the perfect British family. Not in the traditional way that he wants, anyway. He used to be worse about my queerness when I was still in school, but I think after a while he came to terms with it. Sometimes he and my stepmother, Rose, even ask if I’m bringing someone home for the holidays.

The answer is always no. I intend to keep it that way.