That answered that query, then. They were an item. Why did she feel disappointed?
She snapped the locks shut on her cello case and stood up.
She was surprised how unsettled she felt.
Marlowe came over as she took out her cello and pulled out the spike.
‘I hope you’re not too nervous.’
‘No! Well, yes.’
‘You’ll be fine. We’re concentrating on the wedding music for the first half, then we’ll start looking at some carols.’
‘I should know most of them.’ Emilia suddenly felt less daunted. She had spent her school years in the orchestra, after all.
She took her seat and began to tune her cello, pulling the bow across the A string. It sounded discordant and ugly, badly out of tune. It sounded how she felt. Swiftly, she adjusted the pegs until the note rang true.
And then they were off. They were starting with the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, the music Alice Basildon had chosen for her wedding entrance. It was a joyous and upbeat piece of music that Emilia loved, but it was extremely fast and extremely fiddly.
She played atrociously. Her fingers felt stiff and unyielding. Her mind couldn’t concentrate. She missed the dynamics. She lost her place. She forgot what key signature they were in and played several wrong notes. And because there were only four of them playing, she couldn’t hide behind the others. It made the piece sound dreadful.
Eventually Marlowe stopped.
‘Shall we go back to bar twenty-four?’ he asked. He didn’t look at her or say anything else, which made it worse.
Red with humiliation, Emilia took in a deep breath and studied the sheet music again. Petra gave her an encouraging smile and she felt as if she had one ally, at least. Marlowe raised his eyebrows and gave the signal to start again. She concentrated with all her might, but it was a huge effort. Nothing came naturally. She was playing like a robot, programmed to follow the black marks on the page, not feeling it with her heart or in her soul.
All the time, she was keenly aware of Delphine taking note of every tiny mistake she made. She wanted to throw down her cello and tell her to bugger off. She had never felt so threatened, and it was a horrible feeling.
At last, thank goodness, they got to the end.
‘Well done, everybody,’ was all Marlowe said.
Emilia kept her head low. She felt as if she had let everyone down. Her eyes felt peppery with unshed tears, but she wasn’t going to let them out. Not with Delphine gloating in the corner. There was no point in apologising or drawing attention to herself. They all knew. She would just have to do better next time.
‘Let’s try the Pachelbel,’ Marlowe said, and they shuffled through their sheet music until they found the right piece and put it on their respective stands. Emilia felt relieved. She knew this piece well, and could play it blindfold; she could make up for her earlier debacle and prove herself to Delphine.
Afterwards, Marlowe gave her a nod and a smile that said she had redeemed herself. Just.
‘Are you coming to the Cardamom Pod?’ he asked. ‘It’s where we always go after Sunday rehearsals.’
Emilia wasn’t sure if she could face it. Having to be polite to Delphine, and feeling self-conscious about her lacklustre performance.
‘I’ve got paperwork,’ she lied. ‘Mounds of it. The accountant will shoot me if I don’t get it in to her tomorrow.’
There was a flurry of protest but Emilia didn’t miss the flash of triumph in Delphine’s eye. And suddenly she wondered why she should be made to feel bad when she had done her best, and been thrown in at the deep end.
‘But why not?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to eat, after all.’
She lifted up her cello and hoisted it onto her back with a bright smile.
‘Excellent,’ said Marlowe.
The Cardamom Pod was housed in one of Peasebrook’s oldest buildings, with wonky floors and low ceilings, but it felt funky and modern, with the walls painted a hot dusty pink and the beams whitewashed. It smelled exotic: of warm spices, and Emilia swooned as her mouth began to water, realising that she had been existing on sandwiches and muffins from The Icing on the Cake. She was too tired to cook properly for herself. They ordered bottles of Indian lager and dunked poppadoms into the Cardamom Pod’s home-made mango chutney while they chose their food.
‘Your father always ordered for us,’ said Marlowe. ‘He made us be adventurous. And he always had the hottest dish he could stand.’
‘He loved Indian food,’ said Emilia, gazing at the menu.
‘I think we should propose a toast.’ Marlowe raised his glass. ‘To welcome you to the Peasebrook Quartet. I know how proud Julius would be.’
Even though she’d played abysmally, thought Emilia, but she didn’t say it, because it was ungracious.
‘I hope I can live up to him,’ she said, raising her glass too. ‘I don’t think I made a very good start.’