A Voice in the Distance Read Online Free Page A

triumphant guffaw. 'You see!
You can't sing it either!'
    'I've got it, I've got it!' I la a few bars.
    'That's what I said!' Harry yells.
    We don't get to bed until three in the morning, by
which time Harry has passed out on the couch. I sleep
lightly and wake at dawn. I have noticed that I need less
and less sleep lately, which pleases me. Since being
diagnosed with bipolar disorder two and a half years
ago, I have been taking a mood-stabilizer, a drug called
lithium, which is supposed to iron out my moods. It
does the trick – stops me from swinging between being
hyper and awake all night, to depressed and unable to
get out of bed. But the side-effects – feeling sluggish and
often queasy – are a right pain. Recently, however, I
seem to be getting some of my old energy back, and I'm
delighted. The Royal College of Music is a pressurecooker
environment at the best of times, filled with
aspiring young musicians dreaming of stardom and prepared
to make a hell of a lot of sacrifices to get there.
You need to be on top form just to survive, just to keep
up with the rest, let alone get ahead. And if you want to
stand a chance of making it as a professional musician
in the big wide world, you have to get ahead, even while
still at uni. You have to find a way of rising above the
rest, of sticking out from the crowd. And the only way to
do that is to practise, practise, practise, and then go out
and win a hell of a lot of competitions. I have won three
international competitions this year and I've already
received a handful of concert bookings for after I
graduate. But it's not enough. It's never enough.
    I drink some coffee and make the most of my early
morning by donning my headphones and grinding
through twenty pages of Czerny at my keyboard. Harry
rolls off the couch just before nine, downs a coffee and
some aspirin before heading to lectures, still looking
half asleep. I remember I have an essay to write for my
Aesthetics and Criticism class but push it to the back of
my mind for now. One lesson I have learned from my
cognitive therapy sessions with Dr Stefan is to compartmentalize
– to arrange the different parts of my life like
pigeon-holes in my brain and only focus on one
compartment at a time. It's supposed to stop you from
feeling overloaded, although the hundreds of pigeonholes
I see whenever I try this technique still manage to
freak me out every time.
    Jennah makes me jump with a kiss and a cup of
coffee sometime after ten. I pull my headphones down
round my neck and keep on playing arpeggios with one
hand, taking the cup with the other. Jennah puts her
arms around me and nuzzles my ear as I continue to
play one-handed.
    'Harry took off about half an hour ago,' I inform her.
    'I'm not surprised, with you thudding away. How
long have you been at it?'
    'Couple of hours.' It's easier to lie. For some reason
Jennah gets nervous if I practise too much. She is wearing
her white bathrobe and her hair is wet and smells of
apricot shampoo. I put my coffee down on the end of
the keyboard and go back to my arpeggios, headphones
still round my neck. I have the sound on so high, I
can still just about hear what I am playing. Jennah
comes round and perches on my knee. I put my arm
round her so that I can reach the bottom octave.
    'Flynn?' She kisses my face.
    'Mm.'
    'Have you got lectures this morning?'
    'Mm.'
    'Come and have breakfast with me?'
    'Mm.'
    She presses her nose against mine, completely
obscuring my view of the keyboard. I find myself staring
into her large dark green eyes. Her irises are flecked
with gold. I keep playing.
    'Wrong note!' she cries, triumphant.
    'No!' I protest.
    'Liar.'
    I laugh.
    'I'm so hungry I could eat you,' she says.
    'OK, OK!' I reach behind her and turn off the keyboard.
'Talk about distracting!'
    'You know what they say about concert pianists,' she
says, dragging me to the kitchen.
    'What's that then?'
    She puts the toast on. 'Can't be a top concert pianist
if you're in love.' She twirls