Your Mark on Me

Chapter 1: The Man in a Suit (part 1)

With my hands deeply sunk in the piano keyboard, the pressed pedal still ringing the final chord, my chin up and my body stiff and straight, I paused for a few seconds, letting the sound die down, enjoying the last moments when everyone's eyes and ears were still on me. 

It was one of those rare occasions when being the focus of attention wasn't making me uncomfortable, so I allowed myself to savor the feeling for a little longer before I lifted my foot and my hands at the same time, breathing out, as if suddenly coming to life, or out of a trance.

The clapping came almost immediately.

I got up and bowed, careful not to slip in my high heels, then looked out at the crowd. Some people were clapping awkwardly with drinks in their hands, trying not to spill them, some had put their glasses down and were clapping more enthusiastically. Some looked bored, but not necessarily because of me, I hoped. They seemed to be the kind of people that resolved not to enjoy themselves no matter what one put in front of them. Then the clapping died down, the people turned back to their drinks and conversations, and I stepped away from the piano.

And there I was again, a nobody. My usual self.

"Help yourself to some food, darling." The lady-organiser gave me a hasty smile, before rushing off somewhere. She did that a lot: wander around the room, checking if everything was in place, making herself look busy. In all fairness, everything looked as fancy as it could have and, at least earlier, when I'd arrived, there seemed to be plenty to eat and drink.

The fee was also pretty generous, for my first ever paid gig. During the past few months I had finally managed a few public performances (mostly community centres and churches) but nothing on a proper stage, and nothing paid. My piano teacher, Mrs Jackson, used to be a concert pianist when she was younger, until she broke her wrist in an unfortunate accident. Now she played corporate events and private parties all the time, because they paid, and paid well.

This time apparently she had double-booked herself. When asked if I could do it instead, I was, just as usual, reluctant. But it was definitely worth fighting the stage fright to earn three hundred bucks for only half an hour of music, especially now, when I was so tight on pocket money.

So there I was, making my way to the buffet table, stepping awkwardly in high heels, smiling and nodding here and there as I accepted a few congratulations on the way and thanked back timidly. There were only a few young people at the event, and definitely no one as young as me. Also, very few women. The majority were middle-aged men, roaming around and chatting and eating in their expensive-looking suits.

As I walked by the chocolate fountain, I gave a disgusted shiver at the small cups of strawberries arranged in neat rows, waiting to be dipped in chocolate. I must have been the only person in the world who hated strawberries.

It was late afternoon already and I hadn't had any breakfast or lunch. My anxiety didn't allow me to eat before a performance: sometimes I had severe stomach aches before a recital, sometimes after, but either way, I always felt sick before playing.

To my disappointment, there wasn't much left at the food buffet. My belly rumbled as I picked up a couple of lone salmon canapés. Fish was not my favorite either, but it didn't matter. I had to eat a little something to keep me going until I got home and had a proper meal. I had been too stressed out about the recital to remember to defrost dinner the previous evening, so all I had in the past eighteen hours was a cheese sandwich — no wonder why I was feeling slightly dizzy now.

I started chewing on the salmon, wondering what food Mom had left for me in the freezer. I hoped it was lasagna, but hell, even burgers would do. With salad and some fries — easy to make, just put them in the oven and try not to forget them there, like last time.