The Perfect Girl

ZOE

I’m standing at the side of the stage waiting to go on.

Outside there’s ice on the pavement and when we arrived Uncle Richard had to catch my arm because I nearly slipped over when we got out of the car.

Lucas is in the crowd, manning the video recorder. He doesn’t perform in public any more, though sometimes he bangs out a tune. That’s how he himself describes his playing nowadays. He’s so into filming and that’s his thing now. He spends hours watching films with Uncle Richard. Richard doesn’t make models any more, he says he never really liked them; he gets into the whole film thing with Lucas instead.

Grace is here, but we don’t think she’ll last long in the audience.

Richard says that he wouldn’t bring her along at all, but he’s sure that she’s got an unusual interest in music for a child her age. She’s captivated by my playing, he says. He’s sitting at the end of the back row with her so he has an easy exit and can take her home when she makes her first squawk. But he wants her to be here at the beginning at least. It’s my first concert since Mum died, and I think we all know in our hearts it’s a kind of tribute to her.

My piano was brought over from the Second Chance House and moved into the dining room at Tess’s house. Richard has converted his shed into a kind of cinema and film room where he and Lucas edit films and watch them on a pull-down screen.

‘It’s tech heaven,’ says Tess when she looks in there.

I tried to phone Sam once, at work, but they said he’d left, gone back to Devon. They said he was poorly. I tried to tell Tessa, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She reminded me of Mum then, pushing a subject away, lips tight and holding back feelings that I couldn’t read.

I’m playing a short programme tonight, but it contains some of Mum’s favourite pieces.

Because of the cold I’m wrapped up warmly, gloves on, and a cardigan, and I’ve been pressed against the heater that’s in the shabby little green room. We’ve been careful with the venue we’ve booked on this occasion, so very careful. It’s not a church; it’s a music club. The piano on the stage is a beautiful Steinway and there’s seating for around eighty people. This time, I shall make my entrance from the side, not down an aisle.

In my head there’s a mantra: This is your Third Chance.

I don’t think I have nine lives, but I hope I have three.

I hear my name called from the stage and, just before I go on, in my head I send a message to my mum. This is for you, Mummy, is what I think, and I have to wipe a small tear carefully from my eye.

I take off my cardigan and my gloves.

I’m looking good, in a dress that Mum chose for me before she died, a black silk dress with a high neck and three-quarter-length sleeves. I’ve brushed my hair until it’s silky, just how she would want me to. As I enter the room and mount the stage, there’s a round of applause.

Before I sit down, I do a small bow to the audience, and then the clapping stops politely. Tess is in the front row and she gives me a thumbs-up. Behind her, almost all the seats are full. My reputation has preceded me. As Chris might have said, if he hadn’t been sentenced to fifteen years in jail: No publicity is bad publicity.

I sit. I adjust the stool, controlling my breathing, and I place my hands over the keys.

The piece is a nocturne by Chopin. It’s achingly beautiful, soul-pulling music, which can make your insides ripple. It’s for my mother, and for Lucas, who doesn’t want to perform any more, but loves to listen. It’s for Grace too, because she’s going to be just like me, I know it. It’s for Richard and Tess, who are looking after us now. It’s for my Third Chance Family.

As I pull the first note from the piano, I’m instantly lost to the music, trapped inside it, living every delicate, haunting phrase of it, and I feel like my mum is living it with me.

And I know it’s going to go well, brilliantly, in fact.