1965 – Vienna, Austria

Laura Hartley stood in the wings of the Musikverein concert hall, her grandmother’s violin in one hand, a lifelong dream in the other.

From her hidden vantage point, she studied the who’s who of European society, their jewellery twinkling beneath the tiered crystal chandeliers. The Golden Hall basked in an ethereal glow, reflecting two centuries of gilded history in which legends such as Chopin and Liszt had moved audiences to tears. And here she was – a girl from the wrong side of London – about to take the stage.

She cradled the violin against her chest, its familiar weight a great comfort. Surrounded by fellow musicians and perfect acoustics, Laura stood at the summit of her dreams, the place she’d longed for her entire life.

After years of touring, theatres were Laura’s real home, each stage a different hearth warming her musician’s soul. Nothing could ever make her trade this life, not after the countless hours of bleeding fingers, exhaustive practice and clinging to every sliver of opportunity that had brought her to one of Europe’s crown jewels, where the air vibrated with possibility.

Movement caught her eye, and Laura turned to see Jeremy Thebarton striding towards her. After five years, she still felt a quiet pride in their partnership – personal and professional. Audiences were drawn in by compositions that bore their joint signature, though only Laura knew just how much of herself lived in those notes.

Jeremy slipped an arm around her waist and she leant into his touch – familiar, inspiring, loving.

‘Do you have an envelope for me?’ she asked, hopeful.

Jeremy shook his head. ‘International post can be unpredictable.’

‘But she’s never missed one.’ Laura couldn’t hide her disappointment.

She traced the worn edge of the violin case, her fingers lingering over the small leather pocket sewn into its lining. Empty. A new letter from Grandmother Elizabeth should have been there, tucked safely away to be read and re-read after the concert euphoria subsided. Like most musicians, she clung to her superstitions, and receiving her grandmother’s letters before every significant performance had become her most sacred ritual, as they bridged the chasm between worlds – the polished marble of Europe’s concert halls and the sun-bleached timber of her grandmother’s outback verandah. The carefully penned pages were a substitute for Elizabeth’s presence whenever she
couldn’t attend, a tangible reminder that someone was thinking of Laura from half a world away. Tonight, with the letter’s absence, that gap felt wider than ever.

Jeremy leant past Laura to study the buzzing crowd. ‘Big audience tonight.’

‘Is this you helping my nerves?’

‘They already love you.’ Jeremy put his finger under her chin, his eyes meeting hers. ‘You’ve earnt this.’

‘I know, but . . .’

‘But nothing.’

Jeremy was right. A lifetime of work had led to this moment; she should savour every second.

Laura gave him her biggest smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘For?’

‘For being my rock.’

‘Thank you for being mine.’ His smile faded and his expression turned serious. ‘The next three weeks are going to drag. Are you sure you can’t come with me?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll be busy, and I don’t want to be a distraction.’

‘But you love Munich . . .’ He fiddled with his watch strap. ‘Though, you love sticking to your plans more.’ The corner of his mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. ‘One day you’ll be spontaneous.’

She raised an eyebrow and he quietly laughed.

‘Okay, so that will never happen,’ he said.

‘I haven’t finished organising everything for our trip to Australia.’ A vision of happiness filled Laura’s mind – of her performing the latest composition she and Jeremy had written for Grandmother Elizabeth. After not seeing her grandmother for two very long years, a lightness leapt into her being. She grabbed his hand. ‘You’re going to love her.’

‘If she’s anything like you, then I know I will.’ Jeremy checked his watch. ‘It’s time.’

Laura reached up and adjusted his bow tie, the silk delicate beneath her touch. Although their relationship hadn’t always been easy with two passionate musicians living under one roof, the times when their creative wills clashed had always dissolved into laughter and ended in a loving reconciliation. Now, finally, they could travel without the pressure of work, and this trip to Australia would be different to anything they’d experienced – three whole months together.

The stage lights beckoned through the wings; and beyond them, a full house waited. But here, in this moment, she had everything she needed – her music and the man who helped her create it.

After giving her a playful wink, Jeremy strode onto the stage, shoulders squared and chin lifted. He executed his signature half-bow – just deep enough to acknowledge the audience’s thunderous applause, while rightfully claiming their adoration. Classic Jeremy. As he took to the podium, the room seemed to lean forwards as one, magnetised by his presence. Some might call it arrogance, but Laura knew better – what he possessed was pure, distilled confidence, the invisible force that transformed talented musicians into legends.

Jeremy waved his conductor’s baton at the concertgoers, who took their seats obediently, the hall falling silent.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special surprise guest this evening,’ he said.

Attendees exchanged whispers and quizzical looks.

‘This artist scarcely needs an introduction, but as her musical confidant, I feel uniquely positioned to share what makes her extraordinary. Born in London, our special guest began her remarkable musical journey at five years old, when she played her first perfect note on her grandmother’s violin. This child prodigy became the youngest graduate of The Juilliard School of Music and has trained with various luminaries including Eva Collier and Reinhold Basque.’

Jeremy took a moment to gaze upon the concertgoers, drawing them in with his dramatics. ‘At the age of twelve she performed for King George VI and the young princesses Elizabeth and Margaret at the Royal Gala, catapulting her onto the world stage. During these past few years in Vienna our musical partnership has given rise to symphonies that have been performed worldwide, including Whispers of the Ether, Symphony for Violins in G Minor and Eclipse of Starlight, Symphony for Violins in D Major. Tonight marks the end of her triumphant ten-month tour filled with sold-out shows and standing ovations, her enthralled audiences a testament to what I’ve known all along . . .’ He paused to let the concertgoers take note. ‘That she is truly one of the finest performers of our generation.’

The theatre filled with gasps of delight.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Miss Laura Hartley.’

The audience’s rapturous applause and delighted cheers zapped electricity through her. She stepped from the wings and crossed the shiny floorboards, her emerald velvet dress swishing around her legs.

As she arrived by Jeremy’s side, he whispered, ‘I think they might be a little happy.’

‘I think you’ve oversold me.’ She laughed.

He lightly touched her arm. ‘You’ll prove me right.’

Laura took her place in the spotlight then turned to meet the orchestra’s expectant gazes with a measured nod that silently con-firmed their readiness. Second chair violinist Chelsea Leadbeater, who had also studied with Reinhold Basque, sent a frosty glare in Laura’s direction. Accustomed to fierce competition, Laura tried not to let Chelsea’s unbridled annoyance unsettle her. Despite Chelsea being five years Laura’s senior, with hundreds more performances to her name, in the classical music world complicated hierarchies existed between musicians – a reality that created friction between those who measured worth through years of service and those who believed talent should be recognised regardless of tenure. This tension seemed to weigh heavily on accomplished violinists such as Chelsea, despite her technical mastery.

Jeremy raised his baton. Laura subtly tapped her bow three times against her leg then lifted her violin to her shoulder. Before bow touched string, she could hear the opening notes of Shadows Across Time, Concerto for Violin in E Minor hanging in the air like a dare – deceptively simple – as though a master chef had laid out plain ingredients with the ghost of a smile, knowing the feast to come.

After a deep, steadying breath, she began. Her fingers flew into the first variation, a spray of notes ascending and descending the finger-board with devastating speed. Each note had to be perfect; there was nowhere to hide.

As Laura moved into the second variation, she concentrated on the demanding double stops when her fingers pressed two strings at once while her bow danced across them. Sweat formed on her temples, but she couldn’t spare a moment to wipe it away. This piece demanded everything a violinist had, technically and emotionally, without a single measure of rest. And she loved every torturous moment of it.

As she surrendered to the music, a puff of red mist materialised before her eyes, quickly blooming into streaks of yellow and orange. Relief washed through her; the faithful colours had returned, as they always did when she truly connected with her music. The pressure of expectation melted away as the mist swirled in perfect rhythm with her playing, shifting hues with the mood and cadence of the notes.

The audience remained oblivious to Laura’s private, kaleidoscopic world that unfurled whenever she played. This mist – a rare form of synaesthesia that transformed sound into colour – guided her through a rich musical landscape. What had once terrified her as a child and made her feel like a musical oddity with an unearnt edge, she now embraced as her secret weapon in the quest for virtuosity.

Her fingers continued to fly across the fingerboard, her bow dancing across two strings at once as if possessed. Every muscle moved in perfect synchronisation, the violin no longer an instrument but an extension of her soul. As the music peaked the mist exploded into a brilliant rainbow – greens, reds, blues, yellows and purples dipped and whirled at the breathtaking tempo of the music. The crescendo built, and it took every ounce of her willpower to not rush towards the end.

For a fraction of a second – so brief it could have been imagined – her bow whispered against the string at the wrong angle, creating a microscopic scratch only another professional would catch. It was minute, but . . . it was enough. In an effort to maintain her composure she didn’t dare look at Jeremy, but she felt his energy shift from flowing harmony to acute attention, like a predator sensing
weakness.

One imperfect touch in a thousand perfect ones, yet the mistake echoed in her mind like thunder, amplified by Jeremy’s laser-focused awareness of her every movement. When she reached the third bridge, Jeremy’s baton drew in the string section, then the brass, then the drums, creating a steady pulse beneath her singing line. The audience sat transfixed, lost in the music’s spell, completely unaware. But she knew. Her spiralling, coloured mist was now marred with grey-tinged edges the colour of ash she’d never experienced before.

Jeremy guided each section through their closing measures with exact gestures. The drums faded, then the wind instruments, then the strings until finally it was just Laura, playing for the last four bars. As she drew out the final notes, the coloured mist turned entirely grey, then vanished completely. Although this unexpected event sent waves of panic through her, Laura held her final position, violin pressed to her chin, holding her breath, waiting, praying for the recognition she craved.

Suffocating silence filled the concert hall…