The music swelled and transported Kirsty away on a wave of interlocking notes. It rippled through her body as she swayed and nodded gently, as a poppy blown by a breeze, juxtaposing her hands dancing up and down the keyboard. She was filled with a sense of purpose, satisfaction, consuming her body from head to toe, threatening to burst in sweet tender violence.

The tension built as her fingers darted over each other; she chewed the inside of her cheek as the sounds blossomed towards a triumphant climax, glaring at the reflection in front of her, daring the music to change and try to cheat her. It remained cowed and she bowed her head, driving the notes forward as if into a storm. Her eyes closed momentarily, before the emotion, sound, fever, came tumbling and cascading down to finish in an ending laden with tears, hopes, dreams, a loosening as complete as an orgasm.

As the final note died under her fingers she raised her head and gazed at her features, reflected in the veneer above the keys; waves of music had been replaced by waves of applause. She closed her eyes, allowing her body to be supported and nurtured by the approval before plastering a grin across her face which conveyed her fulfilment in the same way that a tin whistle conveys the majesty of Westminster Abbey’s organ. She turned towards the dark audience, bright light dazzling her and pricking pin points of moisture in the corners of her eyes; stood and stepped forward towards them, forced to share the moment, and bowed. It had been a good performance tonight.

A fresh and welcome addition to the musical world, Travelyan brings the passion and energy of Liszt with the precise certainty of Beethoven. Performing at the Birmingham Symphony Hall to a full audience last night, her concert was a shining example of the vigour and fullness we have come to expect from Travelyan. Her marriage to the geographic researcher, Professor Heller, last year has infused her music with even more brilliance, and she looked radiant and joyful last night. She spoke eloquently of her influences from Chopin and Liszt, dressed immaculately and with not a hair out of place. Shame about the shoes though.

Unfortunately, Kirsty could see the review practically written in the earnest, hungry journalists’ eyes as she ducked away towards the doors. She felt as if their eyes were burning into her shoes, thrown on before she left the house and meant for driving and performing, not a post-performance soiree. Purchasing clothing could be such a danger zone, she pondered, as she navigated through the groups of people towards the back exit and her car. You could either purchase each item of clothing as you found it, or you could purchase an entire outfit in one go which was usually easy enough, but shoes could so often be the defeating battle. Your credit card would already be limp and whimpering from your extravagant fabric purchases, your feet tired and swelling in the heat, and really you needed to go home and have a mug of coffee whilst you admired your new bags of goods. So she could hardly be blamed for failing to have shoes to match her outfit could she? The journalists would have to put up with it.

She climbed behind the wheel, shut the car door, and rested her head against the window frame. She felt wrung out, drained of emotion, intelligence, and energy. She had put everything into the music, giving and taking as much as she could. Her wrists were beginning to protest and her hands rested on her thighs, a pair of whales washed up on the shore. Mentally rolling the exhaustion up into a ball and sitting on it, Kirsty started the car, slowly pulled out and made her way onto the road. Her thoughts turned to her husband, Alexander, waiting at home. Would he be in bed, mouth slightly open and one hand flung across his chest towards the empty space in the bed where she would slide and press against his reassuring form? Or would he still be awake, propped up with pillows, glasses perched on his nose as he read a book like a hawk, whilst his fringe bobbed in fluffy peaks, violated repeatedly by his restless fingers? But perhaps not. He had not been sleeping well and she might find him still in the study, disconsolately scrolling through his latest book, adding bits in a lethargic manner. Or he might even be in the music room, stark against the white walls in his bulky roll neck sweater as he caressed the keyboard, almost seeming to coax the music as if coaxing a hamster out from under a wardrobe. It was at these times that she loved to watch him, she standing in the doorframe wearing one of his old shirts thrown on carelessly, her knickers visible at the tails. She adored the way his face took on a stubborn yet tender quality as he wrestled with the music he loved so and wished he could play well enough to do justice to their glowing grand piano. He would look up, catching her movement in the edge of his vision, bashful and somehow challenging at the same time.

Glancing right as she drew onto the dual carriageway, nearly home but disguised in the deep darkness, she wondered at that challenge in his eye. Was he jealous of her success? Surely he had no need, his last book had been well-received, and they wanted more. The media was claiming that he had opened up the subject of geography for everyone. But was it the sort of attention that he wanted? Did he feel that his creativity matched hers or did he feel shadowed by her? They moved in different circles: a good thing she felt as they would never find themselves in competition with each other. But now she began to wonder if she had been neglecting him. The tour had taken her away from him, nights spent in anonymous hotels throughout Europe, dubious food gulped down in spare moments, but returning her finally, like a library book, to her home. They had agreed that the tour was a good thing. But perhaps she should have watched him more. There was something unsettling in the way he gazed at her as she sat on the stool, flicking through sheets of music. He seemed almost as if he wanted to consume her, swallowing her up, so that he would never again be forced to share her with the masses.

She stopped at the roundabout, bathed in the orange street light, whilst a large estate car made its way around, before pulling off onto her road without indicating. Rolling her eyes at the competence of other drivers Kirsty turned left and slowed down to navigate through the silent and twisting streets.

What was more important, piano or Xander? Xander or piano? Piano. Xander. Piano and Xander perhaps? But she had only so much energy, one or the other had to win and it was usually her music. He would give way gracefully, understanding her artistic needs and casually removing himself to the kitchen where he would make dinner, allowing her more time to practise. But there was something underneath, dark and festering: a cancer that is invisible except for a slight sense of “something wrong”.

Sliding up the hill and finally turning into the driveway, the tyres crunched on the gravel, cluttering the silent and smooth night. Fields stretched to left and right and the darkness was enveloping and complete. No lights glowed in the house and Kirsty groped her way carefully, aware of stones, loose slabs, and potential sudden hedgehogs. Scrabbling at the door with momentary fluster before inserting the key, she promised herself that Xander would be above piano for at least a while; time enough to reassure him of her love and his importance in her life. She stepped into the hall, casting off the poor shoes which had clashed so badly with her clothing, and switched on the light. The house was silent, she could see through the doorway to the study from here and no hunched form and glow of a screen greeted her.

Gently bending her head from side to side she walked through into the kitchen, caressing the wall and the heavy, reassuring post holding on the curve in the stairs. Alexander wasn’t there either. So he must have gone to bed or be sitting at the piano, perhaps trying to conquer his frustration at his inexpert fingers before attempting another piece, sorrowfully casting aside her pages and placing his own easier pieces on top.

Smiling at the thought of brushing her lips across his soft neck, Kirsty opened the door to the music room, flicked on the light and stopped. The stark brilliant white paint had been chosen so as to make the grand piano, sitting in the centre of the room, the focus point. They had been pleased with the effect and the sound was good with the absence of other furniture. But now she wished that the attention hadn’t been so well directed. Alexander was in the music room, and, as she had promised herself, he was above her piano now. A rope hung from the central beam and Alexander himself hung from the rope. He had climbed on top of the piano to reach the beam, before placing the stool on the surface, standing on that, placing the rope around his neck, and kicking the stool away. He had made his point and was finally above piano in Kirsty’s mind.