It’s only one or two of them at first, but the slow handclap gathers followers around the room. Soon there are feet being slammed into the floor as well.

‘Chaps!’ Mr Foxton shouts over the racket. ‘A little respect if you will.’

Concentrate. Just concentrate.

The room is deadly silent now.

I dip my head forward and half close my eyes. I imagine Miss Morgan sitting next to me on the stool. On the lower keys, I visualize the crinkly backs of her hands, skin sagging between the bones. I fantasize that the two of us are about to duet as we’ve recently begun doing in her lessons. ‘Just follow me,’ I imagine her saying, like she often does. ‘The music’s all still there, you just have to show it the way out.’

It comes to me. The song starts with an E minor. A little run in the left hand then strike the chord. Nice and easy. All white notes. Get that right and the rest will surely follow.

I take a sharp inward breath. The keys swim in front of me, blurring at the edges.

Play.

I realize immediately I’ve got it wrong. I strike the notes and it’s a discordant mess. Like a cat walking across the keys. Like someone playing it for laughs.

‘You’re shit and you know you are,’ says a voice close by.

My soaking hands lose any strength they had. They slink off the piano and into my lap. Every last drop of blood leaves my head. There’s only a split second of dread before the inevitable happens.

The combination of laughter and revulsion from the audience sounds as if it’s coming from miles away. The contents of my stomach splatter on to the floor next to me. They ricochet in sheets of pinkish brown from the angled surfaces of the piano.

As the room quietens, I sit motionless on the stool. I hear only the patter of vomit dripping to the floor, like the noise in a wood after a rainstorm. Mr Foxton is looking at me, concerned or confused, it’s hard to tell.

I feel suddenly much better. My brain finds some order in the chaos. I return my hands to the warm, slippery keys. Pitch perfect, I deliver the opening riff of ‘Wish You Were Here’.

‘No,’ Mr Foxton says quietly. He’s shaking his open palm at me from five metres away. ‘Not now.’ He holds the door open at arm’s length. ‘Get yourself off to the office.

‘Sorry,’ he says as I approach him. He passes me an ironed handkerchief between his outstretched fingertips. ‘I wish you’d told me you weren’t feeling well.’

I don’t reply. I shake my head as I make my way down the corridor. Not feeling well – why didn’t I think of that?

This is Me

Four weeks ago

‘Smooth,’ Sophia said. ‘Very smooth.’