CHAPTER 19
SEBASTIAN
Stratford upon Avon
I don’t even get a chance to ring the bell before the heavy, old front door creaks open with a dramatic squeal.
I jump slightly, not entirely surprised.
Mum’s clearly been watching for me. The moment she sees me, she pulls me into a brisk hug, then steps back and scans me up and down like she’s running diagnostics.
“Sebastian! You made it at last!” she chirps, her voice as melodic as ever. She plants a brief kiss on my cheek and gestures for me to come in. “Come in, love! Your father’s just out running an errand… we’ve both been dying to have you home for a few days!”
I drag my unmistakable bright suitcase inside, and her finely sculpted face flickers with a flash of disapproval, quickly smoothed over by a polished smile.
Great start.
“Good thing Dad’s on his way,” I say, sighing in relief. “No way I’m getting this monster up the stairs by myself. I might’ve gone a tiny bit overboard this time…”
Mum gives me a look that’s hard to read.
“A tiny bit, yes. Though not just in terms of weight,” she mutters, then changes tactics. “But your father’s strong as ever. He won’t have any trouble lugging that upstairs.”
I pretend not to notice the dig and step into the elegant lounge. Everything is just as I remember it, immaculate, quiet, vaguely museum-like. And as always, thoughts of Dad surface almost immediately.
Sometimes I wish I took after him more. Aside from my hair colour, I’m all Isabel, small, lean, sharp-featured, green-eyed, and blonde.
Dad, by contrast, has always been this broad-shouldered, imposing figure, shaped by decades of rowing and gym sessions.
But for all his physical strength, it’s Mum you don’t want to cross.
Outside his world of finance and regattas, Dad’s always been a gentle presence, steady, silent, orbiting around Isabel like a loyal moon around a burning sun.
And sometimes I wonder... if I hadn’t shown musical talent early on, would I have just become another tasteful detail in their perfectly curated life?
They were both nearing forty when I was born, long past the age of hopeful expectation.
So when I finally arrived, I landed smack in the middle of a marriage already set in stone.
I’ve often felt like an afterthought, welcomed, but not quite needed.
Still, it was a peaceful home. No shouting, no chaos. Just… cool precision. Polished silence.
After Mum left her consulting job at Dad’s firm, she devoted herself, with the same relentless focus, to running the household. My childhood, the house, their social life, she managed it all like a CEO in pearls. And even now, well into her sixties, she’s breathtaking.
Today, she’s the picture of effortless control: a cream cashmere jumper with a structured collar, tailored black cigarette trousers that still cling elegantly to her long legs. Her honey-blonde waves are perfectly blow-dried, not a strand out of place. Objectively, she’s stunning.
We settle into the sitting room across from each other, me on the tan leather sofa, her in the violet chintz armchair. We even cross our legs at the same time. Typical.
“Mum, you look incredible,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Honestly, it’s like the years just skip over you.”
She beams, pleased. “Darling, you’re always so charming. And you’re looking well too, although…” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Perhaps it’s time for a haircut? I could call Louis, get you in by Thursday. And we really must go shopping while you’re here. You can’t be seen looking so… so…”
“Scruffy?” I offer, already grinning. “Mum, I’m twenty. I’m not exactly showing up to lectures in a three-piece suit.”
“No, no, of course not,” she says, waving the idea away. “But still, thank goodness you’ve finally stopped wearing that dreadful black nail polish. And I do hope you haven’t added any more of those horrid tattoos. A classical pianist ought to present a certain… decorum, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mum…” I say, gently but clearly, “We had an agreement. No nail polish during performances. No visible tattoos. I’ve kept to it.”
She nods, conceding the point, but not without a hint of triumph. “Yes, yes, that’s true. But May mentioned the other night there were cousins of the Queen at the Wigmore. Royal cousins, Sebastian. Do you realize what circles you’re starting to move in? Appearances matter.”
Of course they do.
I don’t respond. She takes my silence as defiance.
“Let me give you a life lesson, dear son: appearances matter. Especially in your field. Talent isn’t enough.
The world is full of gifted musicians. What sets the successful ones apart is how they present themselves, how they move through the world, the circles they mix in, and the relationships they cultivate. You have to be the full package.”
I brace myself for the inevitable, some veiled lecture about my sudden disappearance after the concert, or a critique disguised as motherly concern. But just then, the front door thuds open. I exhale. Evan’s home. My lifeline.
Dad’s anger, on the rare occasions it surfaces, is nothing compared to Mum’s quiet, surgical precision. If I’m going to tell them who I really am, I’ll need more than just nerve. I’ll need calm. Space. A softer landing than this.
And damn you, May, for running your mouth again.
I rise to greet my father. Mum doesn’t move, still perfectly poised in her chair, her tone cool and controlled.
“Evan, darling, you’re back. I hope everything at the rowing club got sorted.”
Dad walks in, tall, broad, beaming. He wraps me in a quick hug, kisses Mum’s cheek, then sinks onto the sofa beside me. Next to him, I look like a pocket edition.
When I was a kid, I used to think I’d grow into a giant like him. Obviously, that didn’t happen. And for a while, realizing I’d never match his height or build made me feel… small. Lesser, somehow.
People always said I was lucky to have inherited Mum’s looks, but I didn’t want to be “pretty.” I wanted to be strong. Solid. Someone you couldn’t knock over. Like Dad.
It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that I realized how many people, men and women, were drawn to softness. To delicacy. To me. Slowly, I learned to own it. To lean into what made me different. But sitting here now, beside him, I feel a flicker of that old inadequacy stir.
Not that he’s ever made me feel like a let-down.
If anything, he’s gone out of his way to support me.
For a man who lives and breathes finance and rowing, it can’t have been easy to accept a son who spent more time at the piano than outdoors.
I even considered taking up dance once, couldn’t stop thinking about it, but I backed out before I even began.
Too scared of what they’d say. Too afraid of being the source of their embarrassment.
Luckily, my talent at the piano saved me in their eyes.
From the moment Miss Abigail gave me my first lesson at nursery, she told them I was gifted.
They didn’t need to be told twice. From that day on, my life became a regimen of structure and discipline.
Schoolwork had to be flawless, even with hours of practice each day.
If I hadn’t genuinely loved the piano, I think I might have broken under the pressure.
Meeting Maddie and Anne in secondary school was the first time I felt like I actually belonged somewhere.
They didn’t just tolerate me, they liked me.
That was new. Most kids thought I was odd.
Too skinny, too nerdy. While they were obsessed with mud, football, and rowing, I was obsessed with Chopin and Schubert.
Girls certainly weren’t lining up for the class weakling who spent his weekends performing concert études.
But Maddie and Anne? They were curious. Enthralled, even.
They loved hearing about my piano competitions, the cities I’d travelled to, and the strange hotels and concert halls.
Mum let them come over from time to time, probably because their families were suitably “respectable.”
Whatever her reasons, I was grateful. For the first time, I had friends, real ones.
Maddie and Anne didn’t just accept me; they loved hearing me play, and that meant everything.
Over time, we became inseparable, sneaking out on warm summer nights to lie on the grassy banks of the Avon, smoking, talking, sipping cheap beer under the stars.
We’d sit close, backs pressed together, arms brushing, bare skin brushing bare skin, our own quiet little universe.
Looking back now, I understand why I mistook it for something else.
Because it was love. Just… not the kind I thought it was.
Without Maddie and Anne, I honestly don’t know who I’d be today. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the panic attacks began after I left for Paris, after I left them. Back then, running away felt like survival. I didn’t have the words to explain what was happening inside me.
But now… now I do.
And there’s only one way forward.
I have to speak. I have to say it out loud.