The DJ and The Cellist

Chapter Eight

***

"Octavia, you and I need to have a talk. Alone."

Vinyl got the idea and, anxious as she was, directed her feet out of the kitchen, which remained occupied by Beatrice and Octavia, the two women sitting at the table opposite each other. The clock was showing five, and Octavia's fingers were still sore after the practice - ironically enough, given that she could play for hours without getting tired, dishing out elaborate passages with ease. But, with Vinyl, she played simple scales, and yet, her fingers were exhausted.

They hadn't begun to compose the suite yet - she just played, and played, with Vinyl occasionally changing the settings. The cellist could not get a grip on why they were doing that: Canterlot's Finest was not that far away - but she knew better than to ask. If only because today Vinyl was extraordinarily quiet, almost silent. She must be jealous. Octavia sighed. I really shouldn't have told her that. But that's all right. Vinyl was just... overprotective. It would pass, with time. If I can keep this relationship alive. God, why was it so hard to maintain a relationship, from its very beginning?

"It's about Frederic."

Octavia winced. Marvellous. Just what I needed. "Listen, Beauty. I don't want to hear that."

"He's really, really sorry," Bea lied through her teeth. "He... We just needed... He just needed a violinst and-"

"And this is why he threw me out of the ensemble and started dating my sister?!" Octavia fumed.

Ill, chilly wind came blowing through the open window. Neither of the women made any motion to close it. The neighbourhood was quite peaceful, and, at this time, most residents were at work, so it was all the more bizzare and weird to listen to the wind swishing though the flat and back again, as if it were a messenger from the cemetery, the place of the quiet. Or, it was just a grim and fleeting thought, the kind of thought that always darkens even the brightest day in the city - or the reminiscing of such, usually faulty and fake.

The tuba player sighed. "You quit yourself, you know. It was your decision."

"That's because he made me!" Octavia shrieked, slamming her fist against the table. The collision made her muscles ache. Her skin turned red in the wake of the impact. A little softer, "Why can't he let me date whomever I want to date?"

"It's high society," Beatrice supplied immediately. "You know it, Octavia. One word in the media of you dating a DJ, and with such a reputation..."

"Vinyl," Octavia hissed, "is my girlfriend. Regardless of her job or reputation. And, if Frederic is sorry," she carried on, eager to close the topic, "why doesn't he come here himself, instead sending you in his place?" Checkmate.

He didn't send me. Beatrice groaned, hitting her palm against her forehead. "That's because he loves you, you idiot."

***

"Frederic, you and I need to have a talk. Alone."

Harpo looked pointedly at Fiona, who gave him a disgruntled shrug and stood up. "Well, honey, I'll be in the bedroom while you two discuss your private matters." With that, the gorgeous woman, so perfect, so Octavia-like, left the dining room, leaving the two men sitting next to each other at the huge rectangular dining table made of solid redwood, with fine carving.

Frederic lifted a glass of wine and brought it to his lips eagerly, taking a good sip. "What can be so important  that you rush into my house and interrupt my private time with my beloved?" The pianist downed the glass slowly.

Harpo frowned. 'Beloved'. Riiight. "Freddie, stop," he begged as he saw the pianist fill another glass. "Don't you think that's too much?"

Frederic sipped on the wine, then looked at the clock pointedly. "That's all right. It's quarter past five, for godsake."

"Frederic," Harpo tried again, "I want to talk to you about Fiona. And Octavia."

"And who are you, the proud lord said..." Frederic chuckled. "Seriously, Harpo. Why do you think that's your business?"

"That's the ensemble's business," Harpo said, knowing very well that his words were pointless and lacked the needed determination.

As expected, Frederic just shook his head, rendering Harpo's statement vain. "My relationship with Fiona is none of your concern. As for the ensemble business..." The pianist downed the glass. "Octavia quit. She lost her place in the quartet. Fiona is a great violinist.  She has replaced her and will be performing at Canterlot's Finest as part of the ensemble. End of discussion."

Harpo looked at the pianist's face thoughtfully. He was young. They were all so young; but Frederic looked different. He didn't look old, with the perfect square chin and the short, wavy hair; but the eyes... The eyes were dull. Sad. Worn out. Tired and exhausted. Alcohol-hazed. Trouble-averted. The scar above his brow had not healed - would never heal, remaining a constant reminder of his devotion to one woman. One woman. "You love her," Harpo said. He didn't need to clarify who 'she' was. "You still love her. But you're with her twin, her substitute. Because you know you can never be with her." Harpo held a pause, during which Frederic sipped his red wine calmly. "Fiona isn't part of the ensemble, Freddie," the harpist said in a softer voice.

"She is," Frederic said finally, giving Harpo a sharp, pointed look. "And she will be."

"Freddie, I'm your friend!" Harpo exclaimed in despair. "I want to help. She will be the end of you. Both of them," he added needlessly.

"I know." Frederic glanced at the bottle. It was empty. "I know." With a sigh, the pianist placed the offending bottle on the floor next to his chair. "But Fiona will be performing with us. Full stop. She will be part of the ensemble and she will be performing with us at Canterlot's Finest."

"But why?" Harpo lamented. "Listen, Freddie-"

"Why Fiona?" Frederic stood up and took up the bottle. For a moment, fear crossed Harpo's eyes. A dangerous man with a potential weapon in hand. The pianist placed the bottle in the dust bin. Harpo let out a mental sigh of relief. "Why?" Frederic walked back to the table slowly, steadily, and sat down again. "Why."

"Because," he said, "at Canterlot's Finest, I am going to propose to her."