Ett utdrag ur boken Cellon i min hand
Jag fick frågan från en bekant som undrade varför jag inte lagt upp kapitel från mina två första böcker. Här kommer därför ett lite utdrag ur Cellon i min hand, med Ann i huvudrollen.
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Handling: "Cellon i min hand är den andra fristående delen i trilogin om vännerna Felicia, Ann och Katarina.
Cellisten Ann har just flyttat in i sin drömlägenhet i Uppsala tillsammans med den karismatiska chefsdirigenten Maximilian, när mystiska blombud dyker upp i lägenheten och hon får obehagliga sms från ett okänt nummer. Sakta men säkert börjar den trygga tillvaro Ann tagit för givet att luckras upp.
I ett allt tätare mörker möter hon en oväntad kärlek vars fysiska attraktion är så stark att den raserar de rationella murar hon så omsorgsfullt byggt upp över åren. Medan känslorna växer sig starka, mår Anns vän Katarina allt sämre. Hon drömmer mardrömmar och ser syner - och är övertygad om att Ann svävar i livsfara.
Cellon i min hand är en fängslande spänningsroman om relationer och hat, men framför allt om kärlek som har möjlighet att ge kraft i stunder när det känns som att allt hopp är ute."
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PROLOG
Hon höjer ljudet på den senapsgula freestylen och tillåter sig att fullkomligt slukas av Madonnas Like a Virgin medan hon lutar huvudet mot väggen där hon sitter utanför rektorns rum. Läpparna rör sig ljudlöst och formar orden i sången. Hon kan den utantill, ända fram till minsta lilla andetag. Benen rör sig mot hennes vilja, följer takten i låten som trumpinnar och det är nästan smärtsamt när Miriam, hennes biologiska mamma, lägger handen på hennes kind. Hon kisar som om hon varit i ett mörkt rum och precis har blivit utsläppt i ljuset och pupillerna kämpar tappert att återfå sin rätta storlek.
”Ann gumman, vi behöver prata med Roland, han sitter och väntar.”
Gubbfjant tänker hon, ett ord hon hörde Sonja, hennes andra mamma, kläcka ur sig igår kväll när hon trodde Ann var på sitt rum. Hon smakar på ordet och tycker det passar bra in på rektorn som är gråhårig och alltid lätt fjunig på kinderna. Som en kyckling. Hon släpper ifrån sig ett fniss, som en ballong med pyspunka och hennes mamma tittar förebrående på henne.
”Inte nu Ann. Försök att skärpa till dig lite.” Hon låter inte så arg utan mest trött och det ger Ann dåligt samvete. Det är ju trots allt för hennes skull som hennes mamma har tvingats sluta tidigare på jobbet för att komma hit.
Ann stoppar undan freestylen i ryggsäcken och den spralliga euforin hon precis har badat i ersätts av en tung känsla i magen. Just när armen trevar sig in i utrymmet mellan ryggsäck och axelrem fångas hennes blick av en vuxen som står orörlig i korridoren och iakttar dem. Ann sneglar på sin mamma som tycks vara i full färd med att leta efter något i sin stora väska. Hon verkar inte ha märkt något och när Ann åter vänder sig mot den kala korridoren så gapar den tom.
De knackar på hos rektorn och öppnar dörren utan att vänta på svar. Roland sitter vid sitt skrivbord och knattrar på tangenter till en stor, grå dator som upptar nästan halva skrivbordsytan. Han rycker till som om de skrämt honom, men hämtar sig snabbt.
”Vad bra att ni är i tid. Kom in, kom in och slå er ner. Vill du ha en kopp kaffe Miriam?”
”Tack, men jag är nöjd”, säger Miriam artigt samtidigt som hon med blicken ber Ann sätta sig på stolen bredvid henne.
”Ett glas vatten till dig unga fröken?”
Ann skakar på huvudet medan hon anstränger sig för att hålla ryggen rak. Tekniskt sett har hon inte gjort något fel och han ska inte få henne att känna sig liten har hon bestämt sig för. Gubbfjant.
Roland sjunker ner på sin stol och ser först lite villrådig ut. Han tar upp en gul kulspetspenna som han snurrar runt och runt och tar sen sats.
”Som jag sa till dig Miriam så har vi haft lite bekymmer med Ann på senare tid. Hon har stört en hel del under lektionstid och har slagit ut en framtand på en klasskompis. Det är allvarliga grejer och vi kan inte se mellan fingrarna när sådant händer, jag hoppas att ni förstår det?” Han grinar bekymrat och Ann noterar att hans tänder är lätt gula precis som deras grannes, och deras granne röker som en borstbindare. Det var ett ord hon hade läst om i en sjörövarbok. Gubbfjanten kanske också rökte.
Miriam rynkar pannan vilket Ann vet betyder att hon är arg. Anns rygg sjunker ihop något och fingrarna kring freestylen hårdnar.
”Jag förstår”, säger hon stelt. ”Jag har pratat med flickans mamma, men ska vi höra vad Ann har att berätta, vad tror du om det?”
Var hon spydig? Det var ett ord som hon också visste vad det betydde eftersom hon hört det så mycket hemma, oftast riktat mot henne. Först var hon tvungen att slå upp det, men nu visste hon precis och tonfallet mamma hade använt stämde väl in på beskrivningen.
”Självklart Ann. Vill du berätta med egna ord vad som hände?”
”När då?” säger Ann och tittar rektorn stint i ögonen. Han börjar flacka med blicken mellan dem och lutar sig tillbaka i sin slitna skrivbordsstol.
”Ja, precis. Det finns ju lite olika saker att välja bland. Ska vi börja med framtanden, vad tror du om det?”
Låter han också spydig? Ann sneglar på sin mamma som ler uppmuntrande mot henne.
”Karin kallade mina mammor för äckliga flator och skrek att jag var lesbisk. Lesbisk betyder förresten att två flickor gillar varandra i stället för pojke och tjej.” Hon stannar, drar åt snodden kring sin långa hästsvans och fortsätter. ”Efter det puttade hon in mig bland skorna och tänkte hälla alla svettiga och kvarglömda kläder på mitt huvud.” Rektorn nickar och manar henne att fortsätta och Ann knycker på nacken. ”Jag fick tag i hennes ben när hon stod över mig och lyckades få henne att falla som en fura. Jag kan inte hjälpa att hon råkade falla på bänken och att hon skrek samtidigt. Om hon hade haft munnen stängd så tror jag inte en liten flisa från tanden hade gått av. Det var bara en liten flisa. Jag lovar.” Hon trycker ihop tummen och pekfingret för att visa hur liten den var.
”Jaaa”, säger rektorn och rynkar lätt på ögonbrynen, ”nu var det väl inte hela sanningen.”
”Det är visst hela sanningen”, säger Ann med näsan i vädret. Hon känner sig djupt förorättad. ”Karin har varit en fjant hela terminen. Varför säger inte ni till henne?”
”Enligt Karin har du varit väldigt påträngande och dragit av tjejerna trosorna i omklädningsrummet.”
”Det är en lögn.” Ann nästan skriker. ”Vilka tjejer utöver Karin har sagt detta?”
”Vi har pratat med Amanda, Fia och Sandra.”
”De är ju Karins bästisar.” Något bränner bakom ögonlocken, men Ann stålsätter sig. Gubbfjanten skulle inte få se henne gråta.
Anns mamma bryter sig in i samtalet.
”Ska jag förstå det som att vi sitter här för att Ann har blivit mobbad av några tjejer i klassen som har svårt att hantera mitt och min frus livsval? Ska jag förstå det som att ni ska be henne om förlåtelse?”
”Vänta lite nu. Jag tror inte riktigt att du har förstått det hela rätt.” Roland lutar sig myndigt fram över skrivbordsytan och knäpper händerna som i bön, men Miriam avbryter honom och från Anns vinkel ser hon ut som Hera, gudinnan i den grekiska mytologin vars bild finns på deras kylskåp.
”Så här gör vi. Det är två veckor kvar till sommarlov och Ann kommer inte tillbaka till den här skolan mer i år. Till hösten kommer hon att börja på en annan skola.” Hon reser på sig, slätar ut sin röda pennkjol och tar Ann i handen. Ann kommer fortfarande ihåg vad sval hennes mammas hand kändes mot hennes fuktiga.
”Överdriver ni inte det hela lite.”
”Överdriver? Jag skulle kunna anmäla skolan till kommunen för sättet ni har behandlat min dotter på, men jag gör det inte.” Hon vänder sig om för att gå, men tycks komma på något. ”Ni sa att Ann stört under lektionen, vad menade ni?”
Roland som hade sjunkit ihop något rätar återigen på sig.
”Din dotter har trakasserat sin fröken under en tid nu”, säger han med barsk stämma.
”Har min åttaåring trakasserat en lärare?”
”Det stämmer. Ann avbryter henne och klasskamraterna hela tiden och hävdar att de har fel.”
”Är du säker på att de inte har fel?” Miriam höjer på sina välformade ögonbryn.
”Vi har förklarat för Ann att det finns olika typer av sanning och ibland är det viktigt att låta skilda perspektiv få utrymme.”
”Kalle sa att en flodhäst är en häst man kan rida på och som bor i Lappland och fröken log bara, sa att det lät intressant.” Ann känner att kinderna hettar av indignation. ”Men det vet väl alla att det är fel. Flodhästar är släkt med valar och bor i Afrika. Jag har en bok om djur i Afrika hemma. Mamma har jobbat där”, lägger hon stolt till.
”Ni kan få låna boken om ni vill”, säger Miriam, tar Ann i handen och går ut utan att stänga dörren om sig.
Den ödsliga skolkorridoren som inte har blivit renoverad sedan 70-talet möter dem och ger dem ingen anledning att stanna kvar längre än nödvändigt. Ann håller hårt om sin mammas svala hand och får en ingivelse att vända sig om just när de öppnar ytterdörren ut i friheten. Längst bort i korridoren ser hon siluetten av en person som orörlig står och iakttar dem och trots omfamningen av senvårens värmebölja kan hon inte hjälpa att hon huttrar till.
Ett liv består av en myriad av minnen som ett kalejdoskop av mönster som rör sig beroende på hur det vrids. Minnesfragmenten är en del av oss, de definierar vilka vi är och avgör de val vi gör. Den här dagen i Rolands kontor skedde ett val som kom henne att börja på Eriksskolan i Rickomberga. Om hon inte hade skadat Karins framtand, om inte Karin hade varit en skunk, om gubbfjunet hade varit mindre inskränkt, om inte hennes mamma hade varit som hon är och hon inte hade sökt sanningen, så hade hon aldrig kommit att lära känna Felicia och Katarina. Deras liv kom att viras samman med hennes och utgör en viktig del av Anns brokiga minnesbank.
An acquaintance asked me...
... why I hadn't posted chapters from my first two books. So here is an excerpt from the first chapter of Cellon i min hand (Cello in My Hand), featuring Ann in the lead role.
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Synopsis: ‘Cellon i min hand’ (The Cello in My Hand) is the second standalone instalment in the trilogy about friends Felicia, Ann and Katarina.
Cellist Ann has just moved into her dream apartment in Uppsala with charismatic chief conductor Maximilian when mysterious flower deliveries start arriving at the apartment and she receives disturbing text messages from an unknown number. Slowly but surely, the secure life Ann has taken for granted begins to unravel.
In an increasingly dark world, she encounters an unexpected love whose physical attraction is so strong that it tears down the rational walls she has so carefully built up over the years. As her feelings grow stronger, Ann's friend Katarina feels increasingly unwell. She has nightmares and visions, and is convinced that Ann is in mortal danger.
Cellon i min hand is a captivating thriller about relationships and hatred, but above all about love's power to give strength in moments when all hope seems lost."
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PROLOG
She turns up the volume on the mustard-yellow freestyle and allows herself to be completely engulfed by Madonna's Like a Virgin as she leans her head against the wall outside the headmaster's office. Her lips move silently, forming the words of the song. She knows it by heart, down to the smallest breath.
Her legs move against her will, following the beat of the song like drumsticks, and it's almost painful when Miriam, her biological mother, puts her hand on her cheek. She squints as if she's been in a dark room and has just been let out into the light, her pupils struggling valiantly to regain their proper size.
‘Ann, dear, we need to talk to Roland, he's waiting.’
‘Old fart,’ she thinks, a word she heard Sonja, her other mother, utter last night when she thought Ann was in her room. She savours the word and thinks it fits the headmaster, who is grey-haired and always slightly downy on the cheeks.
Like a chicken. She lets out a giggle, like a balloon with a slow leak, and her mother looks at her reproachfully.
‘Not now, Ann. Try to pull yourself together.’ She doesn't sound angry, just tired, and that makes Ann feel guilty. After all, it's for her sake that her mother has had to leave work early to come here.
Ann puts the freestyle in her backpack and the exuberant euphoria she has just been basking in is replaced by a heavy feeling in her stomach. Just as her arm reaches into the space between her backpack and shoulder strap, her gaze is caught by an adult standing motionless in the corridor, watching them.
Ann glances at her mum, who seems to be busy looking for something in her large bag. She doesn't seem to have noticed anything, and when Ann turns back to the bare corridor, it is empty. They knock on the headmaster's door and open it without waiting for a response.
Roland is sitting at his desk, tapping away at a large grey computer that takes up almost half the desk. He jumps as if they have startled him, but quickly recovers.
‘Good that you're here. Come in, come in and sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, Miriam?’
‘Thank you, but I'm fine,’ says Miriam politely, while gesturing to Ann to sit down on the chair next to her.
‘A glass of water for you, young lady?’
Ann shakes her head while trying hard to keep her back straight. Technically, she hasn't done anything wrong, and she's determined not to let him make her feel small. Old fart.
Roland sinks down into his chair and looks a little uncertain at first. He picks up a yellow ballpoint pen, twirls it around and then takes a deep breath.
"As I told you, Miriam, we've had some problems with Ann lately. She's been disruptive during class and knocked out one of her classmates' front teeth.
This is serious stuff and we can't turn a blind eye when things like this happen. I hope you understand?" He grins worriedly and Ann notices that his teeth are slightly yellow, just like their neighbour's, and their neighbour smokes like a chimney. It was a word she had read in a pirate book. Maybe the old man smoked too.
Miriam frowns, which Ann knows means she's angry. Ann's back slumps slightly and her fingers tighten around the freestyle.
‘I understand,’ she says stiffly. ‘I've talked to the girl's mother, but let's hear what Ann has to say, what do you think?’
Was she being sarcastic? It was a word she also knew the meaning of because she had heard it so often at home, usually directed at her. At first she had to look it up, but now she knew exactly what it meant, and her mother's tone of voice fit the description perfectly.
‘Of course, Ann. Would you like to tell us in your own words what happened?’
‘When?’ Ann says, looking the headmaster straight in the eye. He starts to shift his gaze between them and leans back in his worn desk chair.
‘Yes, exactly. There are a few different things to choose from. Shall we start with the front teeth, what do you think?’
Does he sound sarcastic too? Ann glances at her mother, who smiles encouragingly at her.
‘Karin called my mums disgusting dykes and shouted that I was a lesbian. By the way, lesbian means that two girls like each other instead of a boy and a girl.’ She pauses, pulls the elastic band around her long ponytail and continues.
‘After that, she pushed me into the shoes and was going to throw all the sweaty, forgotten clothes on my head.’ The headmistress nods and urges her to continue, and Ann nods. "I grabbed her legs when she was standing over me and managed to make her fall like a tree. I can't help that she happened to fall on the bench and that she screamed at the same time. If she had kept her mouth shut, I don't think even a tiny chip would have come off her tooth. It was just a tiny chip. I promise." She presses her thumb and index finger together to show how small it was.
‘Yes,’ says the headmistress, raising her eyebrows slightly, ‘that wasn't the whole truth, was it?’
‘That's the whole truth,’ says Ann, her nose in the air. She feels deeply wronged. ‘Karin has been a jerk all term. Why don't you tell her?’
‘According to Karin, you've been very pushy and pulled the girls' knickers down in the changing room.’
‘That's a lie.’ Ann almost shouts. ‘Which girls other than Karin have said this?’
‘We've talked to Amanda, Fia and Sandra.’
‘They're Karin's best friends.’ Something burns behind her eyelids, but Ann steels herself. The old fool won't see her cry.
Ann's mother interrupts the conversation.
‘Am I to understand that we are sitting here because Ann has been bullied by some girls in her class who have difficulty accepting my and my wife's lifestyle choices? Am I to understand that you want me to ask her for forgiveness?’
‘Wait a minute. I don't think you've quite understood.’ Roland leans authoritatively over the desk and clasped his hands as if in prayer, but Miriam interrupts him and, from Ann's angle, she looks like Hera, the goddess in Greek mythology whose picture is on their fridge.
‘This is what we're going to do. There are two weeks left until the summer holidays and Ann won't be coming back to this school this year. In the autumn, she'll be starting at a different school.’ She stands up, smoothes her red pencil skirt and takes Ann by the hand. Ann still remembers how cool her mother's hand felt against her damp palm.
‘Aren't you exaggerating a little?’
‘Overreacting? I could report the school to the local authority for the way you've treated my daughter, but I won't.’ She turns to leave, but seems to think of something. ‘You said Ann was disruptive in class. What did you mean?’
Roland, who had slumped a little, straightens up again.
‘Your daughter has been harassing her teacher for some time now,’ he says in a harsh voice.
‘My eight-year-old has been harassing a teacher?’
‘That's right. Ann interrupts her and her classmates all the time and claims they're wrong.’
‘Are you sure they're not wrong?’ Miriam raises her well-shaped eyebrows.
‘We have explained to Ann that there are different types of truth and that sometimes it is important to allow different perspectives to be heard.’
‘Kalle said that a hippopotamus is a horse you can ride and that lives in Lapland, and the teacher just smiled and said it sounded interesting.’
Ann feels her cheeks flush with indignation. ‘But everyone knows that's wrong. Hippos are related to whales and live in Africa. I have a book about animals in Africa at home. Mummy has worked there,’ she adds proudly.
‘You can borrow the book if you like,’ says Miriam, taking Ann by the hand and leaving without closing the door behind her.
The deserted school corridor, which hasn't been renovated since the 1970s, greets them and gives them no reason to stay longer than necessary. Ann holds tightly to her mother's cool hand and feels an urge to turn around just as they open the front door to freedom. At the far end of the corridor, she sees the silhouette of a person standing motionless, watching them, and despite the embrace of the late spring heatwave, she can't help but shiver.
A life consists of a myriad of memories, like a kaleidoscope of patterns that move depending on how it is turned. Fragments of memories are part of us; they define who we are and determine the choices we make. On this day in Roland's office, a choice was made that led her to start at Eriksskolan in Rickomberga. If she hadn't damaged Karin's front tooth, if Karin hadn't been such a skunk, if the old man hadn't been so narrow-minded, if her mother hadn't been the way she was and she hadn't sought the truth, she would never have met Felicia and Katarina. Their lives became intertwined with hers and form an important part of Ann's colourful memory bank.
1.
The note lingered and vibrated inside her before she let the bow slide on, down towards the darkness and muffled sound. It was like throwing a stone into deep water. It swirled down towards the minor key, only to be caught by a current that changed its direction. With light movements of her hands, Ann caressed the strings out of despair and up towards hope and sunshine. She imagined that her hands were feathers dancing almost weightlessly over the cello's strings, conjuring up notes that, like magic, intertwined to create one sensational story after another.
To her, the cello was not an instrument. It was not a thing. Things were dead. What she held in her hands and embraced with her body was not dead; it was alive and breathing. Nothing else existed around her. Nothing else existed in life but the movements of her hands and the quivering notes that seemed to be born from within the cello and land in a moment that is always in motion.
Suddenly, the intimate bond she had created with the cello was broken when someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was like pulling the plug out of the socket, and she had to blink a few times to locate where she was when time and space had been temporarily suspended, just a few seconds ago.
‘Darling, you're completely unreachable when you play.’ The voice sounded irritated, almost whiny. "Didn't you hear me talking to you? You're not quite getting the low notes right, they sound a little off. The strength of the cello is that it can handle both high and low notes. You really need to be able to utilise your instrument's full potential, pumpkin, because only the best play here.‘ Maximilian paused and brushed away some of the golden curls that had fallen in front of his eyes. ’Also, your poor thing has moved a little to the left, which is causing you to sit crooked. You know you'll hurt your back if you don't sit up straight."
Ann looked up at Maximilian's serious face and felt that she was still a little confused. To be honest, she hadn't been attentive to how the cello sounded this time because the music had completely swept her away. She couldn't look at the cello objectively when she became one with it, and Maximilian had wisely pointed this out to her several times. She agreed. But it wasn't easy. Every time she sharpened her awareness and tried to listen objectively, it often sounded pure, but it made her tired and drained. Depleted of energy.
‘I'm sorry, Max.’ Ann raised the arm that wasn't holding the cello and stretched her stiff upper body. ‘It's so easy to get carried away. Haven't you ever felt that way?’ She smiled mischievously at Maximilian, who was standing in front of the stage lights watching her. His face was in shadow and she couldn't see what he was thinking, which annoyed her. Ann wondered for probably the thousandth time if that was what had made her fall for him. He was mysterious and her scientific curiosity was piqued, making her believe that if she was systematic and thorough enough, she could figure out his true nature.
Maximilian was anything but boring and ordinary like many of the people she hung out with. His ability to control his emotions and his amazing ear fascinated Ann. He played four instruments divinely, and when, at the age of 34, he was chosen as chief conductor and artistic advisor to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, no one batted an eyelid. The fact was that he was skilled, and pure talent is rare.
To tell the truth, she had felt incredibly flattered when he asked her out to dinner last autumn. He could have picked and chosen from all the eager singles in the orchestra, but he had chosen her. After the two hours of intense rehearsal they had had before the performance at the castle, she had just been about to put her cello in its case when Maximilian had come up behind her. She hadn't noticed him and was half scared to death by the rose that suddenly appeared in her field of vision.
‘A beautiful rose for a beautiful woman,’ he had whispered behind her with the distinctive English accent that characterised his way of speaking.
They had gone out for dinner that evening and repeated the experience two nights later, when they had rehearsed again.
One thing led to another and she ended up in his huge bed in Östermalm, where he lived in an apartment that had previously been two apartments. He had dazzled her with his sophisticated manner, his intelligence and brilliance, not only as a musician and conductor but also as a lover.
"Darling, you're frowning, it makes you look angry.‘
’I'm sorry." Ann bit her cheek. It wasn't like her to apologise for everything all the time, but it was difficult not to when she was around Maximilian. She knew she wasn't herself. Most of the orchestra seemed to have a submissive look in their eyes when they talked to him.
‘It's okay, pumpkin, you know I only want what's best for you.’ Maximilian walked around the chair Ann was sitting on and began to massage her stiff shoulders with practised hands. Ann sighed contentedly and let herself be enveloped by the rhythmic movements. He wasn't just skilled at conjuring up music, he always made her body come alive. It was as if he knew exactly which strings to pluck.
They were alone on stage. The training session had ended an hour ago, but Ann had stayed behind to practise a few extra pieces for the performance they were going to give over the Easter weekend. She liked the feeling of space created by the large hall that formed the heart of the Stockholm Concert Hall.
The empty seats where the audience usually sat and the spotlight that encapsulated everything on stage, leaving large parts of the room in shadow. "I think you should listen more to, what's his name, Mstislav Rostropovich and Lynn Harrell.
Oh my God, Lynn is fantastic.‘ Maximilian squeezed Ann's shoulder a little too hard and she gasped, but Maximilian didn't seem to notice. His thoughts seemed to be somewhere else entirely.
’Yes, we're invited to dinner at Stina and Ragnar's on Saturday."
‘But Max, you promised to help me move this weekend.’ Ann turned around and looked up at him sternly. ‘Can't you tell them we'd be happy to come next weekend instead, when things have calmed down a bit?’
‘We can move on Sunday instead.’
‘The trailer is already booked.’
‘Rebook it.’
They looked at each other coldly, and it was Ann who looked away first. It made her angry, but still there was a taste of tears burning in her throat. Neither of them said anything for a long time. She put the poor thing and the cello back in its case and slowly pulled the zip closed. Suddenly, she felt Max's arms around her waist. He pulled her towards him and she stumbled backwards against his body. Maximilian pressed her against him while one hand caressed her stomach and continued down below her navel. Ann gasped for breath and hoped in her confused mind that no one was watching them from the darkness of the hall.
‘I promise I'll help you move on Sunday, pumpkin,’ he whispered in her ear as he gently nibbled on her sensitive earlobe.
‘I'm not sure there's a moving van,’ Ann managed to say as her breathing became more and more ragged.
‘Of course there will be, pumpkin,’ Maximilian murmured against her neck.
‘I'll try and call tomorrow morning.’
He turned her towards him and gave Ann a long kiss that took her breath away before pulling her away from him in the next second.
‘Good. That's great. Then I can tell Ragnar.’
Ann blinked dazedly as he whistled his way out of the room to fetch his coat, which he had hung up there earlier. She wasn't quite sure what had happened and couldn't really gather her thoughts. It wasn't like her, and she felt ashamed. She took a deep breath through her nose and let the air flow out through her lips as she bent down, picked up the awkward cello case, and rested it on one shoulder. After one last glance at the empty chairs lined up neatly on the stage, she picked up her brown coat and grey wool scarf, which had been left abandoned on one of the chair backs, and walked out of the hall.
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