Read Online Social Engineer by Ian Sutherland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Sutherland
Ads: Link
large horseshoe shape. Webber sat cross-legged at the head of the room, in front of an imposing wall-to-wall whiteboard. Overhead a huge projector was suspended from the ceiling. In one corner a sprawling fake plastic plant bestowed upon the insipid space a pretence of life. Anna glanced through the window that spanned the length of one wall. In the distance, she could just see the London Eye slowly rotating, each glass pod packed full of tourists.
Bravely, she gave voice to her concerns. “This is an odd place to hold an audition?”
His eyes flashed briefly. Annoyance perhaps? But then he fingered his beard, offering an air of contemplation.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he smiled tightly. “But the acoustics are good enough for our purposes. Please begin.”
Anna wasn’t sure she concurred. A meeting room in an office building wasn’t exactly designed for musical recitals. But the environment was only half of what had been bothering her.
“From your email, I thought someone from the ROH would be here?”
Webber paused, considering her question.
The email inviting Anna to audition for a place in the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House had arrived in her inbox three days ago. It explained that she had been selected for audition on the recommendation of Jake Symmonds, one of the viola professors at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, where she studied cello. Although Anna wasn’t taught by Jake she knew who he was. She briefly considered that perhaps the email was a prank by one of her four student housemates, all of whom knew it was her dream to play professionally. She dismissed this thought — surely her friends wouldn’t be so cruel. No, it was just a straightforward email with a potentially life-changing offer.
Anna’s flattered ego soon took over, suppressing her doubts. Of course it was standard practice, she reasoned, for the Royal Opera House Orchestra to consult one of London’s leading musical conservatoires as to which of its students to audition. Of course it was normal, she convinced herself, for a viola professor she’d never met to know of her virtuosity as a cellist. Teachers discussed their students with each other all the time, didn’t they? Of course it was fair — no, more than that — it was fitting for Anna to be given the chance to fulfil her lifelong dream of playing in a professional orchestra years ahead of her peers.
After a few minutes of consternation — or maybe it had been only a few seconds — she embraced the email for what it was: an official invitation to audition for one of the most prestigious orchestras in the country. She felt the excitement build in her and, like a dam made of matchsticks, it quickly burst. With tears cascading happily down her cheeks she jumped up and down on her mattress, screaming for joy, just as she had done one Christmas Day morning years before, when Santa had left an exquisitely laminated maple cello at the foot of her bed.
“As I said to you in the lift on the way up, Miss Parker,” Webber responded, “I’m simply the first round. An initial screening, so to speak.”
“But —”
“Put it this way. Impress me today, and next Tuesday you’ll be in the ROH at Covent Garden for the final stage of the audition.”
Anna paused for a moment and allowed his words to sink in. She imagined herself in the orchestra pit, tuned and ready for the conductor to lift his baton, the ballet dancers waiting in the wings, the audience hushing, and finally, the curtains opening. It was a delicious image and she desperately wanted it to happen. To happen to her: the cellist who had evolved from that little girl with the best ever Christmas present. The girl who had worked so hard, first learning the basics — bowing, rhythm, and reading notes — and, in time, attempting to recreate euphonic perfection. Countless hours of solitary practice. Daily sacrifices. A childhood spent observing her school friends through the
Bravely, she gave voice to her concerns. “This is an odd place to hold an audition?”
His eyes flashed briefly. Annoyance perhaps? But then he fingered his beard, offering an air of contemplation.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he smiled tightly. “But the acoustics are good enough for our purposes. Please begin.”
Anna wasn’t sure she concurred. A meeting room in an office building wasn’t exactly designed for musical recitals. But the environment was only half of what had been bothering her.
“From your email, I thought someone from the ROH would be here?”
Webber paused, considering her question.
The email inviting Anna to audition for a place in the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House had arrived in her inbox three days ago. It explained that she had been selected for audition on the recommendation of Jake Symmonds, one of the viola professors at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, where she studied cello. Although Anna wasn’t taught by Jake she knew who he was. She briefly considered that perhaps the email was a prank by one of her four student housemates, all of whom knew it was her dream to play professionally. She dismissed this thought — surely her friends wouldn’t be so cruel. No, it was just a straightforward email with a potentially life-changing offer.
Anna’s flattered ego soon took over, suppressing her doubts. Of course it was standard practice, she reasoned, for the Royal Opera House Orchestra to consult one of London’s leading musical conservatoires as to which of its students to audition. Of course it was normal, she convinced herself, for a viola professor she’d never met to know of her virtuosity as a cellist. Teachers discussed their students with each other all the time, didn’t they? Of course it was fair — no, more than that — it was fitting for Anna to be given the chance to fulfil her lifelong dream of playing in a professional orchestra years ahead of her peers.
After a few minutes of consternation — or maybe it had been only a few seconds — she embraced the email for what it was: an official invitation to audition for one of the most prestigious orchestras in the country. She felt the excitement build in her and, like a dam made of matchsticks, it quickly burst. With tears cascading happily down her cheeks she jumped up and down on her mattress, screaming for joy, just as she had done one Christmas Day morning years before, when Santa had left an exquisitely laminated maple cello at the foot of her bed.
“As I said to you in the lift on the way up, Miss Parker,” Webber responded, “I’m simply the first round. An initial screening, so to speak.”
“But —”
“Put it this way. Impress me today, and next Tuesday you’ll be in the ROH at Covent Garden for the final stage of the audition.”
Anna paused for a moment and allowed his words to sink in. She imagined herself in the orchestra pit, tuned and ready for the conductor to lift his baton, the ballet dancers waiting in the wings, the audience hushing, and finally, the curtains opening. It was a delicious image and she desperately wanted it to happen. To happen to her: the cellist who had evolved from that little girl with the best ever Christmas present. The girl who had worked so hard, first learning the basics — bowing, rhythm, and reading notes — and, in time, attempting to recreate euphonic perfection. Countless hours of solitary practice. Daily sacrifices. A childhood spent observing her school friends through the
Similar Books
