Music to my ears

On the Balcony

Instead of our planned outing, we found ourselves perched on his balcony, soaking up the pale winter sun as if we were on some discreet little terrace in Paris. The sky was a crisp, washed-out blue, with faint wisps of cloud drifting lazily across it. We were bundled up in sweaters and scarves, but the outdoor heater glowed warmly at our feet, casting a soft orange shimmer against the glass door. I wrapped my fingers around the stem of a wine glass, feeling the gentle chill of the glass in contrast to the warmth on my face.

We sat there, side by side, wrapped in that quiet, easy intimacy that doesn’t need constant conversation. The radio played softly in the background—a mix of old favourites and current chart songs—drifting in and out as the breeze shifted. Occasionally, a car passed somewhere below us or a distant siren wailed and then faded, but up on that balcony, we were in our own suspended little world. One glass of wine slipped too easily into two; time loosened its grip, and the afternoon began to unfold in that lazy, indulgent way that makes you forget about clocks altogether.

Alfie’s Guitar and His Music

At some point, Alfie disappeared inside, and I heard the familiar scrape of a guitar case being dragged across the floor. When he stepped back onto the balcony with his acoustic guitar slung casually over his shoulder, I felt that now-familiar flutter of anticipation. He isn’t oblivious; he knows perfectly well how much I adore listening to him sing. There’s a particular expression he gets—a half-smile, half-smirk—that says he’s about to spoil me.

He settled into his chair, tuned a couple of strings with quick, practised movements, and then began to play. The first notes spilt out warm and rich, curling around us like smoke. I let my eyes drift closed almost immediately, surrendering to the sound. With my eyes shut, the chill in the air seemed to disappear, and the uncomfortable bits of life—the loneliness of my little flat, the occasional harshness of my work, the endless noise of the city—faded to a distant murmur.

Remembering How We Met

When I first met Alfie back in 2018, he was just another dreamer with a microphone and a handful of half-believed-in songs. His band played in half-empty pubs and tired working men’s clubs, their voices bouncing off nicotine-stained ceilings and sticky carpets. I remember standing at the back, watching them perform to rooms where no one really listened—people more interested in their pints or their betting slips than in the music. The applause, when it came, was polite at best. The boys tried to laugh it off, but the disappointment hung in the air after every gig like a fog.

They lost hope slowly, the way you do when you’re constantly told you’re not quite enough. Alfie would get home exhausted, shoes smelling of spilt beer, neck sore from lugging around his gear, and there would always be this haunted look behind his eyes. He never stopped singing, but there were days when I could hear the doubt in his voice.

A Turning Point in His Career

And then everything changed with one unexpected act of faith. A wealthy relative—someone in the family with both the money and the inclination to notice real talent—offered to fund professional vocal training for him. Almost overnight, Alfie went from gigging in dingy back rooms to training his voice in mirrored studios with serious coaches. His confidence sharpened; his range widened; he learned how to shape a song, to act through the music rather than just sing it.

Soon enough, auditions for West End musicals started appearing on his calendar, scribbled in hurried handwriting but underlined, starred, and circled. I remember the nervous texts before those early auditions, the breathless calls afterwards. Then came the first tentative offers, followed by contracts with names of theatres I’d only ever walked past as a tourist. Before long, his portfolio was no longer a hopeful list of maybes; it was a solid body of work that included some of the most prestigious stages and roles in some of the longest-running shows.

I’ve watched that transformation with a pride that still surprises me in its intensity. Every time he’s cast in a new production, he sends me tickets, often with a teasing little message or a heart scribbled in the corner. I always go, of course. Sitting in those darkened theatres, waiting for the lights to dim and the orchestra to swell, I feel that same old flutter in my chest. When he steps onto the stage and the spotlight picks him out, it’s like hearing beautiful music twice over—once in my ears and once in my heart. I cheer him on as loudly as I dare without embarrassing him, and I always stay behind afterwards, waiting at the stage door like the proudest, most devoted fan.

A Private Performance

That’s what I was listening to this afternoon on the balcony: not just songs, but the sound of everything he’s become. He played me pieces from the musical score he’s currently working on, his voice rich and controlled, full of character and nuance. Even stripped back to an acoustic guitar and a small balcony in St John’s Wood, I could hear the orchestra's echoes, the imagined chorus, the energy of a full stage. With every verse, the thought of trudging through semi-wet grass in St James’s Park felt less and less necessary. Why would I want to be anywhere else when the West End was quite literally performing for me in the pale winter sun?

We stayed on that balcony for as long as the day allowed. The sun tracked slowly across the sky, sliding behind the tall buildings until its warmth no longer reached us. The light shifted from golden to grey, and a faint chill curled around our ankles. The heater, valiant as it was, could only do so much against the encroaching dusk. The easy warmth between us cooled slightly, too—not gone, but changed—becoming gentler, more subdued. The mood turned from playful and intimate to quiet and reflective as the clouds gathered.

His Favourite Lady

Still, it wasn’t a bad day at all for his favourite London agency escort, even if I do say so myself. There’s always a moment when I re-enter the reality of what I am to him and what I’m not. But those labels, those sharp little words, feel softer when I’m in his world. Up there on the balcony, wrapped in music and weak winter sunlight, I wasn’t just an appointment or a line in a diary. I was someone he wanted there, someone he played for.

When it finally came time to leave, I felt a small, familiar tightness in my chest. I almost didn’t want to go back to my lonely little apartment, with its pristine cushions and empty silence. The thought of unlocking the door and stepping into that carefully curated solitude felt heavier than usual. But days have to end, even the lovely unexpected ones.

Leaving, and Looking Ahead

At the door, I wished Alfie good luck with his latest part, repeating the words I always offer him before a big opening—little rituals of encouragement we’ve built up over the years. He smiled, that slow, slightly bashful smile that belongs only to the man beneath the performer, and pulled me into a last, warm hug that I tried to memorise.

Then I stepped out into the corridor, the door clicking gently behind me. The journey back to Mayfair stretched ahead, a quiet contrast to the day's fullness. Yet even as I walked away, I felt certain I’d see him again soon. If nothing else, I’ll see him on the stage—bathed in light, voice soaring, living out the dream I watched him fight for. And I’ll be there in the dark, watching, listening, cheering him on like always, carrying the memory of this soft winter afternoon on a St John’s Wood balcony somewhere deep inside me.