A Loving Light
Copyright© 2026 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 26: An Evening With...
I had worried we’d be overdressed, but we weren’t. Almost all the other concertgoers arriving at Symphony Hall at the same time we did were dressed just as nicely. There was even a couple I recognised from the restaurant—they’d passed our table on the way out just as I was settling the bill.
Most of the men were in suits, and most women wore dresses similar to Lana’s—by which I mean they were ‘cocktail dresses.’ And even though I’m sure that some of those dresses were every bit as ‘designer’ as Lana’s, I didn’t think any of them looked as spectacular as the young woman by my side. She seemed to have an ‘inner glow’ about her. It might have been the wine she had with dinner, but I think it was more because she was genuinely excited by the concert. She was almost shaking with anticipation.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve played here a couple of times with the youth orchestra, and I’ve sat in the audience for other WMPAT performances, and I’ve seen the Symphony Orchestra once, at a matinee performance for schools, but I’ve never been to a ‘proper’ concert here, if you know what I mean.”
We were waiting in the queue to get in—not that it was a long queue. The ushers were scanning barcodes on either printed or phone-based tickets before letting people into the building.
I smiled. “You realise we’re probably the youngest people here, don’t you?”
“Is that a surprise? This type of music doesn’t usually appeal to people our age. And the tickets weren’t exactly cheap. If you’re paying that much, you want to see a famous singer or band, don’t you? Even Carly’s tickets in London weren’t as expensive as these.”
“Which seats did you get us? A box? I did tell you to get the best ones available.”
She smiled warmly. “No, I didn’t get a box. They’re not the best seats in the house. Not by a long way. We’re in the dress circle. I wanted the front row, but they were all sold, so we’re in the third row.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“If you’re too close to the stage,” she said, “then you get overpowered by the string section. You want to be a bit further back so that all the instruments have had a chance to blend together before the music reaches you. But if you’re in the stalls, then the sound is ... muffled isn’t the right word, but you definitely don’t get the best from the music. The front of the dress circle is the absolute sweet spot. You’re far enough back for the music to blend, but not so far back that you can’t see the individual players, and if the acoustics are good, like they are here, then it feels like the music is coming from all around you, not just from the stage.”
She smiled. Then shrugged.
I nodded. Then smiled. “So you got the best seats available then?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Once our tickets had been scanned, we climbed the small staircase from the entrance up to the concourse surrounding the auditorium and were greeted by the light, lyrical sound of a string quartet drifting through the air. They were playing in a roped-off section in the bar where people were enjoying a pre-concert drink.
The atmosphere was completely the opposite of the lead-up to Kayla’s concerts, which was best described as ‘electric.’ I remember the growing sense of excitement that built and built as the start of the Shepherd’s Bush concert neared, with the buzz of the crowd growing louder and louder until they were chanting Kayla’s name right up until Roxie and the rest of the band took to the stage and began to play ahead of Kayla’s dramatic appearance.
But here, there was gentle, quiet chatter, and it was more a sense of anticipation than of excitement. I guess that might have been because of both the nature of the music we were waiting to hear and the age profile of the audience.
I bought programmes for both of us—a high-quality A5 booklet on heavy matt paper—and then we headed just inside the bar area to watch and listen to the string quartet.
“Want a drink?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not now. Maybe during the interval.”
I nodded and turned my attention to the four instrumentalists.
“I recognise that tune,” I said, looking at Lana.
She looked at me and smiled. “It’s Andante Cantabile, the second movement from Tchaikovsky’s String Quartet number one. It’s one of the pieces we played at my concert back in January.”
“Ah...” I said. “Yes. That’s where I’ve heard it.” I paused. “These people are professionals, right?”
She nodded. “I don’t know for sure—it’ll tell us in the programme—but I’m guessing that it’s the second cello, second viola, and the violinists are maybe second or third desk. But yes, they will be professional players who are part of the orchestra.”
I smiled. “Yes, well, your string quartet is just as good as they are.”
She grinned. “Don’t be silly. We’re nowhere near this good. We made several mistakes that afternoon in all the pieces we played. You just didn’t notice because you don’t know the pieces. These guys haven’t missed a note.”
“Yes, well ... To me, you sounded as good as they do.”
Her grin softened to a smile, and she shook her head. “Thank you. You’re objectively wrong, but thank you. I appreciate the sentiment.”
The quartet reached the final cadence, and the last note lingered in the air for a heartbeat before dissolving into the polite applause that greeted it. Lana clapped along and, for a second as I watched her, I forgot that we hadn’t even entered the auditorium for the main concert yet.
“Is that Alannah?” A voice from behind us said.
We both turned to see Alastair Wood dressed in a black suit, standing next to a woman who I assumed was his wife, and grinning.
“Mr Wood,” Lana said. “Nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, Lana. Are you looking forward to this evening? I think we’re in for a treat.”
She smiled, “I do too.”
“It’ll bring back memories of Germany last summer for you, I’d imagine.”
“It already has. I said to Paul earlier in the week that I don’t think I’ve cried as much playing a piece of music as I did when we played Nimrod at the end of the final concert.”
“Yes, I saw a lot of you with tears in your eyes during that. You wouldn’t have known it from the quality of the sound you produced, though. You all were, as you always are, excellent. I was very proud of you all.”
“Thank you, Mr Wood. That’s very kind.”
He smiled, nodded and then headed towards the bar. Lana looked at me and shrugged.
“He has to say nice things about us; he’s the head of the whole music trust. It’s kind of his job to talk us up.”
“I’m starting to wish I could have been there to see it.”
She tilted her head to the side slightly. “The concerts are on the trust’s YouTube channel. They’re not particularly high-quality recordings, but they give you an idea of what it was like.”
“I’ll have to look them up.”
Just then, a soft but noticeable buzzer sounded around the concourse.
“That’s the fifteen-minute call. It means the doors to the auditorium have opened,” Lana said. “We’re in the centre of the row, so we should go and take our seats. That way, we don’t have to push past people who’ve sat down before us. We’ll need to go up the stairs.”
There were already a few musicians on the stage by the time we’d climbed the stairs, entered the hall and taken our seats. The whole experience was new to me, from climbing the stairs to the grand doors to the auditorium, which itself promised something special within. But the room itself...
It was vast. Huge. Enormous.
At least, it felt that way.
And yet, at the same time, it felt intimate. When we sat, it felt as if the stage was almost within touching distance.
I know that’s contradictory. I know it’s completely incongruous. But that’s how it felt. Vast and intimate at the same time.
In truth, Symphony Hall had a smaller capacity than any of the theatres that Carly had performed at in Birmingham, Manchester and London—just one thousand one hundred and fifty—and yet it felt bigger than any of them. It was probably the room’s height that made it feel so large.
The other thing that stood out to me as I walked in was the colour. Red. A deep, dark, warm red. And gold. A warm, rich gold.
Maybe that added to the sense of space, too. I don’t know. It certainly added to the sense of intimacy. But what the colour definitely did was make this modern venue, which was less than ten years old, feel much, much older—almost as if it had always been here.
I looked around the hall after we sat and at the ceiling in particular, which, far from being flat, was a complex arrangement of angled panels and huge red ‘clouds’ suspended from above.
“It looks weird, doesn’t it?” Lana whispered, leaning close to me.
I looked down at her. “It does. What are those things? Speakers?”
She shook her head. “It’s part of the auditorium acoustics. It’s designed to make the sound bounce around the room so that every seat gets the best experience of the music.” She smiled. “These are still the best seats, though. There’s not really a ‘bad’ seat, but these ones are the best.”
The musicians on stage were not simply sitting and waiting. They were arranging their sheet music and doing quiet, individual warm-ups, playing different sections of the music to come or simply doing scales. And as the start time neared, more and more of them walked onto the stage, sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, and went through the same ritual.
By five to eight, every seat in the audience was taken, and every seat on the stage was full save for one. It was the seat right next to the conductor’s podium, at the front and to his left.
The house lights dimmed, and the lights on the stage brightened. A hush fell over the auditorium. All the chatter stopped. The sense of anticipation heightened.
Then the final member of the orchestra strode confidently onto the stage to polite applause. But she didn’t acknowledge the audience. Instead, she stood by her chair and pointed to a member of the orchestra towards the back with her bow. This was followed by a long, low note.
“They’re tuning up,” Lana said, leaning in close so she could whisper. “That’s an A on an oboe. Everyone else will tune their instruments to that now.”
And so they did. A cacophony of noise filled the room. I could clearly see the cellists adjusting those little knobs at the bottom of the strings in the same way that Lana had before recording her part for Kayla’s song.
Eventually, the noise stopped, and the final member of the orchestra took her seat.
Then, as an announcement was made over the PA system, the whole orchestra stood.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to An Evening with Tchaikovsky. On the stage is the Westmouth Symphony Orchestra, led by Olivia Chen. And to conduct them this evening, from the Odesa Philharmonic in Ukraine, please welcome to the stage, Dmitri Volokov.”
The applause as the conductor strode to the stage was much more enthusiastic than it had been for Olivia. There were people cheering. Even Lana was clapping with vigour as a huge smile spread across her face. I couldn’t help but feel her excitement by osmosis. Dmitri moved with the confidence of a man who knows his place in the world. There was a sense of controlled energy waiting to be unleashed about him.
“He’s quite famous,” Lana said, again leaning in so she could whisper. “It’s something of a coup to get him here. He’s one of the very best in the world right now.”
Dmitri took to the podium and bowed to the audience. He waited for a second, then grinned and gave a short, sharp nod, acknowledging the audience’s welcome. Then he turned to face the orchestra and looked at each section in turn as the applause died away, ending with a nod towards the percussion section at the back.
Silence again descended over the hall.
He lifted the baton in his right hand with a deliberate flick and extended his left arm out to the side. As one, the orchestra readied itself with their instruments. He held his baton high for what felt like an agonising eternity. Everyone in the room, including me, held their breath.
I genuinely didn’t know what to expect. There was something about the stillness right then that told me everyone else knew exactly what to expect and were almost craving it. I felt as if I was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to go over. I knew what lay ahead was going to be unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Dmitri gently wiggled the fingers on his left hand. Then he smoothly swiped his baton downwards, slowly drew his left arm in—and the concert began.
It’s almost impossible for me to describe the next two hours of my life with the accuracy and detail it deserves.
But I’ll try.
Those ninety minutes or so of music, with a twenty-minute interval, changed my life forever. And transformed my understanding of what love really is.
I want to describe how the music made me feel. I want to explain the emotional journey it took me on. But I don’t think I can—it would sound like hyperbole.
And the thing is, I knew what was happening to me within the first ten minutes.
The concert started with the famous 1812 Overture, which everyone knows the instant they hear it. So loud and bombastic. So ... Powerful.
Except that bit everyone knows, that’s the end. There are nearly fifteen minutes of music before you get to that part.
So I was expecting the concert to start with a ‘bang.’ Quite literally, as the piece famously has canons. Imagine my surprise when Dmitri’s initial ‘downstroke’ was smooth and slow, and the music started in the same way. It was almost ... Romantic. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but ... It feels like it is.
It built slowly, patiently. I heard the famous melody of the climax about five minutes in, but it too was soft and gentle. I’m sure I heard the melody of the French national anthem, too.
But it kept building and building, getting louder, faster and more aggressive. Several times it slowed, only to build up again, and again.
But it wasn’t just the music that was so impressive. It was the performance. Sitting there watching the musicians ... They worked so hard, put in so much effort. I almost felt out of breath watching them. Several times, I glanced at Lana. She was focused on the stage. On the performance. So engrossed was she, it was as if the performance was a part of her, as if the music entered her being, entered her soul, and took over.
I remember thinking at her concert that she played the music as if it was inside her and she was just setting it free. Now it felt as if the music that had been set free by those on the stage was finding a home deep inside her. She moved with it. Not overtly. Not in a showy way. She wasn’t ‘dancing.’ It was subtle. Head movements that followed the flow of the music, with a nod whenever the peak of a crescendo was reached.
And then came the climax—the bit I knew. And I found myself moving just the way she was, anticipating the melody I, and everyone else, knew so well and reacting to it.
It was loud. It was bombastic. It was aggressive.
And it was magnificent.
And when it ended, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding in, and all around me, engulfing me, the audience erupted in thunderous applause almost as loud as the music itself.
Beside me, Lana was clapping with more enthusiasm than I’d ever seen. She glanced at me, her eyes wide and dilated and sparkling with the utter joy that was written all over her face.
Right then, she had never looked more beautiful.
And I knew I was lost.
You know that game show where two families try to guess the most popular answers to simple questions given in a survey? Well, if the question was, ‘Name a piece of music by Tchaikovsky,’ then the top answer would most likely be the 1812. And while I wouldn’t want to guess at the order, the next three most popular answers would likely be the other three pieces on our programme: The Nutcracker Suite, the Swan Lake Suite, and Romeo and Juliet.
And it was Romeo and Juliet that was up next.
Everyone knows the story, of course—the star-crossed lovers, the family feud, the balcony scene and the heartbreaking tragedy of that ending. It’s ironic, isn’t it? It’s considered to be the most romantic story ever told, but it ends in the ultimate tragedy, not a ‘happily-ever-after.’
What does that say about us?
For a time, Clarissa and I thought we were a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, given how strongly her mother opposed us being together. We weren’t, of course. Far from feuding, our fathers were good friends and, had they been alive, they would probably have been happy to see us together.
Our story did end in tragedy, though. Not quite as tragic as Romeo and Juliet—I, at least, survived the accident—but tragedy, nonetheless.
That’s what was in my mind as the music began, because the music lent itself to those kinds of thoughts. It was dark and foreboding. A warning of what was to come.
And yet ... There was something about it. Something romantic.
The contrast with what we’d just heard was so stark—from the bombast and spectacle of the 1812 climax to something so quiet and intimate.
Somehow, the music itself told the famous story. I could hear the ‘war’ between the families in the way sections of the orchestra seemed to be fighting with each other. I could see the famous duel in my mind’s eye as the music took me on that journey.
And then I heard it.
A melody I knew. So familiar, but I didn’t know where from. I just knew it. Lana was right—I felt as if I’d always known that tune. Always. It had long since lodged itself in my subconscious without my ever noticing.
I glanced at Lana, my instinct to see if she recognised it too. But I found her watching me, with a curious look on her face. A twinkle in her eye.
She smiled. Just a small smile. A knowing smile.
She knew something I didn’t.
Or maybe she knew something that I didn’t realise I knew.
I smiled back.
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at her programme, which she’d folded back to the appropriate page—a description of the music and how it represented the story.
I hadn’t even opened mine; it sat on my lap, untouched.
She pointed to a specific passage, then looked up at me and lifted the booklet just enough for me to read the words.
The Love Theme is passionate and yearning in character, but always with an undercurrent of anxiety. It signifies the couple’s first meeting and the famous balcony scene. The English Horn and the Viola represent Romeo, and the flutes represent Juliet.
I glanced back at her, and the recognition must have shown in my eyes, because her smile widened just a touch, and her eyes sparkled just a little more.
Of course, this was the Love Theme. Of course it was! That’s where I knew it from—the Sunday morning feature on the radio my mum used to listen to as I grew up. The presenter would read a listener’s love story over the music before playing their song.
And yes, I could sense the anxiety underneath the breathtakingly beautiful melody.
Then I heard the flutes answering the deeper instruments, as if they were having a conversation. A question and a reply. A reach and a retreat. The ache and longing of the strings contrast with the brightness and fragility of the flutes.
No ... Not fragility.
Vulnerability.
Trust, Vulnerability, Love.
The theme of both the Alabama Sweetheart album and tour—it had been done before, over a hundred years before. This music represented all three and more—it was love and fear and surrender and hope and longing and love again. All the emotion of the human experience, without a single word ever being spoken or sung.
Carly’s songs told stories, but she did it with words. Yes, the music on her songs played its part as background to the carefully crafted lyrics, but this...
No words were needed. The music did all the work.
I shook my head. I was still looking at Lana, and she was still looking at me, but she knew this wasn’t a negative action.
She knew what was happening to me. What I was experiencing. She must have experienced this exact same thing a long time ago.
How had I never realised?
I’d lived my life so ignorant of just how powerful music could be and how it could tell a story filled with so much emotion that it didn’t just fill you, it overflowed from you. And it did it with just the melodies.
And as those melodies of vulnerability and love washed over me and filled my soul, something inside me shifted.
Something was different.
And it would never be the same again.
How had I never known this? Known about the true power of music.
Lana was still staring into my eyes, and she knew ... She knew that I finally understood. Maybe I didn’t understand quite the same way she did, but she could tell that something inside me had ‘clicked.’
I knew she did. I could feel it.
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