Foolish but fateful moments.

Five years have whisked away since that moment on stage, with not a drop of tangible evidence to show for it. "Plant pears for your heirs” they say. I have such little fruit to eat, just the juiciness of the memory. I’ve always believed love never hides, that when you know, you know. Everyone else sees it too. What I didn’t understand was sometimes love is like a pear tree; slow to show fruit.

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When nobody else was there, he was.

I’d just been hired into my first band, and.. well, we had this problem. Or I did. With being told what to do. Actually, I still have that problem. It was interfering with our rehearsals; I’d sing the phrases differently than they were written, pull at the rhythm and tug at the structure like a Rottweiler with a rope.

Shelly. A tall, tangerine haired woman and the main songwriter. The main event. She wanted a backing singer, but what she needed was more singing lessons. Initially she thought I’d be great. Until I was too great. I’d out sing her, conjure melodies, little riffs and pepper them in. Which she couldn't stand, preferring it bland. Her way. Absolutely no spice was desired unless it was her hand twisting the mortar and pestle and even then, I couldn’t sing it the way she wanted, ‘cause I’m not a Korma, I’m a Madras jazz singer. When I'm on fire, the crevice of my soul leaks out the music living there. It’s as if I have no conscious control of my voice. Yet Shelly wanted me to control it, control myself.

I needed the gigs and I wasn’t in a position to quit 'cause I didn’t know any other musicians at the time. So I started suppressing all the unpredictable heat of improvisation.. at least in our rehearsals.

The band had booked this grand venue of high ceilings and tiered seating, to record songs for the media kit. You know, to get more gigs. Shelly was born into the world with a silver spoon in her hand, her dad paid for everything. Naturally, he was there; his almighty and watchful gaze dripped off the balcony above the stage like a swarm of wasps fighting at the jam you forgot to lick off your fingers.

He'd really pushed the boat out, hired these professional brass players to play. Saxophone. Trombone. Trumpet. I bet they regret bringing that trio into the mixture. Or maybe I do.

Everything was going smoothly. I was on best behaviour, singing with robotic intent and trying to keep my colours in the lines. To be honest, it got kinda easy to do. I disliked the majority of the songs and ever since I was a little girl I'd learned to fashion masks of make-believe characters in order to survive a situation.

But there was one song I adored.

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“I hope you were pleased with the charts I sent over. I wanted to leave you some creative freedom on this one, Fred. So that blank 16 bars, go nuts!” Shelly proudly puffed herself over Fred.

“Is there any kind of melody you’d like me to include or shall I improvise the lot?”

“You could include the hook, if you felt so inclined.”

Fred tried to be tactful when he said “Sorry, could you point out the part you’re referring to?”

Shelly was not impressed. The hook of a song jumps off the page, wiggle its hypnotism into your brain like a ferocious parasite, whether you want it taking up residence there or not. Hooks should never be unnoticeable.

She sang the section and Fred replied. “I’ll see what happens in the moment. There’s a fantastic chord progression going on, I’m sure I can come up with something catchy.”

Shelly started to sizzle with fumes of not-fucking-impressed. The air was permeated with the stench of rotting ego because Bob wrote this chord progression, not her. And how dare anyone overshadow Shelly. This angered me. Bob and Eric were such brilliant musicians and something about the dynamic in this group was like an ferocious queen allowing her subjects the glory of her presence, while ignoring all their beautifully crafted workmanship.

I’m learning how to control myself, really I am. But evidently like a disobedient dog, I've had too many years untrained so when someone with treats comes wandering into my space I'll jump for them.

This was one of those foolish but fateful moments.

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A core part of jazz is call and response. His playing knitted itself into the fabric of me. Lured the stifled voice I’d been keeping quiet, to keep the peace. But music isn’t about peace, it’s about truth. He played his saxophone like he was inventing new notes. My body trembled like thunder. The whole room seemed to expose every molecule and I dripped with appreciation. I swear, I wasn't even aware I'd opened my mouth to respond with a melody, the escaping notes filling empty space and as they did, everyone stopped and stared. Apart from Fred, who smiled.

That smile is forever etched into my brain. It held the same naughtiness and contempt for rules as my own. A wisp of scent to a hummingbird searching for the flower. A simple song turned into a symphony. He answered the call and responded with flicks of his tongue to the reed. Our two voices entwined as naturally and chaotically as rain falls after the cloud breaks. It was so beautiful. It felt as if we’d dropped down from the heavens as two stars, and for that moment we were gifted with the realisation we were stars. It was the purest sensation - love captured in music - that's the only way I can describe it.

No one interrupted us for about 32 bars. But as the magic went on, the anger of Shelly (and her rich, jammy father) began filling the room. Jealousy that they weren’t involved, disbelief I’d ruin her moment. Her song: a song arrogantly blooming into ours.

Xavier on the mixing desk captured it all. I was perfectly placed in front of a live microphone. Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t be kept in the final mix. Shelly made Fred record another solo afterwards, saying Xavier hadn’t switched on his microphone. It was effortless for him to find the phrases again, because Fred was deeply connected to his instrument. But she knew.. we all knew what was created from the two of us. And I knew with absolute conviction the last thing Shelly would do was treasure it.

By then, the damage of delight had already been done.

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“How could you do that to me, Fia? I bring you here to make me look like a damn fool in front of Fred. Do you not know how connected to the industry he is? No, all you’re worried about is being the bloody show off!”

I muttered, "You know it’s not like that.. I.. I couldn’t control it.. It just happened.”

“Maybe you should think about that, Fia, how you can’t control yourself. Because you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me! I’m sick of it. You were brought into this band to back me, not the other way around.”

“Right, well, it won’t happen again. I’m sorry Shelly, really I am.”

“Hah! Oh you’re spot on darling. And you can save your sluttly little apology, it won’t work with me. You’re fired.”

“What? Shelly, every other section.. I did exactly what you wanted. I kept to the score, I kept to your melodies and timing and everything. Are you serious?”

I did everything in my heart-shattered state to hold back the avalanche of tears, while she said, smirk hanging off her lips, “Looks like you’ll have to find some other idiot to take a chance on you. Oh, and a lift home, my car is full.”

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This is a story I almost hate to tell. Because that means it happened. Uttered in the past tense means it’s over and I don’t relish in either of those realities. Falling in love is such a common, universal topic. Some lovers only last as long as the spring gives us blossom. Some years the fruit is too bitter, or too plentiful so your garden ends up full of wasps. And wasps sting.

Did you know people sting too? They smell the sweetness, the sticky soft centre of love and all their envy and malice and teeth come to rip through the ripeness.

Finally, it felt like I’d found my companion; a strong marble pillar that would keep my ceilings from falling in. Sometimes the person you wish to love with all your heart stays rooted at the earth, frozen in time, unable to reach you.

You cannot take a pear tree from the garden it grows in, you can not love someone you're not supposed to, without destroying something. He didn't live in my garden - a married, old enough to be my father musician - and I was trespassing on property that wasn't mine, wishing I could eat the fruit of us forever. All because he played notes that spoke to my soul.