She’s ready to walk out onto the stage, head held high, holding her breath. There is a moment’s pause, that slow-motion frozen muted second, before the hall erupts with applause and she steps out onto the polished wood. She can barely feel her feet touching the floorboards as she moves towards the grand piano at the centre. The applause swells and makes her skin crawl slightly with tangible expectation. She can feel the large glittering earrings swinging with every step, falling forwards as she takes a moment to bow deeply, accompanying her movements with an easy grace that makes her feel strong and capable and elegant. They are so red that their redness is visible from the very last row of the concert hall. She sits down at the piano.

Before she starts playing, she sits and gathers herself for a moment. There’s an inner safe space she imagines herself in every single time she’s performing: a beautiful walled garden, ancient and overgrown with wild dog roses and delicate Erica flowers, gnarled apple trees in full blossom and moss-covered stone benches. Here, she feels at peace. Safe. No-one is allowed to come into this space. In the middle of the garden, there’s an old marble fountain - this, she imagines, is where the music comes from, a well of energy and inspiration. She opens her eyes, present again in the here and now, touches her left earring for good luck, and begins to play.