Third Clarinet

A middle aged woman sat next to me, not someone I'd seen before at school events.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she said. "These are all reserved for the press, yes?" She gestured to the front two rows of seats, which were all sticky-labelled with the word 'press'.

"Yes, I'm not sure why. Usually it's just me.  I'm Kevin. I'm the school magazine."

"You men you WRITE FOR the school magazine."

"No, I mean I AM the school magazine. I do everything, writing, design, edit, publicity, sales."

"How marvelous. I'm Benizeta Heringford-Bams. From the Guardian." She held out her fist and we exchanged a fist-bump.

"The Guardian! We don't usually get the national press at our school concerts. It's usually just me in the press-seat and an audience of parents and siblings dragged along by parents."

"But darling, the third clarinet. Haven't you heard?"

"You mean the new girl, Clarissa? What about her?"

She lowered her voice. "She's the PM's love child. Well, one of them. But a source at Number 10 says that whichever paper writes the best review will received a personal thank you letter from the PM himself."

"Is he here?" I looked around, nervously. 

"Good lord, no. He's far too busy for a thing like this, that's why he sent the press along."

"What happens if the concert is terrible and nobody writes a good review."

She looked at me aghast. "It can't be terrible. It's the PM's love child.  It's going to be the best concert in the history of music. The cream of the UK media is here to cover it."

"Yes, who are these people?" I gestured to the front row, which was now full of strangers.

"Oh that's the Times, the Telegraph, The Mail, BBC Music Magazine and that gentleman in the blue shirt is from the North Korean Morning Herald."

"The North Korean Morning Herald? He's here for our school concert?"

"Oh, he's been following the press pack for over a month now. He's covering everything the British press cover. Apparently the North Korean government think that their press are too critical and independent minded, so they've sent a bunch of them over here to learn from us."

The concert was terrible, and the third clarinet displayed the genetic trait of pure, bumbling incompetence that was sure to end any doubts about her parentage. However, led by the press pack, the audience rose to their feet in a resounding hurrah of applause. The orchestra tried to leave but were besieged by cheers and hurrahs, so stood there for a long time. After ten minutes the second trombone started to cry.

Finally the audience lowered their applause just enough for the orchestra to make their escape. It was over.

"That was terrible," I said to Benizeta. "What have you said in your review?" for she had been scribbling on her notepad throughout the performance.

"The finest performance of Shostakovich's Fifth symphony ever. The third clarinet in particular mastered the work, every nuance of the piece was relayed with poignant beauty. She truly has genius in her very DNA and will clearly go far."

"Will all the reviews be like that?" I said. 

"Of course, a thank you letter from the PM can make a journalist's career. Why, my colleague Erskine Snipe-Snipe the restaurant critic wrote a positive review of the tuna sandwich he had in the PM's other love child's sandwich shop and found himself with a £453 million PPE contract and a clear nod and wink that he didn't need to actually supply anything in return."

The press left, those that hadn't already written and sent their reviews were rushing to their cars to finish them, as a tardy review is almost as bad as a bad review.  

I went backstage, as I tended to do at these events.  "Clarissa," I said, "That was marvelous. I'm writing a review for the school magazine and wonder if I could have an interview with you. Your performance was absolutely stand-out."

The show had been terrible. Clarissa had been terrible. But a letter from the PM could make a career. And mine would be the only review to feature an exclusive interview with the PM's love child.