Love Songs for Sceptics

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by Christina Pishiris


  But what was it today?

  Should I send a selfie to Georgia and ask her opinion? I held up my phone to click, but then stopped myself.

  This was crazy – my hair was fine; it was just the lighting that was terrible. I rummaged in my bag for powder to blot my skin, wiped away some stray mascara and then left before I lost more time.

  Striding down Great Marlborough Street and feeling the sun on my arms snapped me back to my normal self and not a moony teenager.

  When Simon had first visited during the school holidays a year after he’d left, I’d barely slept the night before, and waiting for him had been agony. I had been in my bedroom pretending to read Guitar magazine when he bounded in with a goofy grin on his face. He was a foot taller and sporting cowboy boots and a much more pronounced American accent. To a seventeen-year-old girl he could not have been more alluring. But I was older now; I’d evolved past the point where fancy footwear and a New York drawl were aphrodisiacs.

  Five minutes later, I was standing at the entrance to the hotel. I stared up at the building and the warehouse-style windows stared right back. One of those bedrooms was Simon’s. The thought sent a jolt through me.

  Oh God. Perhaps I hadn’t evolved at all.

  I followed the hum of slackers starting their weekends early and found the restaurant. It was only half full; the noise was down to five or six drinkers slouching by the bar. The room was dotted with people, some with drinks, some with food, but no sign of Simon. Then I rounded the corner and there he was.

  He was relaxing on a bench by the far wall, lost in his smartphone, tapping his fingers on the table to the music. His skin had a golden glow that belied his Scottish ancestry and his dark blond hair was cropped like a GI.

  How could someone look so familiar and yet so alien?

  He’d been on the wrong side of the Atlantic for years, and now that he was a few feet away, I couldn’t move.

  What if we had nothing to talk about?

  I gave myself a stern metaphorical finger-wag. We might not have seen each other for five years, but we communicated on social media. I’d send him suggestions of bands he might like, and he’d start Twitter storms with me about how overrated Game of Thrones was. A couple of birthdays ago, he’d even sent me the twentieth anniversary Blu-ray of Titanic because somehow, unofficially and in a totally ironic way, ‘My Heart Will Go On’ had become our song.

  I forced myself to take a step towards him, and at the same time, as if he’d felt a ripple in the space between us, he looked up. He broke into a wide smile that lit up the room.

  He stood as I reached his table and drew me into a hug. The muscles of his back stretched under my fingers as he squashed me against his neck. His skin was warm and smelt of citrus.

  He pulled back to hold me at arm’s length. ‘It is so good to see you, Frixie.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Si,’ I said, marvelling at how his eyes sparkled. That effervescent energy was still there. It explained why he could eat desserts in the middle of the day and stay so lean.

  He tapped the seat next to him. ‘Sit on this side so we can people-watch and everyone can see how amazing our ice-cream is.’

  In the middle of the table was the most impressive sundae I’d ever seen. Swirls of pink and white ice-cream, adorned with flaked almonds, cream and chocolate sauce, all topped with a juicy strawberry.

  ‘You’ve got a good memory,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Except now you’re going to tell me strawberry’s not your favourite anymore.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to mention it . . .’

  His smile faltered for a moment, but I couldn’t keep up the ruse.

  ‘It’s still my favourite, Si. And you’re right, it looks amazing.’

  I sat down on his right and he handed me a long spoon. ‘For madame.’ He watched me as I brought a spoonful of ice-cream to my mouth.

  ‘Is it good?’

  I swallowed and shivered. ‘Delicious.’

  I was absolutely talking about the ice-cream, and not at all about how the low sunlight streaming through the window picked out the gold gleam of his stubble. It didn’t help when he licked his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s see if you’re right.’

  He attacked the other side with his own spoon, taking a huge mouthful. He closed his eyes and when he swallowed his Adam’s apple bobbed in a way that was obscene. I could have watched him eat all day.

  He snapped his eyes open. ‘God, I feel eleven. Remember when you dared me to eat three Cornettos in a row?’

  I forced my mind back to eleven-year-old Simon, who didn’t have quite such distracting stubble.

  Mum had bought a six-pack because we were expecting my cousins, but they’d cancelled, and she’d given three to Simon to take home to share with his parents. Instead, I’d timed him to see how fast he could polish off all three.

  ‘I thought that would have put you off ice-cream for life,’ I said.

  ‘How boring would that be?’

  ‘They’re not as nice as they used to be,’ I said. ‘Cornettos, I mean. They’ve made them smaller, and there’s no chocolate sauce on the strawberry ones anymore.’

  ‘No chocolate sauce?’ Simon shook his head in disgust as if I’d just reported a human rights violation. Then he took his spoon, scooped a layer of sauce from his side and drizzled it onto mine. I watched the chocolate trickle down the pink and white ice-cream.

  ‘No one should be without chocolate sauce.’

  Oh God, how did he make that sound sexual? Is there alcohol in this?!

  His phone rang and when he glanced at his screen he grimaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Frix, I’ve got to take this.’

  Simon dropped his napkin onto the table and stood. ‘I’ll be right back – don’t eat it all without me.’

  As he walked out of the restaurant, I touched the back of my hand to my cheek. It was searing hot, like I’d drunk a bottle of wine. What was wrong with me?

  I took a mouthful of ice-cream and closed my eyes. The cold helped. The only problem was, I had no appetite. After another couple of half-hearted spoonfuls, I took out my phone to distract myself. I was scrolling down my emails when Simon returned.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘It was my mom. Can you believe she was concerned that I hadn’t texted to say I’d landed safely?’

  I could, because my parents were huge worrywarts, although Dad had recently downloaded a flight tracker app so I’d stopped getting that phone call at least.

  ‘How is Sandy?’ I asked.

  Simon’s grin grew wider. His mum’s name was Jenny, but when we were kids he’d convinced me that her real name was Sandy. This was just after I’d made him watch Grease. His dad’s name was Danny and he claimed the movie was based on their lives, but that his mum had changed her name to Jenny because she was fed up of all the questions.

  I believed that story for months.

  To get him back, I’d made him watch Grease 2.

  ‘She’s great. She’s getting married again, would you believe?’

  ‘Wow. Was it unexpected?’

  ‘No, she’s been with Bill for years, but it’s weird, you know, the idea of going to your parent’s wedding.’

  It was something I’d taken for granted growing up – the permanence of my parents’ marriage. ‘I can imagine,’ I said.

  ‘How are your folks?’

  ‘They’re well. Chuffed to bits about Pete getting married.’

  ‘Your brother got hitched?’

  ‘He’s about to. The wedding’s in six weeks.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  There was a hint of bitterness in his tone.

  ‘Are you okay, Si?’

  ‘Louise and I separated. Actually, as of two months ago, we’re officially divorced.’

  I’d suspected as much; I’d picked up bits and pieces on Facebook. Louise unfriending me was the final clue.

  ‘Must have been a tough time for you.�
��

  ‘It was for the best, though. We got married too young.’

  I wanted to be generous, but I still remember the shock I felt when he emailed to tell me he was getting married. I hadn’t allowed myself to say anything critical about Louise – ever – even when she’d professed on Facebook that she’d rather not vote at all than vote for Hillary.

  It wasn’t the only reason I’d never warmed to Louise, even though I’d never met her. All she posted on social media were pictures of herself or her rather ugly pug. Simon had always been a cat person.

  ‘God, why did I propose six months after meeting her?’

  ‘You got swept away,’ I told him. ‘I blame all those Dawson’s Creek box sets. You always were a bit of a hopeless romantic.’

  ‘Unlike you. Please tell me that’s changed?’

  ‘As eighties rockers Twisted Sister once declared: love is for suckers.’

  He smiled. ‘So, I take it you’re not seeing anyone?’

  Did I detect a hint of hope in his question?

  ‘Nope. I’m married to the job. I’ll probably die an old spinster.’

  ‘No way. I bet there’s a line of guys waiting to date you. You must be beating them off with a stick.’

  The compliment gave me a buzz. ‘Well, I didn’t want to admit it.’ I smiled. This was a much better image to project than fusty old spinster. ‘It’s quite exhausting, actually,’ I replied, warming to my theme. ‘But my stick skills are excellent.’

  He laughed.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. The lull in the background music meant Simon heard it too.

  ‘Duty calling?’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘I need to get back to the office.’

  Simon looked at his watch. ‘Dammit, I didn’t realise the time. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour, followed by another meeting and then a conference call with New York at eight.’

  ‘Who says bankers don’t know how to have fun?’ I said.

  ‘You do,’ he replied. ‘Often. And I’ve told you I’m a fund manager, not a banker.’

  I smiled. ‘Ah, yes, you shuffle piles of paperclips around. You start off with ten paperclips and after you weave your magic there are ten thousand of them.’

  He grinned. He’d tried to explain his job to me once using a paperclip analogy, and I’d never let him live it down.

  ‘Minus my commission, of course.’ He gave me a playful shove. ‘What are your plans tonight? Suitably rock and roll, I hope, to make up for my lame evening.’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual – coke-fuelled orgies and animal sacrifices.’

  ‘Bit of a quiet one, then.’

  Neither of us moved. The idea of walking out and not seeing Simon for another five years pinned me to my seat.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Frixie.’

  I wanted to tell him I’d missed him too, but I was suddenly breathless. ‘Let’s not leave it so long next time,’ I said, lightly.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. The firm’s moving me to the London office. I’m back for good.’

  *

  I don’t remember walking back to my office. My head was full of Simon. He was back in the UK. Permanently. He was single. He missed me. I was going to go crazy if I analysed our whole conversation, the way I did when I was a teenager, even going so far as writing down my thoughts in secret notebooks that I hid behind my Agatha Christies.

  I needed a coffee when I got back, if only to shake away any dreamy thoughts about Simon.

  God, he had good arms.

  The dishwasher was on the blink again, which meant the sink was piled high with dirty mugs – not a single clean one remained. Normally I would have got annoyed by this, but I was in such a buoyant mood that I washed up the whole lot of them. And not once did I mutter under my breath that my colleagues were a bunch of messy bastards.

  5

  Take a Chance on Me

  At 6.15 I was standing in a doorway opposite the Steinway shop in Marylebone Lane. On the off-chance, I’d tried the door, but it was locked. There was nothing to do now but wait for Marcie to arrive. The weather had turned – half an hour before I’d left the office, dark clouds had gathered and now rain was pelting down, but even that was a stroke of good luck. It gave me a reason to be standing here, waiting for the rain to stop. I would have looked way more conspicuous if it had been sunny. It also meant there were fewer pedestrians who might scare Marcie off. The few I’d seen had been hurrying purposefully to unknown destinations with umbrellas or at least a copy of the Evening Standard over their heads to keep the rain off.

  The piano displayed in the window shone like vinyl and its white keys were dazzling, even on a grey day like this. It didn’t have a price tag, of course; if you had to ask the price, your purchasing power probably only stretched to a Casio keyboard.

  It was gone half six now and my nerves started to kick in. What if Marcie had cancelled again?

  A black cab pulled up. This looked promising. The back door swung open, but it wasn’t Marcie, just a suited man opening a huge umbrella. He stepped into the road without looking and caused a Mercedes 4×4 to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting him. The suit didn’t even look up; he just continued on his way, oblivious. What a dickhead.

  If I’d kept my eyes on him a second longer, I would have missed the black-coated figure that spirited out of the 4×4’s passenger seat and disappeared into the Steinway shop. A man wearing a dark suit exited the car a second later and followed her inside.

  Shit. Was that Marcie? If it was, that was one hell of a distraction technique. The 4×4 drove on, and I stood on the pavement trying to think of the best way to proceed. The rain battering my scalp only added to my misery, so I trudged a couple of shops down to shelter in a doorway.

  Should I wait for Marcie to come out again, then accost her in the rain? Yeah, that would go down about as well as Justin Bieber opening for Slayer.

  When I was a teenager, I’d prided myself on talking my way into gigs for free. All it took was confidence, a cheeky smile and a vague assertion that I was writing it up for my university paper. Somehow, I doubted this would work now. But acting like you belonged went a long way in subliminally convincing others that they didn’t need to challenge you.

  A rattle caught my attention. A metal shutter was slowly rising, revealing a loading bay. I edged closer to get a better look. It was the unit next to the piano shop, but there were no signs. Still, pianos were big things; they certainly didn’t get in and out of the shop via the front door. This had to be another entrance. An engine rumbled and a moment later a van nosed its way out. The loading bay was otherwise empty, save for a man in overalls checking a clipboard.

  With a click, the roller shutter started to descend again, and I had seconds to decide what to do. Sod it – what did I have to lose? I ducked inside, trying to formulate a plan. I reached into my bag and grabbed my keys.

  ‘Hi!’ I said brightly, to Mr Overalls. ‘I’m the driver.’

  He peered at me, like he was trying to place me.

  ‘You what?’

  Luckily, he wasn’t looking too closely at what was in my hand. If he were he might have twigged that I wasn’t brandishing car keys, but a couple of Chubbs, the office alarm fob and a key-ring that proclaimed ‘Drummers are people too’.

  ‘I’m the driver for Miss Tyler. It took me ages to park and now the front door is closed and no one’s answering.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said, like I was making perfect sense.

  I flashed him a smile. ‘Can I pop in this way?’

  Without waiting for him to respond, I strolled confidently up to the door and brazenly walked in.

  My mouth was dry and my heart was bouncing around my ribs. My ears were pricked, waiting for him to shout, ‘Oi!’ but no sound came and when I turned round, the man was nowhere to be seen.

  I was in! A little smile formed on my lips – I still had it.

  Ahead of me was another door, but it yielded when I gave it a push and then
I was inside.

  It was darker here and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. Oversized gold chandeliers gave off little light, but their glow was magnified by the polished surfaces of pianos. Everything smelt of new carpet and varnish.

  The place was deserted, but I could sense movement in the furthest corner. I crept to the opposite wall and stopped to examine a portrait of Beethoven. My interest lay less in the picture and more in the glass that framed it. It reflected a mahogany piano behind me where a woman sat at the keyboard. It was Marcie. I turned my head slightly to get a better look.

  Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail from which a few dark curls had strayed. I knew she was in her fifties, but she looked ageless. Her complexion was smooth and pale and blemish-free. Eschewing summers in Saint-Tropez and Palm Beach had its upside. If being a recluse gave you such good skin, perhaps I ought to consider it. The flesh under her eyes maybe wasn’t as taut as it had been when she’d released her first album at the age of twenty, but the heavier eyelids only made her face more magnetic. She was ridiculously beautiful. Those famous cheekbones and long neck could still turn every head.

  Iconic was the only word.

  Marcie had been sitting by herself, but now her black-suited security guard and a shop assistant in impressively high heels arrived. I ducked into an alcove, my heart beating furiously. This was it. Any second now, I’d have two iron grips hoisting me out of here by my armpits.

  But then a miracle happened. Marcie shooed them away.

  ‘Can I not have five precious minutes alone?’ Her voice gave me goosebumps. Gravelly but smooth, like honey on toast.

  I took a step forward, careful to stay in the shadows.

  She was staring at her hands, which were resting on the keys. Her short nails were painted peacock blue. They were exactly the same shade as her leather ankle boots, which had silver buckles and a wooden spool heel. I recognised the designer – her shop was in Soho and I walked past her window often, coveting her handmade designs.

 

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