by Mandy Baggot
‘I know, Mum,’ Emily said, putting her arm through Alegra’s and turning them both back towards the entrance of Clean Martini. ‘But that’s why you have your impoverished daughter to help you.’
‘Darling, you only have to ask if you need anything! How many times have I told you that Daddy is always keen to write you a cheque?’
Emily sighed. ‘If Dad wants to write a cheque get him to write it to your chosen charity this year. Kickstart your fundraising with a personal donation.’ Emily nudged her mother. ‘Wouldn’t that be a lovely beginning?’
‘Hmm,’ Alegra mused. ‘I really would rather watch you spend a vast sum on clothes that aren’t second-hand than give it away to charity.’ She edged herself away from Emily as if touching the military-style coat would taint her own outerwear.
‘I know you would,’ Emily answered. ‘But let’s not say that out loud… and absolutely never in a press release.’
Forty-Four
The low-alcohol beer really wasn’t cutting it when having to converse with this crowd. Ray wondered exactly how many low-alcohol beers you had to drink for them to accumulate into enough units for you to be pissed. He was now on his fourth and Emily’s dad kept trying to get him to drink red wine. As much as he wanted to be mellow around the edges, he had started to really notice what it did to people. And it was an escape he was no longer as interested in. What had his mother always found there that she couldn’t find somewhere else?
He shook his head. The cocktail pianist was also getting on his nerves because Ray remembered all the standard tunes he’d once had to play himself. It was almost all in the same order.
‘So,’ Emily said, pen hovering above paper. ‘What is your charity this year?’
She had come prepared like she might be about to teach a lesson to her Year Six pupils. When she and Alegra had re-joined the table, Emily had drawn a leather-bound portfolio out of her bag and started the discussion with the group.
‘Ugh!’ Alegra grunted, re-filling her wineglass. ‘There are three.’
‘It was put to a vote, Alegra,’ William reminded. ‘You were there.’
‘I wasn’t there! I was listening to the endless falsehoods of that woman from Carnegie’s over the worst eggs benedict I’ve ever digested… well, I say digested, I’m not sure that actually fully occurred.’
‘And the charities are?’ Emily asked again.
Ray smiled at her. She really did have her work cut out with half-cut barristers completely uninterested in their own planning.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Alegra said, picking at the bowl of artisan snacks that had been brought over with the last round of drinks. She fingered the chickpeas and flaked rice but none of them went near her lips. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Who was it, Ben?’ William asked his colleague. ‘Do you remember?’
‘One of them definitely involved animals, I remember that,’ Dana answered. She had got very red-faced and seemed to be balanced rather precariously on the edge of her seat.
‘Llamas!’ Williams exclaimed, bouncing up from his seat. ‘I distinctly remember llamas.’ He shrugged back down again. ‘Or was it alpacas?’
‘Right, well,’ Emily said, pen unmoved. ‘Whatever the charities are, you can remind yourselves at the office tomorrow, has anyone got any thoughts as to what you would like to do this summer?’
‘Emily,’ Alegra slurred. ‘You ask us that every year.’
‘She does,’ William agreed, then turned to Emily. ‘You do.’
‘I know,’ Emily answered. ‘And every year I hope you’re going to come up with some fantastic and inspiring ideas.’
Dana and Damien burst into impromptu laughter like Emily had morphed into Michael McIntyre.
‘What format does it usually take?’ Ray asked Emily.
‘Well…’ Emily went to reply.
‘The very first year,’ Alegra interrupted. ‘We had a lovely little medieval gala with pigs on spits and a jousting contest. We charged an absolute fortune for tickets and it was sold out. Then we gave all the proceeds to the hospital. We should do something like that again.’
‘Yes, but, we decided that wasn’t wholly in the spirit of reaching out to the wider community, which is one of the aims, isn’t it?’ Emily reminded. She looked to Ray. ‘We changed the format a bit a few years ago. Now, with a budget from donations from clients as well as a large sum from St Martin’s Chambers, a team goes into a local community and enhances the area in some way. They’ve made a garden, a playpark and even a lido thanks to cooperation with the council.’
‘But there are only so many open spaces to fill with do-gooding equipment for all… and a client of mine is desperate for a prime spot to build luxury apartments.’
‘Mother!’
‘What?’
‘How about you do something that fits both criteria,’ Ray suggested. ‘An event, but one that benefits everyone and brings the whole community together.’
Alegra rolled her eyes. ‘You mean an England football match on a big screen, don’t you? I couldn’t stand it! Men and women wrapped in the St George’s Cross, throwing beer into the air…’
‘I mean, maybe a music festival,’ Ray said.
‘What?!’ Bill exclaimed, almost knocking over one of the empty bottles of wine.
‘Interesting concept,’ William mused, putting fingers to his chin. ‘I’m rather partial to a picnic with an orchestra, as long as one doesn’t have to sit on the ground.’
Ray wondered what sort of a picnic involved not being sat on the ground. Perhaps he was stepping out of his initial remit as Emily’s solidarity. Maybe he should get another low-alcohol beer and keep quiet.
‘I think that’s a fantastic idea!’ Emily said, scribbling away on her notepad. ‘It doesn’t have to be something permanent to improve the community, it can be one wonderful day that everyone from the area can enjoy together. There can be music of all kinds from classical to rock and everything in between. A bouncy castle for the children and face-painting and… maybe a juggler… or magician. We could make it free to attend and then send buckets around for donations to the chosen charities or do a raffle.’
‘There will be plenty of artists who will give their time for free in exchange for the publicity,’ Ray told her.
‘Would you play?’ Emily asked him. ‘Be the headline act?’
‘Er, well…’ He hadn’t thought this through. But, why couldn’t he? Provided he survived the operation he was still trying to avoid, there was nothing lined up in his schedule for the summer yet. And this was to help Emily…
‘Ray,’ Emily said. ‘Come on, you can’t suggest a music festival and then not be a big part of it.’
‘Ha!’ Alegra commented. ‘As long as Emily doesn’t have to sing. Although, people might pay to not hear that, mightn’t they, darling?’
‘I’m not listening, Mother,’ Emily said, taking a hefty swig of her drink.
‘No,’ Ray said. ‘But I am.’ He looked to Alegra, her fingers still in the bowl of snacks, perfect nails swirling the pieces around. ‘Why would you say that? Emily has a great voice.’
‘Ray,’ Emily said, drinking some more. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No,’ he continued. ‘It’s not fine.’
‘Ray, honestly, let’s get on and workshop some more ideas for the community music festival. It’s a really really good idea. I love it.’
Ray stood up. ‘No, I think we’ll do something else before that. Come on.’
*
Emily looked up from her pad of paper and saw Ray had extended his hand to her. What was he doing? Why was he holding out his hand? He lowered his head towards her ear and whispered, ‘I could do with the practice. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘Ray, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but everyone is looking at me. My mother and father are looking at me.’
‘So, they should be. Come on.’
He wasn’t holding his hand out anymore; he had taken her hand and was pullin
g her up out of her seat.
‘You weren’t wrong about them being a handful, were you?’ Ray whispered to her.
‘I did say.’
‘Then let’s get away from the table. Have a time-out.’
‘A time-out is what we give the reception class when they can’t behave.’
‘Then we’ll pretend that’s what we’re giving your parents.’ He smiled at the group of barristers and addressed them. ‘We’ll be approximately four minutes.’
He started walking, taking her with him, and it was only when they got deeper into the bowels of the room, where long tables turned into more intimate round ones, the décor changing to all muted uplighters and half-woven baskets on the walls, that Emily saw the grand piano. She had heard the music throughout the evening, a mixture of classics and songs from the movies, but she hadn’t seen the pianist. She saw him now though, a petite man with thick black glasses on his face, dressed in a tuxedo.
‘Ray, what are we doing?’ Emily said.
‘We’re going to play the bar a song.’
‘Wait. What? Oh no! No, don’t be silly!’
He was smiling at her now, approaching the man who was sitting at the piano stool and still holding her hand, his grip insistent but not quite vice-like. She could let go… maybe.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun. And I’m sort of sick of listening to him play the Titanic theme tune.’
‘He has played that quite a bit,’ Emily admitted. What was she saying? She didn’t really care if this pianist – employed by Clean Martini – played ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for all of eternity. It was better than Ray’s other suggestion. Him singing? Fine. Her singing? No. Singing in a deserted park or at school with the children was one thing but here, in a crowded bar, on a Friday night, with her parents and their colleagues watching?!
‘Hey there,’ Ray said to the pianist who was currently paused, looking through sheet music. ‘Would you mind if I played something?’
‘Well, I…’ the man began.
‘Great,’ Ray said, plumping down onto the oblong piano stool next to him. He scooted close to the man. ‘We’ll be as long as it takes to play “O, Holy Night”. Come on, Emily, you sit next to me, I’ll teach you the chords.’
‘Ray, this is ridiculous.’ She looked at the pianist who was getting up from the stool, hoping for the man to show some stance of possession over his seat – and his job – but it seemed that he was retreating.
‘I thought we’d been through the “what are you afraid of” scenario,’ he told her.
‘Well, singing in the park isn’t singing in a bar to a crowd of people and my parents and their co-workers.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Did you not hear “singing in a bar to a crowd of people and my parents and their co-workers”?’
‘Sit down, Emily,’ Ray urged, patting the space on the stool next to him.
She shook her head, in a “no” and also a sign of utter frustration. What choice did she have? She didn’t want to slope back to the table with her mother, despite their earlier conversation, ready to pick at her abilities.
Ray began to play the piano, his fingers flitting over the keys like it was the most natural thing in the world. He made it look effortless. He had no music, his digits simply found each note, like an accomplished touch-typist, not needing to look where they landed, simply knowing.
‘So, you place your hand here,’ Ray said. He took her hand in his again and hovered it over the piano. ‘Here for the first bit and then it goes here for the next bit, then here and then… here.’ He adjusted her position. His hand was warm in hers. Warm, solid, firm, sexy…
‘Ray, I don’t know how to play the piano. My mother tried to get me to learn the violin but that was… horrendous and I didn’t learn any other instruments after that.’ She sighed. ‘Because you said recorders don’t count.’
She was talking too much because focusing on sitting under a spotlight surrounded by patrons who seemed like they had stopped all conversation was really unnerving.
‘Trust me,’ Ray told her. ‘You’ll pick it up.’ He was still holding her hand. ‘Here… here… then here and… here.’ He manoeuvred her fingers across the notes, showing her which three to press. It looked impossible.
‘I can’t.’
‘Says the woman who told me she’s a last grain in the sand-timer kind of person?’ He stood up then, clearing his throat. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you don’t mind the interruption, but I haven’t heard one festive song all night and we’re all looking forward to Christmas, right?’
He’d told her he hated Christmas! Emily swallowed, looking out into the dark at faces she couldn’t clearly see. There was some murmur of agreement amongst them. Great!
‘So, we’re going to play you “O, Holy Night”. Thanks for listening.’
Ray sat back down on the piano stool and looked at her, those amber eyes connecting with hers, their bodies tight together on the seat really made for one…
‘Absolutely and completely not ready,’ Emily answered, a rush of breath leaving her.
‘Terrifying, isn’t it?’ he said with a laugh. ‘But exhilarating too.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Like singing karaoke.’ He grinned, then finally he started to play the introduction and Emily held her breath, her chest and stomach both contracting together. Ray nodded to her and she played the first chord with trembling fingers. She’d got it right! Well, it sounded right to her untrained ear…
And then they began to sing, the traditional words, not the Stretton Park remix, and Emily started to feel the terror change. It started to turn into something else, something quite different. Finding the notes on the piano, feeling the power of the instrument underneath her fingertips, singing out loud with Ray, a rich, warm, deeply exciting bubble manifested itself in the outer echelons of her body and started to dance and whirl its way through the whole of her. With every chord she hit correctly, with every note she sang, her confidence grew and the fact she was being heard, and being watched, by a Friday night crowd in a packed bar quickly became secondary to the fact she was making music with this man no one in her life thought very much of, but who was making a habit of being there exactly when she needed him…
Emily belted out the highest note with enthusiasm and unfettered abandon then smiled as Ray nudged her. He smiled back as he continued to sing with that beautiful voice – deep and powerful when it required it, then a whispered soft high. They brought the song to its close and tears came immediately to Emily’s eyes as the poignancy caught up with her. Life was going on. It had never stopped. She dropped her head a little, caught in the moment, and she felt Ray put an arm around her, drawing her into his body. His breath was warm in her hair, and there was that woodland scent of his aftershave, the heat from his body. She leaned into all of it.
‘You OK?’ he whispered, his fingers on her back making her skin tingle through the silk shirt as they rubbed over her shoulders, as if sensing her mood.
She looked up at him then and the world jolted like someone had pulled on a handbrake. His firm jaw peppered with a little stubble now, that slightly fuller bottom lip, those eyes… The unstoppable attraction she felt was hitting her like she was Tyson Fury’s punchbag. She liked him. She liked him. Like that. The way half the country liked Tom Hardy…
It was at that moment she realised they weren’t alone in her apartment, or on her roof terrace, or in Barnard Park. They were in a bar. In public. She shifted quickly, to the very edge of the piano seat, almost falling off. And it was then she heard the applause.
‘We should bow,’ Ray told her, catching her hand in his. Every touch was sending fizzes of heat over her skin now. She should retract. She should tune in to the sensible part of her that knew having feelings like this was completely mad. But the non-sensible part of her craved more touches, closer contact…
She bowed, smiling out into the audience as Ray drew their hands up and down and they moved together to accept the clapping.
And then she saw her mother and father, standing together with Damien, Dana, Bill and Ben, all frantically applauding with their hands actually making contact with each other – not the half-hearted fake clapping they usually did at ballet performances. And her mother was smiling with more than a hint of pride in her eyes.
‘You were amazing,’ Ray told her softly. ‘And, I promise you, your mother, she’ll never criticise your singing ever again.’
Forty-Five
Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington
The roof terrace was definitely the best bet for not-getting-too-close while eating kebabs. Once they had finally been able to leave the charity-planning evening, when Emily had packed her inebriated parents into a luxury Addison Lee car, Ray had taken them to a Turkish restaurant he knew. Then, cradling the wrapped-up kebabs, swerving the attentions of a couple of women who had recognised Ray and wanted photos, they had taken the Tube back home. Now she was furiously switching on the patio heaters to warm up the space. She was not going to light candles. The lighting of candles would give the outside area a romantic glow and now her vagina seemed to be bouncing to a hip-hop rhythm whenever Ray was in close proximity, she thought it was better to let the rather too bright outside light illuminate the space instead. Ray was getting them drinks. She had suggested camomile tea in the hope it would calm down her inner workings. At least outside she had a fantastic excuse for keeping her coat on and fully buttoned up…
‘It’s no good,’ Ray said, striding out onto the decking. ‘I can’t wait any longer. You shouldn’t either.’
Oh God! What was he talking about? He couldn’t have sensed what she was feeling, could he? And it was ridiculous to think he felt anywhere near the same. He was Ray Stone. She was Emily Parker not Emily Blunt…
‘Emily,’ Ray said, thumping two steaming mugs down on the table. ‘Come and eat your kebab. I’m telling you, it’s going to be the best you’ve ever tasted.’
The food. Of course, he was talking about the food. She looked at the two-seater ‘sofa’ made out of pallets Ray had plumped down on. No! That was the only seating she had put cushions down on. She either sat next to him and had her insides pulsing, or she braved the cold, bare wood. Or she went in and got another cushion from the cupboard.