‘6.30 in the church opposite.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘Dad, Dad, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. Are you coming home first or-?’
‘No, we have rehearsals right up to. I’ll see you there.’
He arrived late; late, tired, and in no mood for listening to the cacophony of sound that usually permeated every inch of air at these things. He’d had to sit through innumerable performances and, whilst he loved his daughter and never tired of listening to her, he wasn’t in the mood for musicians screeching their way through Chopin or Fur Elise on badly tuned violins and oboes. Shuffling into the back row, he found a seat on the end of the pew.
Stretching out his legs, he glued a look of rapture on his face while his mind wandered off into the middle distance; he only wished his butt could follow suit. No doubt the hardness of his seat was in direct correlation to the monotony of the sermons preached inside the building but, whatever the reason, there was no threat of him falling asleep anytime soon. All he wanted was a cold beer and an evening in front of the telly. At least it had been a productive day, his ears perking up at the sound of his daughter’s unmistakable rendition of Serenade to a Cuckoo.
He forgot the pew and the way the man in front was tap tapping to the beat of the music with an irritating repetitively. He forgot he hated concerts and he forgot about his day. His mind closed to anything and everything as her notes captured all conscious thought and slipped towards his soul on a sigh. As always, he felt soothed and relaxed enough to drift into sleep until the sharp sound of the French horn caused him to nearly jump two feet in the air. It was luck more than anything that stopped him shouting out the bloody hell already poised on his lips.
Sitting up, he allowed his gaze to wander over the backs of the other parents heads, all similarly clad in the “straight from work” clobber of suits and smart dresses as his ears determinedly tried and failed to block out the turn of the violins.
Was he alone in thinking that the music from anyone other than his daughter was inferior or did everyone here consider their child little Martha Argerichs or Amy Dicksons in the making? He’d managed to miss the last parent/teacher meeting; perhaps tonight was an ideal opportunity, his eyes travelling down the aisle to the bank of staff sitting on the front bench. He knew they were staff, simply because their dress code was more Walmart than Bloomingdales even though he felt bad at having such thoughts. He’d much rather socialise with a bunch of hard working teachers than the waste of space professionals that surrounded him in their designer glad rags and designer pong perfumes. He’d close his eyes with a look of stupefaction and try and get forty winks until it ended.
‘Dad, dad, you’re not asleep are you,’ a fierce voice whispered in his ear as he felt her hand shake him back into consciousness.
‘Of course not, just resting my eyes from the glare of all this artificial lighting,’ he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose to emphasise the point. ‘If you had to sit in front of a computer screen all day you’d be suffering from eye strain too.’
‘Whatever.’ She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘So what did you think then?’
‘Your playing was beautiful, as always.’ He’d said the right thing for once, noting her smug expression.
‘Cool, now you can buy me a Big Mac and jumbo fries to celebrate.’
‘I’m not sure they serve no sugar granola at McDonald’s?’
‘That’s true although they do serve porridge,’ she teased.
‘Why you little…’ He paused, his eyes snagging on the familiar sight of a pale blue fleece just disappearing through a side door at the front of the church along with a couple of the teachers he recognised from last term. A blue coat he’d last seen on that bench at Gramercy.
‘I thought I’d have a word with your new teacher before I left as I missed meeting with her…’
‘Oh, she’s probably headed off by now. Did you want me to see if I can catch up with her?’
‘No, no, don’t bother. I’ll make an appointment to see her sometime next week. What was her name again?’ His eyes never wavering from the brown door that had closed behind her.
‘Mrs Bachmeire. She only joined us this year, from Paris.’
‘Paris? But Bachmeire isn’t French is it, more like German?’
Evelyn paused, one hand on the sleeve of his jacket, her eyes wide. ‘Why the sudden interest in my music teacher Dad?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ He buttoned her collar up under her chin before picking up her flute case.
He was in no mood for sassy questions after the day he’d had. He seemed, by luck more than anything, to have hit on a potential new home for the housing association tenants, and all down to the girl by his side and her comment about the church. He’d managed to get the vicar of St Patrick’s on board who’d assured him he knew of suitable accommodation in some disused hotel or other.
In truth, all he wanted was time alone. He wanted time alone to think about the woman he’d finally admitted, if only to himself, he was fixating on; a woman he’d just realised was his daughter’s teacher. His daughter’s married teacher.
Evelyn wasn’t stupid, but he was clever too and he could already feel her eyes boring into the side of his face as he escorted her to the car. There was only one thing for it and that was distraction.
‘So what about a chocolate fudge sundae for afters?’
A day later and he’d never been as nervous. It felt like he was standing outside the headmaster’s office waiting to be expelled for some dastardly behaviour he wasn’t to blame for. He’d made the appointment as soon as he’d arrived in the office and then spent the remainder of the morning worrying. Should he have worn a different shirt? Plain white double-cuff was fine in the business world but he did look exactly what he was; a lawyer. His suit, well he didn’t have much choice with the suit as he always bought plain grey, single breasted with a single vent at the back. Sometimes he went a little wild with a colourful patterned lining but, as he never took his jacket off, it was immaterial. His tie. He’d agonised over which tie for so long he was ten minutes late for work, something that caused his prissy, aptly named Miss Prim, secretary to raise her finely plucked eyebrows. He’d finally opted for a plain blue silk and now he wished he hadn’t. He couldn’t even do anything about his shoes. Plain, highly polished black leather was all part and parcel of the businessman’s uniform and he was nothing if not conformist.
He gave his jacket a final brush, feeling the smooth outline of the envelope he’d slipped inside just before leaving the apartment. He was as sure as he could be the letter belonged to her but he had absolutely no idea how he was going to broach the subject.
Chapter Five
She saw the way his eyes shifted from her face to her hand and she blushed. There was nothing she could do about the gloves, but she was embarrassed all the same. She’d worn them so long she’d forgotten they were an unusual fashion accessory. She viewed them in the same way she viewed shoes. They were something she didn’t wear around the apartment until just before she had to leave: coat, handbag, shoes, gloves - her daily routine every day for what seemed like forever.
Thankfully he wasn’t like the last parent who’d grabbed both her hands in such a hearty grip that she’d had to suck her tea through a straw for a week.
Just like coffee, tea was also a religion. Tea made in an old-fashioned, earthenware teapot she’d found in a little five and dime along West 36th and served in a china mug picked up at Bloomingdales for more than an arm and a leg. Tea sucked through a straw was the most revolting drink known to man and the reason she only offered her hand when she had no other choice.
Evelyn’s father reached out and took her hand in his in the gentlest of grips as if he knew, her eyes flying to his face. There was no way, surely, he could know about the reason for the gloves. No one knew apart from the headmistress and that’s the way she wanted it to remain. The girls all thought her a little crazy; she could see it in
their eyes as they stared at her covered hands with arched eyebrows and whispered words. Normally conservative with a capital C, her wardrobe had changed from smart skirts and boxy jackets to hippy skirts and long dangly beads. She was coordinating her wardrobe with her gloves, thankful at least she could get away with fingerless ones instead of mittens.
Today she was wearing the cutest, black lace pair she’d picked up in Barney’s, coordinating them with a long, layered skirt and jacket in bottle green. But she wasn’t concentrating on what she was wearing or even on the startlingly handsome face of the man who’d now let go of her hand and settled into the chair she must have directed him to. She noticed nothing except the memory of his touch as his fingers met hers. She’d expected pain. The throbbing pain that, ever since the accident had been as familiar as her closest friend. Instead of pain she felt something different, something indescribable, something new and she was surprised; surprised and it must be said, a little scared.
Walking over to the other chair she spent a second pulling her skirt over her knees, her mind in turmoil. What if something had happened to one of the skin grafts or even worse; what if infection had set in? She’d had enough setbacks over the last couple of years to be able to write a book on the NHS, not that she had a bad word to say about the service she’d received. She’d had more complaints from her so-called friends than she had for the NHS. Apparently she should feel lucky to be alive. She should feel lucky it was only her hands that were burned and not even her whole hands. She should be glad. She wasn’t glad. She was worried sick.
Her mouth suddenly dry, she looked at the glasses of water she’d poured only moments before but, she couldn’t trust herself to pick up a pencil let alone a plastic cup.
‘Mr Bianchi, Evelyn said you were unable to make parent’s evening?’ Her voice a little shaky.
‘That’s right; I had to travel to London on business.’
She smiled. ‘If I’d known, I’d have asked you to pick me up some custard creams.’
‘Custard what?’
‘Creams, they’re biscuits with a custard filling.’
‘Wouldn’t that get a little sticky?’
It was her turn to look confused, her eyes taking the plunge and making their way up his suit and past his tie to finally land on his lips, his face, his eyes.
Oh God, she should have just been satisfied with resting her eyes on the sombre grey. She should have thanked her lucky stars here was a man that knew how to dress. But no, she allowed her eyes to wander and meet his and now she couldn’t look away.
She didn’t want to look at him. He was a parent, a parent wearing a wedding band just as she was wearing hers, her hand sneaking up to the chain around her neck. But it didn’t matter what she was or what she’d been. Nothing mattered except the silent conversation flowing between them like Morse Code. There were no words, words were unnecessary. Words would have been superfluous. There were dreams to share, hopeless dreams; dreams she wasn’t prepared to allow anywhere near her heart.
She twisted away to stare at the folder in front of her, a smile straining her lips.
‘I’ll get Evelyn to bring you back a packet.’
‘Excuse me?’ His eyebrows well and truly arched.
‘Didn’t your daughter tell you about the trip we have planned for half-term?’
‘No,’ the briefest of words blurted out like an exploding rocket, his face suddenly flushed.
‘Oh dear, and I did ask all the students to discuss it with their parents,’ she said, shaking her head in dismay.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ He rested back in the chair, his hands now behind his head.
‘Yes, well they each have a letter…’
‘But as I’m here, so to speak,’ his smile warm and inviting, his eyes…
She wasn’t going to get caught out again, thank you very much. From now on, her gaze was going to be directed anywhere and everywhere except his eyes.
Crossing her own legs she decided to take a leaf out of his book and rest back in her chair. It had been a long day and all she wanted to do was go home to bed, but not before she turned over the apartment again for that letter. Her heart dipped because, of course, she knew exactly when and where she’d lost it. As soon as she’d found it missing, she’d retraced her steps back to the park but it was useless. How could she have been so stupid? She’d get rid of him as quickly as possible by telling him just how fabulous his daughter was and about the trip. Then she’d go home and start searching again.
‘Every couple of years, the school’s benefactor, Mr Andreas pays for ten girls to go on a grand tour to broaden their musical experience. This year, in the name of fairness, we decided to ballot all the girls in lower and upper sixth, you daughter’s name was first out of the hat.’
‘But why didn’t she say anything?’ His face grim.
‘Would there be a reason she wouldn’t want to upset you. Perhaps you and your wife?’
‘We’re divorced.’
‘Well, perhaps her mother?’
‘Look, I don’t really see it’s of any importance to the conversation but Evelyn’s mother left us when she was a baby. She just walked out and has never been back to see her.’
‘How terrible for you both.’
‘Not really. Evelyn doesn’t remember her and doesn’t want to remember her. Would you?’
‘Would I what?’
‘Would you want to remember the person that deserted you without a second glance?’
‘I… it’s not really for me to say.’ She paused, her eyes veering towards his chin, now dark with six o’clock shadow. His chin that seconds ago was one of the married untouchables and now… and now. And now nothing.
But her mind, usually so organised and determined suddenly wondered what the feel of his cheek would be like pressed up against her face. Aaron, like a lot of fair men could get away with only having to shave every couple of days, but this man with his presumably Italian ancestry, if the surname was anything to go by, would be reaching for his razor every couple of hours.
‘What about her best friend, Stella? Is she going?’
‘I’m not sure the relevance of the question?’
‘Come now, Mrs Bachmeire, surely you’re not too old to remember what it’s like to be young? Those two are joined at the hip and if Stella isn’t going then Evelyn certainly won’t want to go.’
‘Oh I see,’ as she finally realised where he was going with this. She’d been surprised when Evelyn, the most talented of all the musicians at the school hadn’t dropped in the signed permission form but suddenly it made sense. ‘I really hadn’t considered that and no, Stella isn’t going.’
‘Well, there you are then. Without Stella, my daughter won’t even brush her teeth without first having an hour’s texting match as to the best method, which brand of paste and whether to floss or not to floss.’
She joined him in laughter, their eyes twanging together. She was quickly learning she had to be strong around this man, strong and brave because he was just bloody gorgeous, too gorgeous for her damaged heart. The more she looked at him, the heavier the ring around her neck became. Two years was a long time without a man.
She hadn’t even thought about another man in two years, or at least thought about a man in that way. Men were fathers, colleagues, friends even but never lovers. She’d felt liberated, free from all the messy relationship nonsense that went with dating. Now all she felt was confused; confused and sad because there was no future for her here in this room. There was no future for her except the one she’d set out for herself and that future didn’t include men.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through the Apps. ‘I have to travel to London on business. Let me see if I can coincide it with the trip. Then Evie can come with me and Stella can take her place and everyone’s happy.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Why can’t I,’ the smile disappearing off his face.
&
nbsp; Because that will mean I have to spend more time in your company. Because that will mean I have to look at you without staring and that will mean my life, as hard as it is, will be even harder.
Her eyes pulled against their will to her hands. She’d lost everything in the accident. She’d lost both her husband and her career; but even worse, she’d lost her future, or at least any future happiness that might lie ahead. She wasn’t like her best friend, Sarah, even now happily holed up in Versailles with her handsome husband and baby, Anique. For Sarah, there had only ever been one man and it had only taken her a weekend to realise it. She’d been pregnant within a week and married within three months.
Cara was different, as different as could be from Lady Sarah. That’s probably why they got on so well, opposites attract and all that. Cara always had boyfriends, the more the better. She was the awkward child; the wild teenager and even wilder twenty something. Before Aaron, if it moved she jumped it. After Aaron, there’d been no one. Aaron was her soulmate, the other half of her mind, her body and her heart. After Aaron, she hadn’t looked at another man. After Aaron, she hadn’t seen other men, only him. That is until ten minutes ago. It had only taken ten seconds to wash away the last two years, completely, utterly, unreservedly. She wanted him in the same way she’d wanted all those boys. But this was no boy; this was a man. This was a smart, intelligent man. Like her, a single man, a single man who wouldn’t give a second look to someone like her, her gaze shifting from her injured palms and back to his tie.
She knew he was waiting for a reply. She could feel it in the way his eyes roamed over her face, lingering on her lips, her chest. Even her legs didn’t escape his scrutiny or indeed her feet, encased as they were in startling green Jimmy Choo’s. As she’d reasoned with Miss Crike, the headmistress, if she could divert the girls’ attention from her hands to her feet there’d be less chance of awkward questions.
‘No reason I can think of except, won’t it be expensive as well as troublesome?’
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 38