‘Would that be such a hardship? You said yourself the apartment is rent free. Do you know what the going rate for a brownstone in Gramercy is anyway? More than I could ever afford.’
‘I thought lawyers got paid a mint?’ she queried softly.
‘Not that much and most of it goes on Evelyn’s tutelage.’ He turned and, touching her arm, pulled her to a gentle stop. ‘Please tell me she’s not wasting my money and she’s as good as you say she is?’
‘She really is,’ her eyes twinkling back at him. ‘She could go all the way.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ his voice tinder dry.
‘She’s a good kid and a very talented one. You’re very lucky.’
‘Hmm, I’ve yet to see it.’
He directed her to a small café on the corner with a window full of the most delicious pastries. Finding a seat, they ordered a couple of coffees and sat back to watch the thronging streets packed full of an assortment of shoppers in all shapes and sizes.
‘So, why are we here again? A flea market is antiques and second-hand?’
‘Primarily yes. I’m just here to browse. I like old books and there’s a great antiquarian book seller that has a stall here on the first Sunday of the month that I like to catch up with.’
‘What, does he have a large stock of legal tomes?’ she teased.
‘Well actually, no,’ his eyes seeking hers with a smile. ’Fishing books.’
‘Fishing books, as in how to cook? What else is there to do with fish in central New York?’
‘I’ll have you know New York has some of the finest fishing in the country. We’re on the coast after all.’
‘Now why didn’t I know that,’ she said, starting to giggle.
‘Perhaps because you’re not interested in fishing,’ he replied, picking up his spoon and stirring his coffee. ‘Funnily enough, I never really thought you would be. But they have all sorts at the market, not just books but clothes and things,’ his voice trailing off.
‘Things?’ What sort of things?’
‘Oh I don’t know, I am only a bloke, you know. I don’t really take notice of stuff that doesn’t interest me.’ Shifting his hand, he touched the outline of her furry glove. ‘You could always get some more of these,’ his eyes snapping up to hers with a small smile.
Pulling her hand back slightly. ‘With a bit of luck, I won’t need them anymore.’
‘With a bit of luck?’ He drained the rest of his coffee and, standing up, helped her on with her coat, his hands lifting her hair from underneath her collar.
‘The doctor’s appointment…’
‘The doctor’s appointment you’ve been avoiding telling me about,’ his hands lingering on her shoulders.
‘Yes, well. Health is so boring, or at least it is to someone like me that’s had more than their fair share rammed down their throat over the last couple of years. If it wasn't for the pain, believe me, I wouldn’t be planning on further surgery.’
They were standing in the doorway, his hands still holding onto her. He could feel the weight of her hair on the back of his hand just as he could still smell a trace of her perfume. He could stay like this all day, her leaning back against him, her head now tilted upwards staring into his face, her eyes wide.
‘Hey, you’re blocking the doorway mate. You can come out or go back in but some of us have places we need to be.’
Cradling her good arm within his, he pulled the door open and, gesturing to the portly man, waved him on ahead before pulling the door closed with a slight ping. ‘So, you’re going to have another operation?’ he asked, his voice little more than a cracked whisper as he walked her towards the market entrance.
His heart hammered in his chest as a thousand thoughts crawled through the cracks of his mind like ants escaping crazy paving. He wanted to turn her round to face him, here, now, in the middle of the heaving sidewalk. He wanted to stare into her face to hear the truth, even though he knew what that truth would be. She was leaving Manhattan. She was leaving him to go back to England to have surgery on her hand and, the likelihood was, she wouldn’t be back.
He’d missed his chance, if ever he’d had a chance with her. Perhaps last night had been his chance, the only chance she was prepared to give him.
But he couldn’t really believe that. He’d seen the way she’d looked at him; her head tilted slightly, her eyes never far from his. He remembered the way she’d pushed him against the wall, her lips eager in the pursuit of pleasure. He puzzled her was the best he could come up with but at least it was a start. However, if she was disappearing across to the other side of the world, that was that, the end; the end before they’d even had a chance to begin. He allowed himself the pleasure of staring at her; her hair, her face, her eyes where before he’d shied away from being caught by her stare. What did it matter anyway? Soon she’d be gone and he’d be back on the treadmill of work and parenting. He was a lawyer, an employee even. A very small cog in a tiny business in New York. He was also a dad, his defining moment. So defining, his wife had upped and left him to it at the first pile of dirty washing. However, he was also a man, not that he’d been able to act like one with all the other mantles obscuring and distorting his real self.
Over the last few days, he’d felt as if he’d clawed back part of his youth, even part of his manhood. She’d defined him in another role, a different role and he relished in the renewed sense of hope and wonder which he’d found in her company. He shifted his gaze, his eyes pulling away unwillingly from the magnetic pull of her presence. What was he going to do now? What the hell was he going to do without her?
‘Yes, although I don’t know when. I’m meeting with the surgeon tomorrow.’
He tuned back into the conversation a frown descending across his brow as he tried to work it all out.
‘You’re meeting the surgeon tomorrow?’ he repeated, but he was talking to himself.
She’d managed to pull her hand out of his arm and was now wandering between the stalls, her eyes weaving over the stands like a child chasing rainbows. Standing back, he let her be but with a weather eye just in case that posh cutesy accent got her into trouble with the hard ball locals. She’d stopped in front of a vintage clothes shop and, fingers hovering over the array of brightly filled shelves, picked out a pink feather boa. Wrapping it around her throat with a laugh, she delved into her pocket before handing the stallholder a handful of notes. He had no idea how much but by the look on the stallholder’s face, much too much. With a sigh of resignation, he headed over to intervene only to watch, open-mouthed as she headed to the hat stall opposite. He watched on, fascinated as she tried on hat after hat, each one more outrageous than the last before finally fixing on a plain black felt number that hugged her head like something from the roaring twenties. With a smile of indulgence, he pulled out his wallet and handed over the asking price with little more than a raised eyebrow at what was more than his weekly food bill before pulling her back to his side with a gentle smile.
‘Cute, very cute – what is it exactly?’
‘A hat, you know. The thing you wear on your hea…’
‘Ha ha, I get enough cheek from my daughter without you starting,’ he said, flicking the pink flower pinned on the side with his finger. ‘I seem to remember my great-grandmother had something similar she wore to church on a Sunday. She must have been in her nineties.’
‘It’s called a cloche, alright?’ she said on a laugh, flinging the end of the boa in his face before heading towards a stall full to the brim of second-hand handbags. He didn’t mind the hat or indeed the scarf but handbags? There were memories of Isabella associated with handbags. Too many memories for him to cope with on an empty stomach, his nose twitching as the smell of sausages reached him. He had his mouth half open to call her away when he realised she wasn't heading for the bags at all, her feet barely pausing as she made her way to the next stand.
His breath hitched as he followed her gaze. He’d forgotten the stand,
one of the most popular on site with people queuing to reach the front and browse through the racks. Dragging his hand through his hair, he followed at a much slower pace as he wondered how she’d cope when confronted by her nemesis.
There was a gap now, he didn’t know if she’d barged her way through or if the gentlemen around had made way for the little woman in the bright scarf, but whatever the reason she was right at the front of the wooden counter browsing through what looked like thousands upon thousands of boxes full of sheet music. He called her name once, twice but she didn’t respond. The man next to her swivelled his head, their eyes clashing, his arms full of song books but he ignored him. All his attention was on her, just her.
He wanted to join her but what could he say? There was nothing he could say. She obviously felt the loss of her music, his eyes now on her hand, her left hand which she’d cocooned in a fleecy glove and tucked away in one of the cavernous pockets of her coat. For warmth? For concealment? Who knew?
He saw a gap in the crowd and, stepping forward, was soon beside her, lifting the pile of sheets she’d gathered together under one arm.
‘You remind me of me,’ he said, when she’d finally turned her back on the table and tried prizing the pile from his fingers.
‘Really, in what way?’ her eyes meeting his with a frown as she let her hand fall down to her side.
‘What music is to you is fishing to me, and,’ he added, moving away to the man running the till.’ And I’m getting these, no arguments.’
‘Me? Argue? Never!’ she said, enunciating each syllable clearly as if speaking to a child. ‘Although, how you could ever compare music to fishing is beyond me. They’re nothing alike.’
‘How’s that?’ he said, stuffing the small change left from fifty dollars into his jean pocket.
‘Well, for a start, you can go fishing whenever you like while I, while I can’t.’
‘Of course you can. I’m happy to bait up for you if it’s the worms you’re scared of.’
‘You know very well that’s not what I meant, Matisse,’ she flung over her shoulder, marching away at top speed so that he had to reach out and pull her to a gentle halt.
‘What’s eating you, huh? You’re young and beautiful. You should have the world at your feet. Yeah, so you’ve had a few knocks,’ his fingers flickering over to where her hand remained in official hiding. ‘But, you’ve still got your health. You can still open your eyes in the morning on the world around you. So, why aren’t you opening up your mind? What’s wrong with playing with one hand, or hadn’t you even thought about that? There are plenty of people that lose a hand, an arm but it doesn’t define them. It’s not who they are. They work around it, so why can’t you?’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Why are you so mean to me?’ She stared up at him with damp eyes for, of course, she knew why he was being mean.
He was like everyone else she’d ever met in that he was only interested in his own boring little existence. Anything different, anything unusual in his microcosm of an existence and he rebelled. Her hand on her hip, she stood back and examined him, letting her eyes wander over his dark Italian looks that were such an anathema to Aaron. She realised with a start she liked the way he looked. He was a little shorter and perhaps a little wider; in truth there was little similarity. So why was it she felt her heart swell in her chest at the way his hair flopped across his forehead? Why was it she longed to press up against him and finish what he’d started, was it only yesterday? She blinked, pressing her lids closed as a shiver ran its course over her skin like a sudden nightmare; not all nightmares were for those that slept. She was well aware that in the time it took for a single heartbeat, dreams could turn into tragedies, her thoughts veering back on course. Why if he thought so little of her had he coerced her into spending the day? For God’s sake, he’d made her think he liked her and for the first time since Aaron, she’d let hope seep under the barriers she’d erected.
‘If the truth’s mean, then so be it. I give no apology for the truth. After all, I’m a lawyer as you keep reminding me.’ He stepped back from her, his expression wary.
She eyed him under the rim of her new hat; her look faltered, her thoughts uncertain. What if she was wrong? For a moment she allowed herself to wander into unchartered territory. What if he thought he was trying to help her? As an idea it sucked because by being mean he’d only managed to put her back up, but what if his intentions had been genuine if not entirely honourable remembering back to that kiss. Sneaking her hand from her pocket she allowed herself to examine it, still encased in its prison of wool. Spreading her fingers as far as they’d go, which now wasn't far, she flexed her wrist, imitating one of the exercises that once had been part of her religion. What if he was right? What if she should try again despite what her surgeon had said? And then reality snuck in because, of course, it was impossible.
‘It’s the wrong hand for that.’
‘What?’ It was his turn to falter. ‘What’s the wrong hand? I don’t understand…?’
‘Well, come on and I’ll help you to understand.’ She grabbed his arm and, almost dragging him in the direction of the road, started searching for a taxi to flag down.
‘Hey, what about my fishing books? What about a hotdog, they serve the best in Manhattan on that stand over there?’
But she acted as if she hadn’t heard, pulling and then pushing him into the cab that had just screeched to a halt.
‘Where are we going, Cara? Or are you just kidnapping me? You know, spending the day being all too much so you’ve decided to sneak me back to your place and tie me to the bed for the rest of the afternoon.’
‘You’d be so lucky, and anyway,’ she added, crossing her legs before throwing him a look. ‘You had your chance Mr Big Shot Lawyer; I never go back for seconds.’ Turning to the cab driver she asked him to take her to West 34th.
‘But that’s only around the corner?’
‘It might be to you but you try walking in these heels!’ she said, pointing to her bright purple thigh high boots.
‘I’ve been trying not to think about those boots all morning,’ he replied, his eyes running the length of her legs and back again with a sigh. ‘You women and fashion. It’s minus 3 outside and icy as hell, and you go traipsing around like a Prima ballerina in ballet flats.’
‘A girl’s got to look her best now, hasn’t she?’
The cab had stopped and, reaching across before he could stop her, she’d handed over the fare and climbed out onto the sidewalk.
‘Come on. No dawdling.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Here.’ She’d stopped outside a large store and pushed the door open.
‘Ah Cara, how good to see you again.’
‘And you Ephron, and you,’ she replied, allowing him to pull her into a big brotherly hug before leaning back in his arms, well aware of the pair of steely brown eyes boring into her back. If he’d been a knife thrower instead of a lawyer she’d have a six inch blade lodged between her shoulders with probably a twist at the end for good measure.
‘So, have you decided on which piano you’d like or are you here to give us another toe-curling performance?’
She ran her eyes over his skinny frame, dressed from head to foot in grey and laughed at his description of her half-baked attempt at Chopin’s Prelude in E minor that she’d well and truly managed to murder. Okay, she’d also managed to gather an audience but that was probably because of the cacophony in the showroom as opposed to any decent sound coming from the albeit very grand Fazioli piano. Her fingers felt stiff and awkward from lack of use and the reach she’d prided herself on just wasn’t there. She’d just walked in, sat down on the tapestry covered bench and launched into the first piece she could think of, one-handed no less. She hadn’t given a thought to which fingers to use because, with four less not to mention the ever important, indeed vital left thumb, any previous work on correct use of fingers for notes went out the window.
> ‘Oh, I think I’ll give the playing a miss but...’ Flipping her head back, she glanced across at Matti, who’d obviously decided to take on the role of observer by the way he’d folded his arms across his chest and propped his shoulder against the small gap in the wall separating the violins from the tubas. ‘But I’ll take the piano, that is, if you can deliver?’ she added, wandering over to the largest piece in the room, her fingers lingering on the shiny black wood, her eyes drawn to the pristine keys ‘I’m not sure any cabbie would agree to have it on their roof.’
He laughed in return, joining her in front of the keyboard. ‘Would you like me to gift wrap that, I’ll include it in the price?’
‘Which is?’
They both turned at the interruption but when Ephron started to open his mouth, Cara raised her hand to silence him.
‘Which is none of your business,’ she paused, her eyes suddenly wide. ‘Unless you’re offering to pay, that is? After all, I do think it’s the least you can do seeing as you’re the one so determined for me to play again.’
He stood looking between them, his expression unreadable before finally focussing back on the man at her side with a huge cheesy grin showing more than a mouthful of teeth. ‘How much?’
‘Well, including taxes and transport.’ He threw her a glance. ‘Ah, I’ll throw delivery in for free so let’s say 299.’
‘That’s okay, I’ll get it. It’s probably what the helicopter would have cost anyway,’ he muttered, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.
‘A very good choice, sir.’ He picked up a cloth from behind the desk and started rubbing the glossy black lid to an even higher sheen. ‘You can’t get that same sound out of a Lambo is what I say, no matter how you try.’
‘A Lambo, what, a Lamborghini?’ His face suddenly pale. ‘I thought you said it was 299, as in…’
‘As in two-hundred-thousand-nine-hundred and ninety nine green-backs, a living and breathing steal at that price, I can tell you, but only the best for our Cara. I could tell that first day.’ He stuffed the rag in his back pocket at the sound of the door. ‘I’ll be right back.’
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 50