He left them standing there with nothing to say although if looks could talk, they’d be screaming at each other by now.
He looked confused, glancing from his wallet and then back to the piano with a slow shake of his head. He probably was, she thought on a sigh, taking her place in front of the piano, her piano. A piano she couldn’t play.
Removing her gloves, both gloves, she examined her hands, twisting and turning them; trying to flex her thumb. The thumb, the left thumb, so small and insignificant, unless you were a pianist, that is and then this little digit became all powerful. She still did her exercises without fail, come rain, hail or snow. The exercises her therapist in London had given her in addition to the warm up exercises she’d been taught at The Sorbonne.
She knew he was there but her words weren’t for him. Her words were for her and her alone as she stretched and flexed her right hand before placing her fingers on the notes. She started an arpeggio, the notes rising and falling between the broken cords of sound, each one punctuating her words for clarity.
‘I won’t play badly. I won’t be satisfied with mediocre. If all I can be is mediocre, I’ll give up and never play another note.’ She shifted up a little, her eyes now inviting him to join her.
‘Put your money away, Matti. I’m not expecting you to pay for it.’ Her fingers lover-like as they wandered across the cool surface, relishing in the tinkling sounds as she continued practicing her notes. ‘I don’t want you to pay for it, for this… This is a Fazioli, one of the best makes there is. 88 keys, each and every one manipulated and moulded for eight fingers and two thumbs.’ She tilted her head slightly as she continued. ‘Feel them, Matti, feel their power. All that power just a whisper away,’ she said, lifting his hand and placing it on top of the keys. ‘The sensations one can create from pressing the keys. It’s all about manipulation, a trick of the eye if you like turning notes into a thing of beauty. And this thing I’m playing? The only thing I can really play is only one step up from scales, those boring repetitive chords given to kids to get them to learn which finger for which note. I don’t have such a choice, huh,’ as she changed the rhythm, the tempo and pitch.
‘Now if I had my left hand, it would be different,’ She lamented, lifting her hand up onto the keyboard, hovering inches, centimetres from the notes but not touching, never touching. ‘If I had my left thumb to reach the keys on the right, but I don’t. I’m blind here, blind without a paddle or even a boat. I lost the use of my wrong hand. If only I’d damaged my right. There’s plenty of scope for a one-handed pianist, a left one-handed pianist.’ She emphasised. ‘There’s even musical scores available for just this purpose written by the likes of Beethoven; musical scores specifically designed for the weaker left hand. But there’s diddlysquat for the right hand and, believe me, I’ve looked.’
She turned to him, her hands now flat on her lap, the lid closed, the music stopped.
He went to pull her towards him but she stood up, moving away except with her eyes, which remained resolutely trained on his face. ‘I’m not the only one who’s lost the use of a hand, Matti. I could quote you text and verse about the famous ones. The ones injured in the war with amazing composer brothers who made their dream come true but they all lost their right hand. The one’s affected by strokes who’ve continued to play with the help of their partners; musicians that have been able to reach the finishing line in a harmonic parody of the three legged race.’ Her voice softened, taking its cue from the droop of her shoulders, the dip of her head, the downward curve of her lip.
‘I’m not the only one with a damaged hand. There’s scores of people and then there’s us. The poor buggers left with no music, no technique, nothing available to us except our ears and our eyes as we see and hear what others are able to do. There’s no way for us to work around it but with this little baby to help me in addition to those music sheets, I’m prepared to give it a shot,’ her gaze now directed at the pile of sheet music he’d placed on the lid. ‘All I can say is, it’s a good job the apartment on the other side is empty.’ Leaning down she picked up her bag and caught his eye before rummaging around the bottom for her wallet. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ll settle up and then you can buy me that hotdog you were going on about.’
What was she doing here with him, she thought, standing at the hotdog stand helping herself to the wishy washy sauce they had a cheek to call mustard while she deliberately listened in on his one-sided conversation with his boss. It was an excuse for mustard, that’s what it was. She could sort of get Dijon because what it lacked in heat it, by far, made up for in taste but this yellow stuff didn’t even taste like mustard. Squirting liberally, she ignored the feel of his eyes and the way they were creased up in laughter at her dripping mass of yellow goo even as her mind wandered back to the issue at hand.
What was she doing with him, her eyes drawn to his face.
She liked him, she knew she liked him. She liked him a lot. She’d even go as far as to say she loved him. But this was a very different emotion to the one she’d felt for Aaron, and how could that be? Surely there couldn’t be all that many types of love out there or life would get very confusing. She’d always despised women or indeed men who’d two-timed. For her, relationships were in clearly demarcated little boxes. There were friends, men friends and then there were boyfriends. There’d been lots of the first but very few of the second. In fact, before Aaron there’d been no one she’d liked long enough to hang around after the first couple of weeks. No one was more surprised than her when, what she’d assumed would be yet another in the long line of flings, turned very quickly into a grand passion, her grand passion.
She’d loved Aaron with everything she’d had, or at least that’s what she told herself and now… and now everything she’d been telling herself over the last couple of years, very much like a house of cards, was tumbling around her shoulders.
She’d loved Aaron but how much? Certainly not enough if the emotions running through her body, invading all senses were anything to go by. Their love had been a gentle emotion just as Aaron had been a gentle man in every sense of the word. They hadn’t fallen into bed on the first or even the second date. In fact, at one point she’d even wondered how much he was in to her because there was a distinct lack of anything physical until the coffee bean incident. He’d been waiting, he’d told her, for the right moment, a moment he’d orchestrated to perfection. He’d taken her to a performance of Bizet’s Carmen at the Theatre des Champs-Elysses followed by supper at the Café de Paris and, after, back to his rooftop apartment with distant views over the Seine. She’d been wooed to within an inch of her life and what little was left of her heart gave itself up entirely at his hand. There was Aaron, her music and Paris and now there was Matti and a hotdog falling cold in her hand. There was Matti who she couldn’t allow herself to trust as far as she could throw him no matter what her feelings were. This was the man who was involved some way in Pauline’s troubles, she remembered, wrapping the bun more securely around the dog. She wasn't sure how but her instincts told her she could trust him. She’d trusted him from that very first moment in the classroom.
‘Are you going to eat that or sing to it?’
‘Ha, if you heard my voice you wouldn’t even ask. I sound like a frog with a fly in his throat, and that’s on a good day.’
‘You and me both.’ His eyes now hot as they roamed over her hair, her face, her mouth before meeting her gaze. ‘We could always perform a duet in the shower to see who the worst is; I’m game if you are?’
Chapter Twenty
Life was about taking chances but could she afford to take a chance on him? Did she even have a choice as he took her hotdog off her and stuffed it, uneaten, in the bin provided at the end of the stand? He’d flagged down a cab and assisted her into the back before she’d had time to think up an excuse. But she didn’t have an excuse as to why she shouldn’t be here in the back of the cab as it weaved its way over to Gramercy, his hand, his fingers c
reeping up around her neck and pulling her towards his mouth. What excuse could she come up with and why would she even want to with her breath hitching in her throat at the thought of what was to come?
Evelyn was away until later and Pauline wouldn’t mind. Pauline would be ecstatic at the thought of her two favourite people getting it on. Even now, she was probably thinking of expanding her range of knitting patterns to include baby bootees and cardigans.
She blinked at the thought but she needn’t have worried as he was already ten steps ahead having asked the cabbie to pull up outside a drugstore, a wicked grin on his face as he’d pressed a kiss on her cheek with a soft whisper in her ear. ‘Will one box be enough or should I buy a couple?’
He was out of the car before she could even think of a retort not that she’d say anything with the eye of the cabdriver winking at her in the mirror. If she’d been a different kind of girl, she’d have felt a blush wandering up her neck and felt driven to make some excuse like being in urgent need of a flu remedy. But she wasn’t and she didn’t. Instead, she rested her head back against the black leatherette and closed her eyes in an effort to dampen down the excitement bubbling under her skin. She’d already caught the virus – there was no cure.
The door shut closed on his apartment and suddenly he stood there arms at his side, his expression confused as if he couldn’t actually believe she’d agreed to come home with him. Had she agreed, she couldn’t remember. She’d have to ask a lawyer to find out the legal interpretation of acquiescence, a smile pulling at her lips because the only lawyer she knew was currently doing a very good job at avoiding anything even approaching eye contact. She watched his gaze flickering from her to the apartment as an apology left his lips as to the size, the mess, the lack of light streaming in from the smaller than small window. He mumbled about coffee, heading through a room off to the left but she didn’t really hear him. Now she’d made her decision she wasn't interested in anything except him. Him. Naked. Now.
It didn’t take her long to ditch her hat and scarf, flinging them over the back of the bright red sofa any old how. Her jumper and t-shirt followed as did her bra. She’d gone for an elasticated skirt simply because zips, like buttons were her worst enemy. She stepped out of the fabric, allowing it to pool over her boots before leaving it in a puddle on the floor. She stood still for a second surveying her boots, the boots he’d have to help her out of just as Pauline had had to help her into. They were a mistake, an expensive one as she couldn’t get into or out of them without an extra hand. She laughed as she caught her reflection in the bevelled mirror over the fireplace. All she needed was a whip and she’d look like someone who sold her wares by the hour.
She draped herself on the door-frame trying to imitate something she’d seen once in a movie, her eyes on his back as he fiddled with an impressive looking coffee machine with more levers than sense.
‘I take mine black,’ her voice a mere whisper, watching as he turned towards her, spilling coffee across the floor from suddenly trembling hands.
Lying on the trolley, waiting for the pre-med to kick in, she tried to wash her memory clean of the hours they’d spent together learning, exploring, loving. This wasn’t sex, at least it wasn’t for her. This wasn’t some quickie to be forgotten no sooner than the door had closed on quickly exchanged telephone numbers.
The coffee had remained where it had fallen, deep dark liquid splattered in droplets across the lino as a memory of what might have been. He’d scooped her up in his arms and tottered across the lounge, finally toppling her onto his bed with a laugh before landing on top. He’d started on her hand, her scarred fingertips, her wrinkled palm; kissing, kneading, massaging. He was like an intrepid explorer mapping unchartered territory all the while whispering sweet Italian phrases that meant nothing but were everything. It was slow, surreal and incredibly sexy as no part of her evaded his scrutiny from her damaged hand to the soft smooth skin of her stomach where he’d finally rested his head and curled up to sleep, her fingers trapped within the blackness of his hair.
If love could make it better she’d have been cured then. But life, like loving wasn't like that. Life was real. Life was gritty reality. Life, like men, hid its dirty little secrets. She knew it couldn’t last. She knew her life had a nasty habit of taking anything she loved and slamming it in her face like a door crashing shut against the hinges. She was just one of those people with the reverse Midas touch in that everything she touched turned to dust.
There was hope. There was always hope until there wasn't. Lying in that hospital bed in Mallorca, she’d hoped against hope Aaron had made it. She’d hoped right up until hope had died on her mother-in-law’s lips. Lying with Matti’s head on her stomach, she’d again let hope invade her heart. He’d be by her side; her partner and her friend. They’d have children, half brothers and sisters for Evelyn to dote on. Finally they’d grow old together wandering around Manhattan in matching fleeces and gloves, happy to let life pass them by. Here she’d found a man who appeared to accept her for who and what she was, just like Aaron. But the truth was, he was nothing like Aaron. He wasn’t fit to clean his boots let alone take his place in her bed. He wasn't even a quarter of the man she’d believed him to be, the sad thing being, of course, she’d only found out by accident after she’d given herself to him heart, body and soul. She hated him for that.
If she hadn’t heard her phone beeping that a text had just come through, she wouldn’t have eased his head back onto the pillow, dropping a brief kiss on his brow before sliding away. If he hadn’t placed her bag on the table next to his laptop, she’d have never dreamt of glancing over the documents piled neatly on the lid. If her eyes hadn’t spotted the word Wraysbury glaring out, she wouldn’t have picked up the top sheet and started to read. She wouldn’t have discovered about the plans to develop Northtonly into a designer boutique hotel and that would have been a huge shame, tears rolling down her cheeks and mingling with the words on the heavy embossed paper. If she hadn’t gone back with him, she wouldn’t have discovered that he was a slimy toad smarming his way into her life, into her heart while he tried to diddle Pauline out of what little was left. For that, she was thankful, just that. She gathered together her clothes and flung them on with no thought as to how she looked. She left the boots. She’d never wear them again.
Lying on the trolley, those self-same tears renewed their parallel paths down her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was crying, she just was. She’d drawn a line under the last few weeks and, with this operation, her life would start again. She’d be renewed and refreshed, her life again a blank page with only the names of Sarah and Pauline annotated in the margins. There was no man. There’d never be a man. She’d punched above her weight with Matti and he’d very nearly won.
She didn’t need a man, her eyes staring up at the plain white ceiling in some sort of wide eyed effort to stem the creeping wave of tiredness coursing through her limbs. There were a lot of women out there who’d never found even one ounce of the happiness she’d had with Aaron. She was greedy to expect that a second time. She’d learn to be happy with what she’d had and leave it at that.
The trolley was hard against her back, hard and cold but she wasn’t worried about that. There were more things to worry her as she lifted her clawed hand one last time before finally allowing the heavy arm to drop back against her stomach. And yet, what did she have to be worried about? This would be her seventh operation since the accident; her seventh and her last. She’d told the surgeon if this didn’t work, he might as well just chop the bloody thing off for all the good it was to her. She’d rebuild her life yet again, but this time she’d do it with Pauline at her side.
Pauline; a fleeting smile on her lips. Pauline who would have stayed with her up until they’d pushed her into theatres. Pauline, a new invigorated woman now she had no immediate money worries. Good old Mr Pidgeon had come up trumps with some daft story about something ugly he’d sent up to Sotheby’s on her behalf. As if anyt
hing would ever raise that much but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered except Pauline’s utter belief in every word issued out of his mouth.
Her lids, heavy now, closed across her eyes, shutting out everything except one final image of Matti lying stretched out across the bed, his hair tousled across his forehead. She’d have bet everything she had on him being genuine. She’d have lost.
‘Come on, Cara. Wakey, wakey. It’s all over and, even if I say it myself, your hand looks amazing.’
She heard his voice through a fog, trying to clutch onto that last thought before succumbing to sleep but it was useless. Instead of thought, all she could concentrate on was the droning voice of the surgeon going on and on about the skin graft and the plans he’d made for post-operative physiotherapy after the sutures had dissolved. She couldn’t feel her hand. She couldn’t feel anything except the same sense of doom she’d felt before the operation; this time stronger, more powerful than ever.
She managed to open her eyes, albeit briefly, and groan a reply before they injected her with another cocktail of drugs and sleep had her again within its greedy grip.
It was dark now, dark and quiet as only a hospital can be at night. It was a different kind of darkness though; darkness punctuated by the glare of the cardiac monitor still strapped to her chest by tiny leads that reminded her of little strands of spaghetti weaving their way in some hallucinogenic dream, or should that be nightmare? Swivelling her head, she followed the bleep bleep bleep of the green light, dancing to its own tune as it recorded her heart beat and God only knew what other measurements.
She lifted her shoulders and managed to find the bed controls left conveniently beside her right hand and, levering her head, glanced around the room at the vases of flowers on the window sill. Pauline had popped in briefly with a bunch of early spring flowers and Sarah had left a message that she’d fly over in a few days to deliver her flowers in person. Mavis and Maggie and the rest of the teachers had clubbed together with a huge basket of fruit but that was all. She hadn’t told Aaron’s family and she wouldn’t until she saw them.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 51