‘Okay, but you’ll have to give me a nod whenever I have to come in.’
‘Vale.’
Javi could play the whole thing by ear, and with his help I was thrilled to put in the little bursts of passionate gypsy melody.
‘Bravo, Yoli!’
‘Only problem is, I can’t play and grin at the same time!’
‘We need one more. What is your favourite? Problema?’
‘Oh yes! I can just play the tune.’
‘No, no, I’ll sing that. You know what the words mean?’
I picked out the CD booklet. ‘Er… tell me if today I’m that problem, Tell me if I’m worth the trouble. And oh God: better leave it as yesterday. I’ve gone right off this song.’
‘You do the piano and the girl singing.’
‘I don’t sing.’
‘Of course you sing.’
He started, adding rhythm to the chords with taps on the wood. His voice gentle but resonant. I joined in, loving the way my part overlapped and then moved in close harmony with his, as warm as hand-on-hand.
‘Ahora eres cantaora! Ven aquí.’
Not exactly much of a singer, but I went over and draped my arms over him, put my cheek against his. Making me think again of that other cheek.
As I kept doing the rest of the day. Every time I put my hand to my face, even when Javi was kissing me after making love again.
Then Javi wanted to put the finishing touches to Granada’s guitar part, having mastered the programme - even in a foreign language - in half the time I had.
‘Leave me to think, you go and do something. Not the dinner, I want to do that together, like always, but maybe call Helen or some other thing you have to do…’
‘Okay. Would you mind if I looked in on Jeremy? I shouted at him when you went off for that walk and I—’
‘Why you have done that? Go to say sorry. Have a drink - when you come back I am finished and you can bring him for concert.’
I squeezed him and went off to Jeremy’s, giving the door the usual rat-a-tat TAT. Javi had pointed out that the rhythm was one of the palmas patterns for the tango.
The door opened slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said, touching his cheek as if it were still hurting, even hours later. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You can…’ Quit meddling with my love life, accept the fact that you may well have to manage without me, and… put a bag over your beautiful and suddenly vulnerable features. ‘Come here.’ I put my hands either side of his face and examined his cheek, feeling his arms come round me. ‘Where’s the…’
‘Just under my eye.’
There was a tiny dark line. ‘Is that it? I’ve spent all afternoon imagining some huge scarring gash.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint. But don’t worry, it’s the thin end of the wedge - you should check out the impact on my pride and well-being. Not to mention my productivity.’
‘What’s that then?’ I asked, pointing to a new pile of printed papers on his desk.
‘Handouts for the York workshops. All I felt up to doing.’
I picked up a sheet. ‘Hm. This stuff about the gradual dripping in of backstory. Shame you can’t grasp the importance of that in real life.’
‘Okay, I’ve got the message,’ he said, placing it back on the pile. ‘But everything’s alright now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. More than alright. So are you going to give me some tea or what?’
‘I don’t know. You can’t go around slapping people, Yol. And really there’s only one way to make you remember that.’
He suddenly pulled me under his arm and thwacked my bottom hard.
‘Ow!’
‘God you’ve got a hard little arse!’ he said, laughing and shaking his hand in pain.
‘Uh, give me sugared tea, I’m in shock here,’ I said, rubbing my backside.
‘No more slapping?’
‘Promise.’
I followed him to the kitchen. But he was wearing those cargos… I couldn’t resist it.
A satisfying yelp.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it,’ I said.
‘Okay you’ve asked for it,’ he said. He dragged me under his arm again, but I wriggled free and dashed behind the sofa, squealing like a six-year-old. The next thing I knew he’d rugby-tackled me onto it, there was a further stinging blow and we were in a wrestling match. Then he was on top of me.
‘I’m sorry if you are,’ he said.
‘Deal.’
‘Tea?’
‘I think so, yes.’
He got up, but I stayed there waiting for my heart to slow down. The kettle whined.
‘Don’t you need to get back? I don’t want to cause any more—’
‘No, he’s doing something on the piece, wanted me to stop hovering over him.’
‘Not a general complaint, I hope.’
‘Course not.’
‘So has he said anything?’
I sat up and tidied the cushions. ‘Lots of lovely things.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Has he said what he wants… what could happen?’
‘Not exactly. But if we’re happy and enjoying each other, it will fall into place.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘No, just what I feel.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
I didn’t for a minute believe he did, but at least he seemed to be trying to.
We sat down on the sofa, Pavlova watching us uncertainly from the window sill.
‘We’re nearly ready to give you the concert, if you like.’
‘Now? Perfect. Tell you what, let’s make Javi a coffee and see if he’s finished.’
Javi was sitting cradling his guitar. ‘Ah, coffee - perfecto.’
‘So where’s the programme then?’ Jeremy asked. Javi laughed. But I produced a handwritten list from the top of the piano.
‘Yoli! I want to see.’ Javi took it from me and stroked my head. ‘We have to keep this. Look, even it has the date and place.’ He passed it to Jeremy, who murmured approval and sank back into the sofa with his tea.
‘I’m probably going to make a mess of all this,’ I said, prompting groans from them both. Then Jeremy clapped as if we’d just come onto the stage and we had to start.
Air on a G String: a Trio standard that my flute could have played by itself but I’d told Javi how Jeremy - along with the rest of the world - loved it. Followed by Chanson d’Amour, the yearning melody passing between us, almost indecently romantic.
‘Lovely,’ Jeremy said, then studied the programme. ‘And now flamenco all the way?’
‘Well, Spanish anyway,’ I said.
Javi’s contribution: one of the Granados Danzas Espanolas - Andaluza, indeed - a haunting, fickle melody for me over his dependable accompaniment. Earlier I’d said it made me feel like a spoilt little bailaora, forgetting for a moment that he’d been married to one.
Jeremy loved it. ‘Delicious! I need that on my iPod.’ I grinned at him: as a musical audience he was always an adorable pushover.
Next up was my cunningly blagged and abridged version of one of the Zgaja Virtuoso Flamenco Studies I’d done at college, drawing undeserved compliments.
In an inspired bit of programming we followed this frantic piece with the sad and simple magic of Javi’s Falseta, which prompted a burst of appreciative Spanish from Jeremy.
Then came the Trio piece, with a backing CD that left out the guitar and first flute parts so we could play along with it; a bit cheesy after the real thing but earning me two hugs.
It was time for the song. I sat at the piano ready to come in on the second verse.
‘Dime si soy para ti ese problema,’ Javi sang. Jeremy’s eyes widened, surprised as I had been at the gentle beauty of his voice, perhaps - or wondering about the significance of the words. I joined in, exhilarated by the musical intimacy.
This time he didn’t clap, just smiled and looked taken aback. Javi pushed on with the final number, in whi
ch my drunken gypsy flautist made a couple of hilarious wrong entries.
‘Encore! Bis! Otra!’ Jeremy demanded. ‘Which? You choose,’ Javi said.
‘Everything. But starting with Problema. Love the way you’ve done that. D’you understand the lyrics, Yol?’
‘All except the last bit. Hay de ti, si llevo la razón. Hay de ti? There is of you?’
‘No,’ said Javi, putting down his guitar and pulling me onto his lap. ‘Ay de ti. Ay like in ay pobrecita.’
‘Oh. So it means… ‘poor you if I’m right?’’ I asked.
Jeremy nodded his head slowly.
Chapter 16
primavera f spring
Eleven o’clock, in his dressing gown. One of those days when he’d woken with an idea and got writing without so much as a tea. No - the computer was off, his research box on the sofa under a pile of albums and loose photos.
‘You alright?’
‘Yeah? Why?’ He went to the sofa and swept the pictures into an envelope. ‘Research.’
‘Cádiz? Wouldn’t have thought you’d—’
‘Can’t explain.’
Or rather wouldn’t, but I was used to this. ‘Hot cross bun and tea?’
‘Mm, yes please.’
I put the cleaning wipes and a plastic bag down on the sofa.
‘Oh, don’t bother—’
‘Just a quick go round before I assemble your Easter clutter.’
It needed more than that. An avalanche of unopened letters, a congealed mug, crumbs, a banana skin, earth on the floor from a Pavlova-ravaged pot plant; for Jeremy, this was nothing less than a domestic tantrum. And I had a feeling I knew the cause.
‘So he got off okay,’ he said.
‘Course. He does know how to use an airport, Jeremy.’
‘But maybe not a large international one.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Sorry. Great he loved the ballet. We’ll have to take him round the corner next time.’
‘I was telling him about Matthew Bourne - he wants to come over for the next show.’
‘That’ll be Christmas…’ By which time, Jeremy might be getting us both over from Spain to see it. Maybe that’s what he was thinking, because he’d forgotten about the buns, picked up Pavlova and gone over to the window. ‘We’ll have to get Duncan to look after Pav again - I’ll be in Seville when you go to Javi’s.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gabi and Nico keep asking me and I need to go for some research. Shame you can’t come with me.’
‘Gabi and…?’
‘You know, you met them on the beach last year, got fed up with Gabi complaining about the heat and bought her a hat.’
‘Oh yes. Good for you. Ooh - and talking of heat, apparently it’s going to get up to twenty degrees today. Spring has definitely arrived.’
As had my new start. I’d even emailed Ángel and told him that I no longer needed his services, getting a reply saying that he was relieved because his donations were not going down well with his new girlfriend.
‘Great. I’ll get the chairs out in the garden,’ he said, but went on gazing out in to the street, his chin on Pav’s head.
‘So how’s the book going?’
‘I’m… stepping back a bit.’
‘Having a mull.’
‘Yes.’ He turned and smiled at me. ‘So do composers do that? Mull?’
‘I wouldn’t know - I can hardly call myself one. But yes, I do.’
He put Pav on the sofa and sat down next to me. ‘You are a composer. You just need to stop fretting about what Helen thinks and try and get published instead.’
‘Uh - it’s about as likely as winning the lottery.’
‘Maybe, but you haven’t even tried.’
‘I know, that’s what Javi says.’
He got up and put the photo albums and the envelope back in the cupboard.
I stared at the box file on the table. ‘Can’t you tell me something about the novel?’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘Not the plot, just the sort of novel it is. I mean, is it a love story?’
‘Of course it is. As all novels should be, in one way or another.’
‘Well that’s not saying much, is it? Come on, just age, gender and occupation for the two main characters and I’ll shut up.’
His face fell. ‘Yol, you haven’t been… peeking?’
‘No! I’d never do that!’ Indignation earned through many triumphs over temptation.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, patting my thigh. ‘Because remember, just as I trust you about that, I want honest feedback on the first draft when it’s ready.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Not sure. But you’ll be the first to know.’
‘The first?’
‘Yes, like last time.’
My mouth fell open. ‘Was I the first to read it? I thought—’
‘I made out you weren’t but…’
‘Oh Christ.’ I turned to him. ‘That’s really quite an honour.’
He pushed the mail back into a neat pile. ‘Haven’t you heard how many authors say they have someone they always write to, almost as if the whole thing is a big letter… someone they want to make laugh, cry, understand…? Stephen King talks about his Ideal Reader.’ He pulled me over to him. ‘Think it’s time you knew that… well, you’re mine.’
I was stunned. English ‘A’ level with a Grade C, a keen but not very discerning booklover. ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t know. It must be one of those instinctive things, like choosing homes. All I know is, it works.’
My eyes stung. ‘I can’t believe this,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Certainly not difficult to make you cry anyway,’ he said with a grin, seeing me reach for a tissue. ‘How does it feel to be a muse?’
‘Bit scary. But also quite… I mean, when the book eventually comes out, it’ll be sort of like we’ve had a kid, won’t it?’
‘Absolutely. Now come on, put all those chicks and stuff on my mantelpiece and we’ll get outside. What time’s poor old Emma coming round?’
‘Not till about three. She’s very wobbly, she’ll need lots of choc and hugs.’
‘Is the drama teacher worth all this heartbreak?’
‘Probably not. And he’s said it’s the age difference, the bastard.’
‘Ouch. Okay, major salvage operation required. But I don’t get it - surely he was aware of that in the first place.’
‘I know. And it’s not like either of them wants children, she’s got hers and he’s much too interested in himself.’
‘Bit harsh - how d’you know? He might be planning them for later - by which time she’ll be too old to have them, if she isn’t already.’
An awkward pause in which I imagined him recalling The Question.
‘I’ll get ready while you do whatever you must here,’ he said, getting up.
‘Yes, and then I’ll get the garden nice for her. You can help or mull, whatever.’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, heading for the bathroom, which probably meant he would be issuing praise and amusing suggestions from the sun lounger. Then he turned back. ‘Oh - I think Helen’s sent you something more from your father. Sorry - I picked it up by mistake among all the one-to-one subs for York. Here.’ He handed me an envelope with her rushed scrawl on the front. ‘I thought he was going away.’
‘He is. Tuesday,’ I said, opening it. ‘Hell, how am I going to cope with this?’
‘Do I answer that? I don’t want my head bitten off again.’
I opened the smaller envelope inside and read it out.
‘Yolette, ma chérie,
How happy your little letter makes me! And Judy too! Now we can enjoy our cruise - you will inspire the holiday. We look forward to receiving your call when we get back.
Look after yourself. We are thinking of you.
Affectueusement, Papa.’
‘That’s lovely. What did you say?’
‘Pretty much as you suggested, and n
ot giving my address. Sneaked out and posted it in Jersey without showing Charlotte. Now I’ve just got to hope the ship hits an iceberg.’
‘Oh come on, I’ll be with you, remember? Anyway, you’ve now got plenty of time to get used to the idea.’
‘Suppose so.’
He looked inside the bag and pulled out the large Lindt chocolate rabbit. ‘Aha. Thanks. Think I’ll have some in the bath.’
‘No you won’t, it’s for sharing,’ I said, grabbing it back from him. ‘Along with those buns. Come on, let’s get cracking.’
He went off to the bathroom. I filled the dishwasher, wiped the mantelpiece and arranged the animals, fake daffodils and painted eggs. Spring. New starts. Inspiring new starts. How can I inspire their holiday, I thought, what a daft thing to say. But… nice. Ideal Reader and Inspiring Daughter; I could get quite a big head, the way the day was going.
I needed to clean the table. I picked up the box file to put it on his desk but it was heavy and not pressed closed; a print-out fell onto the floor. This sort of thing had happened before, of course; I never told him, making him worry unnecessarily, and I knew what to do. I picked it up, my eyes fixed to one side of it. The Reader was not a Peeper. But a corner of it, I reckoned - and thought I could feel - must have fallen into the pot plant earth. No problem: I swept it off with my fingers, eyes still averted. But what if he wondered about a brown dust mark? I allowed myself a lightning-glance check of the edge.
And there it was. Opposite the sharp staple under my thumb, so in the top right hand corner. Where the title goes. Two tiny words that surely I shouldn’t have been able to make out at that speed, in that gloom under the table, after years of keeping my promise: The Reader.
Chapter 17
todo pron all, everything
‘This is delicioso. How come, after all that Spanish conversation practice, I never found out you two were vegetarian?’
‘Soy vegetariana. Much too easy compared to discussing things like what one can learn from gay best friends and brothers…’ Liz said.
‘Good grief,’ said her partner Ian, looking up for a moment from the ads section in the Olive Press. ‘That poor little Japanese girl, what did she make of you two?’
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