Perfect Notes

by Jaye Peaches

  “Micah?” I muttered, horrified. Stefan was nothing like Micah. That is what I told myself every time I questioned my relationship with Stefan. “No. It’s not like that.” I shook my head.

  “Cal, I don’t want to come over all mean and horrid, but from my position, you chatted away about Micah, happily went with him whenever he called you up, and it just feels the same to me. You waited, expected him to show you commitment—we all did—and you saw the light and blew him off.”

  She gave me a sad face expression as if to sympathize with me, except I didn’t want her sympathy.

  “No.” I denied it all, but her perspective stunned me.

  My comparison always painted Micah and Stefan as completely different characters, but maybe because Stefan’s sexual prowess outstripped Micah’s, I’d overlooked the commitment issues, brushed them under the carpet. Ignoring the fact that my relationship with Micah had failed and he’d left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, I’d learned much from him. He’d shown me what I desired in a man simply by not being that person. It would have been unkind of me not to acknowledge what Micah had inadvertently taught me. As for Stefan, I had evidence of his devotion, didn’t I?

  “I’ve moved in with him.”

  Fiona clasped her hands together on the table. “Sex, honey. I’m sorry, he wants you for sex.”

  I fumbled about, searching for my handbag. “I have to go.” I stood. “I’ve a taxi waiting.”

  “Callie, please, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. It’s just my opinion and—”

  “I didn’t ask for it,” I snapped, fighting back the tears.

  Be home at eleven—those had been Stefan’s instructions. “I don’t want you wandering the streets looking for a taxi. I’ll book one.”

  He took care of me. Wasn’t that the surest declaration of love? Did he have to say it aloud every time we kissed?

  I ignored Fiona’s apologetic entreaties to stay and pushed my way past others to reach the doorway.

  The journey back to Grantchester did nothing for my mood. In the back of the cab, my doubts bloomed and Fiona’s words echoed in my head—wanting me for sex. That was a two-way street. I wanted—no, needed—him just as much as he did me. We’d not discussed my plans to study and he’d not even inquired as to my intentions for the future. I’d stopped looking at his iPad. I’d watched him teach, pined to be in his pupils’ shoes, but not discussed my jealousy.

  What troubled me was staying power. If she was right, what happened when we tired of each other? How broken-hearted would I be? I knew that answer. I’d felt it before when I caught him with Magda. And if my first thoughts were of a shattered heart that meant I was in love, so why couldn’t I tell him?

  Confusion reigned.

  I let myself into the house and added my key to his in the cookie jar, in among his condom stash. Stefan looked up when I came in and he greeted me with a warm smile. Seated at the dining table, surrounded by music scores, he quickly gathered the papers up the moment I arrived.

  “Good evening?” he inquired.

  I ignored his question. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water from the tap, knocking it back in one go. The coolness hit my belly and I greeted it with a wave of nausea. Perhaps I was drunk. I didn’t feel lightheaded or fuzzy—quite the contrary. My thoughts had gained a new level of clarity.

  Stefan finished his tidying up and called across the living space, “Let’s go to bed, then.”

  They might have been innocuous words on any other night, but after Fiona’s abrupt analysis of my sexual habits, I read something into his words. He didn’t mean sleep. He never did, nor did we. We fucked then slept.

  I put the glass down. “Why don’t you just come out and say it? Let’s go fuck. Or how about get your clothes off and spread your legs?”

  He froze on the spot. “What’s the matter? What did you and Fiona talk about?”

  I moved out of the kitchen, detouring around the grand piano, keeping my distance from him. “She thinks I’ve moved in with another version of Micah.”

  “Micah? I don’t understand.” He edged his way about the piano and we stood at either end of the musical furniture.

  My voice betrayed my fractured nerves. It wavered as I spoke. “We fuck. End of story. And yeah, I’d not thought of it quite so clinically, but she’s right, you do have similarities to him.” I touched the piano lid with a trembling hand.

  His face descended into a picture of horror with widening eyes and gaping mouth. “God, no. You think I’m only interested in you for sex? How…after all these weeks, everything we’ve done together? Things we spoke about in Germany? You come back to this—my dominance.”

  “No, not that. That’s your preference, but it isn’t the issue, not for me. I worry that you have shown no interest in anything else. Everything is so…superficial between us.” I stared at my feet, unable to acknowledge his aghast expression.

  “You didn’t want me to be involved, Callie. You accused me of stomping all over you, telling you to study, so I backed off. It’s what you wanted. I gave you the space to make your own decisions. You were adamant.” He ran both his hands through his hair. How quickly it had grown back, reforming his unruly mop. “Please tell me you want more than sex, because God damn it, I do!”

  I lifted my head and he reached out both hands to me, a pose of supplication.

  “Of course I do,” I mumbled. What a mess I’d conjured up, and it was all my own making. Men were such literal creatures. Back off, so he did. Folding my arms on the lid of the piano, I buried my face in them and sobbed.

  He covered the space between us in a millisecond then pulled me up and wrapped his arms about me. “What on earth is going on?”

  “I’m pushing you away, that’s what I’m doing.” I hiccupped. “Because that is what I do when I fear I’m failing.”

  “Failing? At what?”

  “Us!”

  “Why do you think that? Because we enjoy a healthy sex life? We cook together, play together, curl up on the sofa and watch bad television. We laugh at the same jokes, tease and… Isn’t that how it should be? Being in love?”

  A shiver shot right up my spine. My heart jumped out of my chest wall. “Love?” I repeated softly.

  He tilted my chin up. “I’ve been holding back. I want to show you something.” He wiped away my tears. “Something good, so don’t panic. It’s nearly finished.”

  He led me to the dining table and the pile of papers. He cleared his throat. “I realize I’m not good at showing you my feelings. I’m not a romantic. Not in words. In music, things I struggle to express take shape easily.” He moved the pile about and extracted a few sheets. “I’ve held back from imposing on you and you’ve grown, found your own feet again.”

  “I can’t do it on my own, the diploma, I need a teacher, I know that now.” I pressed my hand onto his, halting his rearranging.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will try to help in a way you won’t resent.”

  “I shan’t ever do that,” I hurried to say. “I’ve watched you teach, and why I thought you’d trample over me, I don’t know. You’re a fantastic teacher. I’m going to do a diploma and you’re going to help me.”

  He smiled and pressed a kiss on my lips. “Good. No—more than good. Bloody brilliant.” He picked up a piece of paper and turned it over.

  I leaned over the table and looked at the notes and words written across each stave. A piece for clarinet and voice. I traced a finger along the notes, singing the tune in my head. “You wrote this for me?”

  “For us,” he stated. “I’ve been writing it for a while, but it wasn’t until we went to Lake Starnberg that it came together. Originally, I was going to do clarinet and piano. Then, I thought, voice. A baritone, and weaving about it, your clarinet.”

  He placed a trembling hand on the sheet. Strange to see him overtly nervous.

  “See? I wrote the words in German, I plan to translate them. They will fit well with the rhythm and mel
ody in English, as well as German.”

  The notation had captured the influences of a contemporary composer—the mixture of time signatures, the odd flurry of discord and changing tempo. As I hummed the tune, I heard a beautiful melody in the vocal part, then passed to the clarinet and ending with the two instruments combined in harmony. “This is us?”

  “Oh, yes. Imagine I’m the sailing boat, below you—the baritone—setting the course and keeping you safe. You above, the bird in the sky—Nettie—darting about, diving down to touch me and soaring high again.”

  Tears filled my eyes, held back by my brims. “This is how you love me?” I understood, finally. Why had it taken me so long to see it? His dominance was not about smothering me or holding me in check. If I let him, he’d take care of me forever and I would have all that I needed. His comfort, guidance and my back, protected.

  “Sex is the vehicle for expressing our passions. However, music is the source of us. We can survive without sex, but not music. You know this, deep down. I can show you my love like this, if you let me. I’d write reams. My head is bursting with music for you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were composing? I thought it was for your dad.”

  “I didn’t want to show you something incomplete. I’m not the quickest composer,” he guffawed. “My dad thinks I’m lazy. I’m just…slow.”

  I looped my arm in his. “Can we try it?”

  “Sure, but first, I want you to tell me these fears of yours are gone.” He turned me to face him and cupped my face in his warm hands. “I love you. There.” He sighed deeply. “It’s out and I should have said it in Germany. I’m committed to you in every way possible. My days of worrying about repeating the mistakes of my parents have gone. Now, tell me. Are you going to run away and hide from me?”

  I rested my hands on his chest. His heart raced beneath my palms. “I love you, Stefan. I wanted to tell you, but until I knew how you felt, I’ve held back. Fiona questioned my motives, but she doesn’t know you. I shouldn’t have to defend you, or us. You have my back and I’m going to trust you to help me achieve my dreams. Dad’s gone, and I shall accept others will be special for me. I’m sorry I questioned your intentions.”

  “Mausi. For goodness sake, keep questioning me, because that is what will make us stronger.”

  The music beckoned to me. “Shall we?” I suggested.

  Such a glorious time we had playing his music on my clarinet. Even sight-reading couldn’t stop me from giving my all. We stood opposite each other. My music on a stand while Stefan sang from memory. He didn’t need to see the notes. I listened as his divine voice wove about the sound of my clarinet. His passionate outpouring filled my soul, unifying our relationship. I was his tonic and always would be, and he would remain my Dominant.

  I asked him what the first line said, since he sang in German.

  “As you soar above…” He took hold of my hands in his. “My heart aches to be claimed.”

  I blinked back my tears. “Consider it claimed.”

  Epilogue

  I could declare that everything is running smoothly, plain sailing so to speak, which would make Stefan smile, but life doesn’t offer those kinds of deals. We’re good. That’s what he tells me and I agree.

  Sometimes, he gets heavy-handed and I have to give him a look or a word of warning. Never in the bedroom, or wherever we’re making out, which happens to be often, or anywhere in the studio, especially when my knickers are off and the skirt is short. If I do give him a warning signal, he always backs off, changes what he’s saying, or softens his language.

  People say we’re cute together—the way we touch and smile all the time. We confessed to the orchestra members—not openly, we just stopped hiding that I went home with him. Nobody cared much, a few raised eyebrows, but they could see we don’t let it interfere.

  Mum is suitably besotted with Stefan, because he can look after himself, and me too. Even Charlene, on one of her rare visits south, gave me her blessing. We visited Stefan’s mum one long summer weekend in Devon. Sweet-natured, musical like her son and shy, she said little but watched us together, taking it all in. Stefan and I walked hand in hand along sandy beaches, splashing in the shallow waves… Kissing. We’re improving on the romantic stuff.

  I made a decision, with Stefan’s advice, and opted for a teacher’s diploma rather than a performer’s. I’m almost ready to take the exam. Afterward, I hanker to teach the clarinet in local schools. Stefan is supportive of my idea. He has extra pupils now, too, and his compositions are more concrete—and on paper!

  As for us, when I feel us drift apart and we distance ourselves, I place our duet on the music stand, leaving it there so he can see it. He’s composed other pieces for me, but this is the one for us, the one with the perfect notes. When he sees it there, he knows we need to reconnect, play together…and make love.

  So, we do.

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Touched

  Jaye Peaches

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Tania began the day of her massage in the same way she had for most of her working life—rising early and drinking copious amounts of strong, black coffee. Every morning she ignored the running machine in the corner of her spare room and dived into the shower. The extra time spent steaming under the hot water was far more preferable to a brisk jog. She’d bought the machine six months earlier with the intention of using it every day.

  Her plan had begun well and in those early days of keenness, she had even set her alarm clock twenty minutes early to give herself time. The novelty had worn off much quicker than she’d anticipated. Even with the news channel on the TV, she’d grown bored. It wasn’t that she needed to lose weight—her never-ending diet kept her trim. It was the idea that she would burst out of the apartment full of energy and ready for work.

  That morning, as usual, the shower won. Standing under the monsoon spray, the heat permeating her skin, she simply wanted to shut her eyes and melt away down the plughole.

  She found the mornings especially hard—waking up alone, in a bed made for two, and not having anyone next to her. No masculine dint in the mattress or the aroma of aftershave lingering on a pillow. Ignoring the absence in her life, she often had monologues with her face in the bathroom mirror. She ran through all her outstanding tasks and errands for the day—remember this, speak to so-and-so, pick up fresh bread on the way home. A daily to-do list recited as a mantra and nobody interested in hearing it except Tania.

  After stepping out of the shower, she rubbed down with a fresh towel and wrapped a long cotton robe about her. The steam had glazed over the bathroom mirror. Now she couldn’t even talk to herself, so she headed into the kitchen for the important caffeine fix.

  The apartment was her pride and joy—an investment of her own. It even had two bedrooms. The one she didn’t sleep in was where she had set up a desk and computer. It left the living space, which combined the lounge, dining area and kitchen into one, vast and free of clutter. Tania’s tastes were puritanical. No patterns adorned the walls or furnishings. The floor was bare, apart from two plain rugs, one situated by the sofa to keep her feet warm, the other laid out near the entrance to the apartment—a welcome mat of comfort, which she wriggled her toes on after removing her high heels.

  The kitchen had been fitted with black cupboards and white surfaces—nothing wooden or countrified about her choice of color scheme. No pine knobs on the door handles. Instead, the drawers and cupboards were released with a gentle nudge of the hip. The hob had a large wok ring taking up center stage. Tania loved the simplicity of stir-fries, although she rarely made use of the burner. The refrigerator was of the size found in large family kitchens—an oversized temple for the adoration of quick and convenient meals. The shelves were stacked with prepared wrapped salads, thin-crusted pizzas with minimalist toppings and pots of pasta and sauces. If it couldn’t be heated in an oven or a single saucepan, Tania didn’t want to
know about it.

  Her culinary style wasn’t owing to a lack of interest in cooking. Tania did not have the time to indulge in lengthy sessions with chopping boards, raw ingredients and spice racks. Occasionally, and increasingly rarely, she baked cakes or biscuits for her colleagues in the office. She liked to treat her team to the odd moment of frivolity, typically triggered by a birthday celebration and on those rare days, she almost felt popular.

  Tania suspected she was not admired by her work colleagues. A rapid rise up the ranks did not endear her to everyone, though she focused hard on keeping good relationships with her immediate team members. She accepted the situation with fortitude and ignored the backchat as she continued to climb over the heads of analysts who had been with the firm much longer. If they wanted to emulate her success, they had to work hard—very hard.

  She drove her small team in much the same fashion as she did herself—relentlessly, unyieldingly and ambitiously. She had created a cooking pot of highly strung personalities and she liked to stir them up from time to time. Tania didn’t care that much for the lack of sleep, the stress and loss of social time, but an investment firm was a mean, competitive place to work. The choice was there for everyone—work hard or let someone else take your shoes.

  If there were lessons in life to learn from, Tania closed her mind and ignored them. Her mother should have been the one to warn Tania. She had no doubt seen it all before and had noticed the danger signs, but Tania’s mother was far too happy in her own little bubble to rock the boat and remind Tania what had happened to her father. The long hours, the anxieties of surviving a recession and possible redundancy notices, plus the unsympathetic bosses—all these things Tania’s father had experienced to his cost. He’d keeled over in his early fifties with a heart attack and had left Tania and her brother fatherless. The life of a stockbroker in the midst of a financial crisis was dangerous.