He clicked on the next email. It was from his brother. What the hell did he want? They almost never communicated and they certainly hadn't exchanged any messages since the row about the piano.
Well then, you old bugger, how the devil are you? Still coining in the millions, I suppose? How's that darling wife of yours? I hope she's making good progress and I really mean that. I've always had a soft spot for Deanna—she's too good for you. Say 'Hi' from me.
The real reason for writing is that I gather from Isabel that there are plans afoot to move Eva up your way. That obviously precipitates action on the piano. I've got to go up to London in a couple of weeks and I'll talk to Eva. If she's okay with it, I'd like it shipped down here as soon as possible. I'll keep you informed. George.
Rick went downstairs and into the kitchen to pour another drink. His head already felt muzzy but the alcohol was deadening the ache in his guts. He crossed the hall to the drawing room. He went round switching on lights. He wasn't satisfied until light blazed from every lamp. He perched his glass on top of the piano. He'd been having lessons for several months now and was practising for an hour each day. He'd even given up running as much so that he could play before he went to work. Mrs Dobson had talked about Grade 1. Rick didn't want to take an exam, but Deanna had been all for it. 'You'll feel you're making real progress,' she'd said.
He pulled out the stool and sat down. He stretched out his fingers. He couldn't understand why it was difficult to move them across the piano keys to any order, when they knew the computer keyboard so well. He opened up his music book and played the first few notes of a Mozart minuet Mrs Dobson had given him to learn. He felt stupid playing 'baby pieces' as he called them and tried to practise when no one could hear. He reached the second bar before he stumbled and played a wrong note. He went back to the beginning. This time he managed several bars before he lost his place. He crashed his fist down on the keys.
Mrs Dobson had smiled when he told her he wanted to play the Moonlight Sonata. 'You'll have to progress before you're ready for that,' she said. He thought of his father's stubby fingers. 'I shouldn't have been a piano player,' he used to say, 'not with these fingers.' And yet, here Rick was, a piano player's son, and he'd never master the instrument.
Twenty-six
Isabel stood by the sink, arranging tulips. She snipped the ends from the stems and pushed each bloom into the narrow neck of the vase. Positioning it in the centre of the table, she moved back to admire her handiwork.
She'd returned from Italy determined to take control of her life. For too long she'd been the flimsy dinghy in raging seas, while her mother's demands, Brian's manipulation, even the children's whims buffeted her from peak to trough. The first step was to make the flat more attractive.
The vivid purples and pinks of the tulips made a pool of colour against the heavy oak units like a spotlight on a darkened stage. Pleased with the effect, she went into the lounge to survey the newly painted primrose-yellow walls. Rose had complained about the smell of paint making her feel sick, and Isabel opened the windows wide. The breeze blew through the flat and her spirits lifted, like ballooning sheets on a washing line.
She made herself go into the bedroom to finish unpacking her case—leaving items in there for a week hardly reflected her new resolve. She stacked the Italian dictionary on top of the magazines on the bedside table. It had been a surprise how much of the language she'd absorbed listening to her mother. She'd always rejected it, siding with her father as the non-Italian speakers in their family. Now that seemed ridiculous—she was going to take a class in the summer term.
She took a pair of trousers and a skirt from the bottom of the case and hung them in the wardrobe. Her hand brushed against the silky material of the dress hanging further along the rail. Grace had persuaded her to try it on in Naples. The red shift had skimmed over her breasts and hips, the gold trim round the neck and front of the dress sparkling against her pale skin. 'That's great on you, Bel,' Grace said. Isabel leaned closer to the mirror. She looked… well… elegant. 'Affascinante!' the woman in the shop exclaimed. 'Does that mean what I think it does?' Isabel whispered to Grace. Grace had laughed. 'Glamorous. She thinks you look glamorous!'
But the confines of a shabby flat in north London provided an incongruous arena for glamour. When the dress was revealed, she was afraid its potency would evaporate.
She sat down on the bed and pulled the laptop on to her knees. She'd avoided looking at it for the last two days, ever since her email to Rick about their mother's reluctance to move. 'Don't worry, Mum,' she'd said when she read the letter from Rick. 'I'll sort it out for you.' And at the time she was pleased with the business-like tone, the 'this-is-something-that-needs-to-be-sorted-out-so-let's-get-on-and-do-it' approach she'd adopted in her email. But she knew from past skirmishes that, thwarted, Rick could be a tyrant, a bully, a despot, a persecutor—the more words she allowed into her mind, the more his lowering rage blackened her sky.
She clicked on her emails and checked the list—two. One had to be from Rick. She let the cursor hover over view emails. She clicked on the link. Two emails in the last two days. Both from Simon.
In the shower Isabel soaped her breasts. She ran her hands over her body as the hot water streamed down her back. She prodded her hipbones. All those years on diets, with Brian nagging her to do something about her weight, had little effect. Now, she was almost as thin as before she'd had Rose. She leaned backwards so that water splashed on her neck and shoulders and down on to her chest.
Her thoughts ranged over the flat, planning her next project. Perhaps she'd paint the hall, which was a dingy green. She was possessive about the little world she'd created. She could leave her music open on the piano; play her Beethoven CDs without having to look at Brian's long face; read in bed until the early hours with no one to complain about the light. She'd gone from seeing the flat as claustrophobic to relishing the freedom. Why should she let a couple of emails scuttle her confidence?
She wound a towel round her and went back to the bedroom. Opening up the laptop again, she pointed the cursor. Her hand hovered. Don't think about it. Do it. She clicked on Simon's first email.
Hi Isabel
Think you should be home from Italy by now. Hope you had a great time with your sister.
How about a drink and you can fill me in? Would be good to see you.
Simon
Was that it? She scrolled to see if there was more. But what was she expecting? She'd scurried away from him at the airport like Little Miss Muffet confronted by a tarantula. No wonder the poor man had kept his email brief.
Something caught her eye at the window, and she watched a little bird perch on the sill. She wasn't knowledgeable about birds, but this was surely a bluetit. She got up and sidled to the window, marvelling at the bird's vibrant mix of blue and green and yellow and white; at its survival in this urban environment. She stared at it and it blinked fearlessly at her.
She went back to the laptop and clicked on Simon's second email.
Hi again
In my attempt not to overwhelm you in my previous message, think I might have sounded too offhand. It would be really good to see you. You've probably guessed that I'd like to be more than friends, but if friends are what's on offer—I'll take it! Give me a call.
Simon
Isabel read the email a second time and then a third. She conjured up an image of Simon's face: intense expression as he listened; the longing in his eyes when he spoke of his son; his mouth, wide with laughter; his fingers, long and sensitive, their delicacy marred by those maimed stumps. She picked up the phone and dialled his number.
That afternoon she took courage and told Rose she was going on a date. 'Cool, Mum. Nice move.' Isabel was surprised—enthusiastic approval from her daughter was the last thing she expected. But Rose put her hair up at the back in a comb and showed her a different way to apply her makeup, so that her eyes looked dark and smoky.
Rose gave the thumbs up when sh
e saw Isabel in the red and gold dress. 'Wow, Mum! You look awesome.'
Isabel laughed. 'Will I do?'
'I'll say. Wait till I tell Dad.'
Isabel met Simon in a wine bar. He'd obviously made a big effort because he was there first and had a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket on the table. His hair was longer than before and she noticed the tendrils curling down his neck. Her fingers itched to stroke them. He hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. Desire flooded her belly.
She slipped off her jacket and he gave a low whistle. 'You look lovely.'
She smoothed down the dress. 'I bought it in Naples.' She kept her gaze lowered; her hand stroking the creases she knew weren't there. 'It's a bit daring for me.' She made herself look up and he was smiling.
'You should be daring more often.'
*
Simon had found a table in a small room off the main bar. When they sat, a waitress came and lit the candle. It glowed in its glass bowl, casting soft shadows across the table. Simon poured out the wine.
'So, how was Italy? Ischia—is that the name of the island?'
'Yes, it's in the Bay of Naples. It's beautiful.'
'You seem more relaxed.'
'It's strange how quickly the stresses of home fall away when you're in a different environment.'
'I hope everything at home isn't stressful.' He reached across and touched her cheek.
Little tingles ran over her skin. 'Simon, about the airport…'
'It's okay. You don't have to explain.'
'No, but I ran off. It was…' What was she doing? She wasn't going to tell him, was she?
'Isabel, you're scared. I do understand. I'm scared. It's not easy when you've been dumped by someone else.'
Oh God. If only that's all it was. It was frightening to think of starting another relationship, but that was nothing. How much understanding would Simon need if she told him the truth? The thought of her dirty little secret caged her like barbed wire.
Simon smiled. 'Anyway, I want to hear about Ischia. How was your sister? Did you talk to her about George?'
Isabel nodded. 'But the strange thing was, she already knew.'
'Don't tell me your mother's revealed the secret to all of you, but sworn everyone to silence.'
'It's even stranger than that.'
Simon went to pour out more wine, but Isabel shook her head. 'I haven't had much to eat today.'
'We can soon remedy that. They do a wonderful selection of tapas here. How about we share some?'
'Sounds good.'
The waitress brought several plates to their table. Isabel realised how hungry she was. She'd been so excited about tonight, she'd hardly eaten.
'Hey, try some of that chorizo sausage.' Simon wiped his fingers on a napkin. 'It's really good.'
'I've got one of the little battered squid,' Isabel said. 'I didn't think I liked squid, but this is delicious.'
'They whet your appetite, don't they?'
'I'm going to have one of these bruschetta. I had them dipped in oil with tomatoes in Ischia—heaven.'
'I'm glad you're back,' Simon said. 'I missed you.'
'What have you been doing? Still busy with clients?'
'I gave myself some time off. And I think I've found a new hobby.'
Isabel smiled. He looked so pleased and proud.
'What are you laughing at?' Simon put on an aggrieved face. 'I try to tell you about my secret ambition, and you laugh.'
'I'm sorry. I haven't heard anyone say "hobby" for a long time. It seems to go with train spotting and stamp collecting.'
'Oh, right. I'm a geek, am I?'
'A nice geek,' Isabel said. 'Tell me your hobby.'
Simon speared another piece of chorizo with his fork. 'I've started writing a story.'
'What's it about?'
He frowned. 'I knew you'd ask me that. It's about two lights in a room. One's a reading light, and one's a table lamp with a tall elegant shade. They've got different personalities, and the reading light thinks it's not as pretty, but it's more important than the lamp that sits on the table providing a background glow. When the people who live in the room go to bed, the lights have an argument.' Simon stopped and looked at her. 'You think it's a stupid idea.'
'No, I don't. I think—'
'I can see it in your face. You think it's stupid.'
'Simon, I think it's great. I could never think up anything as imaginative as that.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
He leant across the table and kissed her. 'You are the most perceptive person I've ever met.'
'And you're the maddest.'
'So mad you wouldn't consider coming home with me?'
Isabel felt the blush spread across her chest and up her neck. She made herself think of cold things: an iceberg; freezing fingers in the snow; the wastes of Antarctica; winter wind whipping across her cheeks. It didn't work. Waves of heat rolled over her.
She met Simon's gaze. She'd keep her tone light like his. 'No, but mad enough to ask you to come home with me.'
He raised his eyebrows. 'That's either very mad, or one of the most sensible things I've ever heard.'
'So, do you want to come?'
'I'm all yours.'
Waking early, before the morning light pierced the bedroom curtains, she enjoyed the weight of his body next to hers. She turned on her side away from him, easing her hips into his lap. His thighs curled around hers and she snuggled back further until she felt his groin against the curve of her bottom. His breathing was light and rapid and feathers of air caressed her shoulders. In sleep, his hand slipped across her waist and reached up until it found her breast. He cupped his fingers round it, and she felt its heaviness settle into his palm. She allowed herself to savour the contentment of the embrace—still plenty of time before they had to get up.
*
Rose appeared at the door as Isabel was saying goodbye to Simon. She'd been staying overnight at Brian's and wasn't expected home for another hour. Isabel tightened her dressing gown round her. She was conscious of her nipples pushing against the thin cotton. She saw Rose's eyes flick to Simon's hand on her arm. 'Simon—Rose. Rose—Simon.' She managed to carry out introductions without too much stumbling over names. Rose shifted her bag on to her shoulder as she pushed past her mother into the hall. She was smiling. She didn't look too upset.
Simon's lips brushed Isabel's cheek. 'Well done,' he whispered into her ear. 'I'll ring you tonight for the verdict.'
Rose was bending down to look in the fridge when Isabel went into the kitchen. She took out a carton of milk, lifted it up high and the white stream cascaded on to the cereal. Drops splattered over the worktop. Isabel didn't say anything. She waited in the doorway, shuffling from foot to foot, her hands clutched in front of her.
'Well?' she asked when she couldn't stand the silence any longer. Rose turned and her long blonde hair swung across her shoulder. Isabel stifled a moment of envy. When had her daughter got so beautiful?
Rose spooned a mound of cereal into her mouth. She was holding the bowl close to her lips and she stared at Isabel over its rim. Their eyes locked and then Rose laughed. 'Your bit on the side? I wondered when I'd get to meet him.'
'You mean you knew about Simon?'
Rose dropped the bowl into the sink. 'You get loads of text messages and emails now. You never used to.'
'How do you know about my emails?'
'We share a computer, Mum. Remember?'
'Have you been reading them?'
Rose frowned. 'What do you take me for? Course I haven't read them, but you never log off from your emails, and I don't need to be a genius when the name Simon keeps coming up as the sender.'
'What do you think then? Do you mind?' Isabel sat down at the table. She hoped Rose might join her and they could have a proper chat.
But Rose picked up her bag and crossed to the door. 'It's cool, Mum, especially as I know you're only doing it to make Dad jealous.'
'What do
you mean?'
'Dad asked me if you were seeing anyone and I told him there was some bloke sniffing round, but that you wanted him really.'
'You had no right to do that.'
'But that's what you've always said. As soon as Dad comes to his senses, we'll be back together as a family'
'Of course that's what I want, but your father—'
'He's come to his senses, Mum.'
'He has?'
'Yeah. He was talking about it last night after Anita went to bed. He's going to take you out next weekend.' She paused in the doorway and as she turned, Isabel caught a flash of something. She studied Rose's face. A small jewel glinted in her daughter's left nostril.
Rose grinned at her. 'It'll be another date. Only this time, it's for real.'
Twenty-seven
Grace met Lilian at their usual restaurant near Piazza Dante. She found her, as always, tucked in the furthest corner, nose in a book and an unlit cheroot between her fingers. She'd been a ferocious opponent of the smoking ban, but had finally given in when she'd been asked to leave a bar.
Lilian stood up as soon as she saw Grace. She barely reached Grace's shoulder and Grace had to stoop to apply her lips to each of her friend's cheeks.
'I was pleased to get your call this morning,' Lilian said. 'I haven't seen you for ages.' She waved the menu under Grace's nose. 'What would you like to eat? I've ordered two glasses of prosecco.'
'I'll have a pizza neapolitana.'
'Are you sure? You usually try something different.'
'Not today. When in Naples…' Grace wondered if she sounded too wistful—Lilian's antennae were sharp.
'Two of your wonderful pizzas, per favore.'
Grace watched Lilian's coquettish smile at the waiter, as she returned the cheroot to its case.
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