How To Choose a Sweetheart (2 page)

“If I know enough, why are you going out with someone else?” Here he goes again. Even he’s tired of hearing the old argument.

“Please don’t.”

“Sorry.” He can’t help himself.  His mind just spins in circles. “What about tonight? Do you fancy....never mind. I’ll shut up and drink my coffee,” which is exactly what he does.   

He gives it some thought and decides to try another angle. “Can you make it here next week?  Get back into the old routine?” 

“I’ll make it.”

“Then don’t forget to bring along a present. It’ll be a year since your big elbow got in the way. We should celebrate.”

S
unday morning in the bookshop feels like the graveyard shift. Light classical music fills the space with what are supposed to be soothing tunes, but are only making Max’s headache worse.

Everyone looks awful.

Max and Chris stand together.

Chris has been leaning on the till trying to sober up, but it isn’t working. Max watches him turn pale, then slightly yellow and then stand bolt upright. He retches, retches again and runs from the till in the direction of the staff door. As he runs, he bumps into a young lady.

She looks straight at Max as if hoping for an answer that might explain his colleague’s behaviour and then she smiles as if it doesn’t really matter.

It’s hardly a big smile, nothing like the beam of Jazz. Even so, it knocks the wind out of Max as much as a heavy punch to the abdomen might.

He watches the woman as she walks away from him towards the notice board at the back of the shop.

She leaves a delicate scent behind her, something like flowers mixed with coconut oil, and Max hopes it’s enough to cover up the smell of the booze he’s been sweating from his pores since he arrived.

The lady takes a pin from the board and puts up a message written on a postcard. Before turning back, she checks its position while Max checks her out. Long, sandy-brown hair, a straight back, a slender waist and a sexy pair of jeans. Wow.

The spell is broken by the ominous tones of the Death March booming from the speakers, and that’s definitely not on the playlist – the manager would have a fit if she was in.  

Chris enters the shop floor again from the staff door, head bowed and stepping in time to the music. He limps straight over to Max’s till and flings himself onto the counter so that he’s lying on his back. He lies there motionless while Max picks up a pen and writes. He holds up two pieces of card, one with the number 4 written down, the other a 2.

“What do you mean six?” Chris snaps.

He throws his hands into the air in mock turmoil then turns to look at the girls at the back till. Each of them holds up two cards of their own, a 3 and a 4, and a 6 with a 7.

“A 6 and a 7! I told you Angela had a thing for me,” Chris says.

“Perhaps she just likes the idea of you dying.”

“I caught her watching me at the party a few times. Thirteen, man. It’s the highest I can remember.”

“What about the Hunchback of Notre-Dame?”

“That doesn’t count. Mags already looks like Quasimodo. She has an unfair advantage.”

“And you already look half-dead, friend.”

Chris turns to look at Angela again.
“
Kisses sweeter than wine, I’ll bet.”

She looks cute with her red waves of hair and the long earrings that are big enough to be seen from where they stand. 

“They’d have to be the crap you drink.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Here goes nothing.”

Chris dusts himself off and walks over to the girls at the back.

When he’s gone, Max deserts his post and wanders over to the notice board.

The card the lady left is written in immaculate handwriting and reads:

PIANO LESSONS WANTED for girl aged six. Flexible in terms of  lesson times. Call Cath on 0207 – 607 3973

The plan forms in his mind before he has time to give the matter any serious thought.

Max looks around to make sure no one is watching. He takes the card and then scans the board for another, one he remembers being there forever, a tatty, brown envelope with a scrawled message. He spots it, takes it down and walks back over to the till.  He picks up the phone receiver and dials.

“Mr Evans? I’m interested in learning the piano.”

“Have you had lessons before?”  The voice on the other end of the line is deep and reminds Max of Richard Burton.

“No I haven’t. I tried the violin, but the teacher didn’t seem to like me.”

“Which was enough to make you give up?”

“I think it was a clash of personalities.”

“Do you own a piano?” It’s a fair, if unexpected, question.          

“I’m still looking. There have been a couple I’ve liked.”           

“When would you like to start?” 

“As soon as possible.”          

“How about 6.30?  The address is on the card.”

“Great. I’ll see you later. Goodbye.”

The phone goes dead before another word is spoken. It seems odd that the man’s so gruff, but he’s not after lessons in politeness.  He’s lucky to get a lesson at all, he decides, which maybe means things are meant to go this way.

When he puts the phone down, he takes a deep breath and considers his course of action. Is he crazy? Asking for lessons like that? He doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. And the teacher sounded a little odd.

Of course he’s crazy, but knowing it has never stopped him in the past.

Before he can change his mind, he switches cards and takes another deep breath.  He exhales, picks up the receiver and dials the next number with his pen.

It’s the answer phone. She sounds divine.

When the beep goes, Max has almost forgotten what he’s calling for. It takes a while to recall and then comes in a rush.

“Hello. This is Maximillian Swarbrick.” He only ever uses Maximillian when he’s trying to make an impression. “I’m calling about the piano lessons. I’m hoping the position’s still available. Bye.”                 

He puts down the receiver, then picks it up immediately and hits himself on the head with it. It hurts more than he meant it to.

This time he’ll leave a message that makes sense.

“It’s Max again. About the piano lessons. You can call me in the evenings at     home on 0207 435 1215, or at work on 0207 435 9797. I look forward to hearing from you. Bye.”

M
ax walks up and down looking for the piano teacher’s house. The light is beginning to fade and he has to strain his eyes to see the numbers on the doors. 

Eventually he arrives at the end of the cul-de-sac and notices a building he hadn’t seen, a house that is far smaller than all the others and in a serious state of disrepair.

He checks the card again, just to be sure. Number 42 it says, matching the number that’s been badly painted on the gatepost.

“Christ,” he mutters to himself as he looks around at the overgrown front garden.

It isn’t looking good, but there’s no other choice. Not now. If he’s going to get away with his pretence and win the heart of the lady from the bookshop, he’ll have to bite the bullet and enjoy the taste.

The only way is forwards, not that the gate is up for such a move. To make sure he doesn’t knock it completely off its rusty hinges, Max walks around it through the hole in the wall and his feet crunch on what he hopes is gravel as he walks up to the front door.

Wires stick out from the doorframe where the bell should be.

To announce his arrival, he makes a fist to knock then stops to look for a place where the bang will cause the least damage.  He chooses the bottom half of the door and raps loudly. The polythene-covered window above rustles, a small gap appears and a voice calls out, a Welsh lilt to the words, “Come in my boy; it’s open.” 

Max carefully opens the door and enters, wondering if he’ll ever get to leave the house alive.

I
t’s the moment of truth.

His meeting with Mr Evans might not have been exactly what he’d expected, but he passed the interview and now has his very own piano teacher. With luck he’ll be able to learn enough to stay ahead in the game.

All he needs is to get the job as the girl’s teacher and he can start to weave some of his magic.

The sun is shining and Max takes this to be a good omen.

He has on a black rockabilly shirt with a red Elvis print as a trim, a pair of cuffed jeans and his favourite blue suede shoes. Over his shoulder he carries a leather satchel containing the music books he bought that morning and the fake business cards he put together on a machine at the station.

Brooke Street is definitely one of the poshest around town, the huge Victorian buildings all neatly whitewashed and decorated with overflowing flower baskets.

When he gets to the right house, he pauses for breath and bends to pick off a tiny piece of yellow cotton that has caught on his left shoe.

What he really wants is a smoke. A shot of nicotine to take the edge off his nerves, but there’s no way he’s going up there stinking of cigarettes. His scalp itches at the thought of a sly drag, but he leaves it alone to make sure he doesn’t mess his hair.

Max takes the steps up to the door, checks the names on the intercom and presses the one labelled Flat B.

The voice coming through the intercom is definitely a woman’s, but that’s just about all he can discern from the sound.

“It’s Maximillian. I’m here about the piano lessons,” he shouts into the box.

There’s more of the woman’s voice and the buzzer goes.

Max pushes the door open. It has a good weight to it, the kind of door that someone took pride in making, he thinks.

Not even the plush feel to the street has prepared him for the sense of grandeur of the entrance hall. A wrought iron banister winds itself up the staircase, with leaves and birds carefully woven into the frame.

Above him, a chandelier, the likes of which he’s only ever seen in hotels and museums, hangs from the communal ceiling. Even with only the little light that comes through the stained glass window above the front door, it sparkles merrily and sends flecks of colour on to the polished, red tiles of the walls.

He wipes his feet on the mat that’s just inside the entrance and thinks he should take off his shoes. Problem is, he’d taken a little less care about his choice of socks than anything else and he can’t remember if they’re respectable or not. Instead, he leaves the shoes on and moves ahead to take the stairs to the ground floor.

When he gets to the top, he stops and feels his heart pounding. He knows it’s not the exercise that’s done it, but the fear that his pretence will be exposed. A pang of guilt stabs at his middle. He’s a fraud.

It occurs to him that he can still turn back. Run down the stairs and take flight. No one will be any the wiser and no one will end up with egg on their face.

Then he sees that the door to Flat B is already open. His feet walk towards it without waiting for his guilt to influence the decision. His hands don’t join in with his body’s rebellion and Max knocks gently on the wood before entering.

Flat B is another step up in class.

The spacious hallway is lined with original oil paintings and pastel drawings, some looking old, others looking modern and more concerned with shape and colour than form.

The woman appears from Max’s left and takes him by surprise.

She looks different this afternoon. Better, even, than he remembers. Her hair hangs in wet strands down past her shoulders and he assumes she’s taken a shower. Taking a shower before he got there seems like a good sign, like she’s maybe decided he sounded handsome on the other end of the phone.

Her look is still casual. She has flip-flops on, with plastic daisies separating her big toes from the rest. She still wears jeans, though they’re a darker shade of denim than the ones he’d seen her in when she was in the shop. Her top causes him some consternation – it’s a thin-strapped shirt that has a low neckline and it takes all Max’s restraint not to let his gaze dip to try and get a better look at what’s inside. He’s helped in this respect by her eyes. He’d not seen her eyes properly the first time. Now, faced with them directly, he almost lets out a swear word. They’re like jewels. Pale green jewels with flecks of hazel that he supposes should technically make them flawed. He almost tells her, even if it sounds utterly corny, but then he hasn’t even introduced himself so he puts on the brakes.

Thankfully she helps him out of his hole by putting out her hand.

Max reaches out and takes it as if it were a lifeline. “Hi. I’m Max. The piano teacher.”

Her face breaks into a smile and Max feels a little warmer now he’s caught the beam of her radiance. “And I’m Cath. Come on in.”

Cath gestures to the room ahead into which the hallway opens and Max walks on through.

There are more paintings, originals by the looks of them. 

A wall of windows leads to a balcony. The furniture is huge and luxurious looking, most of it upholstered in brown leather. The shelves are full of books and old, black-and-white photographs of family groups and of men in uniform. Happily, he notices no pictures of Cath with a ‘significant other’.

The centre piece is a Grand Piano upon which stands a vase brimming with exotic flowers. He thinks that maybe he’ll learn the names of a few plants in case it comes in handy later on.

Max feels a little overwhelmed, as if he’s turned up at a surprise party. He feels the sweat on his palms making them clammy. At the same time he’s oddly comfortable in the surroundings, as if he’s found his place. 

Cath straightens up a couple of magazines on the coffee table by the sofa, not that such a small detail could let down the general impression.

There’s a short silence and Max decides to go with the first thing that comes into his head. “Do you paint?” It seems reasonable to ask.

“When I was at school. Most of these were given to my father.”

Father, not Dad, Max thinks. She’s posh. “He must know some pretty interesting people.”

“He knew many.”

He’s alert enough to pick up on the tense change. “I’m sorry.”