He sits down, hands me his glass and opens the lid. For a few moments, his beautiful fingers rest gently on the keys, his eyelids lowered. I wait, almost holding my breath, not entirely sure what I’m expecting to hear. Running his hands up and down the keys, Nick glances at me, then plays a couple of quick scales. Taking a few deep breaths, he positions his hands and starts to play. I’ve never heard the piece he’s playing, but he’s utterly lost in the music, body swaying and eyes intent on his hands. As the last notes die away, he turns on the stool to face me. I’m sure my jaw is hanging open, my eyes popping from my head. I have no idea what to say.
The silence draws out, until, seeming embarrassed, Nick clears his throat. “So.” His cheeks are pink and he can’t quite meet my eyes.
“Nick,” it’s barely a whisper, “that was magnificent.” Another puzzle piece clicks into place. Nick has the soul of an artist.
He reaches out and takes his glass from my hand, swigging a big mouthful. He seems self-conscious and uncomfortable.
“I can’t believe you don’t play anymore. You’re so good. You must have had lessons for years.”
“Years and years. Mum insisted. Dad thought it was a waste of time. I was the meat in the sandwich.” He hangs his head, as if admitting that is somehow shameful.
“Did that happen a lot? The meat in the sandwich thing?”
“Enough. Too much. It’s the same in every family, I guess.”
Whoa. There’s some deep-rooted family shit going on here. The look of discomfort on his usually self-possessed face breaks my heart. No wonder he doesn’t do relationships. He’s as fucked up by his childhood as I am by mine. I search for something light to say, to lift the mood.
“You know what this needs to make it perfect?”
“No. What?” he asks eagerly, grasping at anything to save him from further discussion about his family.
“APretty Womanmoment.” I kick off my shoes, take his glass of scotch back, and put both glasses on a nearby table.
“A what?”
“You know, the piano scene in the moviePretty Woman.”
“Never seen it.”
I know you don’t get to be a lawyer, or get a scholarship to Oxford by hanging out at the cinema, but it never ceases to amaze me what a small life Nick has led up to now.
“Never seen it? Then you’re in for a treat, Mr Pierce.” I saunter towards him, undoing the buttons on the front of my dress before sliding between the stool and the piano. “In this scene, Vivienne finds Edward playing piano. And when he finishes, he lifts her onto the top …” I place his hands on my hips and indicate he should lift me onto the piano. His eyes are molten as he follows my instructions.
“And then?” His voice is low and hoarse with need.
“Then he plays her like a fiddle.” And I lie back. Just like in the movie.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nick
Lulu’slofthasenormouswindows along one wall, opening out onto the flat rooftop of the factory below. It’s nothing more than an ugly concrete roof with a wall on one side, windows on another, and her loft on a third, but in typical Lulu style she has painted a mural on the wall and decked the space out with plants, a couple of sun lounges and some fairy lights. On Friday night, I arrive to find her reclined on one of the sun lounges—she never locks her door, much to my exasperation—a glass of wine in hand. She’s wearing a short t-shirt dress and, I can already tell, no bra.
I hadn’t noticed it before, but in the far corner is a small portable clothesline. Fluttering in the warm evening breeze are several of my shirts, socks and jocks. The scent of the jasmine she has growing up the wall is thick in the air.
“Oooh good, you’re home. Perfect timing. I just opened a bottle.” She lifts an almost full bottle of my favourite red from the table beside her and pours a glass, pursing her lips for a kiss as she hands it to me. I don’t know if she realises she’s referred to her place as my home, and I don’t correct her, although I can’t help but register how nice it feels.
“What’s that?” I gesture to the clothesline with my glass while loosening my tie and sitting down on the end of her lounge.
“A clothesline. It’s used to hang wet clothes on. Very handy invention. A gentleman by the name of Mr Hill, I believe,” she replies, her tone dry.
“I meant my shirts and things.”
“Well, I was doing a couple of loads, so I put your things through the machine as well.” She looks momentarily nervous. “I hope that’s okay?”
In reality, it goes against the whole ‘not a relationship’ discussion. But then, so does staying over every night and making me breakfast. And all the post-orgasm soul-baring conversations we have fallen into the habit of having. And I find I like it. A lot. It makes me nervous. But it also makes me happy.
“I don’t expect you to do my laundry, Lu.” But I know she can see by my expression it’s more than okay. Ordinarily, I send my suits and shirts out to the dry cleaner and my housekeeper takes care of the rest of my washing. I can’t remember anyone, even my mother—especially my mother—doing my washing for me out of the goodness of their heart. I feel a lump form in my throat at the simple kindness of the gesture.
