“What neighbour? You mean the Bee Wild honey shop?”
“The guy, Hal, is a DIY expert. He offered to do it himself, but I want to do the work myself. So…” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Be warned, if I sand the sitting room floors the day before, the sofa and armchairs will have to be piled up out of the way, and the place will look like a building site.”
We grin at each other.
Chapter Sixteen
Brandon
The new and improved fifteenth of December dawns cold. What people told me about La Canette winters is evident in the frost-white grass around the cottage.
True to her word, Lessa is already down in the kitchen with paintbrush and a tin of duck-egg-blue paint. It’s her idea. I would have been okay with anything…white, cream, grey…but Lessa has strong opinions about colour. Duck-egg is a good colour for a country kitchen.
“You mean if it’s any other colour, I might forget where we are and mistake this cottage for a stylish Paris apartment?” I said at the time which made her laugh. I like making her laugh. It doesn’t happen often. Perhaps, I’m not a funny man.
Women usually laugh at my jokes, but people are much more appreciative of a feeble joke when they are going to sleep with you, aren’t they? Lessa is not interested, she doesn’t even notice how hard I try not to stare at her.
It’s getting easier.
This morning, I make myself a large coffee and take it into my bathroom. The demolition is a dirty, noisy job. After taking all the old fittings and cupboards out to the tip, I have to get down on my knees prise old tiles off with a scraper. It’s hard work, but Beethoven keeps me company. Lately, Beethoven has been a real friend. Miserable bugger that he was, the music suits my mood. Not that I’m miserable, I’m not. Living here with Lessa is surprisingly pleasant and we’ve settled into a nice, friendly domestic routine. But Beethoven is deep, complex, and dominates; his music doesn’t leave head space for unwelcome thoughts.
Several hours, and several cups of coffee, go by as I scrape the floor and the walls while my Bose speakers blare out the 7thsymphony, the Egmont overture, and the trio in C major. That was the piece I played at that last concert, the night before the news about Liam, it’s a beautiful piece, and the oboist on this recording plays it very well. Except, he’s a bit fast, he’s not giving the melody a chance to breathe. When you play, even with the conductor leading, there’s always a little room to add something, an interpretation, an emphasis. And for me, this, section right here… I stop scraping wallpaper to listen. There, that’s it, he rushes in with the trill. I’d have taken an instant, a tiny silence to build up anticipation, let the ear yearn for the melody before you give it to them.
How long has it been since I last played for an audience?
The trio finishes and the next piece plays. I go back to working until it’s all done. I’m just wiping dust off with a wet cloth when the music suddenly drops. I turn to find Lessa has turned the volume down.
“Sorry, is it too loud?” I should have thought to ask her if she even likes this kind of music.
“No, but you couldn’t hear me. Do you mind if we close the windows?”
I had all the windows open because the air got pretty dusty. I pull off my face mask. “Sorry, are you cold?” She’s wearing a jumper and a shawl wrapped tightly around her, but her arms are crossed tightly over her body.
“Why isn’t the heating on?” The cottage relies on the AGA to heat the pipes and normally this keeps the place very warm.
“It is, but it can’t keep up with the wind blowing in. Have you even looked outside?”
The bathroom has a large window facing west; the light outside is fading into dusk. It must be 3:30 or even 4pm.
“Sorry. I can stop now.” I get up, my thigh muscles protesting, and close the windows. “Let me mop the floor, it’s filthy.”
“So are you,” she says. “Go and have a hot shower, use my bathroom.”
What she calls her bathroom is the main family one next to her room which she’s been using.
I try not to limp because my body aches from my ankles to my eyebrows. Her bathroom also needs remodelling, but she’s made it clean, and it smells of nice feminine soaps. I’ve never understood how women can use the same brand of toiletries and shampoo but make them smell so much nicer.
I close the door and take off my clothes. Lessa is right, I’m filthy, even my eyelashes are grey with dust. It takes half an hour under the hot water to wash away the dirt and loosen my stiff muscles. I gather my dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and use them to mop up water around the edge of the shower then realise I haven’t brought a towel. Brilliant! Now I’ll have to call Lessa to bring me one, which means her going into my room. I search my brain to remember if I’ve left it in a state.
Or…I can make a naked dash across the landing and hope not to give her a show. Thinking about that makes the potential ‘show’ even worse. I glare down at my misbehaving body and threaten it with a cold shower. It takes a moment before I can ease the bathroom door open and check. No Lessa.
I make it to my room in three seconds and shut the door behind me, then turn around to look for the towel. It’s draped over a chair. Now that I look around, my bedroom is disgraceful. I’ve spent far too much of my life in hotel rooms where I don’t have to clean anything. Even when I’ve stayed in rented apartments, the expectation that a woman was coming home with me at night, made me tidy. Now, thanks to Liam’s vow of celibacy, my life has turned into a pigsty. Or perhaps I’ve been pretending to be a gentleman all along and the absence of a love life has brought out my inner pig.
It takes me quite some time to clean up, fold everything back into the wardrobe, make the bed, and get dressed in fresh clothes. A shave, then a slap of aftershave over my cheeks. Just because I’m not dating, there is no reason to turn into Bob Geldof. Except that while Sir Bob looks dishevelled,heis a humanitarian who dedicated his life to charity and helping those in need; I have nothing like his excuse.
By the time I get downstairs, the wind outside rattles the shutters, but the kitchen is toasty warm.
“Close the kitchen door or all the heat will escape upstairs.” Lessa warns as soon as I’ve walked in. She has brough in all the cushions from the sofa and placed one of them on the floor near the Aga. “I thought these were more comfortable than sitting on flagstones.”
