Nigel nods. “Yeah. I had an agent, was doing well on the session circuit, had a couple of hotel residencies lined up, and then... bam.”
Caleb and I wait, breath held, to find out what the bam was.
“Arthritis. My fingers swelled up like sausages. I could barely use them for a year or so.”
“Oh God,” I say. “What... What caused it? I mean, you’re so young.” He’s just a year older than Jools.
Nigel shrugs. “No idea. But it was severe.”
“And now?” Caleb asks.
“Not bad.” He wiggles his fingers, which look perfectly slender andfirm to me. “I’m on some pretty hard-core drugs. But I’ve no idea how long they’ll work for, or if funding could be withdrawn for them tomorrow, so... thought I’d better find something else to do.”
I nod. “Hence the auditing?”
Nigel laughs. “Yep. Being meticulous was literally the only other thing I was good at.”
“Do you still play?”
I notice his eyes going slightly glassy as he nods. “Just for fun. Could never... step into that world again. Too... you know. Heartbreaking.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The faraway look in his eye recedes then, and all his features seem to contract suddenly, as if he’s just woken abruptly from a dream. “Hey no, hate to kill the mood. It’s all good.”
Jools smiles. “He’s being modest, but he literally plays piano like ademon.”
“Let’s find one,” Caleb says, sitting up a little straighter and wiping his mouth. “Let’s go to a bar and find a piano. There must be one around here somewhere.”
Nigel shakes his head. “Ah, I couldn’t. Way too rusty to play in public. I’ll give you a tune back at the house later, if you like. I’ve got a keyboard.”
“What did I say?” Jools says, looking at us. “Too modest. Come on, Caleb. It is our duty to find this man arealpiano.”
—
Eventually, we do—a battered-looking upright at the back of a bar that occasionally hosts live music nights. It’s a cramped, badly lit place where the color theme is basic dungeon, and that could do with all the windows being left open for about a week. Still, Caleb stridesup to the bar, and after a little back-and-forth with a surly barman, he returns, triumphant, brandishing a bottle. “Piano’s yours,” he says to Nigel. “For the price of a bottle of cava.” He slings an arm around me, kisses my cheek. “Got you a Virgin Mary. That okay?”
I smile and kiss him back, because he knows it is, that a plain old Virgin Mary will forever remind me of the night we met.
We find a booth with a small table near the back, and after virtually draining his glass, Nigel strolls up to the piano, like the idea’s just popped into his mind to sit down and have a go. As he rolls up his sleeves, takes a seat, and starts to play, it’s clear that he’s much less buttoned-up than you might think on first appearance, that he has music running through his veins.
I’d been expecting—I’m not sure why—something jazzy, the kind of thing you might hear in a Park Lane hotel lobby, or a piano lounge in Manhattan. But he surprises me by kicking off with Coldplay, then Lady Gaga’s “Shallow,” then “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys. After a while, I realize a small crowd has gathered, though I’m not sure where from, since the place was virtually deserted when we walked in.
I settle back in the booth and into Caleb’s arms. His fingers tap out the melodies on my forearms.
“Loving this dress, by the way,” he whispers to me at one point, brushing the hair from my neck, his voice grazing my ear as Nigel plays a tune by Stereophonics. He drops a hand to my thigh, fingering the hem of my dress in a way that I know to be far less absent-minded than it looks. I feel a current begin to race through me, and for half a moment I consider grabbing his hand and pulling him into a dark corner, or to the bathroom, or onto the street outside.
And then I start to worry, regretting again my fleeting doubts of the past few weeks, those stupid fears about Helen that are reallynothing more than my own insecurity. So Caleb has been serious about building a life with someone else, in his past—hasn’t everyone? Haven’t I?
I lean over to him, squeeze his hand. “You and me,” I say, the words barely distinguishable above the piano and the crowd and the sound of Jools whooping. “If I’d moved to London—not being with you would have been the worst thing.”
“What?” he shouts, leaning right into me.
“You and me,” I shout back. “That was the best thing that happened, when I decided to stay in Shoreley.”
Nigel finishes his song with a flourish, and the crowd erupts.
“Sorry, Luce,” Caleb mouths, shaking his head. “Didn’t catch any of that.”
