‘I’m the human jukebox and you’re the human vending machine.’
‘Only for women with PMS.’
‘Right. Not as versatile as me.’ I wiggled my fingers over the keys, and he smiled. Every time I managed to get him to smile it was like I should receive a Girl Guiding badge for the achievement.
‘That’s so impressive,’ he said, still contemplating me.
‘You haven’t heard me play yet, to be fair.’
‘I heard your student play in the band at the Christmas festival. That has to count as evidence.’ His mouth tilted with gentle affection as he looked at me. ‘That was why you weren’t able to stay still, wasn’t it? You were bursting with pride. And rightly so – what a gift to be able to share your talent with people and then see it grow.’
My heart was getting too big for my chest again. He really understood how much it had meant to me and wasn’t judging me for it. That pay-it-forward mentality was instilled in me from my dad, the joy he’d found in sharing his love for music with me. I’d never questioned that following in his footsteps was the right thing to do… Until I faced Peter’s resentment on a daily basis. He’d made me feel like such a silly little girl dreaming that I was special when in reality I was just being pretentious. But in this moment with Nick, who’d asked me to play because the music would help him, and who could see the value in what I had done – and could do – I knew Peter had been wrong. People needed music, just like they needed art and books and films, to connect with and express themselves and Nickgotthat.
‘Thank you,’ I murmured, then cleared my throat. ‘Have you thought of a song yet? I can give anything a try, if I know it well enough.’
He shook his head. ‘Every song I’ve ever heard has disappeared from my mind.’
I laughed. ‘Okay, grab your phone. What was number one when you turned fourteen? Apparently, it’s meant to sum up your childhood or life or something?’
‘Says who?’ He raised his eyebrow but still pulled his phone out of his pocket, necessitating him leaning back and lifting his shirt, so a strip of his stomach was revealed above low-hanging jeans, the contours of his muscles deepening as he flexed, nearly making me slide off my chair in a pile of drool.
‘The experts. On Twitter.’
‘Oh, the experts on everything.’ He unlocked his phone and tapped away, then snorted. ‘Busted’s version of “Thunderbirds Are Go”.’
‘Ha.’
‘I don’t think it’s a fool-proof system.’
‘No.’ I put my hand on his leg as I tried to stifle my giggles. ‘No. I think there’s something to it. You’re a pilot. The Thunderbirds flew things.’
‘Let’s check yours then. See how accurate it is.’
‘Fine. October 1st,’ I leaned in and whispered the year in his ear, pretending to keep it a secret, but there was no one in the room and even if there was, I didn’t care if they knew my age. I was being a shameless flirt.
His long fingers tapped the tiny keyboard and he shook his head. ‘Scissor Sisters. “I don’t feel like dancing”.’
I chewed my lip. ‘I’m not sure I even remember that.’
‘No?’ He broke into a high falsetto, of which I could barely understand any of the words. I just about caught the tune and the song came back to me and I started to play along to his exaggerated version, hitting the piano keys quickly to match the honky-tonk vibe of the song. Eventually he had to stop because the high-pitch induced a coughing fit. I stopped playing, tears streaming from my eyes in laughter and I rubbed his back as his chest heaved, ribs moving under my hand, spine flexing. I couldn’t help but stroke my hand up as he was able to breathe again, sliding my fingers through the short brush of hair at his nape.
He leaned his head back into my touch and sighed slowly. When he turned to look at me his eyes were shiny-bright blue, but his smile was gone. The look he gave me touched me; reached inside me and touched the centre of me so that I trembled.
‘Beth,’ he murmured and took my hand from his neck, to hold between his. ‘Beth,’ he tried again, swallowing, like there was something stuck in his throat. He made a soft sound of frustration, head bent over our hands and I leaned my forehead against his, looking down and waiting. He was trying. He was trying to say it. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard any Agnes Obel?’
‘Yes.’ I licked my lips. ‘She writes beautiful songs. I learnt a few of them. It was a couple of years ago though.’
‘Do you know “Words are Dead”?’
That part inside me he’d touched began to ache. I knew this song. It was about a love that had died, that first blush of infatuation that fades out, but that wasn’t why he was choosing it. Or at least, I didn’t think so. The lyrics were full of the hauntingly beautiful imagery of a funeral for words that couldn’t be said.
I nodded, our heads rubbing together, and closed my eyes too for a moment, recalling the music. When I caught at it, I was sure I had the beginning that would trigger the rest to follow, I sat up and reached out with my left hand, almost central, touching the keys lightly, tripping into it with that deceptive opening, almost frolicking before her breathy voice would normally start. But I didn’t sing. We both knew the words.
I pulled my right hand free carefully when I needed both to play. He let me go. Transferred his grip to the wooden edge of the seat we were balancing on, his knuckles going white, his eyes focused on my fingers as I picked out the melody and layered it with the chords. Such pure notes, ringing out and a bittersweet joy filled me at the perfection of it. I put everything I had into it for him as I sunk into the music. My arm brushed against his as I stretched for the higher notes, but it wasn’t too great a range. And then it was coming to the end.
There was quiet in the room and when I looked at him, he had his eyes shut again. ‘Nick?’
He breathed in deeply through his nose and looked at me.
