Untouchable Things (3 page)

The man smiles but doesn’t accept the catalogue. “I won’t be needing it now. I’ve decided to take this one.” His vague wave of the hand could have been meant for Catherine or the piano.

“Sorry, sir, I’m not sure I understand.” The second man’s face is elongating in wonder, prompting Catherine to shut her own mouth. What is going on? She ducks her head against the barrage of sales patter – excellent choice, methods of payment, delivery dates – peppering her like hailstones. A name, spoken and then spelled: Seth Gardner, without the ‘e’. The ground is swaying slightly and the top of the stairway urges her to get out of this strange land before it moves on and leaves her stranded. The two men are so busy with each other it will be easy to slip away unnoticed.

“Excuse me!” At the ground floor exit she hears a shout. A hand on her arm. She turns into the green-eyed piano purchaser, lit with the shop lights and a smile that is more mischief than apology. She pulls away her arm, surprised at the sudden rush of anger. He moderates his smile. “Look, I’m sorry for that. You just seemed to assume I was a salesman so I, er, carried on the role play.” It isn’t much of an explanation. She moves toward the darkness behind the doors where umbrellas are hurrying past. “But then I heard you play and, well, I just had to take the piano. I wasn’t that serious about buying, but what you did in there… it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.”

A smile is worming its way through the seal of her lips. She tries to check it. “Thank you. It’s an amazing piano. I hope you enjoy it.”

A muscle twitches on his barely stubbled cheek. “I shall certainly enjoy listening to it. I don’t play myself, never taken the trouble to learn.”

Words are sucked from her mouth. He’s buying a £70,000 piano and doesn’t play? “Well, I hope others enjoy it then.” She means to be cutting but it comes out wobbly, tear-tinged. “I’ve got to go.”

Once again a hand on her arm. “Don’t go yet. Come back into the warm and give me a chance to explain. I just need to finish the paperwork upstairs but why don’t you let me buy you a coffee afterwards? There’s a great little place round the corner.”

And that was the first time you met Seth Gardner?

Yes. Sorry, I know I’ve probably given you more detail than you need. It’s just… I remember everything like it was a film.

Could you speak up, Miss Jarret?

Sorry, it’s nothing. I just miss him, that’s all. I – sorry…

Do you need to take a break?

No. No, I’ll be fine. I know this is important. I’ll try again.

Scene 3

Can you tell us about the rest of the evening, Miss Laurence?

Now, there’s a question. It would be nice if she could. It was certainly a night to remember, she’s sure of that, but remembering is the problem. The shape of it was there, later, to admire, but the little details, whole hours in fact, were smudged and indecipherable. There was another round of tequilas, almost certainly. Then Seth’s suggestion of taking a taxi to his club in Soho, which had made her laugh as she pictured leather armchairs and cigars. Of course, she’d got into the taxi anyhow, which made her laugh again as she imagined the disapproving tug of Jason’s eyebrows. He never got cabs, insisting on consulting his
A to Z
at every opportunity to work out a walking route, even when her shoes were killing her.

One street blurring into the other, no idea where they were. It didn’t matter. Seth was talking to the cabbie about which roads were best at this time of night and she leaned back into the seat, content to let the men blabber on about one-way streets and no left turns. His voice rose and fell like a babbling brook of her childhood.
Mellifluous
. The word surprises her. She tries it out in her mouth, savouring the effect on her tongue. At some point after that she may have drifted off.

“… are you?”

She judders, comes to, and looks across, reaching for an expression of alertness. The taxi has stopped. Seth’s eyebrows are raised.

“Sorry?”

“I said, you’re not going to bail on me, are you?”

She sits up. “Not me! Are we here?”

He grins and jumps out, appearing at her side like a magician to open her door and bowing as she makes a less-than-dignified exit.

“And put that away, please.” It’s a good job. She doesn’t have more than a tenner on her. He offers her his arm, this man she’s just met, and she takes it, regretting the tequila and her shoes, cursing the cobbles. She inches forwards like a geriatric.

“Lucky we don’t have far to walk, eh?” He leads her to a black door with a gold knob. No number. No sign. He knocks twice, heavily. “
Now
why are you laughing?”

She bites her lip. “Because we’re knocking on a random door in the middle of Soho. Part of me expects a mad hatter to open it.”

“Ah, the magic threshold. You could have a point. Follow me, Alice.”

A suited man was holding the door open and smiling. Other men seemed to appear from behind him like a cabaret trick, taking their coats and offering drinks. “You know I don’t play cards?” she hissed as she followed Seth upstairs.

“Shame.” He pushed open a heavy double door and blaring house music almost knocked her backwards.

Rebecca blinked. Shadowy bodies gyrated in the smoke and she smelled dry ice. She turned to Seth; his mouth was moving but she couldn’t make out the words over the music. He smiled and let the door close. Abruptly the sound was sucked away.

“Later, perhaps?”

She shook her head and followed him upstairs into a lounge area replete with sofas, soft lighting and jazz. Rebecca felt her senses sharpening.

“You like?”

They were sitting next to a window that stretched the length of the room, like a giant spy hole over the city. Blue-black sky and swirls of smoky cloud gave way to jagged rooftops and, below those, silent traffic and moving figures. Neon flashes lit the glass.

“It’s amazing. I’ve never been anywhere like this.”

“Welcome to Wonderland. I’ll tell you if you start shrinking. Mind if I smoke?”

She shook her head as he took out a silver cigarette box from his jacket. She had never seen anyone use a cigarette box. She was going to ask about it but he tucked it away again quickly. She looked around, wondering how many places like this were hiding in plain sight alongside the London she knew. The waft of burning as he lit his cigarette smelled of danger and possibilities.

“The Singapore Slings are excellent.”

She dragged her gaze away from the window, towards the drinks menu and instantly gave up. “Suits me. Sorry, I just can’t stop looking. It’s like we’re suspended in our own little bubble, but right in the middle of everything.”

Seth exhaled a thin stream of smoke, signalled for the drinks and leaned in. The lights caught his eyes and they gleamed. “Exactly. Look, we’re sitting here sipping our cocktails, having a private conversation, but any time we want we can jump down into the melee.”

For a second she actually wanted to jump, could imagine the arc her body would make against the night sky as it leapt and fell. She gripped the table edge with tingling fingers. He looked at her as if he could read her mind.

“I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, Ophelia.”

“Me too.” But something clanged inside and she dropped her gaze.

“Ah, don’t tell me. You have a boyfriend.”

She looked up with a wooden smile. “Ten out of ten.” Her energy levels were sinking.

“Well, don’t look like that about it. Isn’t that supposed to be my reaction rather than yours?” Seth tapped his cigarette.

“I suppose so. I…”

“Look.” His touch on her hand made her start. “I never expected a woman like you to be single. Believe it or not, I’m not here to seduce you, I’m just enjoying your company. Not that you’re not a tempting proposition, of course.”

“Thanks… I think.” She knew she was blushing and hoped the candlelight would mask it.
A woman like you.
She felt about fifteen.

“Look, here come our drinks. We’ll have one and then I insist on taking you downstairs.”

It was two in the end – a mojito to follow – and she had time to examine him as sips of swanky cocktails flamed her insides. He was easily the best-dressed man she’d ever seen. Everything – navy blazer, lilac shirt, even his jeans, even his shoes, for God’s sake – looked made for him. Perhaps they were.

“You’re looking at my shoes, Rebecca.”

“Sorry. How do you keep suede so pristine?”

He laughed but flicked his hand as if casting aside her question. “Let’s go and dance.”

And that was where the evening became blurred. He sends her spinning like a top and whips her back with a flick of his wrist. She is squealing like a child wanting more, wanting him to stop, sometimes graceful, sometimes stumbling into his arms. Each time she completes a revolution his face is there, steady, two cat’s eyes guiding her home. She knows he is a good dancer and that she must yield to him as he throws her back over his arm, trust that he will hold her up. Sometimes his lips move and although he is looking at her she can’t be sure that he is talking to her. She wants to dance a tango with him, to grasp his face in her hands then pull away, but she is at his mercy, spinning around him and finally, now, begging him to stop.

Then they are outside again on stripped streets. He squeezes her hand. “Back to reality.” A group of men rounds the corner, shouting. One of them waits behind to vomit into a bin. “But any time you fancy, the portal is there.”

“Thank you. It’s been amazing.” She throws back her head and lets sticky hair trickle down her back. Clouds sail hurriedly through a starless sky. Lit by a streetlamp a single leaf is wheeling and swirling, hurtling in the wind. She sighs as she watches it disappear. “What time is it?”

“Oh, you know. Early.”

She grabs his hand and squints at an expensive watch. “God, it’s not really 3.15 is it? I have to get home. Do you think I can get a cab around here?”

“Don’t worry about that.” He turns to face her. “There’s something I wanted to ask you first.”

She steadies herself. “Go on.”

“How do you fancy joining a group?”

“A group? What sort of group?”

“I suppose you could call it a creative arts group.”

“What?” She laughs. “Down at the community centre, that sort of thing? I didn’t have you down as the type.”

“Not exactly.” And he’s not smiling now. “Meetings are at my place. Friday nights usually. The Friday Folly, we call ourselves.” He looks so serious that she squeezes the smile from her face like a naughty child.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. What happens at these… meetings?”

“Oh, someone shows a painting, someone reads a poem, that sort of thing. You could sing us some songs of madness. Then we get drunk and feast on home-cooked food. Of course, if it sounds a bit too odd for you…”

“I didn’t say that.” They size each other up, two gladiators in a ring. A smile starts on his face and passes over to hers. “Okay, sounds as crazy as the rest of this night, so yes, I’ll come to your Friday Frolic.”

“Folly.” He kisses her, leaving a cool spot on her right cheek that she wants to touch. “Good. I’ll be in touch. Now, I think your carriage may be arriving.” He puts his foot into the road and waves at the yellow light. “Unless I can tempt you with further frolics?”

“No, thank you, I’ve been tempted enough already.” She didn’t mean that quite as it came out. The cab pulls up as she tries to explain and Seth puts his finger on her lips.

“Goodnight, sweet Ophelia.”

And then he is gone and she is staring at the space he has left.

Scene 4

Did you initiate further contact with Mr Gardner, Miss Jarret?

Catherine looked at the sheet music, waiting for hush. It was a strange thing, performing at the piano. There was no other instrument where you’d have your back to the audience, all straight spine and elevated chin. She couldn’t see the eyes on her but it was almost worse to imagine them. She breathed twice as her teacher had instructed and placed her hands above the keys.

The loud squelch of a fart bubbled into the silence. Catherine didn’t move but closed her eyes against a swell of titters and tuts.

“Him again.”

“It’s disgraceful. They should take him out.”

“Look at her, poor love. Don’t you take no notice, dear.”

Catherine half turned, half smiled, hands now sinking to her lap. She saw the red face of Fred Worthington lean out towards the ladies.

“It’s not my bloody fault, it’s the food they give you in ’ere.” He jabbed his walking stick at them, to a chorus of Oof!s and Oh!s.

“Quiet, now.” Mrs Pratt’s terrier-like bark cut through the racket. Gradually the room stilled and Catherine listened for the pulsing rhythm of the funeral march before putting her hands to the keyboard. Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 12: not his best known but the slow movement offered intensity, drama and, foremost in her teacher’s mind, the opportunity to practise playing in seven flats. She paced her way up to the climax and brought them down like a pilot smoothly landing a plane.

A small flurry of applause, which she turned to acknowledge. Rose Dowling was asleep, a droplet of drool quivering on the end of her chin. Another lady leaned over to her neighbour with a loud stage whisper.

“Bit boring, wasn’t it?”

“Shhh, Mary.”

“You what?”

“Turn your hearing aid up, you’re shouting in my ear.”

Catherine caught sight of Fred Worthington, face like a skinned tomato, muttering in the corner.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Fred Worthington!”

“Well, what am I supposed to say? It’s miserable enough here without having to sit and listen to my own funeral. Might as well just choke myself in this fucking chair now.” He grabbed his throat and made graphic retching sounds.

Mrs Pratt moved in. “Right, Fred – out. Now.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not bloody staying here.” He banged his stick past the line of old ladies shaking their heads.