‘I’ve now got a boyfriend, yes.’
‘Great! Where does he live and can he do a sexy paso doble?’
‘Er… Granada. And I don’t know, but he could probably do one on the guitar.’
‘Granada? Is he coming back to England or…’
‘He’s Spanish. He’ll come over when he can, but he’s in a group, two now actually… so sometimes I’ll go there.’
‘But you’re also in a group, Yolly.’
‘Well obviously I’ll try to avoid missing the gigs. But I wanted to talk to you about this… I mean, especially now we’re getting so booked up, I think we should make sure we’ve got proper cover. You know how often one of us has had to play with a streaming flu… Maybe we should recruit a couple of part-time members who we can call on occasionally.’
She finished her coffee, opened her filo. ‘So come on, when are you going and for how long? Presumably that’s what you’re working up to telling me.’
‘No, I’ve thought this for a long time. And it’s not just me - Kirsty’s finding it increasingly difficult… I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits once she’s off maternity leave.’
‘No, she wouldn’t.’
‘She might. And what about you? You’re forever talking about winter holidays with the family but they seldom actually get booked, do they?’
She nodded slowly, agreed there was no harm in asking around.
I flicked over another page in her filo. Two more gigs had landed in the week I was going to Granada.
‘All that week?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Sorry, but…’
‘Well, we’ve got a bit of time. I’ll see what I can do.’
A weary Kirsty arrived, perking up when we told her about our plan. Then we got our diaries out to write down the dates of the new bookings.
‘It’s ever since we got the new website,’ said Helen. ‘A stream of emails, calls and letters. Ooh - which reminds me. Yolly, you’ve got some fan mail.’
‘What? Oh, not that funeral director guy again, please.’
‘He’s sweet, it’ll be different when you see him in a pair of jeans,’ Kirsty said.
‘Ah, but she’s spoken for now, haven’t you heard?’
Helen filled her in and I watched Kirsty’s enthusiasm wane, probably anticipating that I would soon be going through yet another bout of gig-missing heartbreak.
‘Well at least answer him this time,’ she said, as Helen pulled out an envelope from her new TRIO folder. She put her finger on the postmark. ‘Oh. Can’t be him, it’s from round here. Come on, Miss Yolande Martin, let’s find out who your new admirer is.’
She handed it over. Or rather them. Two letters addressed in the same slightly wobbly ink.
‘Bit of a cheek, just assuming I’m a Miss.’
Helen and Kirsty started discussing the likelihood of someone noticing my ringless finger while I was playing, or from the website photographs. But their voices had become a background hum blending with the ringing in my ears.
It was Father.
Chapter 13
librería f bookshop
I could change buses and go and have a look at his place in Kensington. But what was the point? It wouldn’t be his, nowhere ever was; Father was a chameleon, assuming the style of his environment. My feelings were equally changeable: deciding not to write back, composing a letter in my head, then wondering what I wanted a father for anyway.
Mother’s Day. I should have been thinking about her, not him. Jeremy and I usually spent it together, celebrating our Mums with things they’d liked. Fawlty Towers. Shepherd’s pie. Cream tea. Chrysanths. Elvis Presley. Nineteen fifties’ Monopoly with metal figures and a yellow-sellotaped board. But he was helping with another mother’s day; a friend’s wife had gone into labour early with their second child and he’d been drafted in as an emergency and presumably last-resort babysitter. He’d texted me about it during the previous night’s gig, and I was still a bit miffed that he’d declined my offer to come over and join him when I finished. What the hell did he know about looking after a three-year-old?
Helen had said, never mind, go and have one of your Sundays at Foyles tomorrow - we could do with getting hold of the Scottish stuff before Monday’s rehearsal, and you can see what else we might add to our repertoire. Good idea, I’d replied, immediately thinking how I could also look for flute-guitar duets to play with Javi, a new Spanish course, some novels I wanted to check out. And perhaps something on male infertility.
I was dressed for the mission: hair in plaits, tracky bottoms for sitting on the carpet, thin floppy top for the Foyles climate, rucksack for stowing purchases from each floor before moving on free-handed to the next. I looked up and smiled to myself: five fantastic floors of fun. I took the lift to the top.
The volume of twee but essential Scottish traditional music, a promising new book of movie themes, and - oh my God - an arrangement of excerpts from Carmen. I moved on to the Guitar Plus drawer. A collection of famous classics, with a cover showing a flute leaning wistfully against a guitar. And Salut d’Amour, with a shaggy-haired guitarist and a long-haired flautist girl on the front…
‘Love’s greeting, eh?’ The dark curls, the Sunday morning stubble, the darting blue eyes behind the glasses: so familiar but now so alarming.
‘Oh… hello!’
‘How are you doing? What a lovely surprise.’ He put his phone away, kissed each of my cheeks. ‘So what d’you say, buy these now and go for a coffee, or spend a bit longer here and make it lunch?’
‘David, I’m sorry but I’ve really got quite a lot to do, so…’ I forced a smile.
‘There’s that Italian round the corner—’
‘No, I’ll… er… get these and take a break.’
‘Come on then.’
We queued to pay. He tapped the guitarist on the front cover. ‘For you and your chap?’
‘Helen told you.’
‘Are you sure he can actually read music?’
‘Of course he can, he teaches.’
‘I thought these flamenco guys just made it up as they went along.’
‘There’s a lot more to it than that, I can assure you.’ I moved the pile of music to under my arm.
‘Really. You’re an expert now I suppose, having done the course… not to mention the concurrent private instruction.’
I put my card into the machine. He was looking me up and down, probably appalled at my backpacker appearance. I should have been countering with questions about the musical ability of his new lover - some kind of doctor, Helen had said. Apart from an inexplicable relief that he hadn’t taken up again with luscious Lucy, I didn’t really care. But we were going to have coffee and no doubt I’d hear about it whether I did or not.
‘Sorry, don’t mean to make fun,’ he said, looking at me over his glasses. The cute penitent look.
‘I wouldn’t worry, everybody else does.’
‘Here for one of your Foyles buy-ups?’
‘Yup.’
We took the lift to Floor One, walked through the Cookery section where we’d once chosen a book for his sister.
‘I came with you one time, remember? Caved in after a couple of hours.’
‘No, you stayed - just spent the last bit in the cafe.’
‘Yes. Sat here actually,’ he said, taking me to the corner table. ‘Chai latte with soya?’
I smiled and nodded, then glanced at my watch under the table; I still had nearly four hours, but in the time-shrinking medium of the place that was nothing.
He sat down and asked after Jeremy, Charlotte and the kids, where I thought the Trio was going. I learnt he’d been covering for the Principal Clarinet and hoped to take over when the guy retired, how he’d cut down on his teaching to give himself more free time.
Silence.
‘That’s good, gives you more time for…’
‘Vanessa.’
‘How did you meet an audiologist?’
‘An ophthalmologist. She
’s the mother of one of my juniors.’
‘Oh. Divorced?’
‘Yes. Two kids, a full-time job and a great musician. A busy lady. And what with all the orchestra dates, it’s not easy.’
Probably just the way he liked it. ‘But you’re happy.’
‘Yes. I suppose I am.’
We sipped our drinks. There didn’t seem to be much more to say. But then he put down his mug and patted my arm, smiling. ‘Yolande. So good to see you - really didn’t believe you’d be here. What happened to the Mother’s Day ritual with Jeremy?’
‘Postponed. He had to…’ He didn’t believe…? Helen. I looked up from my drink.
His hand went to his mouth. ‘Okay, she told me you’d be here - and we all know that means the entire day.’
‘You could have just rung.’
‘There’s never an answer.’
‘Yes there is.’
‘Only to texts.’
‘No, I spoke to you—’
‘When you were teaching, said you’d call me back later.’
‘Oh. Yes, sorry about that.’ Several weeks ago, when I was preoccupied with my fantasy pregnancy.
‘You’ve never really given me the chance to—’
‘Oh, you don’t have to—’
‘Yes I do.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve never cheated on anyone before, and I’m so sorry - really staggered - that it was on you. I still can’t believe it happened.’
‘It’s okay, we—’
‘It’s not okay.’
I began to wonder where this was going; he’d apologised, we were both happy with other people.
He put his hands together as if in prayer. ‘Yolande… Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I do. Really.’ I briefly put my hand on his. We all make mistakes, I wanted to add, thinking of Nando.
‘I couldn’t give you what you wanted… and I suppose when you’re scared… But Lucy - what was I thinking?’ He sat back again. ‘And are you sure you’re not doing the same with your guitarist? You can’t honestly think there’s a chance you’ll go off to Granada, leaving the Trio.’
Aha, Helen’s little messenger; they went back a long way, he would do anything for her. And, of course, the God of Music.
‘I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell.’
‘And let’s not forget Sadler’s Wells, Covent Garden, this place. And Jeremy - could you actually survive without him?’
I folded my arms and considered walking out. Up just one floor to Languages, where I could stand in front of all the red-and-yellow Spanish courses, just the sight of them conjuring the reassuring warmth of his hug.
‘I’m sorry. Out of order again. I think what I’m trying to say is… don’t do anything rash. And… I don’t want you to go. I want to be able to see you.’
I smiled, wanting to ask how Vanessa would feel about that when they already had limited time together. I quickly assumed it wouldn’t happen.
‘Priscilla Queen of the Desert’s on at the corner,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Seen it yet?’
‘No, I keep trying to pin Jeremy down.’
‘Well why don’t we go instead? A friend of mine’s in the orchestra and can get us good seats with a few days’ notice.’
‘You hate musicals.’
‘Vanessa’s been educating me - getting me to relax about the indifferent singing and just go with the schmaltzy flow and spectacle of it all. Apparently this one’s amazing.’
‘Wouldn’t she—?’
‘She’ll understand. She’s off to a conference at the end of April, how about we go then? A treat to mark the beginning of… well, being friends.’
I wondered how good a friend I could make of a guy who had cheated on me, however sorry he was, but he’d given up his Sunday to ask me this and was biting his lip waiting for a response.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Okay.’
‘Great. And are you ready for lunch yet?’
I probably was, but the shock of our meeting had taken its toll on my energies; I’d had enough of him for one day. I said I needed to press on, but he wanted to look for some music so we went back to the top floor together.
The Guitar Plus drawer was out where I’d left it, but I didn’t want any more comments so I got started on the list of music for my pupils.
I took off my rucksack. ‘Why’s it so bloody hot in this place?’
‘It’s fine over here. Bit cold actually,’ he said from behind a wall of drawers.
‘What?’
‘No really, come here.’
I went round to where he was. He was looking through piano music, for some reason.
‘Here,’ he said, pointing in front of him.
I stepped forward into an isolated polar blast of air con. ‘Bloody hell, it’s like standing in a waterfall!’
‘Ssh! Our secret,’ he said. Arms came round me, his hug bony and tense compared to Javi’s. ‘Sorry, just had to,’ he said into my neck. Then he put his hand to my face…
‘No,’ I said, pulling back.
‘Sorry. Well, that’s the ground rules laid - hugs but no kisses.’
‘That’s right, and you’re going to have to let me get on now.’
‘Okay. I’ll be in touch. Take care.’
He picked up his music - probably a duet for him and Vanessa, I then realised - and went off to pay.
Unless I counted Christmas messages from Steve in Manchester, I’d never stayed friends with a boyfriend; the hurt had always been too great, along with the mortifying realisation that the person I’d fallen for was actually a right bastard. But David had gone out of his way to apologise and explain himself; he really was the sensitive guy I’d thought him to be, so perhaps I was at last showing some discernment. Our friendship would be awkward, but I couldn’t help feeling it was rather grown up to be trying. Perhaps we should have just been friends all along; we were so different.
Take music for an example, I thought, picking up a volume of Tchaikovsky themes that would have made him gag. He was a devoted apostle of classical and contemporary music, his playing flawlessly respectful; I was a user, needing music to enhance or soothe, provide a backdrop to my condition or a narrative distraction away from it. What does this make you think of? I would ask my pupils. Never mind the boring title, hear it as a wordless song, a film score. My playing disobediently departed from the dots, my tempos reliable but frequently mine. Then there was the physicality: I was addicted to the feel of the silky silver keys under my fingertips, the way the phrase-end use of my diaphragm-pressed lung felt like the depth of a sob, the last heave of a laugh. Musically, I was a hedonist. I pictured Javi cradling his guitar, plucking and stroking those strings; he was the same.
Javi. I went down to his section and pulled out the shiny next level of my course and a Spanish crossword book. Heaved a huge dictionary onto the floor, looked up some of the swear words Javi had taught me and put it in the pile.
Then it was back down to the cafe for a panini lunch on a wobbly wooden table. Not David’s kind of thing at all. I looked around the room at my fellow book buyers and found it was like everywhere else - people in pairs. Why would anybody want to come here in tandem? I’ll meet you in Gardening/Travel/the cafe in half an hour: how bloody annoying. Strange I’d never come here with Jeremy, though.
Jeremy. Down another floor to Fiction. Although I knew that much of Cádiz and After Lorca wasn’t. He was always on the bottom shelf, where I could crouch down to run my finger along until I reached Webster. As his mum used to, she’d told me once. Yes, both there. I pulled out After Lorca - I’d lent it to David and didn’t like to be without a copy - and turned to the last page. Thanks to Yol Martin… How many times had I bought one of his books? Enough to stop telling the cashier he was my best friend, but not enough to stop grinning throughout the entire purchase.
Stairs were the only way to descend to the Minus One floor. Inevitably. Reverentially.
Mind, Body and Spirit, but particularly body: the medical floor. It even smelt medical, slight damp fusing with new-book acidity to produce a hospital aroma. The most important floor life and death, and holding up all the others - but denied the relative luxury of the backless seating above; a middle-aged academic squatted to decide between two hefty tomes, two women were camping out on the floor by Alternative Medicine.
Childcare and Pregnancy. Not for me this time the excruciating beauty of the developing foetus, the glimpses of the welcome problems of late pregnancy, wakeful babies and toddler tantrums.
My phone buzzed a text from Jeremy. ‘Remind me again why you want one of these?’
‘Put him in front of a DVD. How’s mum and baby?’ I texted back.
‘Tried that. It was gruesome but they’re fine now. It’s a girl thank God, they don’t need another of this type. Should have agreed to your offer.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, adding a smiley face.
I took off my backpack, snapped off some of the emergency chocolate and scanned the shelves. The Complete Guide to IVF. A book by the TV Winston guy. A very pink Female Infertility.
I moved along to a much narrower section dealing with the other half of the procreative experience, with titles like Night of the Living Dad, The Modern Dad’s Dilemma, The Bloke’s Top Tips for Surviving Pregnancy and Making Sense of Fatherhood; I appeared to be correct in my impression that most men were unwilling and befuddled participants.
This, of course, is the ultimate narrative: how a woman gets a man to give her a child. So the life energy can push forward, on and on. And how sometimes it doesn’t -even, so unfairly, for the men who want and deserve to be fathers.
I went back to the female section; I must have missed something. Or maybe I was in the wrong place altogether, like looking for a book on malnutrition in the Cookery section. But wedged between two fat copies of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, there it was: Infertility. A slim, blue pictureless cover. Very slim, as if there wasn’t much to say. Inside, a black and white picture of three smiling but sensible lady consultant authors. They did have plenty to say, just in rather small print. I sat down on the carpet for a desperate skim read… and smiled to myself; it looked like Javi still had a chance of featuring - starring - in a story of fatherhood. And I might one day have to decide whether Mitch should miss out on being a grandfather as well as a father.
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