by Jaye Peaches
As I smeared the coffee spillage around, brushing the stain into the fabric, my hand trembled.
He tapped my wrist. “I don’t think that’s helping, do you?”
I ceased my futile efforts at damage limitation and looked straight up into Stefan’s dazzling eyes. I retracted my hand as if spring-loaded. My face bloomed with unwanted heat, my jaw dropped and I desperately wanted a hole beneath my feet to swallow me up.
“I am so sorry.” I backed away, my coffee cup shaking in my right hand. “I’ll get a tissue,” I stammered.
He patted his stomach and grunted.
“Oh, God, I didn’t scald you?” I hunted around for a napkin. Nothing. The coffee soaked into his shirt.
“Callie, isn’t it?” He swept the back of his hand against the stains. Under the dark mop of his bangs, his eyes peeped out, pinning me down.
I cleared my throat and squeaked, “Yes.”
“How’s the arm?” He dropped his hand to his side with a shrug, resigned to losing the coffee-stain battle.
“Fine. I mean… It’s fine. I am so sorry,” I repeated feebly. I was Calamity Callie that evening. The late bus, my sodden trouser roll-ups, the new music and now chucking coffee at this rather impressive and hunky replacement conductor. I wanted to vanish and come back a week later with a clean slate.
“Forget it. We walked into each other. Nobody’s fault,” he said with a shrug and a near smile. “Glad your arm is healed. I need a coffee too, preferably to drink.” Now, he smiled.
Oh, heck. It made me weak at the knees. Where the fuck did that smile come from?
For a few seconds, he kept me in a form of visual captivity. I couldn’t break his hold. Each gigantic thump of my heart boomed in my throat.
“I’ll get that drink,” he repeated. With a click of his heels, he vacated the spot in front of me and left me hanging in mid-air, oblivious to the heat of the cup until it stung. I switched hands and backed away. I cornered myself, sipped on my drink and kept my back to the wall. Debbie pounced, interrogating me about my absence. I muttered responses.
The room filled with bodies. Stefan vanished behind a sea of musicians, and I gave Debbie my full attention. She updated me on Felix. The news sounded bad.
“Stefan responded to our call at short notice. His rates are reasonable. He’s certainly keen.” She flicked her gaze to one side. A tousled head of dark hair appeared briefly between two trumpeters then slipped away again. “Young, too,” Debbie murmured.
Stefan was certainly much younger than Felix, who must have been in his fifties. How much younger?
The second half of the practice session began promptly. I returned to my seat, picked up Nettie with a determined frame of mind—no more hiccups. I’d done the sight-reading stage, familiarity with the music growing with each run-through. I perched on my chair and licked my reed.
Stefan bounced onto the stand, fired with new energy, and flashed his coffee-stained shirt. “Right, enough of Spanish folk. Let’s have a go at the Mussorgsky.”
He changed the music. Shit. I fumbled with the sheets and, with a sinking sensation, found myself staring at another challenging clarinet part—Night On Bald Mountain.
Was he punishing me? Had my clumsy coffee spill instigated the selection? Surely, a worthy conductor would never be malicious or personal in his choices?
“Have you played this yet?” I asked Cordelia.
“Once through last week. We didn’t exactly excel at it.” She sniggered.
Stefan rattled his baton like a saber and waved the beat. I cursed again. Couldn’t he take it slower!
Forty-five minutes later, I folded my stand away. I rammed the tripod legs together, nearly catching my finger. My brain had expired. My only consolation was that Stefan hadn’t picked me out individually. Instead, he’d labored the French horns until the lead horn player, Mark, had seemed to deflate with frustration.
“Is he always like this?” I’d whispered to Cordelia during a short interlude while Stefan dissected the strings.
“What? Oh, a hard taskmaster, yeah.” She’d frowned. “But, we all agree we’ve achieved more in four weeks with Stefan than months with Felix. Poor man. He mustn’t know.” She’d shaken her head.
I assumed she meant Felix.
I took my time disassembling Nettie, cleaning out her insides. The last bus left a little after ten and with rain cascading down the windows, I was in no hurry to stand in a downpour at a bus stop for a second time.
Stepping out into the persistent cloudburst, I yanked up my hood, clutched my music case to my chest and resigned myself to being drenched yet again.
“Callie?”
I started. The name rang out from the roadside. I turned and saw him standing next to a sporty BMW parked by the curb.
“You’re catching a bus?” Stefan had the driver’s door open. He’d paused half in and out, a foot in the well.
I nodded.
“Where to?”
I hesitated. He flicked his hair out of his eyes. The rain fell heavier, pattering on the pavement. I told him the name of my street.
“Get in. It’s on my way home.”
Seriously? A big coincidence or a lie. I hardly knew the man. I shivered. The wind caught the tip of my nose and blew the hood off my head. I yanked it back down and stepped toward the passenger door. Stefan came around, quickly unburdening me of my stand and music case. He placed them in the boot. He didn’t take Nettie. A musician never parts easily from their instrument.
I gawped when he opened the passenger door for me. Suddenly, he was all gentlemanly.
“Hurry up, I’m getting soaking wet,” he said briskly. My little bubble burst. So much for courtesy.
He slipped into the driver’s seat, started up the engine and shifted the stick. Not an automatic, which surprised me.
He wrapped his fingers around the gear stick. Long fingers. A thick gold band around the middle one. Under the streetlight, something glinted, a letter or a symbol, carved into the surface. I jolted. The car rapidly accelerated away from the curbside and sped off down the road.
“How did you break your arm?” he asked bluntly.
Whipping off my hood, I held my left arm protectively. “I came off my bike.”
“Motorbike or bicycle?” Another crisp question seeking a precise answer.
“A bicycle. A Raleigh, ten speed with a little basket on the handle bars.” An accurate description, except it now lay in the back yard with a seriously warped front wheel. “I didn’t see the pothole.” Memories cascaded. Vivid recollections. I’d reached out, my hand had jarred on the curb, the bone had snapped, then I’d let out a scream that flew out of my mouth. I remembered the pain. I’d lain in the gutter clutching my arm with cars swooping by until one had stopped to investigate. “I don’t have a car. So, now I’m bussing everywhere.”
“It’s better, though, the arm?” He spun the car around a corner, the wheels squealing.
Didn’t he care about the wet road surface?
“It aches a little.” Actually, it throbbed. Perhaps I’d started back too soon. The splint only came off two days earlier, but the physio had told me to use it.
“Ah, I’ve given it too much of a workout tonight.”
I thought he was being sympathetic until I heard a light chuckle. I rubbed my arm through the coat sleeve. A simple fracture, according to the Emergency doctor, but it had hurt like crazy. Was I a wimp?
“No. Just that…” I didn’t want to make excuses. “I hadn’t expected to sight-read tonight.”
Stefan, who up to that point hadn’t taken his eyes off the road and the pouring rain, shot a glance at me. I spotted the raised eyebrows. Thin dark lines above his eyes. “Seriously? I’m impressed. I assumed you’d practiced.”
I perked up at that remark. He genuinely looked embarrassed by his erroneous assumption and taken aback at my reason.
“Nope. Nobody told me about Felix or your change in repertoire.”
“You mind? I
mean about the music.” He stopped at a red light and pivoted about his hips. His raised eyebrows grabbed my attention.
My opinion mattered?
I straightened and let go of my arm. “I like your choices. A little bit of a step up for us—me,” I corrected. I couldn’t speak for the others, could I? “Light’s changing.” I pointed out the window at the green glow.
Stefan snapped the gear into first with a smack of his palm. “Nobody told you? A simple email from Debby?”
A grimace unfolded on his face. Well, half a grimace, as I could only see him in profile.
I shoved my hands under my thighs and stared into my lap. “I don’t have an email account,” I mumbled. The admission hurt more than my arm.
“No email?” He slammed the car into third, skidding slightly.
I clung to the edge of my seat. “I can’t afford a computer. We don’t—that’s me and my flatmate—we don’t have Wi-Fi or anything.” I didn’t want to sound apologetic, but the words came out defensively. Why hadn’t anyone rung me? The idea annoyed me. Just because I didn’t attend the after practice drinks session in the Red Lion didn’t make me a social pariah. I went to the big occasions, the Christmas bash, the post-concert celebrations.
“You have a phone. Doesn’t it receive email? Texts?”
I cringed at my inadequacies. Of course it did. I owned a phone like that, but who’d want to spend all day sending emails on such a piddling device? I scowled. Why the fuck was I defending myself? What happened to speaking on the end of a phone? Was it only my mother who filled the airways with her voice—didn’t people talk anymore?
“Sorry, I’m a Luddite,” I snapped abrasively. “I use email at work. I’ll give Debby that address, okay?” I wouldn’t, but what the hell did it matter? She had my telephone number and that should have been sufficient. A great first violinist, but a useless orchestra leader. If Cornelia had kept me informed, I’d at least not have looked a complete idiot to the rather sexy man sitting next to me.
He chuckled. “Tetchy, aren’t we?”
I folded my arms across my chest and turned away, fixing my sight on the blur outside the passenger window. A definite defensive posture. I’d gone from embarrassed to indignant in seconds. I couldn’t wait to reach home.
He stroked the steering wheel with his fingertips. “Sorry, that was rude. Somebody should have told you,” he growled. “It’s disrespectful. You’re a good clarinetist.”
His flattery caused a bloom of heat to rise across my face, then I wondered if he was patronizing me. Who exactly was this guy?
“Where do you work?” he asked.
The man was also a bottomless pit of questions. “I work at a florist. I have to be in at seven to take a shipment of roses. I can’t cope with a late night, so I don’t do the drinks.”
“I’m a lark too.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Which number?” He pointed at the street we’d entered—my road.
Did I tell him or let him drop me off at the top of the road? Even though I didn’t think we’d hit it off brilliantly—I’d spilled coffee over his white shirt, after all—did I feel real antipathy toward Stefan? And what was it about his voice, the way he spoke, that intrigued me? I chewed my lip. A quick decision. Gut instinct.
“Number thirty-two. Other end. By the street light.” I waved a finger out of the window. “There.” I pointed at the red front door.
Stefan cranked the parking brake up.
“Thank you for the lift,” I said politely.
“My pleasure,” he said softly. “Let me get your stuff.”
He handed me the stand and case. The rain had stopped. We hovered on the pavement.
“You do really live nearby?” I had to know. Was it a ruse?
“Yes”—he cocked his head, gesturing over his shoulder—“Grantchester.”
Close enough. “I best… Thanks,” I said lamely.
Stefan wandered backward, his dark eyes glinting under the street light. “Goodnight, Callie.”
He articulated the words in his distinct fashion. My muscles tensed, quickened in long-forgotten places. A once familiar response. Oh, my God. It wasn’t possible. Not that simple or easy. Those kind of emotions took time to cultivate. They just didn’t happen on the pavement, on a damp night. I dashed up the front path of my little terraced house, not daring to look back.
The engine roared, drowning out my pounding heartbeat.
* * * *
I opened up the Golden Lily florist on automatic pilot. Seven o’clock. Bleary-eyed and clutching a mug of steaming coffee, I waited for the arrival of the wholesale truck and its delivery of roses.
Thankfully, I lived within walking distance. The demise of my bike hadn’t harmed my commute to the nearby shop. I’d had the companionship of Talia that morning in the kitchen. My flatmate worked at Addenbrookes Hospital as a theater nurse. It made for early starts and the occasional opportunity to catch up with my absentee cohabiter. When she wasn’t working, Talia spent most evenings with her Czech boyfriend, a PhD student. They made an odd couple. A Pole and a Czech who conversed in their common language—heavily accented English.
That morning, with the oppressive winter darkness hovering outside the kitchen window, we’d spoken in fits and starts, neither of us quite wanting to wake up and engage our minds. Talia had asked about my arm and the orchestra practice. I’d lied and said that it’d been fine—note perfect, I’d boasted.
She’d been knocking back a bowl of muesli and paused mid-spoonful, her blonde hair tied back into a meticulously neat bun. Her lips had pursed. “You liar.” Not one for sarcasm or irony, she’d shaken her head and finished demolishing her breakfast. She hadn’t exactly taken care of me during my one-armed days, but neither had she been uninterested in my welfare. I supposed I’d come too close to being an off-duty patient.
Bridget and Al, thankfully, had been kind and supportive. My bosses, co-owners of the florist, hadn’t quibbled my need to recover. The first week after my tumble, they’d let me take a few days off. After the break, when I’d appeared in my pink plaster cast, they’d given me light duties—no carrying bucketloads of flowers or cans of water.
Before joining them, I’d never realized what physically demanding work a flower shop could entail. Early shifts, making up arrangements, carrying displays in and out of the cold storage room when the shop closed. I’d fretted that they would let me go if I couldn’t pull my weight.
Bridget had wrapped an arm over my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. “Poor thing, why would we? Who would do my early morning deliveries?”
She’d chuckled, and I’d hidden a grimace. Bridget was not a morning person.
While Al managed the books, suppliers and deliveries to customers, Bridget created floral masterpieces. Weddings, funerals and anniversaries, her passion remained bouquets. I was left to do the basic floral arrangements. The bunches of flowers that passers-by impulsively bought. The husband who’d argued with his wife over breakfast picking up a dozen roses on the way home from work, or the negligent son buying carnations for his doting mother. I spotted the signs—the awkward words penned in accompanying cards—while I wrapped the stems in paper and sent my customers on their way.
The truck arrived at eight, mounted the pavement, and the Dutch driver helped me unload the trays of colorful roses into the back of the shop. By the time Bridget breezed in, he’d gone.
The advantage of a dawn start was the early finish. At three-thirty, I grabbed my handbag, waved goodbye to Al in the back room then trudged down the road in the dwindling light to my little terraced house.
Nettie was my priority. Six weeks of neglect and a heap of new music to learn. I was determined to catch up and show Stefan I could cope with his stepping-up mission. With the neighbors at work and Talia still at the hospital, I could sing out as much as I liked.
I heard a smothered bleeping over my scales as I warmed Nettie up. I hunted in my handbag until I found my mobile. A message from Debbie apologizing for
not having kept me informed about Felix. I fingered the screen, uncertain whether to respond or not. The words might have been penned by Debbie, but I could see Stefan’s hand behind the text. He’d spoken with her. The word ‘disrespectful’ rang in my head from the previous evening. I sent a brief acknowledgment telling her not to worry. Deep down, I knew I’d been offended, only now I wasn’t sure if Stefan stepping in made me feel any better. I tossed the phone back in my handbag and went back to Nettie.
The weekend crept up quickly. No work, as I only helped with the odd Saturday when Bridget had a rush of weddings. In the winter months, things eased off until Valentine’s Day. I planned to do the weekly grocery shop then more practicing. Sod the achy arm. Great plans until my mother called and demanded my company.
I groaned. It wasn’t simple. Mum didn’t drive. I had no car. With my bike out of action—not that I fancied pedaling six miles to her village—it meant the cursed bus. No rain, at least. A small mercy, standing at the familiar bus stop. I’d have to change buses. What would have taken fifteen minutes in a car would take nearly an hour on the bus.
Loneliness. I understood the misery it brought. Since I’d broken up with Micah six months earlier, the solitude had crept back into my life. My mother had lived with it for five years, ever since Dad had died. Cancer, people would ask, or heart attack, maybe a stroke? I brushed aside their curiosity. They’d never have guessed that my father died of pneumonia brought on by chicken pox.
It had taken Mum a year to accept that he’d gone. She lived in a cocoon of denial, refusing to dispose of any of his things. My sister, who lived in Scotland, had visited, trying to persuade Mum to move on, then she’d given up and returned to Edinburgh, leaving me to handle Mum’s frequent mini crises.
Today? A trip into the attic to retrieve a suitcase.
“You know I hate confined spaces,” she’d explained over the phone.
“Where are you going, Mum?” I’d asked before heading off to catch the bus.
“Your sister’s. She’s invited me up for the week and a little time with my grandson.”
Charlene, the perfect daughter. An accountant married to a worthy businessman with whom she had a two-year-old son. Me? The florist’s assistant, who had gone to work for the summer, intending to start college, and three years later, was still there. Waiting for what? My pipe dream to study music suspended indefinitely. My music-loving father gone, taking with him his words of encouragement, and my grand plan to apply to the Academy of Music or the Royal Northern College seeping away.
