How To Choose a Sweetheart

by Nigel Bird

  It’s the answer phone. She sounds divine.

  When the beep goes, Max has almost forgotten what he’s calling for. It takes a while to recall and then comes in a rush.

  “Hello. This is Maximillian Swarbrick.” He only ever uses Maximillian when he’s trying to make an impression. “I’m calling about the piano lessons. I’m hoping the position’s still available. Bye.”

  He puts down the receiver, then picks it up immediately and hits himself on the head with it. It hurts more than he meant it to.

  This time he’ll leave a message that makes sense.

  “It’s Max again. About the piano lessons. You can call me in the evenings at home on 0207 435 1215, or at work on 0207 435 9797. I look forward to hearing from you. Bye.”

  THREE

  Max walks up and down looking for the piano teacher’s house. The light is beginning to fade and he has to strain his eyes to see the numbers on the doors.

  Eventually he arrives at the end of the cul-de-sac and notices a building he hadn’t seen, a house that is far smaller than all the others and in a serious state of disrepair.

  He checks the card again, just to be sure. Number 42 it says, matching the number that’s been badly painted on the gatepost.

  “Christ,” he mutters to himself as he looks around at the overgrown front garden.

  It isn’t looking good, but there’s no other choice. Not now. If he’s going to get away with his pretence and win the heart of the lady from the bookshop, he’ll have to bite the bullet and enjoy the taste.

  The only way is forwards, not that the gate is up for such a move. To make sure he doesn’t knock it completely off its rusty hinges, Max walks around it through the hole in the wall and his feet crunch on what he hopes is gravel as he walks up to the front door.

  Wires stick out from the doorframe where the bell should be.

  To announce his arrival, he makes a fist to knock then stops to look for a place where the bang will cause the least damage. He chooses the bottom half of the door and raps loudly. The polythene-covered window above rustles, a small gap appears and a voice calls out, a Welsh lilt to the words, “Come in my boy; it’s open.”

  Max carefully opens the door and enters, wondering if he’ll ever get to leave the house alive.

  FOUR

  It’s the moment of truth.

  His meeting with Mr Evans might not have been exactly what he’d expected, but he passed the interview and now has his very own piano teacher. With luck he’ll be able to learn enough to stay ahead in the game.

  All he needs is to get the job as the girl’s teacher and he can start to weave some of his magic.

  The sun is shining and Max takes this to be a good omen.

  He has on a black rockabilly shirt with a red Elvis print as a trim, a pair of cuffed jeans and his favourite blue suede shoes. Over his shoulder he carries a leather satchel containing the music books he bought that morning and the fake business cards he put together on a machine at the station.

  Brooke Street is definitely one of the poshest around town, the huge Victorian buildings all neatly whitewashed and decorated with overflowing flower baskets.

  When he gets to the right house, he pauses for breath and bends to pick off a tiny piece of yellow cotton that has caught on his left shoe.

  What he really wants is a smoke. A shot of nicotine to take the edge off his nerves, but there’s no way he’s going up there stinking of cigarettes. His scalp itches at the thought of a sly drag, but he leaves it alone to make sure he doesn’t mess his hair.

  Max takes the steps up to the door, checks the names on the intercom and presses the one labelled Flat B.

  The voice coming through the intercom is definitely a woman’s, but that’s just about all he can discern from the sound.

  “It’s Maximillian. I’m here about the piano lessons,” he shouts into the box.

  There’s more of the woman’s voice and the buzzer goes.

  Max pushes the door open. It has a good weight to it, the kind of door that someone took pride in making, he thinks.

  Not even the plush feel to the street has prepared him for the sense of grandeur of the entrance hall. A wrought iron banister winds itself up the staircase, with leaves and birds carefully woven into the frame.

  Above him, a chandelier, the likes of which he’s only ever seen in hotels and museums, hangs from the communal ceiling. Even with only the little light that comes through the stained glass window above the front door, it sparkles merrily and sends flecks of colour on to the polished, red tiles of the walls.

  He wipes his feet on the mat that’s just inside the entrance and thinks he should take off his shoes. Problem is, he’d taken a little less care about his choice of socks than anything else and he can’t remember if they’re respectable or not. Instead, he leaves the shoes on and moves ahead to take the stairs to the ground floor.

  When he gets to the top, he stops and feels his heart pounding. He knows it’s not the exercise that’s done it, but the fear that his pretence will be exposed. A pang of guilt stabs at his middle. He’s a fraud.

  It occurs to him that he can still turn back. Run down the stairs and take flight. No one will be any the wiser and no one will end up with egg on their face.

  Then he sees that the door to Flat B is already open. His feet walk towards it without waiting for his guilt to influence the decision. His hands don’t join in with his body’s rebellion and Max knocks gently on the wood before entering.

  Flat B is another step up in class.

  The spacious hallway is lined with original oil paintings and pastel drawings, some looking old, others looking modern and more concerned with shape and colour than form.

  The woman appears from Max’s left and takes him by surprise.

  She looks different this afternoon. Better, even, than he remembers. Her hair hangs in wet strands down past her shoulders and he assumes she’s taken a shower. Taking a shower before he got there seems like a good sign, like she’s maybe decided he sounded handsome on the other end of the phone.

  Her look is still casual. She has flip-flops on, with plastic daisies separating her big toes from the rest. She still wears jeans, though they’re a darker shade of denim than the ones he’d seen her in when she was in the shop. Her top causes him some consternation – it’s a thin-strapped shirt that has a low neckline and it takes all Max’s restraint not to let his gaze dip to try and get a better look at what’s inside. He’s helped in this respect by her eyes. He’d not seen her eyes properly the first time. Now, faced with them directly, he almost lets out a swear word. They’re like jewels. Pale green jewels with flecks of hazel that he supposes should technically make them flawed. He almost tells her, even if it sounds utterly corny, but then he hasn’t even introduced himself so he puts on the brakes.

  Thankfully she helps him out of his hole by putting out her hand.

  Max reaches out and takes it as if it were a lifeline. “Hi. I’m Max. The piano teacher.”

  Her face breaks into a smile and Max feels a little warmer now he’s caught the beam of her radiance. “And I’m Cath. Come on in.”

  Cath gestures to the room ahead into which the hallway opens and Max walks on through.

  There are more paintings, originals by the looks of them.

  A wall of windows leads to a balcony. The furniture is huge and luxurious looking, most of it upholstered in brown leather. The shelves are full of books and old, black-and-white photographs of family groups and of men in uniform. Happily, he notices no pictures of Cath with a ‘significant other’.

  The centre piece is a Grand Piano upon which stands a vase brimming with exotic flowers. He thinks that maybe he’ll learn the names of a few plants in case it comes in handy later on.

  Max feels a little overwhelmed, as if he’s turned up at a surprise party. He feels the sweat on his palms making them clammy. At the same time he’s oddly comfortable in the surroundings, as if he’s found his place.

  Cath
straightens up a couple of magazines on the coffee table by the sofa, not that such a small detail could let down the general impression.

  There’s a short silence and Max decides to go with the first thing that comes into his head. “Do you paint?” It seems reasonable to ask.

  “When I was at school. Most of these were given to my father.”

  Father, not Dad, Max thinks. She’s posh. “He must know some pretty interesting people.”

  “He knew many.”

  He’s alert enough to pick up on the tense change. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. He was always telling great stories about his friends.”

  Max cringes, his guts seeming to shrivel up and dry out as he stands there. A distraction is what he needs, so he goes over to one of the pictures to get a closer look.

  “That’s my favourite,” Cath says. Lucky strike, thinks Max. “It’s called ‘A Piece Of My Heart’.”

  The relief at his choosing her favourite washes through him and settles his guts. Next, all he needs to do is avoid a cheesy response. “It’s really very beautiful,” he says. That will do. No gushing yet, he’s seriously in control.

  “It was by a lady called Kitty. I met her when I was little.”

  Kitty? More posh.

  She picks up a photograph from a shelf and hands it over to Max. He takes it and studies it as if he’s about to take an exam on the subject.

  “I used to watch her paint when I was very young,” Cath tells him.

  It’s a nice photograph, but there’s nothing about the lady that helps Max think of anything interesting to say. He passes it back and she carefully returns it to the shelf.

  “Please sit down,” Cath tells him.

  Max puts his satchel next to the armchair and sits. The cushion gives, but keeps its firmness so that he doesn’t sink in. Pure luxury. “That’s a beautiful piano.” And it is.

  “It was my father’s.”

  “And remind me how old your daughter is.”

  “Alice has just turned six.”

  “That’s a good age to begin.” It probably is. “Do you play?”

  “Not really.” She runs her fingers through her hair and Max lets his eyes drop just this once, catching the neat outline of her breasts and the pattern of freckles that decorated the space between them. If she’s wearing a bra, it’s a very subtle one. A lump forms in his throat as she carries on. “Just one piece Father taught me – Moonlight Sonata. The introduction. I’m afraid I’ve got two left hands.”

  Max coughs to clear his throat. “I’d love to hear it if you don’t mind.”

  Cath sits on the piano stool and tucks herself under. “If you blink, you’ll miss it.”

  Her movements are full of grace. She lifts the piano lid. Her back is perfectly vertical, her hair looking even longer now it’s straight. As she plays, her head tilts to one side like she’s listening to something far away. Max sits back in his chair, completely captivated by the melodies that fill the air.

  The introduction comes to an end. Cath pauses as the piano continues to hum, then looks over her shoulder smiling, like Natassja Kinski in Paris Texas Max thinks.

  Her smile quickly breaks into laughter.

  “Are you sure you need to pay a teacher?” He can hardly believe he’s asking – does it sound like he’s turning down the job?

  “I told you, I don’t have the time, and that tune’s all I know. I’d like her to get to be better than I managed.” It makes a lot of sense to Max. “Anyway, now it’s your turn,” which makes sense but can’t be allowed to happen.

  It’s the thing he’s been dreading, being tripped at the first step. He ignores the guilty glow that warms his ears and tries a body swerve. “No, no. I couldn’t after that. Besides, I get nervous in front of strangers. And I haven’t even met your daughter yet. She might not like me.” Is it a protest too far? Max holds his breath while he waits for the verdict.

  Cath leans forward and calls through the open balcony doors. “Alice, come over here, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Alice appears at the edge of the room and takes a tentative step onto the shiny, wooden floor. Her blond hair is tied back into a ponytail that’s held in place with a pink scrunchy. A pair of blue glasses brings out the lazy colouring of her eyes. She’s wearing the summer uniform of one of the local schools, a red and white checked dress. Max notices she has no shoes on her feet. She looks at him very quickly, turns pink and looks away, hiding her hands behind her back.

  Cath reaches out, inviting Alice to walk over, but Alice doesn’t seem to want to get any closer. “This is Max. I hope that he’s going to teach you to play the piano.” Cath looks over to Max. “And I hope he’s still interested after my exhibition.”

  Max is almost as unfamiliar with children as he is with pianos. Standing before this little girl, he feels as though he’s faced with trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language. English being all he has, he decides he’d better try something using that. “Hi there. I’d like to teach you. If you want.”

  Alice tilts her head like her mother did earlier. It’s as if she’s waiting for the answer to come from some higher power that only she can hear. To Max’s surprise, she nods a tiny nod and then steps back onto the balcony.

  “Then I’ll look forward to our first lesson,” he says. “Maybe we could start next week.”

  No response from Alice.

  “How about next Thursday?”

  She nods again.

  Max feels himself grow a little taller. He could hug the little girl for giving him the green light. “Great. I’ll give you a call and we can think of a time that works for all of us.” He picks up his satchel and puts the strap over his shoulder. “Sorry to dash, but if I don’t go now I’ll be late for my last shift at the shop.” He steps over to the open doors and gives Alice his best smile. “Nice to meet you Alice. See you next week.”

  Cath walks with Max to the door. When they get there, she moves in close. He takes in the scent of her hair and melts a little on the inside. “Sorry about that,” Cath says in a whisper. “She hasn’t been herself for a while, which is why I had the idea of piano lessons. Her grandfather was going to teach her, but he didn’t quite make it. It has to be worth a try.”

  Max puts his hand on her shoulder. He’s surprised at the softness of her skin and the heat it’s giving out. He removes his hand and wiggles his fingers in the air.

  “Don’t worry, there’s magic in these fingers,” he says. “I really do have to go now. I’ll give you a call.”

  Cath opens the door and Max steps through.

  “Nice to meet you,” Cath says.

  “You too. I’ll be in touch.”

  Controlling himself and resisting the urge to kiss her cheek, Max walks over to the steps and hears the door close behind him.

  As the lock clicks, he stops immediately, looks at his fingers and wriggles them in the air. “Magic? Jesus, Max.” He rubs his temples, shakes his head and skips away down the stairs, taking his cigarettes from his satchel so he can light up as soon as he leaves the building.

  FIVE

  The customers, browsing the book tables like grazing sheep, turn to look at Max as he walks by carrying a large, awkward parcel. There’s a bounce in his step and, even before he exits, the customers are staring at each other and pulling odd faces of disbelief.

  It’s the same when he gets onto the street. The passers-by gawp at him as if he’s an escapee from the Muppets.

  With some skill, Max manages to manoeuvre the parcel between the tiny gaps in the sea of pedestrians and the static lines of cars and makes it across the road to the alley. From then on he has a clear run all the way to the Garbanzo.

  Before he’s had time to put his coat on the back of his chair, Jazz enters the cafe carrying a long package which she struggles to get through the door. They smile upon seeing each other and kiss warmly.

  Jazz catches her breath, leans her parcel up against the w
all and takes a seat.

  “You didn’t forget then,” Max says.

  “I wouldn’t have dared.”

  “You’re not off the hook yet, mind. I still don’t know what you’ve brought.” It looks interesting and his fingers are buzzing in the anticipation of getting to work.

  The waitress walks over, nodding over at the parcels. She’s more tanned than she was the week before, but she’s not been on holiday and the weather hasn’t been that good. If Max needs putting off, the idea of dating a sun-bed girl or, worse, a fake-tanner, does the job brilliantly.

  “You finally got rid of your parents.” She smiles at Max and the white of her teeth shows off the hint of orange on her skin. “I always knew there was something weird about you guys.”

  Her sense of humour makes up a little for the tan issue. “Us weird?” he says. “It was you who suggested it.”

  Jazz is having none of it. “Two coffees please.”

  “And your mum and dad?”

  “Just one last coffee son,” Max says in his best BBC voice and hoping it seems as though it’s coming from the corner.

  He leans over to speak to the package. “Look Dad, you know you’ll just leak like a sieve and leave this young lady with more work.”

  “He’s got a point.” The waitress is playing her part well.

  “Just the two coffees then,” and he raises a hand towards the package, as if to keep it quiet.

  Jazz is smiling. Possibly thawing a little. “Any more from you and we’ll throw you into the river.”

  “And then we’d have to change your name to Bob.”

  They laugh. Max passes over his gift. He’s impatient for her to open it. To see her reaction. She’ll see the amount of thought he put into it and remember how well he knows her.

  “Happy anniversary darling.”

  The parcel’s crudely wrapped in three different kinds of paper. There’s the red paper with Santas, the blue paper with white dots and a few pages of yesterday’s Guardian. Jazz opens it with more respect than it deserves, picking neatly at the wrinkled tape. A life-sized cardboard cut-out of Elvis is staring at her. He’s wearing a black, sequined dress that’s rather glamorous in spite of being second-hand.