How To Choose a Sweetheart

by Nigel Bird

  “There are more surprises?”

  Max puts his hands over Mr Evans’s eyes and guides him into the house. They stand together in the living room and Max counts. “3, 2, 1. You can open your eyes now,” and he takes his hands away.

  Mr Evans opens his eyes and slowly turns round. “Marvellous. It’s bloody marvellous.”

  Max takes out a party popper and pulls the thread. The bang is sharp and loud. Paper shreds fall over his friend.

  His friend stops. His face grimaces. His hands clutch at his chest, the sticks fall to the floor and he bends forward.

  “Oh my God,” Max shouts. “Mr Evans? Mr Evans?” It’s a disaster. He’s gone and killed the old boy. He’s a murderer as well as a fantasist now.

  “A drink, boy. Get me a drink.” The voice sounds like it’s using up Mr Evans’s last breath.

  Max rushes into the kitchen, clean and tidy as it is. He knows exactly where to look, pulls down a glass from the shelf and fills it from a silver tap.

  He rushes back, spilling some of the water, but not caring in the slightest.

  When he gets there, Mr Evans is sitting in his chair, cool as anything and smoking a cigarette.

  Max freezes, unsure of what’s going on. “Couldn’t resist, I’m afraid,” Mr Evans says. “I suppose it’s my way of saying thank you.”

  “You old sod.” Without thinking, Max throws the water from the glass into Mr Evans’s face. It soaks his hair and drips onto his shirt.

  “There’s life in the old dog yet.”

  “It’s about time too. Should you be smoking in your condition?”

  “I’m not having a baby. And the doctors and I came to a compromise on the issue.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I forget the details. Anyway, this is marvellous. I come home to enjoy my twilight years and some bugger’s come in and tidied the whole place up. How the hell’s a man to relax in such a palace?”

  “You can give it a go.”

  “I think I’ll manage just fine. It’s wonderful. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.”

  “It was nothing. And it wasn’t all me. Some of my friends chipped in.”

  “You still have friends? I’m glad to hear it. Does that include one rather lovely lady? The one who captured your heart?”

  “That depends on whether you want the good news or the bad.”

  “The good, of course.”

  That’s the easy one. “I’ve sold my piano.”

  “Thank heavens.” The relief is palpable. “And the bad?”

  “Everything else.”

  The old man grumbles, his rasping throat making him sound menacing. “Your young lady didn’t like what you had to say, I take it.”

  Max can’t bring himself to speak and just shakes his head.

  “And she didn’t think much of the idea of me teaching her daughter the piano?”

  “I didn’t even get that far.”

  It seems unfair that in such a bright room on such a lovely day that there can be pain and misery in the world, especially his own. Max wants to feel sorry for himself but he’s battling against self-pity with all his wits.

  “So all’s lost?” Mr Evans has put it well. All has gone.

  It’s not so hard to believe. Who the hell did he think he was, going after a woman who was so far out of his league? “I can’t believe I ever thought it might be possible.”

  “Never think such things. Beast found his beauty, remember.”

  “That was one version,” Max says, picturing Cocteau’s masterpiece. “But King Kong was killed in his.”

  “How terribly unpredictable life is.”

  All the talking is getting them nowhere. They could discuss it till the cows came home and life would still look the same. “I made some food for you,” Max says. “Are you hungry?”

  “As a horse.”

  “Then you sit there and I’ll bring it through.” He’s on his way to the kitchen when Mr Evans says something that catches him unprepared. “I composed that piece for you, by the way. In my head. Would you like to hear it?”

  For some reason, a flicker of hope sparks to life in his heart. Could this man really have done this for him? And could it possibly make a difference to the world. The least he can do is give it a go. “I’d like to hear it, but I won’t be able to use it now.”

  Mr Evans pushes himself up out of his seat, takes his place at the piano and cracks his knuckles. Before he starts, he reaches out and touches the flowers that are in front of him. “It brought back some happy memories for me, your life. I’m glad they haven’t deserted me.”

  While Max picks up the tray of sandwiches and pastries, he hears the tune begin. It’s gentle and flowing and sounds like everything that’s ever been good about life. He just wishes he’d learned to play it before anyone found out he was a fraud.

  FORTY ONE

  The shop’s busy. Maurice Williams sings falsetto and asks everyone to ‘stay for just a little bit longer’.

  Chris is at the front till, swaying to the music and wailing with the high notes. Angela is leaning on her elbows next to him. When the song finishes, she holds up three fingers and walks away to a customer who’s holding a book up for her to see.

  Cath wanders in, cool as you please. Heads straight over to Chris, who straightens himself up as if it’s the area-manager herself who’s approaching. She’s wearing a figure-hugging sarong and a pair of flip-flops that make the noise that gave them their name.

  “Hi Chris,” she says when she gets to him. It’s a quiet voice. The kind that’s not sure of its ground. “Is Max working today?”

  Thank goodness it’s an easy question. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. Hang on and I’ll give him a call.”

  He picks up the phone and presses the key for the children’s section where Max has been marooned while the Trunchball is on her holiday. The phone is answered straight away and Chris keeps it deadpan. “There’s someone here to see you out front.” He leaves it at that. How the hell can he tell him who’s there without turning the lad into a nervous wreck? “He’ll be down in a moment.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cath fidgets with some of the tiny books on the front desk – 100 Ways To Peel A Grape and the like.

  Dion and the Belmonts take over the shop’s MP3 mix. ‘That’s My Desire.’ It’s the song Max wishes he could have written, or at least it’s one of them.

  Max walks to the top of the stairs, combing his hair back into shape in case it’s something important. When he sees Cath, he stops in his tracks. His heart leaps like a salmon on speed. Dion and the band work through their harmonies to perfection. He takes care as he starts to move again, not wanting to trip down the stairs and break his neck without finding out what she’s doing in the building.

  When she turns and they look at each other for the first time since their rift, she blushes. Max feels himself blush in sympathy, his cheeks hot and tight.

  They walk towards each other and lose eye-contact.

  “Hi Max.”

  “Hello Cath.” He can barely speak, the moment so brittle that he fears it will break if he so much as breathes too hard.

  “I spoke to Jazz yesterday. She got me thinking. Could you see yourself coming out for a coffee with me? To talk things over?”

  She didn’t slap him. That’s a good sign. She didn’t swear or burst into tears, also good signs.

  “We can go now.” It’s so much easier when the boss isn’t there, especially when the assistant manager is off sick and Chris has miraculously been put in charge for the day. He calls over to Chris to let him know. “I’m going out for a while.”

  Chris just nods then taps his pencil on the till to the rhythm of the music. Max throws his keys over and the couple leave through the main door.

  FORTY TWO

  With his senses numbed, Max has been working on auto-pilot. He’s managed to get them to the Garbanzo and they’re sitting outside, the table in shadow. Cath has a frothy coffee in f
ront of her and Max, for reasons he’s not sure about himself, has a chocolate milkshake and a straw.

  A busker dressed in the light suit of an estate agent is working in the alley. On his nose is a clown’s red sphere, about the size of a cherry tomato, and a bowler hat with a flower on the top. A couple walk by and he drops a £20 note onto the floor behind them. He taps the man on the shoulder, whistles and points to the floor. When the man bends down to pick it up, the note is pulled back at top speed into the hand of the performer, who must have it attached to some kind of fishing line contraption, and disappears. For a moment, it looks edgy, the pedestrian not looking happy at being shown up in front of his girlfriend.

  Who could stay angry with a clown for long? At least that’s what Max is hoping Cath will feel when it comes to his own buffoonery.

  The anger on the face of the guy on the street seems to melt and transform into a smile, like Dali has had a hand in the scene. The clown holds his hand out and the man digs around in his own pocket before passing over some change.

  If things go completely wrong in life, Max reckons he could do that for a living.

  Cath and Max have been watching in silence. Max can’t bear it any longer and jumps in. “Now you see it, now you don’t. It’s all a bit too familiar.”

  “But we know the money’s really still there.”

  “That’s the hard part.” He sucks at his straw and enjoys the cold sweetness of the shake.

  “Jazz is a big fan of yours, isn’t she?”

  Cath’s looking amazing. Maybe a little tired, but her skin looks so ready to be touched that it’s hurting Max to keep his hands to himself. “She’s a very loyal friend.”

  “You’re telling me. She persuaded me that I should come here and talk things through. Not that I needed too much prompting.”

  “How’s Alice?” It’s his first concern. The idea that he’s damaged her in some way has been burning holes through him.

  “She misses you, Max.” Sadness washes over her face and then dries itself off.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I told her straight. It’s the way I work. Black and white. No grey. Unless it’s the Tooth Fairy we’re talking about, then there’s plenty of it. Funny thing was she couldn’t understand what I was so upset about.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  She flattens her hand next to her coffee. “It’s cards on the table time. This is your chance to explain.” She bites her bottom lip from the inside making a cute dent just above her chin.

  Max lights a cigarette and tries to hide behind it. Problem is it’s way too small.

  “What can I say?” All the weeks he’s been preparing speeches and the words seem to have gone and he has to ad lib. “I’m sorry. I truly am. Kind of. But how can I regret it? There wasn’t anything else I could do – I had to meet you and I went with the first idea I came up with.”

  It feels like he’s talking himself out of the position of being Cath’s boyfriend. He never was much good at interviews.

  “Didn’t it occur to you that you could call me and ask to meet without all that piano stuff?”

  Truth is it hadn’t. He jumped right in there with both feet. “Imagine me getting in touch. ‘Hi. I saw you in my shop, it got my heart racing and I’ve got to meet you.’ Can you see me saying that?”

  “It would have been the truth.”

  “And you would have said no. Besides, I didn’t know anything about you. You could have been married for all I knew. Probably were.”

  “So it was a scouting mission.” It sounds cold and ruthless.

  “I didn’t give it any thought. When I saw the card the plan formed like it was a miracle. Soon as it was in my head, it was the only thing I was ever going to do.”

  “And you thought you could get away with it?”

  It was all so confusing. Had he thought that? He must have. “Maybe. Mostly I thought there’d be a natural place for me to tell you and everything would have been all right.”

  “Jazz told me about your piano teacher. It’s a sweet thing you’re doing for him.”

  Funny. He laughs. Relieved to be off the hook for a moment. “I’m not sure he likes the colour scheme.” Max isn’t sure Mr Evans didn’t prefer things the way they were before, but he’s been pretending to be grateful since he got out of the hospital.

  Max takes a big puff on his cigarette and washes the smoke down with a mouthful of his drink.

  It’s the big moment coming up. The one he’s been practicing for. At least this time, he has it on a piece of paper and he takes it out of his pocket.

  “That stuff about composing a tune for you, it wasn’t my idea, but I wish I could have done it. So I sat down and tried to write you a letter in case I could describe it and it came out like a sort of poem instead. About you.” He offers it over. “Would you like to read it?”

  “No.”

  Max feels the ground soften under his feet and gravity gain strength. He’ll be sucked under and he doesn’t care.

  “I want you to read it to me,” she tells him.

  And gravity returns to normal and the ground hardens again.

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Please.” She wants him to, he can feel it. She wants him to pull this out of the fire almost as much as he wants it. He unfolds the paper and flattens it out.

  “Remember that it’s only me thinking aloud,” the problem being that Max was always awful at writing poetry in school. C minus would have been one of his better scores.

  He takes a breath and gets ready, but it just doesn’t happen.

  “I won’t watch if it helps.”

  She turns away.

  This time the words come out.

  “It’s called Balcony.

  Others have been here before, but not like this.

  Other days have been filled with perfection,

  Only this time I am here.

  I hold it gently

  Let it pass between my fingers

  Then rest my fingers on clouds of skin.

  She laughs and I shiver to her music,

  Staring greedily so none of this will be forgotten.

  I burst open

  And burst again,

  Returning in tiny specks of me

  To cover her room of objects

  And flowers and things she has touched

  Shining in those eyes that I want to keep

  And landing in her waves of hair I want to keep,

  And in the morning,

  When brushing off the dust

  A trace will remain

  That can never be washed away

  And so with her I will be.

  Remember, one day,

  Those parts of me.”

  It’s done. He’s made it. He drops his head, feeling tears gushing up from his heart to his eyes and ready to explode in one enormous fountain. He looks up again hoping to keep them inside and blurts “I’m sorry...”

  His sob is interrupted by Cath’s lips which have taken his and wrapped them up in warmth and safety. The kiss is tender. Caring. Full of love.

  It’s beautiful. Max still wants to cry and lets the tears come, dripping down his face until he tastes the salt of them.

  There’s a tap on his shoulder. Firm, like the hand of the police. Max looks up and sees the clown’s face bent towards him.

  The clown’s left hand is holding out the flower from his bowler hat to Cath. His right is inside his shirt and is moving up and down like a beating heart.

  Cath takes the flower and rises to kiss the clown on the cheek.

  The clown falls backwards, acts bashful, and wanders away up the alley.

  FORTY THREE

  They’ve taken their time over the break, Max not caring about work or about much else in the world, his life feeling as if it’s just been watered after a drought.

  Still, he can’t take too much advantage of his friend being in charge so they head back to the shop.

  When they get
there and enter, there’s a crowd of people at the front till. It’s mostly the staff. In the middle stands Jazz who is surrounded by excited chatter.

  Max and Cath go over to see what’s happening.

  Angela pulls them through to the middle. “Get a load of this.”

  In the middle of it all is a ring. A sparkling ring on Jazz’s hand.

  Soon as Jazz sees Max, she holds it out to him. He takes her hand and gives it a gentle kiss.

  “Alan asked me to marry him yesterday and I said yes.”

  This time Max grabs her for an enormous hug that lifts her feet from the ground.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “Best of all,” Chris says, “there’s going to be a big party.”

  “Already?” Max asks.

  “Before we can change our minds,” Jazz says.

  Amelie shouts out from the back. “Somebody give that girl a book.”

  Max turns round and sees Cath leaving. His systems prepare to shut down.

  When she gets to the door, she turns round. She smiles. Blows him a kiss. Mouths that she’ll phone and walks out onto the street.

  FORTY FOUR

  Mr Evans has a healthy colour to his cheeks these days. Maybe it has something to do with the light being able to get at him.

  He’s sitting next to Max on the settee in Cath’s flat.

  Alice comes into the room dressed as a princess. She goes straight over to Max who lifts her easily up onto his knee. “Is she nearly ready?” he asks.

  “She said that she was doing her face.”

  “So we could still be a while.”

  “Some things haven’t changed a bit.” Mr Evans chortles and reaches out to tickle Alice under her chin.

  “Are you looking forward to your lesson today, Alice?”

  “Can I play you some tunes while we’re waiting?” She’s already slipped off Max’s knee and is on her way to the piano stool before the answer comes.

  “Show Mr Evans what you can do.”

  She sits up straight and put her fingers on the keys.

  Cath shouts in from her bedroom. “Nearly there. Rebecca should be here any time now.”