The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  Samson was asleep on the bed. That was something Isabel would never have allowed in the old days. She'd always been so particular. 'Neurotically tidy,' Brian said. Some of their worst rows had been about his slovenliness. But now a pile of clothes cluttered the chair, and books and magazines were stacked next to the bed. She pulled on a pair of black trousers and studied herself in the mirror. They were tight, especially at the back, but if she wore a white shirt and her new purple jacket, she should get away with it.

  When Grace got out of the taxi looking elegant in a dark green trouser suit and cream polo neck, Isabel was glad she'd made the effort. At the same moment Brian's car pulled up at the gate and he and Josh came up the path. Brian and Grace each aimed a polite kiss at the cheek of the other.

  'How are you, Brian?'

  He shrugged. 'Still grafting away. Sorry about your dad.'

  Grace inclined her head, her dark hair falling forward across her cheek.

  'I had a lot of time for Henry. He was a good man.'

  Grace caught Isabel's eye. 'We thought so.'

  Brian looked past Grace at what was clearly empty space. 'Franco not with you then?'

  'He couldn't leave the restaurant.'

  'I thought you'd have staff.' Brian winked at Isabel.

  A shadow passed over Grace's face. 'Did you actually put in an appearance, Brian?'

  He looked down at his feet. 'Bit of emergency at the last minute. Washing machine flood.'

  'Oh, right. Obviously more important.'

  Isabel stared at Grace. How did she do it? Two minutes in Brian's company and she'd got the better of him.

  Grace moved forward, almost pushing Brian to one side as she swept Josh up in a hug. 'How's my favourite nephew?'

  Isabel winced. Since he'd gone to live with Brian and Anita, Josh had rejected any show of affection. When she went to give him a goodbye kiss, he always managed to avert his face so that she was left kissing air. But now he was smiling, enjoying the hug.

  'I'm your only nephew,' he protested and Grace laughed.

  'Come and see what I've got for you,' she said, taking him by the hand.

  'Have a good time, mate,' Brian called after him, and Josh turned and gave his father the thumbs-up sign.

  Isabel was left in the narrow hallway with Brian. He was wearing the checked woollen shirt and brown corduroys she had once put out for jumble. His hair was curling over his collar. She'd always had to remind him to get a haircut.

  'That coffee smells good,' he said. She didn't reply. She certainly wasn't going to invite him to stay if that was what he was hinting at. He was a big man and seemed to fill the hall. He leaned towards her. Their faces were so close; she could feel his breath on her cheek. It smelt sour as it used to when he wasn't well.

  'You look tired, Bel,' he said.

  Isabel's heart lurched at the nickname. She shrugged. 'I haven't been sleeping very well.'

  'I can't seem to sleep either. I was watching a film at three o'clock this morning.'

  'I expect you've a lot of disturbed nights with a baby in the house.'

  Brian looked at her sharply, but she made sure her face gave nothing away.

  'Where's Rose?' he asked.

  'She's gone out.'

  'Avoiding me, I suppose.'

  'No, Brian, she's gone to school. I doubt you feature in her plans.' She'd had enough of this conversation and wanted to get back to Grace and Josh. The three of them were going for a trip on the London Eye, and Josh was having the day off specially. Isabel didn't want to miss a second with him.

  'I was hoping Rose would come for tea one evening.'

  'I've told you—she doesn't want to see you.'

  'I want her to meet Anita and the little'un.'

  'Well, she obviously doesn't want to meet them.'

  'You could persuade her.'

  'Like you do for me with Josh?'

  'He's here today, isn't he?'

  'Only because Grace invited him. Nothing to do with you.'

  'He came to your dad's funeral.'

  'For God's sake Brian, Henry was his grandfather.'

  'I try,' he protested. 'He's going through a bad phase.'

  'And whose fault is that?'

  His face puckered up in a scowl. 'Don't start, Bel.'

  He moved towards the front door, but then turned back. His eyes were fixed on her. 'Will Rose be out tonight?'

  'Why?'

  'You know why.' His frown vanished. 'I could get away about nine.'

  Isabel managed to meet his gaze. She felt her nipples pushing against the flimsy material of her white shirt. 'Now's not the time,' she muttered.

  'When?'

  'Brian, leave it. Pick Josh up at six. I'm spending the evening with Grace.'

  He gripped her upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh through her shirt. 'Don't be like that, Bel. I'll pick Josh up and be back here by nine.'

  Her eyes darted towards the kitchen where Grace and Josh's voices rose and fell. 'I told you last time it wasn't going to happen again.'

  'Come on. You know you want to.' His voice had that teasing note she'd never been able to resist. She pulled her arm free of his clasp.

  'Make it nine-thirty,' she said.

  In the kitchen Grace had set out the small white coffee cups and the cafetière. Josh was sitting in the rocking chair, his fingers flashing across the Nintendo Grace had given him. A smell of coffee mingled with the sweetness of the croissants that curled against each other in a basket on the table. Grace had brought some dahlias and their red was a splash of colour on the windowsill. The kitchen was homely and welcoming and Isabel felt a pang. There was no sense of home in her new life.

  She crossed to Josh and stood by the chair. His hair was different. It had been cut really short apart from a tuft sticking up in front like a cockscomb. Isabel put her hand on her son's head. It was thick with gel. He pulled away. 'Get off.'

  'Your hair's different,' she said.

  'So?'

  'So nothing, Josh. I was just saying. Are you sure you're all right?'

  'Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?'

  'I thought you might be upset about Granddad.'

  Josh didn't reply. His fingers moved faster than ever across the keys of the game.

  Isabel crossed to the fridge. 'I'll get you some juice.'

  'Can I have tea?'

  'You don't like tea.'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'But…' Isabel saw Grace raise her eyebrows and bit back any protest. She boiled the kettle and dropped a tea bag into the cup. 'Do you take sugar?'

  'Two, please.' Josh blew on the surface of the tea. It used to irritate her when Brian did that.

  'How's Anita and the baby?' she asked.

  'Okay.'

  'I expect the baby's smiling by now.'

  Josh's gaze remained fixed on his game.

  'Don't shut me out, Josh.' Isabel cursed herself for the wheedling note in her voice. 'I want to make sure everything's all right.'

  Josh stood up and the rocking chair banged against the kitchen unit. 'I'm going to watch telly for a bit,' he said.

  Grace covered Isabel's hand with hers. 'Give him time, Bel. He'll come round.'

  'Why is he so angry with me? It wasn't me who broke up the family.'

  'He can't blame Brian. He needs his dad.'

  Isabel sipped her coffee. It was bitter. 'But it was always me he came to when he was upset.'

  'He will again. I remember Mum and Rick having terrible rows.'

  'They're not exactly bosom pals now.'

  'He paid for Mum and Dad's holidays in Italy.'

  'With all his money that's the least he can do.'

  Isabel felt her sister's eyes on her. Grace didn't say anything, but Isabel could sense the reproach. She knew she sounded hostile, but it was all right for Grace shut away on her romantic island. Isabel had been the one of the four of them to look after their parents in recent years. She hadn't minded—she'd enjoyed being needed—but that was before�
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  'Grace,' she began in a rush, 'the morning after Dad died…' She waited hoping Grace would say something, but instead Grace stood up and moved to the window, and Isabel was left staring at her back. It made it difficult to go on, but their mother's revelation was eating at her. She'd burst if she had to keep it secret much longer. 'When we got back from the hospital, I sat with Mum while she went off to sleep… she said something really strange…'

  Isabel hesitated. Grace would surely quiz her now. But, no, nothing. Isabel wanted to shake her—say something, for God's sake … anything—'

  'I miss England at this time of year.' Grace was staring out of the window. 'Look at that Virginia creeper on the fence.' She pointed to the other side of the garden. 'You said the flat was poky, but you've got a lovely view.'

  'Did you hear me?' Isabel asked. 'After Dad died—'

  Grace's head whipped round. 'I don't want to talk about that time, Bel!'

  Isabel put her hand to her cheek—she felt as if she'd been slapped. What was going on? She'd always got on well with Grace. Cool and beautiful, that's how she'd thought of her sister. 'What's wrong, Grace?'

  Grace swung round from the window. 'Why? Why should there be anything wrong?'

  Isabel shrugged, uncertain now that Grace's eyes had fixed on her in a fierce stare.

  'You seem on edge.'

  'Do you think Brian is happy?' Grace asked.

  'Why?' Isabel felt the blush across her cheeks. 'Don't you think he is?'

  'He seemed kind of sad.'

  Isabel moved round the kitchen, collecting coffee cups and putting the biscuits away. If Grace could avoid the subject, then so could she.

  That night, Isabel's sleep was fitful. She watched the minutes come and go: 3 a.m. 3.30, 4. The bed grew hot and uncomfortable as she twisted from side to side. The day out—laughing with Josh on the London Eye, feeling his hand in hers as she pointed out Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Hampstead Heath where they used to fly the kite—had been wonderful. It made the moment Brian came to collect him even worse.

  The night wore on. The digits on the clock changed from 05.29 to 05.30.

  She could still get a few hours' sleep—Rose was staying with a friend overnight and would go straight to school from there. But her eyes refused to close. Instead they searched the shadowy room for familiar shapes, the outline of the wardrobe, the curve of the mirror. She pushed Josh and thoughts of her father from her mind, but then her mother's secret appeared, like earth falling into a newly-dug hole.

  She had tried to broach the subject several times, but her mother seemed determined to avoid her. One morning, Isabel had arrived at the house early. Grace and George weren't up yet, so Isabel took Eva her cup of coffee.

  'Mum, you know what you told me after Dad died.'

  Eva was sitting on the stool in front of the dressing table unplaiting her hair. She didn't look round.

  'You might feel comfortable with a secret like that, but I feel as if I've got liar branded on my forehead.'

  'Forget about it, Isabel. There's a good girl.'

  'I can't. You shouldn't have told me if you didn't want me to know.'

  'You made me tell you.'

  'I did no such thing!'

  Eva picked up the cup and drank the coffee in one go. 'I thought I could trust you,' she said, her voice cold. 'My darling Henry was gone. I didn't know what I was saying.'

  Isabel had stood behind her mother, looking into the mirror. Eva's reflection, closed and hard, had stared back at her.

  Seven

  Grace leant back in her chair and took in the room. The chandelier above their table highlighted the patterns on the damask tablecloth. Floral curtains framed the windows with elaborate drapes and frills. The dining room might have been in a stately home rather than the exclusive hotel in West Hampstead, where Rick and his family were staying. 'Bragging again,' Isabel had said when she heard he'd invited them all for dinner, but Grace thought it was generous of Rick. And at least tonight they had avoided any rows.

  She gazed round the circular table at her family. Her mother had been unusually silent. Normally she loved these occasions. The silver bangles she wore on each arm would dance and jangle as her hands took over when her English faltered. But this evening, without Henry at her side, she disappeared. She had insisted her sons sit next to her: Rick on her right, smart in his dark suit, George on the other side, a jumper flung around his shoulders. Isabel was next to George. She was less edgy than the day before, at the London Eye with Josh. She had made an effort and looked almost her old self in a long black velvet skirt and matching jacket.

  But they were all eclipsed by Deanna, Rick's wife. Grace remembered their wedding and how gorgeous Deanna had looked. In their three-quarter length off-white tulle dresses, she and Isabel were positively plain in comparison. And the years hadn't dented her beauty and glamour. Grace would never have dared to wear the multi-coloured turban that was wound in an elaborate twist. But on Deanna it worked. Even more beautiful than their mother were 'the three princesses' as Rick called them, Alicia, Flavia and Camilla. Nineteen, eighteen and fourteen, each was more glorious and golden than the last, with their endless legs and long blonde hair.

  Alicia and Flavia had gone to the cloakroom some minutes before and now Grace followed them. As she pushed open the heavy oak door, she knew something was wrong. Flavia was leaning over the marble surround of the washbasin, her head cradled in her arms. She jerked round when she heard Grace come in. Her skin had an unnatural pallor and her blue eyes glittered.

  'Where's Alicia?' Grace asked. The reply was a series of loud sniffs from one of the cubicles. The loo flushed and Alicia emerged, even more ghost-like than her sister, apart from the two spots of colour raging on her cheeks.

  'What's going on?' Grace heard the hollowness of her question.

  'Come on, Auntie Grace.' Alicia crossed to the basin and turned both taps on full. Water gushed out, splattering Grace's skirt. 'Surely you're not such an innocent.' Alicia met Grace's eyes in the mirror. Flavia hovered behind her sister.

  'No, but you obviously are, letting yourself get involved in drugs. And dragging Flavia into it as well.'

  Alicia had finished washing her hands and began drying them on one of the thick white towels. She lifted the lid of the wicker basket in the corner and flicked the towel in. It was clear she wasn't going to beg forgiveness.

  Grace turned to Flavia. 'What would your parents say?'

  Flavia's huge eyes filled with tears. She reached out for Grace's hand. Grace felt the clamminess of her skin and could see sweat moistening her top lip.

  'You won't tell them, will you?' Flavia implored. 'Especially not with Mom so sick. Dad would kill me.'

  Alicia was at the door, holding it open. She had smoothed her hair and touched up her make up. Only a close observer would notice the change in her eyes as they flitted around the room. 'You can stay for the lecture, Vee, I'm off.'

  'Not so fast, young lady.' Grace made her voice as stern as she could. It looked as if Alicia was going to ignore her, but at last she let go of the door. She stood in front of Grace, her arms folded. 'Well?'

  'I've got a fair idea what's been going on here…' Grace paused. 'And I notice neither of you denied it when I mentioned drugs.'

  'We're sorry, Auntie Grace…' Flavia's voice trailed off at a glare from Alicia. 'We didn't mean…'

  'Shut up, Vee. I told you—'

  'Never mind what you told Flavia. I'm telling you both that if I ever get a hint of anything like this again, I'll go straight to your parents.' Grace looked from Alicia to Flavia. 'Do you understand?'

  'Yeah, yeah, we hear you. We've been naughty girls and it won't happen again.' Alicia turned away and the door shut behind her with a dull thud. Flavia, with a last 'Thanks for not telling,' followed.

  Isabel volunteered to drive Eva home and Grace travelled with George. As she settled herself in the front seat of the car, she debated telling him what she'd seen in the cloakroom. As th
e two youngest, she and George had always been close and they were the only ones, apart from Eva, who spoke Italian fluently. But George led a rakish kind of life. He probably dabbled himself and would only laugh at her fears.

  George eased the car away from the traffic lights. 'That was some outfit Deanna was wearing!' he exclaimed. 'I kept looking at the head-gear. Couldn't see how it worked. I suppose she didn't have time for her usual highlights and couldn't bear us to find out she's gone grey.' He laughed. 'There's a thought.'

  'I expect she's losing her hair. The chemotherapy does that,' Grace said.

  'What the hell are you talking about?'

  'You mean you don't know?'

  'For Christ's sake, know what?'

  'Deanna has breast cancer. She's had a mastectomy.'

  George let out a long low whistle. He banged his hand on the steering wheel. 'Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me?'

  'I presumed Rick had told people.'

  George snorted. 'He wouldn't let me know there was anything wrong with the perfect family, would he?'

  The next morning Grace was awake early. She let her eyes adjust to the shadowy light beginning to slip below the curtains. It was a surprise to find herself in her old bedroom and not in the room she shared with Franco on Ischia. Franco. Why hadn't he phoned? She'd called the ristorante, but he was always somewhere else: 'He's gone to the market, signora,' Maria told her. 'He's driven into Ischia Porto,' Alfonso said. 'He's just left for Napoli.' All perfectly reasonable excuses. All places she would have expected him to go. She'd left him messages. It was starting to be embarrassing—she heard the hesitation in the voices of the staff when they knew it was her. They didn't want to have to say yet again that he wasn't there. In the end, she'd sent him a text about her father. But he still hadn't phoned back.

  She turned on the bedside light and picked up the small photo of Franco she carried with her. She lay back on the pillow and studied the face she'd fallen in love with. Had it been love? The sex had certainly been crazy at first. That night—bolognese night, she called it—she couldn't resist his bronzed skin, his dark eyes locked on hers, his hardness as he slipped inside her. It was like a never-ending erotic dream those first few months. It was only when a baby didn't appear that he started to sulk.