‘Did you?’
‘Yes. I really enjoyed it. I thought it was wonderful.’
I squeezed her arm.
‘You’ve got a good sense of humour,’ I said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s one of the things I like about you. Your sense of humour. I mean, we can laugh together. You say something ironic, and I know exactly what you mean.’
‘I wasn’t being ironic. I really did enjoy it.’
‘There you go again. Double irony: I love it. You know, it’s a great thing when two people share a sense of humour, it really… shows something about them.’
‘William, I’m not being ironic. I enjoyed myself tonight. It was a good show. You understand?’
We had stopped walking. We had pulled apart and were facing one another.
‘Are you serious? You liked it?’
‘Yes, didn’t you? What was wrong with it?’
We started walking again. Apart, this time.
‘The music was facile and unmemorable. It was harmonically primitive and melodically derivative. The plot relied on cheap emotional effects and crude pathos. The staging was showy, manipulative and deeply reactionary.’
‘You mean you didn’t enjoy it?’
For a second I was looking straight into her sad grey eyes. But I still shook my head.
‘No.’ We walked on in silence. ‘I mean, what did you like about it?’
‘I don’t know. Why do you always have to analyse things? It was… it was good.’
‘Terrific. I see. Tell me, what did you do about that invitation to appear on Critics’ Forum? Did you ever answer that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been invited anywhere.’
‘Can’t you tell when I’m being ironic?’
‘No.’
We had nearly arrived at Piccadilly Circus. We stopped outside Pizzaland. I could see that I had upset her, but couldn’t find it in me to do anything about it.
‘What do you want to do now?’ I asked.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Do you want to go for a drink?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Come on.’ I took her arm again and began leading her towards Soho. ‘You know, it would be nice if you expressed an opinion sometimes. It would make life easier. Instead of leaving all the decisions to me.’
‘I just expressed an opinion, and you made fun of me. Where are we going, anyway?’
‘I thought we’d go to Samson’s. Is that OK?’
‘Fine. You want to listen to your friend again, do you?’
‘He might be there tonight, I don’t know.’ In fact Tony had phoned me only the day before. I knew full well he was going to be playing there that evening. ‘Do you have to call him “my friend”? You know his name, don’t you?’
I was so much in love with Madeline that sometimes, at work, I would begin to shiver just thinking about her: I would shake with panic and pleasure, and end up dropping piles of records and stacks of tapes all over the place. For this reason it didn’t use to matter to me that we never got on particularly well. Bickering with Madeline was more desirable to me than making love to any other woman in the world. The idea of us being happy together – lying in the same bed, say, silent and half-asleep – seemed so beautiful that I couldn’t even begin to visualize it. In my heart I was sure it would never happen, and meanwhile to exchange grumpy remarks with her on a cold winter’s evening in the nastier end of Soho seemed privilege enough. I doubt if she felt the same way; but then how exactly did she feel?
She always was an enigma to me, and I’m not going to make out some perverse theory that this was part of the attraction. It used to piss me off no end. All the time I knew Madeline, there was always the sense that she didn’t fit – with me, with London, with the rest of the world. I noticed it the first time I saw her: she looked so out of place, in that gloomy bar where I was playing the piano. I’d been in London for nearly a year, and I’d thought that this might turn out to be my first break. A place in some side street just off the Fulham Road that had a clapped-out baby grand and called itself a ‘jazz club’: I saw an advert they had placed in The Stage and they offered me twenty pounds cash and three non-alcoholic cocktails of my choice to play there on a Wednesday night. I turned up at six, scared out of my mind, knowing that I had to play for five hours with a repertoire of six standards and a few pieces of my own – about fifty minutes’ worth of material. I needn’t have worried, because there was only one customer all evening. She came in at eight and stayed till the end. It was Madeline.
I couldn’t believe that a woman so well dressed and so pretty could be sitting on her own in a place like that all night. Maybe if there had been other customers they would have tried to chat her up. In fact I’m sure they would. She was always getting chatted up. That night there was only me, and even I tried to chat her up, and I’d never done anything like that in my life before. But when you’ve been playing your own music for nearly an hour to an audience of one, and they’ve been clapping at the end of every number and smiling at you and even once saying, ‘I liked that one’, then you feel entitled. It would have seemed rude not to. So when the time came to take another break I got my drink from the bar and went over to her table, and said: ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘No. Please do.’
‘Can I buy you something?’
‘No thanks, I’m all right for the moment.’
She was drinking dry white wine. I sat down on a stool opposite her, not wanting to appear too forward.
‘Is it always this quiet in here?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.’
‘It’s a bit tacky, isn’t it? For the area, I mean.’
‘It’s only just opened. It’ll probably take a while to get off the ground.’
She was so lovely. She had short blonde hair and a grey fitted jacket, a woollen skirt that came just above the knee and black silk stockings – nothing provocative, you understand, just tasteful. She had little gold studded earrings and lipstick which probably only seemed such a dark red because her complexion was so pale. I noticed right away that her mouth could go in an instant from the roundest and happiest of smiles to this more habitual, downward, melancholy look. Her voice was high and musical and her pronunciation – like everything else about her – showed that she was from some high-powered background. Her hands were small and white, and she didn’t paint her fingernails.
‘I like the way you play the piano,’ she said. ‘Are you going to play here every week?’
‘I don’t know. It depends.’ (I never did play there again, as it turned out.) ‘Are you… are you waiting for someone? Or are you just here on your own?’
‘I often go to places on my own,’ she said, but added: ‘Actually I was supposed to be seeing someone tonight, we were supposed to be going out for a meal. But then he phoned up and cancelled, and I’d already got myself ready, so I didn’t feel like staying in. I thought I’d come and see what this place is like.’
‘That was inconsiderate of him.’
‘He’s an old friend. I don’t mind.’
‘You live near here?’
‘Yes, not far. South Kensington. What about you?’
‘Oh, it’s like another world to me, an area like this. I live in South East London. On a council estate.’
After a pause, she said: ‘Do you mind if I ask you for something? A request, I mean. A piece of music.’
I felt a sudden tight grip of anxiety. You see, the reason I never made it as a cocktail bar pianist was that my repertoire was never wide enough, and I was hopeless at playing by ear. Customers are always asking pianists to play things and the only way I could have covered myself against situations like this was by learning every standard in the book. That would have taken months. It usually took me a few hours to get a piece into shape, sometimes more. Take ‘My Funny Valentine’, for instance. It’s not a difficult tune,
yet something about the middle eight had been defeating me and it had just taken me two days to get it sounding exactly how I wanted. I’d been listening to some of the most famous records, seeing how the masters had handled it and working out what I thought were some pretty neat substitutions of my own. I could play it well, now, I thought, but that had been the result of two days’ hard work, and anything she was to ask for, even if I knew roughly how the tune went, was bound to come out sounding amateurish and embarrassing.
‘Well… try me,’ I still said, for some reason.
‘Do you know “My Funny Valentine"?’
I frowned. ‘Well… the title’s familiar. I’m not very quick at picking things up, though. Can you remind me how it goes?’
Wouldn’t anybody have done the same thing?
I think that was the best version I’ve ever played. I’ve never topped it since: it was a real heart-breaker. The copy gives G7 as the chord in the second bar, but most times – and in the tenth bar, too ― I was substituting a D minor seven with a flattened fifth, only I was playing the second inversion, with an A flat in the root. You should try it. It really darkens the tune up. Then in the middle eight, instead of those augmented B flats, I was putting straight A flat major sevens – and once I even tried a minor ninth, which I hadn’t even thought of before then (fortunately I was able to communicate the news to my right hand just in time). I stretched it for six choruses, playing quiet to start with but really hitting the keys, really thickening the chords by the end. For the final chord I went down to C minor, and my last note – I can remember it now – was an A natural, right at the top. I’ve tried it since, and it didn’t sound as good. It sounded just right at the time.
There was silence at first, then she started clapping, and then she came over to the piano. I turned around and faced her. We were both smiling.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That was beautiful. I’ve never heard it played like that before.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘My father used to love that tune,’ she continued. ‘He used to have a record of it. I used to listen to it a lot, but… you played it very differently. And you’d really never played it before?’
I laughed modestly. ‘Well, it’s amazing what you can do. When the inspiration’s right.’
She blushed.
After a couple more numbers the manager came over and told me that I might as well go home. Nothing was said about coming back to play the next week. He gave me my cash and then went over to start closing up the bar.
‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I enjoyed it. So would a lot more people if they’d been here.’
I finished packing my music away into a plastic bag and said: ‘Do you mind if I walk you home?’ She looked hesitant. ‘I don’t mean anything funny. I only mean as far as your door.’
‘All right, that’s very kind. Thank you.’
And so that was as far as I got that evening – to her door. It turned out to be quite a door, all the same. About twice my height, at a modest estimate. It seemed to lead into some kind of mansion: one of those impossibly massive and gorgeous-looking Georgian houses you find in Onslow Square and those sorts of areas.
‘You live here?’ I said, craning my neck to look up at the top storey.
‘Yes.’
‘On your own?’
‘No, I share it with another person.’
I tutted. ‘That must be awfully cramped.’
‘I don’t own it or anything,’ she said, laughing.
‘You rent it? Really? How much a week? – Round it down to the nearest thousand if you like.’
‘I work here,’ she said. ‘It belongs to this old lady. I look after her.’
It was a warm early summer’s evening. We were standing on the pavement opposite the house. Behind us was a tall laurel hedge, and behind that, a small private park. Above us was the silver light of a street lamp. I leant against the lamp post and she stood quite close beside me.
‘She’s just a frail old lady. Most of the day she sleeps. Twice a day I have to take her up a meal – I don’t have to cook it, there’s a cook to do that. I can’t cook. I have to get her out of bed in the morning, and get her into bed at night. In the afternoon I have to take her up a cup of tea and some biscuits and cakes, but sometimes she doesn’t wake up for long enough to have them. I have to do her shopping for her, and go to the bank, and things like that.’
‘And what do you get for doing all this?’
‘I get some money, and I get some rooms of my own. There, those are my rooms.’ She pointed up at two enormous windows on the second floor. ‘Most of the time I don’t have to do anything. I just sit up there, all day sometimes.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘There’s a telephone, and a television.’
I shook my head. ‘It sounds, well, very different to the life I lead. Very different.’
‘You must tell me about it.’
‘Yes, I must. Perhaps,’ I ventured, ‘perhaps some other time?’
‘I have to go inside now,’ she said, and she crossed the road hurriedly.
I followed her and she unlocked the front door with a Yale key which looked absurdly small and puny for the task. There were three steps up to the door: I was standing on the second, and she was on the third, which made her seem quite a lot taller than me. When the door opened, I glimpsed a dark hallway. Madeline disappeared for a moment – I could hear the click of her heels on what seemed to be a marble floor – and then the light was switched on.
‘Jesus Christ…’ I said.
While I was peering in, not even bothering to hide my awe and astonishment, she was picking up an envelope which must have been posted by hand through the letterbox. She opened it and read the letter.
‘It’s a note from Piers,’ she said. ‘He came round after all. How stupid of him.’
I was standing there like some idiot, not saying anything.
‘Well,’ said Madeline, ‘this is as far as you go.’ She started to turn away. ‘Good night.’
‘Look – ’ Forgetting myself, I had laid my hand on her arm. Her grey eyes looked at me, questioning. ‘I’d like to see you again.’
‘Do you have a pen?’
I had a cheap plastic biro in my jacket pocket. She took it and wrote down a telephone number on the front of the envelope, beneath the word ‘Madeline’ which had been put there by her friend. Then she handed it to me.
‘Here. You can phone me. Any time you like – day or night. I don’t mind.’
And after saying that, she closed the door gently in my face.
*
Samson’s wasn’t very crowded – the weather must have been keeping people away – and we had the choice of whether to sit in the eating part or the drinking part.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked. ‘Or do you just want to drink?’
‘I don’t mind.’
I sighed.
‘Well, have you eaten tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Then you must be hungry.’
‘Not really. Don’t you want to sit next to your friend?’
The piano was in the drinking area, but it was close to the open door of the restaurant, so that diners could still listen to the music. Tony was playing with his back to us and hadn’t noticed our arrival yet.
‘It doesn’t matter where we sit,’ I said.
‘I thought that was the whole point of us coming.’
‘We came because it’s a nice place to come to. I didn’t even know if he was going to be here.’
I must have raised my voice, because Tony heard me, turned round and waved with his left hand, while the other hand kept an attractive little arpeggio going on F sharp minor.
‘Let’s go through,’ I said, indicating the restaurant.
‘I don’t want to sit and watch you eat,’ said Madeline.
‘You don’t want anything?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well why didn
’t you say so? Fine, OK, we’ll just have a drink.’
‘But you’re hungry.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’
I sat down at the nearest table and began looking through the wine list.
She sat beside me and said as she slid out of her coat, ‘You are difficult, William.’
A tune went through my mind:
There were times when I could have murdered her But I would hate anything to happen to her… I know, I know, it’s serious
‘Hello, young lovers,’ said Tony.
We had started on the wine, a nice cold bottle of Frascati, and now he was standing over us, beaming down, waiting for an invitation.
‘Got a few minutes to spare?’ I asked, waving him to a seat.
‘Thanks.’
We asked for a third glass.
‘Nice version,’ I said.
‘You mean the Cole Porter? Yes, I thought I’d try it in a different key. Never done it in A before. It makes it sound sunnier, somehow. So,’ he poured himself a generous glassful, ‘how’s everything going?’
I’d hoped he might begin by talking to Madeline, but his question was obviously directed at me, and I could tell that we were going to embark on a conversation about music from which she would be excluded.
‘Well, we haven’t rehearsed much recently,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow will be the first time in over a week. We’ve been recovering from the last gig. It was a bit rough.’
‘Yes, you mentioned something about that.’
‘I had a word with Chester about it. He was very apologetic, said he wouldn’t book us into a place like that again.’
‘So how’s Martin? Have the bandages come off yet?’
‘Yes, a couple of days ago, apparently. He can nearly hold his guitar again now.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Well, you know, you learn by experience. Now we know never to play at a place where the wine waiter has got “Love” and “Hate” tattooed on his knuckles.’
Tony smiled an accusing smile, as though at the scoring of yet another point in a long-running argument.
‘Well, that’s rock music for you, isn’t it? Nothing like that has ever happened at a gig I’ve played at. And have you managed to practise any real music in the meantime?’