5
Take a Chance on Me
At 6.15 I was standing in a doorway opposite the Steinway shop in Marylebone Lane. On the off-chance, I’d tried the door, but it was locked. There was nothing to do now but wait for Marcie to arrive. The weather had turned – half an hour before I’d left the office, dark clouds had gathered and now rain was pelting down, but even that was a stroke of good luck. It gave me a reason to be standing here, waiting for the rain to stop. I would have looked way more conspicuous if it had been sunny. It also meant there were fewer pedestrians who might scare Marcie off. The few I’d seen had been hurrying purposefully to unknown destinations with umbrellas or at least a copy of theEvening Standardover their heads to keep the rain off.
The piano displayed in the window shone like vinyl and its white keys were dazzling, even on a grey day like this. It didn’t have a price tag, of course; if you had to ask the price, your purchasing power probably only stretched to a Casio keyboard.
It was gone half six now and my nerves started to kick in. What if Marcie had cancelled again?
A black cab pulled up. This looked promising. The back door swung open, but it wasn’t Marcie, just a suited man opening a huge umbrella. He stepped into the road without looking and caused a Mercedes 4×4 to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting him. The suit didn’t even look up; he just continued on his way, oblivious. What a dickhead.
If I’d kept my eyes on him a second longer, I would have missed the black-coated figure that spirited out of the 4×4’s passenger seat and disappeared into the Steinway shop. A man wearing a dark suit exited the car a second later and followed her inside.
Shit. Was that Marcie? If it was, that was one hell of a distraction technique. The 4×4 drove on, and I stood on the pavement trying to think of the best way to proceed. The rain battering my scalp only added to my misery, so I trudged a couple of shops down to shelter in a doorway.
Should I wait for Marcie to come out again, then accost her in the rain?Yeah, that would go down about as well as Justin Bieber opening for Slayer.
When I was a teenager, I’d prided myself on talking my way into gigs for free. All it took was confidence, a cheeky smile and a vague assertion that I was writing it up for my university paper. Somehow, I doubted this would work now. But acting like you belonged went a long way in subliminally convincing others that they didn’t need to challenge you.
A rattle caught my attention. A metal shutter was slowly rising, revealing a loading bay. I edged closer to get a better look. It was the unit next to the piano shop, but there were no signs. Still, pianos were big things; they certainly didn’t get in and out of the shop via the front door. This had to be another entrance. An engine rumbled and a moment later a van nosed its way out. The loading bay was otherwise empty, save for a man in overalls checking a clipboard.
With a click, the roller shutter started to descend again, and I had seconds to decide what to do. Sod it – what did I have to lose? I ducked inside, trying to formulate a plan. I reached into my bag and grabbed my keys.
‘Hi!’ I said brightly, to Mr Overalls. ‘I’m the driver.’
He peered at me, like he was trying to place me.
‘You what?’
Luckily, he wasn’t looking too closely at what was in my hand. If he were he might have twigged that I wasn’t brandishing car keys, but a couple of Chubbs, the office alarm fob and a key-ring that proclaimed ‘Drummers are people too’.
‘I’m the driver for Miss Tyler. It took me ages to park and now the front door is closed and no one’s answering.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said, like I was making perfect sense.
I flashed him a smile. ‘Can I pop in this way?’
Without waiting for him to respond, I strolled confidently up to the door and brazenly walked in.
My mouth was dry and my heart was bouncing around my ribs. My ears were pricked, waiting for him to shout, ‘Oi!’ but no sound came and when I turned round, the man was nowhere to be seen.
I was in! A little smile formed on my lips – I still had it.
Ahead of me was another door, but it yielded when I gave it a push and then I was inside.
It was darker here and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. Oversized gold chandeliers gave off little light, but their glow was magnified by the polished surfaces of pianos. Everything smelt of new carpet and varnish.
The place was deserted, but I could sense movement in the furthest corner. I crept to the opposite wall and stopped to examine a portrait of Beethoven. My interest lay less in the picture and more in the glass that framed it. It reflected a mahogany piano behind me where a woman sat at the keyboard. It was Marcie. I turned my head slightly to get a better look.
Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail from which a few dark curls had strayed. I knew she was in her fifties, but she looked ageless. Her complexion was smooth and pale and blemish-free. Eschewing summers in Saint-Tropez and Palm Beach had its upside. If being a recluse gave you such good skin, perhaps I ought to consider it. The flesh under her eyes maybe wasn’t as taut as it had been when she’d released her first album at the age of twenty, but the heavier eyelids only made her face more magnetic. She was ridiculously beautiful. Those famous cheekbones and long neck could still turn every head.
Iconic was the only word.
Marcie had been sitting by herself, but now her black-suited security guard and a shop assistant in impressively high heels arrived. I ducked into an alcove, my heart beating furiously. This was it. Any second now, I’d have two iron grips hoisting me out of here by my armpits.
But then a miracle happened. Marcie shooed them away.
‘Can I not have five precious minutes alone?’ Her voice gave me goosebumps. Gravelly but smooth, like honey on toast.
