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It took him a moment to respond. “I’d like that.” He smiled faintly and followed me back into the pub.
As Ethan helped me pack up my equipment, I said, “You really don’t need to do this.”
He continued winding up the leads anyway. I sensed he appreciated having something to do.
I collected my pay, which consisted of a damp note, thanked Jim, the bar owner, and left.
“Is that all you get?” Ethan carried my guitar, even though I’d tried to stop him. My feminist instincts stayed out of it. He seemed insistent, and I wasn’t about to argue with a broken man.
I shrugged. “Fifty pounds goes far for me, and I get to sell CDs.”
“That reminds me. I want to buy one, please.”
I smiled. “Hey, that’s not me trying to sell you anything.”
“I didn’t think you were. I love your stuff. It’s deep.” He stopped walking. “Like you. And you’ve got a stunning voice.”
Now who didn’t like a compliment? I was human after all. Especially when it came to my music.
My messy flat smelt of stale incense, and I felt a little uneasy having a visitor. Particularly a billionaire who was probably used to all the fineries of life. Although, at that moment, it was hard to think of him as anything but a kindred spirit seeking company.
“Make yourself at home,” I said. “I’ll make us a drink if you like. I’ve got beer or vodka.”
“Vodka then.” He placed down the guitar and then made himself at home on the sloppy sofa with his long legs stretched out.
In his ripped designer jeans and dark green cardigan, Ethan looked incongruous in that cluttered room.
I put some music on.
“Nick Drake,” he said, sitting up.
“Oh, you know of him?” I asked, placing the vodka down on the coffee table strewn with everything from my tarot cards to crystals, sheet music and scrawled notes.
“I do.” Staring off in the distance, again, he looked lost in himself.
I sat down on the sofa, only because it was either that or the floor. There we drank in silence listening to River Man.
He buried his head in his hands, and I stroked his arm.
“Sorry,” he said. “This song is so fucking sad.”
I rose. “I shouldn’t have put it on.”
“No. Keep it. It’s beautiful. It’s sad but soothing too.”
“I know. His music is like that for me. Melancholia has this way of talking to our souls.”
He turned to look at me. Really look at me. His eyes trapped my eyes. “Thank you for inviting me here. I needed this. You’re real and strong.”
A tinge of disappointment touched me. Unreasonable because those qualities I aspired to. However, the woman in me wanted to hear something else.
His eyes burned into mine, which kind of answered that. “You’re also beautiful. When you perform, you become a goddess.”
Now that made me melt.
I gazed into those dark, almost-black eyes, searching for the charmer I remembered. Instead, I found a man who had grown older, more serious, and as a result, more beautiful.
I moved closer, and like magnets drawn together our lips touched.
