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He smiles, feeling something like warmth inside him for the first time since Joyce died. The piano is the only larger thing that really means anything to him, and it is good to know that Miranda and Bets will enjoy it and appreciate it.
He books a company to deliver it on Friday morning and a tuner to go to Miranda’s that afternoon. It is the most he’s done in weeks, and it gives him a small buzz of satisfaction. When he calls in late on the Friday on his way to Naomi’s, Miranda goes through to the kitchen to fetch him a beer, and he finds Betsy sitting on a cushion on the music stool in front of a three-note piece called ‘The Typewriter’, which she bashes out as if she’s trying to push the keys through the piano with her thumb. The sight kindles his heart. He sits next to her and plays a right-hand accompaniment, which makes her throw back her head and laugh.
‘Do you have a trumpet?’ she asks him, apropos of nothing.
‘Ah, no. No, sorry.’
‘Do you have a guitar?’
‘Yes, but I’ve given that to my fiancée. It’s in her house.’
‘Are you going to live in your foncey’s house?’
Miranda has come back from the kitchen and hands him a beer. ‘Fiancée? Wow! That escalated quickly. I didn’t realise you guys were getting married.’
‘I thought I told you on the phone?’
‘No.’ Her cheeks flame. ‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘That’s why I needed you to have the piano.’
‘Why? Won’t she let you have a piano?’
In the background, the keys plink-plonk their three notes:Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap goes the old typewriter. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap on the same old note.
‘Of course she will,’ he replies over the din. ‘But we don’t have room in her place. We’ve sold the house, you see, and—’
‘The house?’ Her eyes are round. ‘You mean Joyce’s house? You’ve sold Joyce’s house?’
He nods, feeling strangely like someone is trying to shake him awake.
‘Sorry,’ Miranda is saying, her eyes glossy. She has sat down opposite him, one hand flat to the top of her head. ‘I just had no idea you were engaged until now, let alone selling the house.’
‘After what happened, we felt… Naomi said… It should have gone through by now, but as it is, it might not go through till after the wedding.’
‘Thewedding?’ Miranda blinks and shakes her head. ‘Sorry. It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Sorry, I… I’m not supposed to be telling anyone, so don’t mention it, OK? We’ll have a party when things get a bit easier. Next year probably. It doesn’t feel right to have a party right now.’
‘Sure. Sure. And when is the wedding?’
‘Monday.’
‘So that’s… that’s in four days. Wow.’ Miranda is nodding, but her voice is high, her face all frown. He should have told her. He really should have told her. And now it is too late.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit spaced out. I won’t be in work until Friday next week. Sorry. I’m all over the place. Naomi said… Hey, are you upset? I haven’t upset you, have I? I’d hate to upset you.’ Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
‘Don’t be silly.’ She waves her free hand then drinks deeply from her bottle, pauses, drinks deeply again. ‘Not at all,’ she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. ‘It’s just… I’m justsurprised, that’s all. I mean, I knew you were getting serious and everything, it’s just there’s getting engaged and there’s gettingmarried. And it’s… infour days. Where?’
‘The Guildhall.’
‘Right.’ She drains her bottle, puts it on the table. ‘You only got back together, what, a few months ago?’
‘We were together a long time though. And with Tommy on the scene now…’ His son blooms in his mind’s eye; the helpless giggling in his high chair when Sam playsah boo!At the thought, an involuntary smile breaks his mouth wide.
‘You love that little boy, don’t you?’ Miranda’s expression is suddenly tender; her voice has returned to its usual low key. She is not cross, not at all. He tries to think if she’s ever been cross with him. No. No, she hasn’t. Even the idea is ridiculous.
‘Do you know, he’s almost walking? He only holds my finger ever so lightly now. I reckon he might even walk before the wedding.’
