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She handed him his warm drink. ‘I started with the guitar. My dad used to play, so I guess it’s in the genes. I went through a stage of wanting to feel closer to him, so Mum gave me his old acoustic guitar. We had a neighbour who played, so he taught me a few chords in exchange for me mowing his lawn.’ She sippedher mulled wine; it was warm and spicy, and made her tongue tingle. ‘Then one Christmas my aunt and uncle bought my cousins a piano. They showed absolutely no interest in playing it and moaned about having lessons, so in the end I was given the lessons instead.’
He sipped his wine. ‘How did your mum feel about that? I remember you saying she was sensitive about money.’
‘Well remembered.’ She almost laughed at his expression, as he swallowed his wine. ‘How’s your mulled wine?’
‘Sweet,’ he said, pulling a face.
She cupped her hands around the warm cup. ‘You’re right, it did cause a problem. For a long while I kept quiet and didn’t tell her. I really wanted the lessons, but I knew if she found out, she’d insist on paying and she couldn’t afford it.’
He took another sip of wine and grimaced. ‘I’m guessing she found out eventually?’
‘She wasn’t happy, but in the end we came to an agreement. I’d keep having the lessons, but they’d be instead of birthday and Christmas presents… You’re really not enjoying that, are you?’ She turned to the stallholder and ordered him a beer.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said, trying to stop her. ‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine. Admit it, you hate it?’
He attempted to argue, but then shrugged. ‘Okay, you win. It’s disgusting. But make it a light beer – I’m driving, remember? Geraldine is critical enough as it is.’
Kate paid the stallholder. ‘Geraldine will be too pissed to notice.’
He laughed and she felt a rush of pure relief at seeing his face brighten. Sadness really didn’t suit him.
He binned his wine and accepted the beer. ‘So you never had presents?’
‘Not from the age of twelve onwards, no. Mum would get me a little gift to open, so I always had something. I didn’t mind, I loved music that much.’
He took a swig of beer. ‘Do you still play?’
‘Not as much as I’d like. I don’t have my instruments anymore.’ Her chest twinged as the loss hit her once again. She missed playing so much. Maybe that’s why her anxiety levels had increased? She had nothing to diffuse it and balance out the negativity filling her head.
He was frowning. ‘What about the piano I saw at your flat?’
‘I had nowhere to store it,’ she said, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. ‘And I couldn’t afford the fees for professional storage, so I gave it away to a kid who wanted to play but couldn’t afford an instrument of his own. It’s gone to a good home.’ She distracted herself by drinking more wine, hoping for an anaesthetic to quell the pain. It hadn’t been an expensive piano, but it had been hers, and it had given her hours of pleasure. Parting with it had been a wrench. ‘How’s your beer?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Shall we walk up to the main square?’
‘Sure.’ He waited until they had escaped the crowds, before asking, ‘What about your dad’s guitar? What happened to that?’
Kate stared straight ahead. ‘My ex-husband sold it,’ she said, unsurprised by the wobble in her voice. It never got any easier to say.
Calvin abruptly stopped and caught her arm. ‘He did what?’
Reluctantly, she turned to face him. ‘You don’t need to say it, okay? Believe me, I’m painfully aware of how awful it is. It was a special anniversary edition, so it was worth quite a bit of money, and Tristan was… well, he was desperate and in a bad way, and I don’t know… Desperate people do desperate things. He needed the money.’
‘That’s no excuse.’ The warmth of Calvin’s hand squeezing her arm threatened to undo her.
She forced away the sadness, in case she had another meltdown. ‘You’re right, I know.’ She knocked back the rest of her mulled wine and binned the cup, needing a moment to compose herself. ‘Can we explore the church while we’re here?’
He must have sensed she needed to switch topic. ‘Are you sure? You’re not put off by Rowan’s scary stories?’
She gave him what she hoped was an admonishing look. ‘Rowan’s stories are not scary, they’re delusional. And besides, you said you didn’t believe in ghosts.’
‘I don’t. Doesn’t mean I don’t jump when I watch a horror movie.’
‘Then why watch them?’ She’d never understood how people could enjoy being scared witless.
