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‘Did you have fun?’ he slurs. ‘Do you like the Noah experience?’
‘It was the best night of my life,’ I say, and mean it. Really, really mean it.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ I reach over and take his hand. ‘You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.’
‘Even better than winning the Monte-Carlo Masters?’
‘Salaud,’ I huff, pushing him away. ‘You said you would not google.’
‘I didn’t! You mentioned it onHot Ones—what, like I’m not going to watch yourHot Onesepisode?’
‘I was being sincere.’
Noah’s hand rises to cup my face, his gaze a little hazy and unfocused. ‘I know you were,’ he says, so tenderly it makes my chest feel tight.
Noah’s phone pings. Our ride’s approaching.
We find the Toyota Camry and both slide into the back seat. As soon as the car pulls away from the kerb, the magic we’d experienced this evening feels . . . broken, somehow, and now we’re being chauffeured back to our boring, careful, normal lives.
I don’t want that. I want to live in this moment forever; to be who I was in that club, with Noah, forever. Or maybe notforever, but longer than a few hours.
The bar at my hotel is quiet but still open, so I deposit Noah in an armchair and order two glasses of sparkling water from the bar. We still have thirty minutes until I technically have to go back up to the room, and I want to sober Noah up before putting him in a cab.
But the moment I step away from the bar, drinks in hand, I realise Noah’s disappeared.
Glancing around the foyer, I spot him quickly; he’s talking to the night receptionist, hands planted firmly on the counter to stop himself from swaying.
Apparently happy with whatever the night receptionist has said, he swaggers back over with a smile on his face. He ushers me to follow him and understanding dawns when I see where he’s headed: the grand piano in the corner of the bar.
So drunk it makes my heart ache, Noah flips back his imaginary coat-tails and takes a seat on the piano stool. He pats the space next to him, gesturing for me to sit down too.
‘This . . . this is a Kawai,’ he says groggily, caressing the glossy top like one would a lover. ‘She’sveryexpensive and,’ he plays a few notes, ‘pretty much in tune, actually. Any requests?’
‘The maestro’s choice,’ I reply, taking a seat beside him. I feel his thigh press against mine, hot through our clothes.
Noah positions his hands over the keys. ‘Very well.’
And just like that, his fingers take off. Nimble and precise, he plucks out a gorgeous fast-paced melody. I catch the eye of the bartender, who stares at me with a look of joyous wonder, and I shrug in reply. I knew Noah loved jazz, loved the piano at the old bar he used to work at, and after his karaoke tonight, I’ve discovered he can sing like an angel.
But I didn’t know he’d beincredible.
He plays for a short while, totally lost in the music, until he fumbles a note, falls off the melody playing in his mind, and swears, stopping.
‘I messed up,’ he mutters.
‘It’s okay. Have a drink.’ I hand him the water glass and he takes a long sip. ‘Where did you learn to play?’
‘School,’ he replies. ‘It was the one place that wasn’t complete shit.’
The last thing I want is to bring up those memories, so I direct his attention back to the piano. ‘Would you keep playing for me?’
‘Requests?’
‘What, you know everything off by heart?’
He shrugs. ‘No. But I spent a lot of time playing.’ To show me his extensive repertoire, he plays the opening notes to ‘My Heart Will Go On’ and seamlessly weaves it into ‘Hotline Bling’.
