How To Choose a Sweetheart (7 page)

“I’m asking you anyway. Anything will do.”

“Then I’ll go and grab you something. Won’t be a sec.”

Max walks casually up the stairs until he’s almost out of sight, then he runs. He rushes over to the back till. Chris appears to be flirting with Amelie in spite of her leanings.

“I need a book quick. Something for a woman. Something that will impress. Make me seem intelligent.”

“Don’t be daft. I can’t work miracles.”

“Come on. It’s important.”

“Poor bloke, he’s in love.”

“And about time too,” Amelie chips in.

“Then help me out here, will you?”

Amelie always likes to play Cupid. “Don’t you understand anything?  If she wants you to choose a book, she might just be hoping to find something out about you, get a handle on who you are.”

“You think?” It does make sense in a fuzzy logic kind of way.

“Yes I do.”

“I don’t think the Beano will give you much of a start though,” Chris says.

Amelie’s elbow launches itself into Chris’s ribs and lands with a dull thud. “Shut up Chris. How about that Paul Auster?  I’ve never heard you talk so much about a book.”

“Or one of your detectives.”

“Or The Count of Monte Cristo.”

The Count. Romantic and gripping and literary. It could be a winner. And they could talk about it afterwards. “Now there’s an idea. Great, thanks guys.”

Max reaches over, takes each of them and squeezes. He turns and runs downstairs with his brain fizzing. When he gets to the bottom and within range of Trunchball, he walks with an exaggerated calm. He goes over to the fiction section, scans the shelf, finds the Dumas and pulls out The Count. Cath’s waiting patiently at the till, looking through the rack of cards when he returns and he holds the book out to her.

She turns to him and checks the title. “I’ll take it.”

That was easy. “Don’t you want to know what it’s about or anything?”

“It would spoil the surprise.”

“Suppose so.” He looks around checking for his boss. She’s staring at him like an owl might eye up a mouse on a plate. “If you can hang around I can get it on staff discount. I just have to be sure the old dragon isn’t watching.

“I’ll take it as is,” she says. “I need to pick Alice up. Thanks all the same.”

Max scans the book, puts it into a bag and takes a note from Cath. He taps the till then hands over the change and the receipt.

“Maybe we could talk about it sometime.”

Slam dunk. “I only talk about books when I’m drinking.”

“So let’s do some drinking then. How about I cook us dinner next Thursday after the lesson? As a kind of thank you.”

Hasn’t she seen the size of the book? Max wonders. “That would be wonderful, but...” And where the hell did that ‘but’ come from?

“You’re already busy, right?”

She looks genuinely taken aback, her eyes opening with surprise and her cheeks and her ears pinking up immediately.

Surely he can’t blow this one. “No, no, that would be lovely. If you’re sure.”

It’s like someone has run on, painted relief onto her face and disappeared without being noticed.   “Absolutely.”

“Great.”

“I can cook while you’re working.”

Which is fantastic because then he’ll be able to bluff his way through another lesson unobserved. “I’ll bring the wine then. Red or white?”

“How about one of each to be on the safe side.”

This really could be the woman of Max’s dreams, even if she might have to share the space with Jazz.

Cath takes her new book from the bag. She puts it up to her nose, flicks the pages and takes a sniff. “You wouldn’t believe the things Alice comes out with. This morning she swore she could smell green eggs and ham.”

Max’s face heats up a little.

Cath returns the book to the bag and gets set to leave. “I’ll look forward to it then.”

Just as she sets off, Max remembers something. “Wait. I’m sorry, I’m a vegetarian.”

“And I thought you were English.” The look she gives him over her shoulder is irresistible. It’s the perfect cure for a hangover.

“Hope you like the read,” he calls after her as she leaves the shop.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Chris appears at Max’s shoulder. “Tell me that was her.”

Max nods, and puffs out a deep sigh of relief.

Chris puffs out his cheeks to give his best wow face. “You can keep the piano after all. I’ll sleep inside it if I have to.”

He pats Max on the back and rubs the top of his shoulders before leaving. Max just stares at the door.

The music in the shop changes to ‘Poor Little Fool’ by Ricky Nelson.

Amelie wanders by and passes a card into his hands.

He raises it, looks at it and smiles. In the middle of the card, she’s scribbled a huge 10.

S
unday night and Max walks in to Mr Evans’s living room all prepared for his next lesson, only a couple of minutes late.

Mr Evans is sitting in his armchair coughing into a handkerchief. It’s a wet cough, the kind that sounds like it could kill an ox. His grey hair has flopped forward and looks out of control.

Without any first aid knowledge, it seems to Max that the best thing to do is to get a glass of water. He goes into the kitchen. The place is tiny and he stretches out his arms, managing to put a flattened palm onto each wall. It has a Belfast sink and, like the city, it’s clearly been through the wars. The two taps are huge and they’re covered with white scale. When Max turns the cold tap to leave it to run, there’s a judder that runs through the pipes and sounds as if it might wreck the place.

On the shelves there are various pots and pans and crockery. He takes a glass that has lost something of its transparency due to the oily film it’s covered in. Max takes it, gives it a rinse and fills it with water that is so full of bubbles it looks like milk of magnesia.

He takes it in to Mr Evans.  The water is clearing from the bottom up.

The old man waves him away sharply and finally manages to get his coughing under control.

“Do you have a cigarette boy?” It’s like the guy has a death wish. “I’m afraid I ran out earlier.”

“You went for a jog?” The old man’s wiry eyebrows knit together. “Just kidding. Hang on a sec.”

He pulls a packet from his inside pocket, pulls back the top and offers one over. Mr Evans takes a cigarette and Max follows suit.

Lighting up is no easy business. As soon as Mr Evans has a lit match, a draft coming from the direction of the window knocks it out.

There’s a Zippo in Max’s pocket and he takes it out. He protects the flame as he holds it over and Mr Evans takes a deep drag, exhaling slowly like he’s a judge at a cigarette tasting event. He sits back in his chair and pulls over the piano stool for Max. “Simple pleasures.”

Max lights up himself. He enjoys the dizzy sensation inside his head, but it’s followed by a churn in his stomach which reminds him of his fragile state. “Would you mind if I put the kettle on?  I could do with a cup of tea before we start today.”

“Aren’t we feeling ourselves?” Mr Evans asks, but he doesn’t know the half of it. The fact that he’s prepared to drink anything from the Evans kitchen should show just how badly he needs liquid.

“Nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn’t cure.”

“That’s good, because there is no tea.” Mr Evans flicks his ash in the direction of a full ashtray. Some of it hits the target, some of it doesn’t. “Wait here. I do have something that might help.”

He gets up, does his best to straighten his back and walks through the door to the kitchen. Max looks at the armchair and can’t resist. He’s over in a flash to test it out. It’s super comfy, even though it has the shape of another in its memory. He picks up the book that’s lying face down on its arm, reads a couple of lines of rather dry poems that he doesn’t recognise and returns it to its place. He stands and moves over to a collection of photographs that are on the wall, using his lighter to get a better look.

The photos are old. Black and white in the main, though they’re faded to the point of being more grey and white than anything. There’s a young handsome man in many of the pictures, which has to be Mr Evans. Clear, pale eyes and tidily slicked, dark hair. His suits are all tight fitting and he’s never without a bow-tie. In some he stands in front of theatres or posters for musical performances, in others he’s with a beautiful woman who always looks happy.

When Mr Evans enters the room carrying two glasses of a clear yellow liquid he gives Max a start. Max feels as though he’s been caught snooping and is a little ashamed, but the old man doesn’t bat an eyelid. He passes over one of the tumblers and nods.

As Max takes a sniff his body recoils. It’s like pure alcohol mixed with urea.

“An old family recipe,” Mr Evans tells him, “and believe you me, with a family like mine we needed one.” He gestures for Max to wait, puts his own drink down on the piano and goes over to a box that he unlocks, revealing an old record player.   He takes a record from its sleeve, holding it carefully by its edge, blowing it to free it from dust. Its vinyl is thick and there’s no bend in it at all. Putting it on the turntable he lifts the arm of the record player onto it. There are a few seconds of loud crackling and then a piece of classical music cheers up the mood.

Mr Evans returns to his seat and demonstrates the sipping of the drink. Max sips his too, though somewhat apprehensively. He’s pleasantly surprised by the taste, a kind of soft plum. His taste buds actually send happy messages to his brain. As the booze settles in his stomach, there’s another message: Where’s the fire-extinguisher? It burns in there like its making holes and escaping. It kicks like a baby about to be born and then settles again. The whole experience is like a roller coaster ride, a gentle start, an adrenalin rush and an immediate need to do it again. He nods and takes another sip. 

The two men sit quietly in appreciation of the music and the drink. Mr Evans taps the rests of his chair as if he’s playing the piece, his fingers slowly keeping time. The atmosphere is mellow. Then the record sticks. Mr Evans jumps up angrily and steps over, then drags the arm across the record. He gulps the remainder of his drink and disappears into the kitchen and the bubble has burst.

On his way he snaps at Max.

“You must leave. That’s it. Come again next Tuesday if you wish.”

Max pauses. Life hasn’t prepared him for such an experience. He just sits and takes a final sip from his glass.

He stands, pockets his cigarettes and stops to look around the room. He takes out his wallet and places a note on top of the piano, putting his glass on top of it in case the draft starts up, then sets off to leave.

“Goodnight Mr Evans.” He was brought up to understand manners if nothing else.

He steps through the curtain to leave the room and hovers around for a moment in case Mr Evans is about to do something silly.

There’s a crack in the curtain that allows him to watch on as Mr Evans returns to sit at the piano stool. He places a glass and a bottle on top of the piano and stretches his fingers. He touches the keys so softly that it’s difficult to believe he could snap like that. He plays the opening bars of the piece he’d just been playing on the gramophone. After a minute, the music peters to a halt and Mr Evans drops his head like he’s a puppet whose strings have just been cut. 

He stays like that for a moment then raises his head again to take a swig from his glass. When it’s empty, he pours himself another stiff one and begins to play.

It’s time for Max to leave the old man in peace, so he steps gently out and wonders what it was that made things change like they did.

T
hey’re all in the Dog And Partridge as it bubbles with Friday night expectations even though it’s not half-full yet. The people are all young and have dressed with a lot of effort to look as if they’ve made no effort at all. Max knows he stands out in this respect, his quiff built so that the comb’s teeth-marks can be seen in the gel. He’s sitting at the corner table which is coveted by all, which is why they always arrange to have someone go over an hour before closing to bag it.

Tonight Max is feeling a little less at ease than usual. Jazz has brought along her boyfriend, Alan.

To make things feel easier, Max has put headphones in his ears and he’s pretending to listen to a recording of some music Chris has put together on his computer. He bobs his head up and down and taps his toe, even though he’s really concentrating on the conversation that’s going on around him.

Alan’s looking smooth in his casual Boden jacket and pebble specs, like an intellectual popping out to spend some time mixing with the masses. Jazz looks plain and beautiful, her long, blue corduroy skirt matched by the band that keeps her hair from her face.

Angela’s still got the lovely, red waves in her hair. She’s been trying her best to keep the conversation flowing with her usual enthusiasm, but even she’s run out of fizz and needs a drink to restore some of her energy. When Chris returns to the table, carrying a tray full of drinks, the conversation picks up again.

“How are things at the shop?” Jazz asks.

Chris takes this one, even though he’s yet to sit down. “You know. Same as ever.”

“Is the dragon lady still giving you a hard time?”

“What do you think?” Chris passes out the beers and the ciders without spilling a drop. “She just doesn’t like me. You did the right thing getting out when you did.”

“I miss you all, you know?” They had some good times on the shop floor when they were all younger and a little less serious about life.

“Especially Max.” As usual, Chris and tact are miles apart. Alan ducks down and takes a long sip from his beer. Max keeps the dance-beats turned low and taps his feet some more.

“I get to see enough of him, thank you very much. How is he really?”

“He’s finally cheering up a bit, but there’s been something a bit strange about him recently.”

“With this piano business?”

“A piano and a lady. You know what he’s like.”

“Never does anything by halves. That’s what I like about him.”