How To Choose a Sweetheart (9 page)

The films were great. ‘Play It Again Sam’ and ‘Manhattan’. Warm and funny and full of romance. The perfect date. Cath laughed in all the right places and squeezed Max’s hand when things got soppy. That has to be a good sign, so he takes the next step. “Would you like to go for a drink?”

Cath’s smile fades when she answers. “I’d like to, but the baby-sitter will be expecting me back.”

“No worries.” At least not too many. “How are you getting home?”

“It’s a nice evening. I think I’ll walk.”

“Then I’ll join you if I may. I’ll buy us an ice-cream to help us on our way.”

The smile returns to Cath’s face. It softens her completely. Without it she only looks stunning. When it’s there, she’s pure Hollywood star. “You read my mind.”

They stop outside Bertolucci’s cafe with the ice-cream laid out in tubs under a glass counter. It has all the flavours and colours of an impressionist painting.

It’s too tempting to have just the one scoop. Max takes Belgian Chocolate and English Trifle, Cath a Bubblegum and an Irn Bru.

As they walk, they lick the ice-cream and get into a tangle when they try each other’s flavours. The Bubblegum isn’t for Max, but he’ll take an Irn Bru the next time, no doubt about it.

They stop outside a shop and look inside. Max couldn’t have planned it any better. There are plastic dogs, plastic dinosaurs and plastic giraffes. In fact, there’s just about a plastic ark full of animals.

“Not a plastic skunk in sight,” Cath says before dealing with an escaping drip of blue cream.

“Never is. I told you.”

“Perhaps he had one especially made for the film.”

They set off again, Cath taking Max’s arm.

“I love those movies,” Max says. “I can watch them over and over.”

“I haven’t seen them before.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Really.”

“Then I’ll have to take you out more often.”

He means it. There’s something about the way they’re clicking. They’re not exactly Bogart and Bacall or Hepburn and Tracy, but they’re more joined up than government policy.

Maybe she can sense what he’s thinking. She looks straight at him, into his eyes, making his belly warm in spite of the ice-cream. “I’d like that.”

It’s like she’s pressed the magic button. If she weren’t there or they weren’t in public, he’d attempt a somersault on the spot and sod the consequences. Not that he’s going to rest on his laurels. “What kind of films do you normally see?”

“Not so many, really.” She turns away and blushes in the streetlight. “I was just starting to grow into my life when I met Alice’s father.”

Now he’s into tricky territory. On the one hand, he wants to know nothing of the past and her loves and likes and who did what and when. On the other, he wants to know everything.

“When was that?” It’s a pretty safe opener.

“I was seventeen.”

God, that was young. “A pretty young thing, then.”

“Pretty naive.”

“So what happened?”

She pushes the end of the cone into her mouth and waits until she’s swallowed it before starting again, well-mannered to the end. “He took me in. Don’t ask me how. He seemed lonely and sad and I suppose I ended up feeling rather sorry for him.”

“And you mistook that for love?”

“No, I loved him. I really did.” Damn it.

“So what happened?”

“I was about to start college and found out I was pregnant.”

Max is startled to hear it, even though he’d already done the maths. When he was about to start college he could barely tie his own shoe laces and there she was about to have a kid.

“What were you going to study?”

“French and philosophy at Cambridge.” It made sense. A little higher on the achievement plane than his American Studies up in Hull.

“So how come you’re doing graphics?”

“I had to be practical. There was no point me doing the course and I don’t suppose there was much future in philosophy anyway.” She has a good point.

“And you’re good at graphics.”

“I can use my mind and it suits me, especially working during school hours.”

It had never occurred to Max that having a child in tow would limit the world so massively. “You think you’ll always be drawing and stuff?”

“If they’ll have me. Mind you, there’s plenty of time for me to change direction if I need to.”

Direction. She has direction, Max thinks. The only direction he seems to move in is downwards, his degree wasted on tourists wanting to know about Harry Potter, Fifty Shades and Hunger Games and the like. Maybe if he gets to stick around for long enough, he’ll find a way to go. Cath can be his compass point. His north and south and east and west and all that malarkey.

“I wish I was as free and easy about life,” he tells her.

“It’s about time I got to be this way. I’ve had years of being uptight and stressed.” It’s hard to believe from looking at her that she’s ever been anything but chilled.

“Whatever it is, it suits you.”

As if time has vanished on them and reality has kicked Max in the nuts, they arrive at the corner of Cath’s street. “God, we’re here already.” It’s reassuring that she’s sensed it too.

“Yes we are.”

“It’s been a nice evening, thank you.” It needs saying and he needs to check that it’s mutual.

“I’d like to do it again.” If this were bingo, he’d be shouting House.

“So I can interrogate you some more.” He’s done well to avoid the subject of his life for the whole time they’ve been together. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. It’s easy talking with you.”

The thrill of her words fills Max with energy. He feels it in him and takes the first action that comes to mind. “Wait a second.” He bounds back a couple of metres, leans over the fence and picks a large yellow rose from a bush. He carries it back as if it’s the Holy Grail. “A small gift.”

Cath giggles a husky little giggle and her freckles seem to shine. “Thanks. I’d better hide if from Alice. She might get jealous.”

“And from your neighbours, just in case they’re counting their flowers.”

They stop at Cath’s gate and there’s an invisible force between them which seems intent on keeping them at an embarrassing distance apart, close enough for a lean forward yet far enough apart to keep them safe.

“I’d ask you up,” Cath says, “but I need to get an early night. There’s school in the morning and ballet classes straight after.”

“No worries, I need to get to bed myself.”

“I really had a good time tonight.”

“That makes two of us.”

“So I’ll see you on Thursday night. Don’t forget the wine.”

“I won’t.”

It’s the awkward moment that follows any first date where there’s been no alcohol involved. They face each other like a pair of pacifists involved in a duel.

Max feels the tension, but there’s still a little excitement in there and he leans forward, directing his mouth towards hers. When their lips touch, they seem to stick for a second or two, the flavour of strawberry balm and Irn Bru sweetening Max’s mouth.

When they break, Cath’s smiling and walking over to her door. She puts the key in and turns to Max, who has been unable to move. “Goodnight Max,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

Max pushes his hands into his pockets and crosses the road. When he gets to the other side, he stops and turns, then watches the building until the bedroom light comes on. He blows a kiss in the direction of her room and speaks in a low voice. “Sweet dreams,” he says, half hoping that the spirits will carry his words all the way to her ears.

He walks away with a spring in his step and his eyes firmly fixed on the stars above.

M
ax sits at the piano, his fingers hitting the keys like limp sausages. The tune he’s attempting is ‘Merrily We Roll Along’, but there’s little jolly about the tone.

Mr Evans stands beside him, glaring. “Again,” he says when Max finishes.

“Do I have to?”

“If you want me to be your teacher, yes you do.”

“All right.” It’s painful this music business, Max thinks, but he needs to keep his eye on the prize and so he counts himself in. “1, 2, 3, 4,” and starts.

“Concentrate,” Mr Evans rumbles like he’s leading an army-cadets’ drill.

As soon as he tells Max to pay attention, Max’s mind seizes with fear. His reptile brain isn’t able to cope with the stress and his fingers stop mid-piece.

Mr Evans throws up his arms in despair. His patience, what there was of it, has vanished. “Enough,” he shouts. “Enough.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of that hangover cure.”

“Good idea,” Mr Evans says, calming slightly. “It won’t help your playing, but it might help my ears.”

The old man wanders into the kitchen and then makes a swift return with a bottle and two tumblers. He puts the glasses down and fills them.

Before drinking, Mr Evans raises his glass and offers a toast. “May your sins cast long shadows.”

“Cheers.”

The booze makes it to Max’s stomach and sets about corroding the lining. He feels instantly better about life.

“Forgive me for saying this,” Mr Evans says, “but I don’t see you as a pianist.”

“Quite frankly nor do I.”

“If it’s not for your soul, why would you bother?”

“It’s a long story.” Too long and too messy.

“You mean you don’t want to tell me.” The old man eyes Max like a wise headmaster addressing a miscreant.

“I’m not proud of what I’m doing is all.”

“Nor me, my boy. Another?”

There’s only one answer to that one, so Max holds out his glass and watches it being filled. He picks up his coat and fishes out three packets of cigarettes from the pockets. He passes two of the packs over to his teacher.

“Here. I bought you these.”

“The way to a man’s heart. You learn well. At least some things. There’s hope.”

“I never was a big eater myself.”

“Then we have another thing in common.”

Max uses his glass to point over to one of the photographs on the wall. “That lady looks like a film star or something.”

Something in Mr Evans’s face changes. It’s not a physical difference, but has more to do with what lies beneath, as if there’s a torch that’s been switched on inside his body and added life to his watery eyes.

“Close. She was a ballerina. The most beautiful woman I ever had the pleasure to have met.”

“Did you love her?”

It’s like the torch inside him has become a spotlight. “Everybody loved her. She moved like and angel.”

It’s the kind of answer Max might give to a question to make sure he wasn’t lying, just wasn’t telling the truth either. He’s not falling for that and presses the point. “Well did you?”

“Yes, I loved her.”

“I wish I could have seen her, too. I mean in the flesh.”

“So you enjoy ballet.”

“I don’t really know. I’ve never seen one.” He thinks of Alice and her dancing lessons and wonders if this is a new link he could explore.

“Well you should. But you’ll never see the likes of Marie, I promise you that, not if you see all the ballets choreographed between now and the end of the earth.”

“Did she love you back?”

“Funny as it may seem, yes she did. She loved me back.”

“Wow.” It gives Max hope.

“It was the purest love a man could wish for. She was more beautiful on the inside than any photograph could show.”

Max decides not to mention X-rays. Better to go with the flow, he thinks. “You can see that in her eyes in this picture.”

Mr Evans tilts his head and his brow wrinkles. “If you can see that, then there’s nothing I can teach you other than how to play the piano.”

“I’m sure you could teach me lots of things.”

“But what else is there to know, dear boy?” The old man puts another shot into the glasses and goes over to the record player. He picks up the arm and then lays it gently upon the record that’s on the turntable.

The déjà vu makes Max nervous. The booze rises a little from his stomach and he feels the acid at the bottom of his throat. “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s a great idea.”

The disc crackles and then the music begins. Mr Evans turns up the volume and stands still. After a while he turns the volume down again and returns to his seat. “I used to play this for her,” he says. She’d dance just for me and when she’d done, she’d stand behind me and drape her arms around my neck watching my fingers move.”

The acidic taste has gone from Max’s throat and he feels his heart glow at the thought of the two lovers enjoying their moment. “You are a very lucky man, Mr Evans.”

“At once blessed and cursed.”

“How do you mean?”

“Blessed that I ever got to feel so close. Cursed that she was taken away.”

Max thinks of Jazz. She wasn’t exactly taken away, but that seems like a technicality.

“Better to have loved and lost and all that.” That’s what everyone said to him when his life fell apart.

“So they say,” Mr Evans nods. “So they say.”

“And I happen to think they’re right.”

Mr Evans unwraps a pack of cigarettes. Without offering one to Max, he takes one out and picks up Max’s lighter to set it going. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He bursts into a cough, a rough sounding bark, as if someone in his lungs is sandpapering them. The cough goes on and Mr Evans begins to look ancient and fragile.

Max stands, a little anxious. “Can I get you some water?”

Mr Evans shakes his head and points to the bottle.

Max pours some booze into the glass and passes it over.

As the old man sips, he manages to steady himself with a few deep breaths. “Thank you.”

“You know, you remind me of someone.” The thought comes from out of the blue, like an image has been flashed in front of his eyes and then taken away when he tried to focus.

“Anybody interesting?”

“No idea. I forgot already.”

“I’ll look forward to the revelation when it arrives.”

They sip at their drinks and seem to have run out of things to say. Max feels awkward in the spaces and a little dizzy from the alcohol that’s sloshing away around his brain. “Maybe I should try playing again.”

“If you must.” Mr Evans looks lost in a world of his own and doesn’t seem to care what happens next. “My head’s ready for it now.” He goes over to the record player and picks up the arm. The silence fills the room as if it’s a component of air.