Romance in A minor: A musical romance (7 page)

"I did. I'm sorry." This was embarrassing.

"Don't worry, we get that a lot. We're good friends, but as you just heard, Trevor has a girlfriend. I'm single. Not gay, just single. This house is mine, and I thought it was a bit boring living by myself, so I invited a friend and his mad cat to share it with me. Anyway, what about you?"

Justine's cheeks grew hot. "I'm engaged. We'll get married next year."

The room suddenly became too hot for her. She took a sip from the wine, thankful that she hadn't yet let Tom know the address, and that she'd put her foot down in not telling him. Imagine if Tom was here now and heard this conversation... God.

"I don't have a significant woman in my life." He interlaced his fingers and leant forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. "You know, all the good girls are taken, like yourself. I spent too much time mucking about and missed the boat."

That was so sad. "Of course not. There is someone for everyone."

"I hope so, but I would really like to meet her right now."

Justine could no longer meet his eyes. It was so sad that the tears pricked behind her eyes.

"So, what does your future husband do?"

"Don't talk like that. It makes me feel guilty and sad." That she had someone and he didn't. He deserved it so much more than she did.

"You shouldn't. He's one hell of a lucky guy. Does he play anything?"

Justine shook her head. "He likes sport and going to the gym."

"Whoa. That's different. That's why you look so good. Maybe I need to start going to the gym, too, if that's where you meet girls."

"Those girls are not your type anyway."

"How do you know what is my type?"

"Well..." Someone musical, someone who liked cats, someone who wasn't too fussed about mess or about pieces of paper on the kitchen bench.

"You don't need to go to the gym. You look OK to me." It was kind of embarrassing talking about this.

"Do I? Most people complain about my hair, especially if they're behind me in the cinema."

Justine laughed, and he laughed, too.

There was a small silence while he sipped from his wine, looking unashamedly at Justine's face, hair, arms, hands—with the ring—and her dress.

"He's a lucky fellow, that's all I can say."

Justine nodded. "Don't cut your hair. It's awesome."

"You think so?"

Justine's cheeks burned with heat.

Trevor came back, and they spent some time talking about music and people they knew. And then, all of a sudden, Justine looked at the clock and it was eleven.

She gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "Oh crap. I've got to go home right now."

This was dreadful. She had promised Tom that she would come home at ten. Now he'd be waiting for her, wondering where she was.

Maybe she should... she dug her phone out of her pocket and stared at the screen. He hadn't even sent her a text. He only remained silent when he was absolutely furious.

"Anything wrong?"

"I said I'd leave here at ten."

"Just tell him that you're going to be a bit later. It will be fine."

No, it would not be fine. He didn't know Tom.

J
ustine didn't dare ring Tom. If she did, she would be blasted in the face, and there was no need for Darren to hear that. He would say
Why does he treat you like a child?
and
You should tell him that he can't treat you like that
and he'd be right about that.

She rang a cab instead.

Darren waited with her in the front yard for it to turn up. The cat came up the path meowing, and he picked it up, cradling it in his arms so that all four paws stuck into the air.

"That's funny. One of its feet has black toes." She stroked its soft belly. The cat started purring.

"I enjoyed tonight. Will you play with us more often?"

"I'm... not sure."

"I know it's none of my business, but you seem really nervous."

"Yeah."

"Is there anything wrong?"

"Well, my fiancé...kind of rescued me from being really depressed about my chances of ever being a musician. He's not really keen on me playing again."

"Does he tell you that you can't play?"

"He says he's afraid that I'll go back to being an emotional wreck."

"Does he now?"

She saw in his eyes what he thought:
you're already an emotional wreck
. She breathed in deeply. Couldn't breathe out freely. Breathed in again.

"Hey, calm down." He set the cat down. It protested with a plaintive meow. Then he put his arms around her. It was a perfectly natural thing to do for a friend. He could have said so many things, like
You know you deserve better than this?
or
Wow, that guy sounds like a total arsehole
, but he left the judgement unspoken. Maybe his silence made it even worse, because if he said something, she could have told him about how nice Tom was, how he had listened to her frustration, how he helped her claw back from the blackness of despair, how he helped build her self-esteem.

But then Darren would say,
Self-esteem? By working in an insurance office?
And she would say that there was nothing wrong with working in an insurance office, that thousands of people did this and were perfectly happy.

And he would say,
There is no happiness once you've walked onto a stage and seen the audience wait for you and clap for you. As soon as you walk off that stage, you want to do it again, and if you can't, you won't be happy until you do
. The music theory lecturer used to start the year's classes with that statement.

Justine didn't need him to say any of these things. She knew. She remembered every little bit of it. She leaned into his warmth. He stroked her back, with his palm describing small circles on her shoulder blade.

She said, "I'm all right, really. Don't worry about me." But her voice sounded small. She was so close to that point where her heart would break into a thousand little pieces.

He was looking at her with an expression of intensity, as if he knew that she was lying, as if he wanted her to say what really bothered her, things that could not be put into words, because doing so would upset her entire life, likely for no good reason.

He leaned towards her, touching the top of her forehead with his nose. He smelled of some kind of male perfume, either deodorant or shaving cream. Not an unpleasant smell. Not cheap either.

He was a professional musician, not some long-haired pauper as Tom loved to say of her previous study mates. He had a steady enough income to buy a house. He didn't have a swanky car—did he have a car at all? She didn't care. He accepted people as they were regardless of their status or how much money they made.

"Justine, I..."

He looked as awkward as she felt.

For a fleeting moment she wondered what it would be like to be kissed by those full lips, and to run her hands through his unruly hair. She looked up at him, so that he
could
kiss her if her wanted to, but of course he would never do that knowing that she was engaged to Tom.

Then a car horn honked in the street and the magic moment shattered.

"That's your cab." He let her go.

Justine heaved her cello case onto her shoulder and walked down the steps, still feeling his warmth comforting her where her cello case now hung.

When getting into the back seat of the cab, she looked back to the house. Darren still stood there, again with Beethoven the cat in his arms.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Justine gave him the address and watched Darren until the cab turned a corner and she could no longer see him.

During the short ride home, she sat scrunching up the hem of her shirt with sweaty hands. Maybe Tom was right and playing music was ruining everything they had. This would certainly ruin their relationship, and he had done nothing to deserve that.

Not too much later, she ran out of the lift and into the corridor of the fifth floor.

She stopped in front of their apartment's door to find the keys... and heard voices. Male voices, and it didn't sound like the tv either.

Okaaaayyy... This was odd.

Justine opened the door.

Whoever had been talking in the living room fell quiet.

"Honey?" That was Tom's voice.

Justine lugged her cello into the living room. Tom sat at the couch with two of his colleagues and the empty remnants of pizza boxes and an entire carton of beer on the coffee table between them. Her first thought was
and I came home early to cook something for you?
but she only said, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Doesn't matter," said one of his mates, an English fellow whose name was Paul, she thought. "The woman who comes late is better than the one who doesn't come at all."

All three men burst out laughing.

Justine put down her cello case. Well, that was just... disgusting.

"You're drunk."

Tom had the grace to look embarrassed, but his two colleagues cheered. That idiot called Paul said, "Don't you love it when a woman has brains? How was your date with the faggots?"

What the hell
? Heat rose to her cheeks.

"I don't have to listen to this shit." Justine picked up her cello and strode through the hallway into the bedroom.

"Honey." Tom came after her.

"I already said I was sorry that I'm late. I forgot the time and we were busy."

"Hey." He came into the room and slid his hand over her shoulder to the back of her neck. He often held her like that when they kissed, but his hands smelled of pizza and beer. And she had gone to the effort of cooking something for him? "Why are you angry? You went out and so I asked a few mates. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

"No."

There was a burst of laughter from the living room.

"But I don't appreciate that they make lewd jokes at me."

"Oh, chill. They're drunk but they're good guys. You know that. Paul and Jack from work."

"Yes, I know them." She put as much ice in her voice as possible. "Jack asked me to 'show us your tits' at the Christmas party." He'd been drunk then, too, more than just a little bit.

Then Tom had told her that "boys will be boys" and that it was just a bit of harmless fun.

"Aw, honey they're just trying to get a rise out of you."

"I don't like that. Not even if they're drunk. Not even at a Christmas party."

No wonder his company employed so few women.

"Come and join us. He will probably apologise if you ask him nicely."

"I think I'm better off having a shower and going to bed." No apology from that guy was going to be genuine and she didn't want one anyway, especially if she had to ask for it. "I've got to go to work tomorrow morning."

She tried to walk past him on the way to the bathroom, but he held her back. "What is this? Why won't you come and have a drink with us?"

She shrank back from his breath that smelled of beer. "Nothing. Just that I've done a lot of playing, I'm tired and not in the mood for sexist jokes. But carry on without me. I really don't mind." She pulled her arm out of his grip.

"What's this, honey? You weren't there, so I invited some mates."

"It's all right! Fine. Invite them. I don't care. I already said so. But don't complain if I want to do something for myself, and don't ever complain about who's going to make dinner either. In case you didn't notice: I came home to cook for you. Your dinner is in the fridge."

Tom pressed his eyeballs with thumb and index finger. "I don't even know what this is about."

"You're drunk. Go back to your friends. I'm fine."

He did, bumping his shoulder into the doorframe.

Justine went into the bathroom, her heart thudding. She stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water run over her head, trying to calm herself.

They never fought, but she guessed there was a first time for everything. In a way she was glad that Tom hadn't been waiting for her drumming his fingers on the kitchen bench, but how often would she have to put up with these idiot friends of his? And would he understand her point of view any better when he was sober?

When she came out of the shower, Tom and his friends were still talking. She would have made tea, but there was no way that she was going in there to cop more stupid remarks so she just drank some water and went into the bedroom. For a long time, she lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the stupid drunken laughter in the living room.

How nice and civilised had it been at Darren's house and what a load of sexist idiots were these friends of Tom's. And then a thought: Tom listened to this rubbish every day. Did he agree with the jokes about
faggots
and the jokes to denigrate women?

It was much later when she heard the front door and Tom came in. She pretended to be asleep, and he dropped into bed like a sack of potatoes, and was sleep not five minutes later.

T
om woke up in a terribly bad mood the next day. Justine wanted to talk to him, but didn't think that was wise, while he was grumpy about the lack of honey and the coffee being too weak. However, she could not get out of reminding him that she would not be home in the evening.

He gave her a shocked
what, again?
look.

"It's the concert. The one we had the rehearsal for last night."

He said nothing, and only twitched his lips.

Justine walked past him into the hall and out the door. Just before it fell shut, Tom swore. She hesitated in the corridor. Should she go back and... and what? Comfort him and tell him that she would never go out at night anymore? That she would not play music again, never go to rehearsals? That she would do exactly what he wanted when he wanted it?

For a moment, she stood as paralysed, not knowing what to do. Knowing that if she turned back to the door, she'd not only be late for work, but reaffirm to him that he controlled every second of her day.

Besides, he might be talking to one of his mates on the phone, and she didn't want to know what names he called her when he was angry.