Untouchable Things (2 page)

“Maybe I should come with you.” The pub chatter is swelling, filling her head, and the faintly stubbled cleft on the man’s chin is an unknown quantity. Jez winks and bends to kiss her cheeks.

“Nah, stay, you look like you’re having fun. Be a good girl, eh? Call you tomorrow, darling.”

You left the pub with him?

Yes. Yes, it was stupid and the only thing I could have done. I don’t expect you to understand.

You had a boyfriend, Miss Laurence?

Rebecca, please. Yes, I did. What difference does that make? Nothing happened.

Could I take your boyfriend’s details?

Is this relevant? We’re not together now. And why all the sudden questions? Has something else happened? Is there something you’re not telling me?

Your ex-boyfriend’s details?

I’ll fetch my address book. Here.
(Jason Fletcher, 116a Reynolds Road, perfect boyfriend material.)
We’d been together two years I think at that point.

Thank you, Miss Laurence. Was there anything else about the earlier part of that evening that stands out in your mind? Before you went on your way with Mr Gardner?

Not that I can remember. It was the third night of the run, we knew what we were doing. Oh yes – I’d forgotten. Backstage before the show. Some flowers…

It was impossible not to smile at her own reflection. Each red-gold tendril coiled softly and separately over her shoulders like a pre-Raphaelite painting. Her face, pale at the best of times, bleached translucent under the lights, but tonight it didn’t matter. For the first time she felt perfectly physically matched to a character.

She stepped back in case anyone was watching but couldn’t resist another furtive primp. People were milling about chatting, adjusting each other’s costumes; comfortable background noise like a distant radio. In general her unusual – some said startling – look gave directors a headache casting her. Blondes and Mediterranean types always did better. On too many occasions she’d been told that her appearance would distract from the part, that she wasn’t how they imagined a character to look. She wore more wigs than a drag queen, and of course there was stage make-up, but this time – she
was
Ophelia, simple as that.

Unsettling, given that Ophelia’s life consisted of being screwed around by men and then going mad. Not quite the script Rebecca had in mind for herself. But she had to acknowledge some kind of affinity that went beyond looks. Getting into the role was no more challenging than slipping on a favourite dress.

What did that say about her? She wanted to follow the thought but that feeling ambushed her, the one that buckled her legs like being kicked in the back of the knees. She leant on a chair for a second. Here she was, twenty-eight years old and playing Ophelia. Her whole intestine seemed to straighten and re-coil at the thought. On Tuesday, her parents would be in the audience, holding each other’s hands as they watched her take the stage. They hadn’t always been sure about her choice of career, but they had supported her through it all, the big parts in student productions, the bit parts in fringe productions, the tears and the nearly giving up and the lack of anything approaching an income.

“Ten minutes, boys and girls.”

The scene around her exploded into action. She had to jump back to avoid the sharp lip of a passing shovel; the gravediggers meant business. Intonations of lines started up around her like a sudden burst of prayer. She closed her eyes, waiting for her body’s response.

Here it was, the surge of giddiness on the in-breath, held… held some more, then rushing out like tiny waves to her fingertips. Eyes blinked open like a doll. In front of her was Ophelia’s fragile face, attempting, but not quite pulling off a smile. And then a beep from the table, making them both jump. She frowned. Ophelia would not be answering a mobile phone. But she couldn’t help herself, moist fingers sliding over still unfamiliar keys.

BREAK A LEG, DARLING. I LOVE YOU. J XXX

Jason. Her frown deepened before smoothing into the wisp of a smile. Ever since she’d jumped on the mobile phone bandwagon he’d sent her the same message before every performance, capitals bellowing at her. It had become part of her pre-performance ritual; not as extreme as many – she liked to think she was pretty rational, for an actor – but it soothed her as it irritated her, the sameness of the message, night after night.

The rustle of plastic and Leah appears from nowhere, face almost hidden by a huge bouquet of flowers. She doesn’t want to talk to Leah now, she needs to focus.

“For you-hoo!”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘
For me?
’ Look. Aren’t they amazing?”

She half takes the flowers from Leah but she’s not ready for their weight one-handed and they nearly fall between them. Leah makes a grab.

“Hey. Be careful. These are mega bucks.”

Rebecca puts down her mobile, takes them properly this time and sees a blur of colours bleeding into each other. The smell is like a punch in the face. “Who are they from?”

“Dunno. There’s no note.” Of course Leah would have already checked. “Not exactly Jason’s style, innit?”

Not exactly. And now Rebecca is irritated with the flowers, wants them to go away, and she knows it’s just nerves but she actually wants to shout
fuck the flowers
and throw them across the room, but there’s Leah to appease so she smiles, says “I wonder,” and places them with exaggerated care on her bag. “Sorry, I need to…”

“I know, babe. See you in the pub.”

She closes her eyes against the waves of lily sweetness, wonders if she might fall asleep like Dorothy in the poppy field. Breathe. She shuffles away a bit and a
boom
rushes up from her stomach, like she’s falling upwards. She clutches the back of a chair and her eyes open on Anthony Lambury doing Tai Chi across the room, left leg wobbling precariously under purple robes, arms flailing like a puppet and it breaks the fall and she can smile, and then start over. When she looks back towards the mirror she is relieved to see Ophelia gazing at her through glassy eyes.

There was magic on stage. She always loved acting with Jez but the connection between them was like a power line tonight, fizzing and sparking. Ophelia barely spoke in the first two acts but Rebecca knew how to reel the audience in, draw every eye to her so that each person was implicated in what was to follow.

It’s only now she thinks,
I never found out who sent the flowers.

Scene 2

Why would a sparrow be hovering by the large, glass doors of Draper & Sons if not to buy a piano?

Or to play one. The sparrow, who also went by the name of Catherine, hopped a little on twig-like legs made twiggier by tan tights and tried to summon the
chutzpah
to go in. The wind teased her mousy, shoulder-length hair like a curious kitten. Mist clung in droplets to the slightly oversized, red wool coat, a cast-off from her extravagant sister and the only possible entry permit she had. She fluttered along the glassed length of the building, a sparrow with a death wish, twittering ever so quietly to herself: “I can do this. I can play this role.”

She needed to look serious. In this coat she could be a peacock, strutting disdainfully around the instruments, even preening. No, not preening. Preening might draw attention to her scuffed boots and shapeless jeans. Instead she should move swiftly, a hawk swooping down on its prey, seizing it before anyone had time to challenge her. Even if she was pulled off she would have filled her mouth by then, the taste dripping out of her, ravaged hunks to take home.

With a haughty inclination of her head she spins on her heel and collides with a woman behind her. Instant apologies, retreat, the gathering of resolve over again. A tide rising inside her, threatening to cut off her ability to act.

In the end it was the rain, swinging in from the West, from a tourist-soaked Carnaby Street, that drove the sparrow to seek shelter in an unfamiliar habitat. It paused briefly in the entrance, considering hurling itself back at the double doors, and then found it surprisingly easy to hop forward, avoiding the brazen overtures of electric guitars and drum kits, until it arrived at the foot of the curved central staircase.

Heel-toe, heel-toe, with a little hamstring tensing thrown in, is all it takes to mount the stairs, slowly like a queen, all poise and gravitas. She knows it’s important to get into role early, lest a jittery entrance reveals her imposture.

I’d like to buy a piano.

Can you show me your best pianos?

I’m in the market for a top-of-the-range grand piano.

She scratches the last one – too American, new money, all show. This establishment values modest understatement. Though not in matters of footwear. She hopes no one looks at her feet.

She’s reached the halfway point and there it is, the first gleam of ebony. Keep going. Heel-toe, the thrusting young uprights materialise first, bit by shiny bit, top down, coffins that turn into keyboards, perched, finally, on three funny little feet. Heel-toe and the veterans appear, the grands, grumbling away at the back.

She halts. Row upon row of pianos basking in the lights, a colour swatch of browns and blacks. Rosewood, mahogany, ebony, maple: a blinding mass of perfection. She feels herself growing smaller, as in the face of the sea. Breathe. Look at ease. You are at home with expensive pianos. You know that under their dazzling veneer all they want is to be touched properly, responsively. And you know how to do that.

She emerges as a child reaching the top of a fairy tale tree, stepping out into a different land. A tang of woodiness cools her nostrils and the hush that ghosts over her face is not a silence but a breathing presence. A piano choir watches her, waiting for her next move. For a second she breathes with them. And then the jolt of eye contact with a dark-haired man smiling at her next to a black Yamaha upright. Tall, polished, intimidating, looking disconcertingly like his product. If she’s a sparrow, this one, under his sober suit, is a jay. Do jays eat sparrows? His feathers puff out as he strolls towards her, smiling.

“You look like the proverbial child in the sweet shop.”

And you look like… but his words goad her and she lifts her chin. “I’m here to buy a piano.”

“Well, you’ve made it to the right place.” Something untrustworthy – sarcasm, perhaps – glitters green in his eyes. It’s as if he has seen into her, watched her halting progress outside the shop. Has he? He’s talking again. “Anything particular in mind?”

“Well…” she flicks her eyes as if to survey the room. “I’m after a grand. Something with a big bass.”

“I see.” His eyebrows arch into inverted smiles and she clenches her fist against a rising blush. “I presume it’s okay to try one or two out?” Stand still. Mirror his self-assurance. Ignore the fact that he’s just glanced at your shoes.

“I can’t see that being a problem. It’s the back right-hand corner you need, if I’m not mistaken.”

You’re not.
She nods thanks and reins in her legs to walking pace. Is it still there? Why is he following her?

Stretched out in the corner she spots the focal point of her dreams for the past three months. Steinway Model B, Hamburg 1928. She wants to run her hands down its length, lay her cheek on its cool mottled surface. And she wants to be alone.

“Ah, the Steinway.” The salesman looks at her as if she has answered a question correctly.

“Yes, I – I tried it once before and I guess I fell in love.” She can’t quite meet his gaze.

“Well, be my guest.”

She pulls out the leather stool, adjusts the height slightly and is still. Her fingers strain towards the keyboard but her mind is negotiating enormity, the need to do the instrument justice. What is most fitting? Bach, to show off the clarity? Beethoven, for the brazen power of the thing? Or Chopin for both? Chopin it is. She dives in, finds herself in the slow movement of the E minor concerto, fingers plucking out the notes even though she hasn’t looked at it for more than a year. She watches herself play a little slower, more indulgently, than she might have done in front of her teacher, lets herself soak in the sound.

Feather touch on the right hand runs, hear that crispness, each melody singing out like ice-cold champagne on a hot day. Notes rush up to meet her fingers, ripple through them leaving a river of sound. And sweeping her to the big chords, increase pressure, bigger, bigger… the whole world is resonating with E major and she’s no longer in control, she could stay there, wants to stay, but cool keys caress her right hand and gently guide her down. It wasn’t exactly what Chopin had written but it told his story.

At the final chord she finds she can’t lift her head, can’t emerge, won’t emerge, even as she remembers her surroundings, the salesman. Perhaps he’s wandered off. But when she raises her face, there he is, sitting on one of the nearby stools, staring out of the window with his back to her. Without warning he snaps round and gets to his feet. The movement shocks her, an expletive in church, and she raises a hand to protect herself. He is moving in on her with a brisk sense of purpose. About to start the sales pitch, no doubt. Her game is up.

“Well, you’ve made up my mind for me.”

“Sorry?” She tries to stand, foggily, stumbling as she pushes back the stool. Always the same after a moment like that, when the music passes through her, like she’s forgotten how to use her limbs. Fluidly he reaches over to move the stool away.

“I feel like we’ve had sex. Even though I was just watching.”

She feels her eyes expand into outrage. And then another suited man appears from nowhere, clutching some sort of pamphlet.

“I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Here’s the updated catalogue.” A quick disapproving glance at her as he holds out his hand.