Page 10 of The Key to My Heart

‘You would,’ I say. ‘A bit of shoe polish, a hoist onto some scaffolding, and you’re a goner.’

Twenty minutes later, Jodie and I sit in zipped-up jackets and hats, in a slice of Spring sunshine out the back of the shop. It’s not glamorous at all out here – a dingy, grey island of concrete and bins and delivery entrances – but it’s nice to get some air, and we sit at the little metal garden table eating baguettes and bags of crisps we’ve opened right up to silver squares, like we used to when we were teenagers drinking in our local pub together. It was a shithole little place, but we loved the hot peanuts (and Jodie fancied one of the barmen. He was blond, called Marc and wore surfer shorts all year around, which she thought was cool, whereas I worried about his risk of trench foot). We must’ve spent a hundred Friday evenings there. Jodie would always stick to her limit – one white wine followed by a spritzer, and I’d get so drunk that I’d end up interpreting strangers’ dreams and talking about how I’d always felt spiritually connected to Christian Slater but worried the fickle beast of showbusiness would keep us apart. (Something Jodie counselled me on in our childhood, more than she counselled me on my fear of premature death and chip-pan fires.)

‘Okay, so – something happened,’ I say, throwing the words out there, like a lit firework.

Jodie stops chewing, mouth full. ‘At the bar?’

‘No.No.’ I laugh.Yes, Jodie, I got off with Tom against the spatchcock chicken embellishment. It was wild.‘No. Something happened at the train station. At St Pancras.’

‘Are you still playing there?’

I nod. ‘Sometimes,’ I say, and shame prickles up my back. Jodie’s the only one who knows about my playing at the station, and although she’s only ever supportive, I always find myself playing it down. Maybe I’m worried if I admit it to anyone else, they’ll visit – Mum and Dad, or one of my friends – and watch me. And think a) she’s getting better, she’s going to go back to work, she’ll start playing properly again, at the school she taught at, and oh, maybe she and Edie will make up, start writing music again together, oh, how lovely! Or b) poor Natalie. She had everything laid out for her. So much success, so much potential. And now here she is, playing on some germy public piano in front of strangers who ignore her like the scabby pigeons that scavenge for squashed cigarette butts and mouldy bits of sausage roll. ‘So, anyway,’ I carry on as Jodie eats, her eyes hooded and serious, a bright yellow ‘SMILE, YOU’RE ON CAMERA’ CCTV warning on the brickwork behind her head. ‘The piano stool there – it’s a battered old thing, with a lid. Someone donated it, apparently. And I keep things in it, while I play. My hat, scarf. Sometimes my phone. Sometimes a packet of Wotsits.’

Jodie smiles, but her eyes narrow, just ever so slightly, as if she’s striding ahead, trying to pre-empt what sort of confession this is.

‘And a couple of Thursdays ago, a song was left in it. It wasn’t mine, and it was one of the first songs I learned to play—’

‘Fast Car?’

‘Yes! And I didn’t think too much of it, but on Tuesday I went back there, grabbed some coffee, and when I went back for my hat – there was some more music in there.’

‘So, what, like – sheet music? On paper?’

‘Yeah. And this time it was Russ’s favourite song.’

Jodie stops chewing again, and this time her eyes stay open, wide saucers. ‘Really?’

I nod. ‘Really.’

Neither of us says anything for a moment. A Take That song floats softly outside from the shop, its pitch higher, the way it often is on the radio. I hear Priya laugh with a customer inside.

‘I don’t know what it means, Jode. Or what I even feel about it to be honest. Freaked me out a little bit. But, also, I can’t stop thinking about it. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t wait to go back, to check …’

Jodie’s quiet, as she considers what I’ve said, running the words over in her head, as she always does, calmly, rationally, before reacting – the mental equivalent of spreading it all out in front of her, on the table, so she can see it all and consider it, clearly. ‘What do you think it is?’

I lift a shoulder to my ear. ‘I don’t know. I mean – well, it’s just weird, isn’t it? And I don’t think I believe in the afterlife, or spirits orsigns,but … I don’t know what to think.’

‘Right,’ nods Jodie, and that’s what I love about her. She’s just so solid, so together. I could stand in front of her and say, ‘I’ve murdered someone. It was an accident, but it’s sort of ruined my life, do help,’ and she’d take a breath and go, ‘Right. Okay. Well. That’s understandable. Give me an evening and I’ll get a plan in place.’ And although her emotions would probably be waging a war inside her – a tornado of them, a hurricane – on the outside, she would be still. Like some sort of tremor-resistant building in San Francisco. But you know. Prettier. Less stiff. (Most of the time.) ‘I mean – it is weird, Nat. And you know me, I’m not one for signs from above, either like …’ Jodie drops her hands to her lap, her mouth twitching into a half-smile. ‘Do you remember when Nan died and Mum kept freaking every time she saw a white feather and wouldn’t hear it that there was a whole bloodycolonyof them in her duvet.’

I laugh. ‘Oh my God, I do! And exactly. But that song, it’s … I don’t know, it’s not even that well known. It was by that band who had like two hits in 2003 that we both loved. Rooster. And I found the sheet music for it when Russ was in hospital. Had to google for ages. And I learned it properly, in the hospital. I’d always just sort of winged it before and …’ I stop, and a sigh heaves its way out of me. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Are you sure it’s not yours?’ asks Jodie gently, and I sink then, a little, as if the ground beneath me is turning to sand. ‘Sorry,’ she says quickly, ‘I don’t mean to make you feel like you’re going mad or something.’

‘No, no, I know. I mean, I did print it. But back in the hospital, years ago. Whatever he wanted to hear that I didn’t already know off by heart. But I haven’t printed anything. Not recently. And none of that music left the hospital. It stayed there.’

Jodie stares at me and I know what she’s thinking. That first year after Russ died, I hardly knew what day it was, and then I starved myself, and then I drank too much – still do really – and I didn’t even remember people’s birthdays. I even forgot myownthe first year. Maybe I did print it. Could I have printed that piece of music when I started playing at the station and forgotten? It wouldn’t be the first time I completely forgot something entirely, like someone came along and surgically removed it, without even a crumb left behind. It happened all the time after Russ died.

‘God. It is weird, isn’t it? I’m trying to think of some logic but—’

‘I know, Jode,’ I sigh, balling up the paper bag my sandwich came in. ‘And all I know is that I can’t stop thinking about it, and I feel …excited.And then I feel ridiculous for feeling excited. Embarrassed. Because, what am I even saying?’

Someone two shops down – a bookmaker’s – opens their heavy back door and wanders out into the sunshine, a phone between his shoulder and ear, lighting a small roll-up cigarette between his lips. His faded black T-shirt reads ‘One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor’. He pulls on a jacket, half-arsedly, leaving the front unzipped and flapping open.

‘Look – it could be a sign, right?’ says Jodie, leaning across the table. ‘What do we know? We don’t know, do we, what’s on the other side, what’s out there? We think we know the rules of the universe, but we haven’t got a bloody clue.’

‘But, also, it could be nothing,’ I say, placing the balled paper bag down on the table. It instantly starts to expand, like a sponge. ‘A spooky sort of coincidence.’

‘One of those things.’

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