Page 22 of The Key to My Heart

He smiles, and I search his face for something, because if it is him, or if he knows about Russ’s plan to leave me the music, then surely he might be ready for this, somewhere deep down.

‘There’s something that … well, it’s been happening, and I sort of want to get to the bottom of it.’

He shifts in his seat. ‘The bottom of what?’

‘Well, this is probably going to sound super weird and random and—’

‘Mozzarella, tomato and basil salads?’

A waiter appears at the table, as if he’s just popped out of a giant birthday cake, with two large white plates in his hand.

‘Um, I don’t think that’s ours, we haven’t—’

‘Oh, I … I ordered our lunch too.’ Maxwell smiles at me – more of a cringe really. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

I stare at the plates as the waiter, with his rictus grin, places them in front of us and leaves, two round discs of mozzarella and tomato looking up at me from the table like dead eyes.

‘Oh, it’s, erm … no, it’s fine, it’s—’

‘Sorry, Nat.’ Maxwell grimaces again, taking a pointless glance at the chunky expensive watch on his wrist. ‘I only have until quarter to, so I thought—’

‘Oh, no, no, no, don’t be silly, it’s fine.’ It isn’t. I hate basil. I think it tastes like chewing on incense. But I have crisps back at the shop, if the worst comes to worst. Plus, Jodie always has a Flake in her bag. ‘It’s a good idea. Thinking ahead, planning ahead, and well, this is a classic …’ Now I’m really lying. If I’m coming to an Italian restaurant, I want carbs. I want pasta and I want butter swirling on the edges of the bowl and I want to walk back to work so bloated, I wish I had a stolen shopping trolley someone could wheel me back in.

‘So, what were you saying?’

Maxwell starts to eat but watches me worriedly, like I’m about to ask him out, or something, or ask how he feels about impregnating me in Russ’s memory and honour. I almost laugh, imagining it. ‘We could do it through a sheet, so you don’t have to look at me, Maxwell. Cut a hole in it. Oh, I could get a pedicure. Giggle about flowers as you thrust. Really get you in the mood.’

‘Okay, so – something weird is happening,’ I say, slicing a tiny sliver of cheese off a mozzarella round.

‘Right.’

‘See, I play at the piano sometimes. In St Pancras.’

‘Do you? Like – busking?’

‘I guess. Just – well, I don’t do it for spare change.’

I wish he wouldn’t keep looking at me like that – like people do when they find out something about youthat surprises them and not in a good way. The ‘what a shame’ face. The ‘do you know she’sstillvisiting the crematorium every week?’ face. The ‘She was going to workshop amusical– an actual show – and now she just busks like a loser to strangers who don’t care’ face.

‘So, well, the other day,’ I carry on, ‘there was some music left for me in the stool.’

Nothing. Not a glimmer, not even a teeny-tiny flinch.

‘And at first I thought it was nothing. But then, on Russ’s birthday, there was another piece left.’

I wait again. For anything, for the slightest micro-emotion flickering over his features, of ‘Ah, shit, she knows’. Of ‘ah, that’s it, you’ve got me!’ But there’s nothing. He actually looks quite bored. A ninety-fifties husband forced to listen to his silly little wife’s stories about silly little needlework and silly little trips to the greengrocer.

‘Oh yeah?’ He munches instead, a whole round of mozzarella just like that, straight in his mouth, like a rat disappearing into a hole.

‘And it was … it was Russ’s favourite song,’ I add.

‘The Rooster tune? The one about the sun?’

‘Yes.Yes.’

‘Wow.’

I study his face.

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