Page 18 of The Key to My Heart

‘A music therapy group,’ I read.

‘Not far from here.’ Shauna nods, eagerly. ‘It says there, they even welcome volunteers. Trained therapists.Musicians.Charity funded, I think.’

Something flutters in my chest – something taking flight. Music as therapy. It’s always been mine, but, God, could I turn up to something like this? Say ifit’s a big circle? Say if we all have to get up and share our tragedies? I’d tried bereavement counselling once, but Kai, the counsellor, had a policy that he wouldn’t under any circumstances speak first, and the first ten minutes would just be us two, in silence, like two idiots in a staring competition. But this … maybe I could volunteer. Priya’s always saying to help herself, she helps other people. It always sounds a bit like Pinterest-quote-levels of bollocks to me, but then, Priya’s always happy, so … maybe there’s something to it.

‘I guess I could look it up. Maybe.’

‘No obligation,’ says Shauna warmly. ‘I just saw it and thought of you. Thought it looked interesting. I mean, how you play – it’s enough to heal anyone.’ She gives a big, round-cheeked smile. ‘And you know you can always dance with me if all else fails.’

‘I don’t have the rhythm.’

‘Oh, shush. I didn’t either.’ Shauna sips her tea. ‘So, will you have a little ask around with Russ’s buddies? About the music?’

‘I’ll send a few texts, I think,’ I say, taking a quick photo on my phone of the leaflet on the table. ‘I haven’t seen Russ’s best friend in a while and he visited the hospital when Russ was in there every single day. So, who knows?’

Shauna nods. ‘No harm in asking him. And meanwhile,’ she slides her chair out and stands, ‘stake it out.’

‘Do you really think?’

‘Sure! Go down there, sit your butt somewhere, take a drink or something with you and see what happens. You might see something.’

‘Someone I know …’

‘That’s right. You might rumble them. And, let’s not rule this out: maybe you’ll meet an admirer. It could be someone you know. Like in You’ve Got Mail? Did you ever see that film?’

I scoff, almost pushing a spray of coffee through my nostrils. ‘Anadmirer?I highly doubt that, Shauna. And I have seen it. Made me cringe mostly. The ending’s cute though. Mostly because of the lovely dog …’

Shauna gives a heavy shrug, the bangles on her wrists jingling. ‘And why wouldn’t it be? An admirer, I mean. A nice handsome one, a nice muscular, soft-hearted hunk. A lovely Dwayne Johnson. That’d do you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I laugh. ‘I mean, nobody really knows me, do they? You have to sort of beout thereto have an admirer. And also, not walk around London looking like a cursed waxwork.’

‘Natalie,’ Shauna chuckles, ‘you sit out there on that piano every single week, playing the most glorious music to bloodyherdsof people, and a lovely-looking one like you – you reckon people pass by and take no notice?’

‘Yes.’

She laughs again, throws her head back. ‘You’ve a screw loose.’ Then she ducks and says, ‘Our Jason likes you, I think. Said you’resmoking.Which I think is young lad speak for gorgeous.’

‘A young lad who fancies everyone with skin, bone and a beating heart.Aren’t I lucky?’

Shauna winks. ‘Stake it out.And, meanwhile, I’ll keep going to check whenever I can.’ Then she rubs her handstogether and laughs. ‘Exciting, isn’t it? A bit of drama, a bit of a mystery.’

Staking out isn’t as fun as they make it out to be in films. I don’t have a sidekick. There’s no funky music. It’s just me, in a hoodie with a bottle of sparkling water, staring at an empty piano as sun beats down through the glass ceiling. There’s nothing. I mean, this is a London train station, soof courseit isn’t just nothing, but there’s nobody suspicious-looking, and nobody I know or even vaguely recognise. Tourists play, people stop to bang on the keys, children pose by it, their parents making them sit with their hands poised, and of course there’s the odd genius – the ones who are classically trained and fill the station with an absolute symphony, before buggering off to catch a train or grab a burger.

But there’s nothing. Nobody lifts the lid of the stool. Nobody looks around – nobody has that look on their face that they’re doing something and shouldn’t be seen. I sit for over an hour, before giving up the ghost, and standing up to head to my platform to go home. But then I see him – just a glimpse. He passes the piano – eyes it, but drifts by. I watch as he ascends the escalator, and heads into Goode’s.

Tom.

From the bar.Tom the Target.

We barely know each other. I don’t even really remember what we talked about back then, in the drunken blur that was that night in Avocado Clash. Did I tell him about Russ? Did I mention the music I’dfound the day before? The first piece. No, no, I don’t think I did, but then Ihadhad a few cocktails. Maybe more than I remember.

On the train home, I open my notes app, and type ‘Suspects’ and then ‘Tom the Target’.

Chapter Eight

The kettle rumbles, and out of the diamond-lined windows, the night is black.The foxes.The bloody foxes woke me again. We never had to put up with this in London. Edie and I would stay up all hours writing music in my and Russ’s old flat, and I don’t remember ever seeing a fox, let alone hear this many screaming like they have fireworks jammed up their arses.

The kettle clicks off, a plume of steam misting up the kitchen window. I glance at the clock above the fridge. Twenty past three. It didn’t take much to wake me tonight, to be fair to the foxy little shits. I didn’t fall asleep until one, and even then, the sleep was fitful and restless and only induced by one glass of wine and reading that boring neanderthal book Russ was obsessed with. One glass. And one was all it took really to help me dim the floodlights of my brain. The piano music is all I’ve really thought about since Thursday. And I feel almost shameful about it, feel myself almost wince when I let the thought step forward, name itself. But it’s like something has been lit inside of me. This dancing spark. Excitement. Hope. The unknown – thegoodunknown. And who’s behind it is all that’s on mymind. The way a first crush is, the way that tantalisingly close holiday is.

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