Page 36 of The Key to My Heart

‘Ah, yeah, foxes are dramatic when sexually frustrated. Cheeky fucks,’ Tom deadpans. ‘God forbid they take it out on the gym, or order Chinese food, like the rest of us have to.’ He smiles at me then, a total schoolboy smile, and I can’t help but laugh. That is the thing with Tom. He really makes me laugh. Genuinely. The sort of laughter that leaves you feeling light and warm afterwards. Therapised.

In the early-morning sunshine, Tom and I chat as we drink our coffee, and it feels so safe and lovely, to be sitting here on a Saturday morning with someone else. We talk about the piano, we talk about the weather, and food, and Tom’s job. He’s been working with a lot of performers at the moment, taking ‘a shit ton of cheesy headshots’ (his words) for a new agency that places singers and dancers in the entertainment teams on cruise ships and, sometimes, in Disneyland. I ask him if they’re the photos he likes to take the most.

‘I like faces. People,’ he says. ‘So, this is a nice way to work with that and experiment and learn. Plus it pays. But I have my first exhibition in December. Booked it in. Some wanky art space, in Shoreditch.’ He laughs, a hand rubbing at the dark shadow of stubble on his chin.

‘An exhibition. Do you mean – people come to look at your work?’

He nods. ‘Exactly.’

‘Wow. And is that portraits too?’

‘Mostly,’ he says, a thumb tracing the lip of his mug. ‘It’s sort of – heart-on-sleeve stuff. You know? Which I’m finding … daunting.’

I nod. ‘I think all art is heart-on-sleeve stuff. Every song I ever wrote was. Even if I didn’t think it was at the time, I’d look back and it was like a story of how I felt, or where I was at the time. Like the music knew how I felt, before I did.’

Tom meets my gaze, dark lashes, thoughtful eyes, and nods.

‘So, I say, fuck it. Do it, daunting or not. And if it all goes wrong, you can just showcase a few of your Adam Drivers, and I promise I’ll give a rave review.’

‘I thought you didn’t fancy Adam Driver anymore.’ Tom smiles slowly, the sun catching in his blue eyes. ‘Or poor old Vince Vaughn.’

‘I don’t,’ I laugh, andwhyare my cheeksablaze? What else did I drunkenly say to him that night at Avocado Clash? I may have minced my words a bit more if I’d known that tall bloke at the bar would be sticking around in my life for a bit, and would soon be having coffee in my back garden. ‘Toast on the other hand. He seems sort of in love.’

Toast the cat, keeps brushing himself against Tom’s legs, squinting up at him, the sun in his round, yellow eyes. ‘He does,’ smiles Tom. ‘Why Toast by the way?’

‘Ah. When we first brought him home from the rescue centre, Russ walked in to find him with his paw in the toaster, trying to hook out a piece of bread,’ I tell Tom as he scratches a finger under Toast’s chin. ‘He’s an old man. He knows what he likes, and he likes human food. Shreddies and cheese and pickle sandwiches. His name is Sidney, in real life.’

Toast drops down onto the floor and shows Tom his white, fluffy belly. ‘But only on his birth certificate and to government officials, eh, little Toast?’ says Tom.

And I can’t remember the last time it happened, having someone here, to shoot the breeze with. The weekends here feel almost deserted. Like I’m on my own little desert island – just me (and Toast) and this house, the walls of which seem to watch me sadly, like a parent I keep disappointing. Everyone seems to have so much ‘on’. They’re firmly pressed on play, and me, on pause. Mum and Dad do more now, in their retirement, than they’ve ever done, and Jodie and Carl, my friends – they’re busy, forging and sculpting andlivinglives. But it’s nice being here with Tom, this morning. Really nice.

We walk back into the kitchen and place our empty mugs in the sink, and Tom asks, ‘So, do you have a plan?’

‘For the piano?’ I ask. ‘I dunno. I was thinking on Tuesday I could get there extra early and stake it out a bit more, and hope some music is left this time because there hasn’t been any.’

‘I actually meant the house,’ says Tom, with a lopsided smile. ‘But I think the piano plan is concrete too – for what it’s worth.’

‘Oh.Right. The house. Course.’ My cheeks burn again – like two warm pebbles against the skin. I worry that everyone thinks I’m too preoccupied with the piano, that’s what it is. Me and my empty life, clinging to tiny things that other people might just share as a cute little anecdote.

‘And do you mean the music’s stopped?’ asks Tom.

‘Well, I hope not. But – yeah, there’s been none for a couple of days. It’s sort of … been a bit of a downer really.’

Tom’s brow furrows. ‘That’s weird. That it would suddenly stop.’

‘And do you mean, plans for fixing the house up?’ I press on.

Tom ducks his head in a nod. ‘Yeah, so where’re you starting, what’re the problems … ’

‘Everything,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Literally. Everything. It was a project, but now it’s just … I don’t know what it is. My home, I suppose. That also doesn’t really feel like my home most of the time.’

Tom nods, understandingly, although I barely understand what I mean myself. It is my home. It isourhome. But it doesn’t feel like it, and if it doesn’t, whatismy plan? To live forever in somewhere groaning under the weight of all the work and love and time it needs given to it? To live somewhere that never feels truly like mine – that doesn’t make me happy?

‘Well,’ Tom says, ‘I can take a look around, talk about maybe what you need to do before putting it on the market—’

‘I don’t know if I even am, though, that’s the thing.’

‘Putting it up for sale?’

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