Page 39 of The Key to My Heart

‘Hello, hello!’ a short, smiling man in a burgundy-red button-up shirt greets me. He has a stripe of blond dyed straight down of the middle of a dark quiff. ‘I’m Devaj. Is this your first time with us?’

‘It is. I’m sort of nervous.’

‘Ah, that’s all normal,’ says Devaj. ‘But it’s all very relaxed, I promise. Shall I give you a quick show-around?’

Devaj welcomes me, all warmth and smiles and proud hand-wringing, and he takes me around the room, mynerves slowly fizzling. Maybe thiswillbe good for me. Maybe it’ll even actually help, like these things actually seem to for others.

‘I’m a pianist,’ I tell him, and I love the way the words sound coming out of my mouth. I’ve felt disconnected from that identity; from Musician Natalie. ‘I used to write with a friend. We were a duet. Sort of folky, poppy stuff. Then we taught at a small school, over in Marylebone? Me, piano, Edie, my friend, guitar and singing, so—’

He puts his hand to his heart. ‘Oh, you alreadyplay,’ he says. ‘Oh my. Fantastic. But, of course, there’s total freedom here, you can play and do whatever you like, whatever feels good. You’re not obligated to come, you’re not obligated to talk, to volunteer, to even integrate. We’re really trying to just offer a place for you tobereally.. .’

I nod, relieved. ‘I was sort of worried I might have to … spill all to the group,’ I say. ‘You know, have a big ol’ cry in front of people I don’t know. Stand up, have everyone clap me.’

Devaj laughs, a slice of straight white teeth. ‘Oh, not at all. But, course, if you want to do that too, we can support you. But, really, it’s up to you, Natalie – ah. But if I may – Joe?’ Devaj looks past me, and gestures with a hand and a smile. ‘Joe here keeps talking about learning piano. He plays like a bit of a god on a guitar, though …’

Joe joins us, smiling a lopsided, shy, (and almost slightly mortified) smile and instantly, I recognise him.Because he’sNotebook Guy.As intheNotebook Guy. A regular. At Goode’s. The man who always sits over a notebook in the corner, not speaking to anyone.

‘Joe, this is Natalie,’ says Devaj. ‘Natalie here, is a pianist.’

Joe nods and holds a hand out to mine and shakes it, firmly. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Joe. And I’mnota pianist. Not a guitar god either, but,’ he gives a tiny grimace, a flick of his head to the side, ‘thanks for the hype, Devaj.’

Devaj laughs.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. ‘And – we also have the same taste in coffee apparently.’

Knowingly, he smiles.Ah.He recognises me. I wonder if he has a secret name for me too.The Haunted Waxwork. Face-like-a-smacked-arse Woman.‘Goode’s,’ says Joe. ‘Yeah, I’ve become a bit of a regular over there.’

‘Me too.’

‘You guys know each other?’ Devaj gives a warm chuckle. ‘London, eh? Centre of the bloody universe. Anyway. Joe. Natalie. We’re just waiting for more to join, and then we’ll begin, but, just through there, Joe will tell you, is another room. Soundproof and a bit smelly – and we can’t for the life of us find the smell – but there’s a piano. And a French horn, if you fancy it. Someone donated it so – feel free.’ Devaj claps his hands together, a man on a mission, and strides off across the threadbare carpet to a little gathering of people at the entrance, who are shrugging off their bags.

Joe smiles at me awkwardly, his eyebrows raised. I’ve never been this close to Notebook Guy before.He always tucks himself away, on one of the tables on the tiny upstairs seating area, in the corner. But if I had to guess, being up close, I’d say he’s late twenties. Maybe thirty. He looks like the sort of guy my sister would’ve crushed madly on, before she met Carl. He has that intangible, beachy, lifeguard-y look. Dirty, ash-blond hair in short-ruffled waves, hazel eyes, impossibly perfectly square jaw.

‘Well – small world,’ I laugh.

‘Yeah. You can say that again.’

And his words are followed by a awkward long beat of silence. Someone strums a guitar, the reverb turned up too high.

‘So … I think I might just – have a little wander,’ I say, because I worry that he feels like he’s lumped with me now – obligated somehow. I mean, this isn’t a night class, is it? Beginners French or creative writing. This isn’t a new job, or a new gym. It’s therapy. Notebook Guy – Joe – will be here because he’s dealing with something; needs healing in some way, like me.

‘It’s … weird,’ he says quietly, giving me a look that’s almost secret.Them and us.‘Or at least, feels it at first. Pissing about on an instrument. In a room with strangers you’d never find yourself knocking about with in real life, but, I dunno – after a while, you sort of forget you’re here. And you – lean into it.’

I nod. ‘I wasn’t going to come, to be honest.’

‘Same,’ he smiles.

‘But I just felt I needed to dosomething.I’ve sort of … waited long enough.’

Joe nods slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Easy to sort of hope it goes away on its own. That you suddenly wake up better, but—’ He laughs, as if despite himself. ‘Turns out, it’s not that easy.’

I smile. ‘I waited for the same. Hoped it might pass. Like – norovirus.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Grief ’s a little bitch, isn’t it?’ He pauses. ‘W-well. It’s grief for me …’

‘And for me,’ I say. ‘My husband Russ died. Two and a half years ago.’ And I have never in all of my life just laid that information out in front of me, like a picnic blanket, to a stranger. But saying it here, in this churchy, cool room, to this grieving stranger feels safe. Already, I feel safe in the knowledge that Joe will understand how I’m feeling more than everyone in my life. Maybe this is why people recommend these things, like drinking more water, like exercising, like phoneless bedtimes. It actually does work. Who knew?

‘I’m sorry,’ says Joe gently. ‘Two years for me. My big brother. Tanner.’

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