Page 92 of The Key to My Heart

‘From Tuesdays and Thursdays. I think I’m going to start writing again. With a class? A music therapy class. Teaching, and writing and … helping people. With music.’

Shauna claps her hands together. ‘Oh, love. Oh,love.I’m so happy to hear it. I’m so … Oh God, come here.’ She puts her hands out to me and takes mine, holds them across the table. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you.’

‘I’m so nervous, Shauna. I haven’t taught anyone anything in a bloodyagebut—’

‘Oh, you’ll be perfect.’ Shauna puts her hands to my shoulders, then gives them a gentle squeeze. ‘You deserve it. You deserve to be happy. Have you told my Thomas?’

‘Um.’ And my heart aches a little, at the mention of him. She searches my face for something, and I feel like she already knows. About how I feel about him. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘You haven’t seen him?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘We … I don’t know. He wasn’t very pleased with me, after everything, and … I feel like I might’ve blown it.’

‘Never.’

‘He was so upset with me, though. About the party and Don and—’

‘Sweetheart, it’s not you he’s angry with, it’s his dad. It’s us,’ Shauna says shamefully, her mottled cheeks darkening to two pink clouds. ‘He thinks you’re out of this world.’

‘Well, I think he is too.’

Shauna smiles proudly. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘This is the part where you say you’ve both finally realised you’re bloody perfect for each other. I’m waiting.’

‘I … I don’t think …’ I look at her, her head cocked to one side. ‘Okay. Yes. I have. I have realised that. Oh my God. I’ve just said that out loud. To his bloodymum.’

‘Oh,yes.’Shauna closes her eyes and brings both hands to her chest. ‘Please, God, tell him,’ she says, eyes opening, a dreamy smile overtaking her face. ‘Tell him as soon as humanly possible. I’m on top of themoon.’

God, I wish I could. I wish it were that easy, just to march up to him, right now, right this second, right here, at the top of that escalator, exactly where I saw him after the bar. So tall and handsome and kind …

‘It’s not that easy,’ I sigh. ‘He’s upset I lied to him. Plus he’s dating someone else. Someone called bloody Gigi, and she’s obsessed with France and micropigs.’

‘Oh, well, if he is, it isn’t serious. Micropigs, or not.’

‘No?’

‘Nope. Never mentioned her to me, not even a crumb, so, park that one in the back and beyond.’ Shauna smiles. ‘But he does talk about you.’

‘Does he?’

‘Non-stop.Doesn’t think I’ve noticed of course, but … I notice everything.’ She chuckles. ‘Even Jason said it. Said his face drops when he comes in and you’re not here.’

‘Right.’ My heart flutters, like a bird behind my ribs.

‘Look, there’s no pressure here. Regardless of him being my son, I’d say do what feels right. Tell him. Don’t. But just make sure you’re not betraying yourself, Natalie. You deserve to be happy. As I’ve learned – life is far too short to stay in any situation that doesn’t light you up from the inside out. Don’t make the mistake I did. Listen to yourself. To this.’ She holds a hand to her heart.

I kiss Shauna’s cheek goodbye, and even Jason, who introduces me to Dolcie – Piercings Girl – and, as I’m leaving, for the first time, Secretary stands, leaving Mr Affair with his head in his hands, at the table alone. As Secretary passes me, she smiles. A ‘time to move on’ smile. An ‘I deserve better’ smile.

I walk through the station. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Not long, I’m sure, but I take it all in as if itmight be my last time. Because it might. My last as this version of myself.

The station is alive, as it always is. Countless people, one after the other, rushing and whisking with places to go. People in love and out of love, in joy and in pain, on their way home and running away.

I stand by the piano, skim a hand across the keys. And, for old times’ sake, I check the piano stool. Empty.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The rectangular windows of the little club are steamed up around the edges when I arrive. The ground outside in Hackney is hard and frozen and even though it’s only six p.m., the evening is so dark, the air, so cold, it may as well be the middle of the night.

Inside, thick, woody heat thaws my cheeks and thighs instantly, and I see Joe, sitting, hunched on a chair, a notebook in his nervous hands. I sit beside him, and it takes him a second before he looks up. At the sight of me, his face explodes into a smile. I know he didn’t expect me to come. He’d sent a text last week inviting me to a poetry slam night. He’d finally written something. ‘You probably never want to see me again and I totally understand. I’m a dick,’ the text had said. ‘But I’m writing again, and I’m performing a poem, next Thursday evening at a poetry slam. Here’s the address. I’d love you to hear it.’ And I knew, the second I read it, that I’d go.

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