Page 27 of Carbon

A second or two passed before he turned and peered at me from under his battered baseball cap. “Me?”

“Yes. Could you stop that for a few minutes? The noise is driving me crazy.”

He shrugged and turned the machine off before pulling out a tin of wax and a rag and setting to work on the edges. Great—he probably thought I’d inherited Mother’s bitchy tendencies, and I tried so hard to avoid behaving like her.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I considered my options, idly playing the first few bars of “Für Elise.” On the plus side, if I didn’t have a pianist, I wouldn’t need a piano tuner, but realistically if I told Mother we were a musician short, she’d allocate me the washing up next time. Gah! I slammed my hands down on the keys, then regretted it as the hideous noise made the caretaker jump in alarm.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, a voice came from the doorway.

“Is everything okay?”

Oh, marvellous. Gregory was here.

I tried to muster up a smile as he strode across the room, looking dapper in a pinstripe suit.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You’re giving yourself frown lines.”

I bit back my snarky comment about him being able to fix those. “It’s this bl…this party.”

“Music in May? I’m looking forward to it.”

“At this rate, you’ll be listening to the Women’s Institute choir.”

“I’ll be sure to bring my earplugs—Ethel Bainbridge is tone deaf.” He perched on the edge of the piano stool, and I shuffled over to accommodate him. “What’s happened to your mother’s usual brand of entertainment?”

“The pianist’s broken her finger, and I can’t find a piano tuner between Newcastle and Paris who isn’t booked solid for the next three days.”

“Nothing like leaving it to the last minute.”

“Mother only told me it needed tuning yesterday morning.”

“That reminds me of the time my mother informed me the day of her winter ball that it was a themed affair. Finding a dry cleaner to get the Chateau Petrus stain out of my white tuxedo with four hours’ notice gave me palpitations.”

I smothered a giggle. At least I wasn’t the only one to suffer in the name of entertainment. Gregory squeezed my hand, and his sweetness in my hour of defeat made me lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Not unless you happen to know a concert pianist.”

“As it happens, I do. Stéphane and I went to school together.”

I watched from the piano stool as Gregory stood by the window on the phone, speaking first in English and then in French. For a moment, I thought of Midnight, but Gregory wasn’t him—of that I was certain. While Gregory showed a kind side, he didn’t make my insides go all funny like Mr. M, and I couldn’t imagine him getting experimental with chocolate strawberries or a riding crop.

But today, Gregory became my hero.

“Stéphane will play for an hour at eight, and his piano tuner owes him a favour.”

“He’ll come here?”

“At some point tomorrow. I’ll confirm the time when Stéphane calls back. While we’re waiting, would you care to accompany me to lunch?”

After the good turn he’d just done me, I’d have accompanied him to a burlesque club if it took his fancy. “I’d love to. That’s very kind.”

Gregory held out his hand, and I slid my sweaty palm into it, wishing I’d had the chance to wipe it on my jeans first.

“Where to?” he asked. “La Rive?”

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