against the wall. She looked at Jim. ‘There’s a piano, Jim.’
Jim looked. ‘I can confirm that that is a piano, Tyler, yes.’
Tyler let her thumb glance off Jim’s elbow. ‘Well, you should play it then. You being all piano-y.’
I laughed nervously into my drink. Jim looked at me and took a swig of wine. He’d told me it happened a lot, people asking him to play (
If I was a plumber they wouldn’t say,
Go on, do something with a pipe,
would they? But musicians are constantly on call
… I thought it a little churlish of him. A little). Then he stood up and walked over to the geriatric instrument, pulled over a chair from a nearby table and sat down. Tyler sat back in her seat, pleased.
I tensed. I’d heard him play the second-hand Steinway upright in his flat a few times drunk, but never anything in public. The concerts he’d played so far had been abroad and it had been too early for all that. I was worried what Tyler might think, what – dare I think it? – what
ammo
it would give her. She didn’t like how often I was staying over at his. She’d brought up the matter of rent a few times, swiftly dropped it. Still.
Jim ran his fingers along the keys in opposite directions. The room filled with noise – a good rhythm and a cascade of sounds. He turned to look at us. ‘It’s not quite tuned but it’s not as bad as I thought,’ he said. His fingers were hitting the keys as he talked. ‘Hang on … almost got it …’ His fingers fluttered, up and down, in ever decreasing breadth until he was down down down to one note which he struck struck struck with a DONK DONK DONK. ‘There,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Found the room.’
My pelvic floor twitched.
‘What do you mean,
found the room
?’ said Tyler.
Jim, playing again, up and down and up and down, smiled at her – bizarrely in that smile he’d
reminded
me of Tyler
, as though something had in that moment been transferred – and said, ‘There’s always one note that makes the room resonate. It’s something you want to avoid.’
Tyler rolled her eyes, raised her glass and struck the side with a flick of her middle finger. The glass sounded with a short ping. ‘Look, I found it, too.’
Jim turned back to face the piano. ‘Anyway, now I’ve got it …’ He launched into a casually glorious, soaring, swelling, hell
perfect
rendition of ‘At Last’ by Etta James.
‘Fuck,’ I said under my breath.
I looked around to see the bar staff standing by the door, rapt. I looked at Tyler. She was watching Jim, her glass poised midway between her mouth and the table, her face a crisp twist of angry awe. It took a lot to make Tyler forget about her drink.
‘French onion soup!’ Tyler declared. ‘That’s what we need to recover. Soup and a pint of real ale, like the ursines drink.’
We walked from Salford – where we’d abandoned the car post-Cheshire – to one of our favourite pubs, a Victorian chophouse that was tiled like a swimming pool and staffed by bartenders in bowties. The onion soup there was the best in town – rich and murky as pond water, served with a dumplingy cheese crouton the size of a baby’s fist. Tucked away in the slats and canopies of the beer garden, we dissected the day over ale and then red wine.
‘I’ve got the decorators in!’ Tyler said loudly, raising her glass. It was a phrase I’d told her was a traditional English toast for whenever you were drinking red wine. As a gag it had enjoyed a remarkably good innings.
‘Just get a normal dress from a normal shop,’ Tyler said. ‘That place was heinous.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s almost as if they want to put you off.’ I swirled my wine. The legs lingered in thin, filmy waves on the sides of the glass and then retreated back to the pool at the bottom.
‘Why ever would they want to do that? Put you off a barely evolved pagan ceremony for needy morons?’
‘I’m not a needy moron. Well, maybe I’m needy sometimes, but aren’t we
Jim looked. ‘I can confirm that that is a piano, Tyler, yes.’
Tyler let her thumb glance off Jim’s elbow. ‘Well, you should play it then. You being all piano-y.’
I laughed nervously into my drink. Jim looked at me and took a swig of wine. He’d told me it happened a lot, people asking him to play (
If I was a plumber they wouldn’t say,
Go on, do something with a pipe,
would they? But musicians are constantly on call
… I thought it a little churlish of him. A little). Then he stood up and walked over to the geriatric instrument, pulled over a chair from a nearby table and sat down. Tyler sat back in her seat, pleased.
I tensed. I’d heard him play the second-hand Steinway upright in his flat a few times drunk, but never anything in public. The concerts he’d played so far had been abroad and it had been too early for all that. I was worried what Tyler might think, what – dare I think it? – what
ammo
it would give her. She didn’t like how often I was staying over at his. She’d brought up the matter of rent a few times, swiftly dropped it. Still.
Jim ran his fingers along the keys in opposite directions. The room filled with noise – a good rhythm and a cascade of sounds. He turned to look at us. ‘It’s not quite tuned but it’s not as bad as I thought,’ he said. His fingers were hitting the keys as he talked. ‘Hang on … almost got it …’ His fingers fluttered, up and down, in ever decreasing breadth until he was down down down to one note which he struck struck struck with a DONK DONK DONK. ‘There,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Found the room.’
My pelvic floor twitched.
‘What do you mean,
found the room
?’ said Tyler.
Jim, playing again, up and down and up and down, smiled at her – bizarrely in that smile he’d
reminded
me of Tyler
, as though something had in that moment been transferred – and said, ‘There’s always one note that makes the room resonate. It’s something you want to avoid.’
Tyler rolled her eyes, raised her glass and struck the side with a flick of her middle finger. The glass sounded with a short ping. ‘Look, I found it, too.’
Jim turned back to face the piano. ‘Anyway, now I’ve got it …’ He launched into a casually glorious, soaring, swelling, hell
perfect
rendition of ‘At Last’ by Etta James.
‘Fuck,’ I said under my breath.
I looked around to see the bar staff standing by the door, rapt. I looked at Tyler. She was watching Jim, her glass poised midway between her mouth and the table, her face a crisp twist of angry awe. It took a lot to make Tyler forget about her drink.
‘French onion soup!’ Tyler declared. ‘That’s what we need to recover. Soup and a pint of real ale, like the ursines drink.’
We walked from Salford – where we’d abandoned the car post-Cheshire – to one of our favourite pubs, a Victorian chophouse that was tiled like a swimming pool and staffed by bartenders in bowties. The onion soup there was the best in town – rich and murky as pond water, served with a dumplingy cheese crouton the size of a baby’s fist. Tucked away in the slats and canopies of the beer garden, we dissected the day over ale and then red wine.
‘I’ve got the decorators in!’ Tyler said loudly, raising her glass. It was a phrase I’d told her was a traditional English toast for whenever you were drinking red wine. As a gag it had enjoyed a remarkably good innings.
‘Just get a normal dress from a normal shop,’ Tyler said. ‘That place was heinous.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s almost as if they want to put you off.’ I swirled my wine. The legs lingered in thin, filmy waves on the sides of the glass and then retreated back to the pool at the bottom.
‘Why ever would they want to do that? Put you off a barely evolved pagan ceremony for needy morons?’
‘I’m not a needy moron. Well, maybe I’m needy sometimes, but aren’t we
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