He slipped into the driver’s seat, started up the engine and shifted the stick. Not an automatic, which surprised me.
He wrapped his fingers around the gear stick. Long fingers. A thick gold band around the middle one. Under the streetlight, something glinted, a letter or a symbol, carved into the surface. I jolted. The car rapidly accelerated away from the curbside and sped off down the road.
“How did you break your arm?” he asked bluntly.
Whipping off my hood, I held my left arm protectively. “I came off my bike.”
“Motorbike or bicycle?” Another crisp question seeking a precise answer.
“A bicycle. A Raleigh, ten speed with a little basket on the handle bars.” An accurate description, except it now lay in the back yard with a seriously warped front wheel. “I didn’t see the pothole.” Memories cascaded. Vivid recollections. I’d reached out, my hand had jarred on the curb, the bone had snapped, then I’d let out a scream that flew out of my mouth. I remembered the pain. I’d lain in the gutter clutching my arm with cars swooping by until one had stopped to investigate. “I don’t have a car. So, now I’m bussing everywhere.”
“It’s better, though, the arm?” He spun the car around a corner, the wheels squealing.
Didn’t he care about the wet road surface?
“It aches a little.” Actually, it throbbed. Perhaps I’d started back too soon. The splint only came off two days earlier, but the physio had told me to use it.
“Ah, I’ve given it too much of a workout tonight.”
I thought he was being sympathetic until I heard a light chuckle. I rubbed my arm through the coat sleeve. A simple fracture, according to the Emergency doctor, but it had hurt like crazy. Was I a wimp?
“No. Just that…” I didn’t want to make excuses. “I hadn’t expected to sight-read tonight.”
Stefan, who up to that point hadn’t taken his eyes off the road and the pouring rain, shot a glance at me. I spotted the raised eyebrows. Thin dark lines above his eyes. “Seriously? I’m impressed. I assumed you’d practiced.”
I perked up at that remark. He genuinely looked embarrassed by his erroneous assumption and taken aback at my reason.
“Nope. Nobody told me about Felix or your change in repertoire.”
“You mind? I
mean about the music.” He stopped at a red light and pivoted about his hips. His raised eyebrows grabbed my attention.
My opinion mattered?
I straightened and let go of my arm. “I like your choices. A little bit of a step up for us—me,” I corrected. I couldn’t speak for the others, could I? “Light’s changing.” I pointed out the window at the green glow.
Stefan snapped the gear into first with a smack of his palm. “Nobody told you? A simple email from Debby?”
A grimace unfolded on his face. Well, half a grimace, as I could only see him in profile.
I shoved my hands under my thighs and stared into my lap. “I don’t have an email account,” I mumbled. The admission hurt more than my arm.
“No email?” He slammed the car into third, skidding slightly.
I clung to the edge of my seat. “I can’t afford a computer. We don’t—that’s me and my flatmate—we don’t have Wi-Fi or anything.” I didn’t want to sound apologetic, but the words came out defensively. Why hadn’t anyone rung me? The idea annoyed me. Just because I didn’t attend the after practice drinks session in the Red Lion didn’t make me a social pariah. I went to the big occasions, the Christmas bash, the post-concert celebrations.
“You have a phone. Doesn’t it receive email? Texts?”
I cringed at my inadequacies. Of course it did. I owned a phone like that, but who’d want to spend all day sending emails on such a piddling device? I scowled. Why the fuck was I defending myself? What happened to speaking on the end of a phone? Was it only my mother who filled the airways with her voice—didn’t people talk anymore?
“Sorry, I’m a Luddite,” I snapped abrasively. “I use email at work. I’ll give Debby that address, okay?” I wouldn’t, but what the hell did it matter? She had my telephone number and that should have been sufficient. A great first violinist, but a useless orchestra leader. If Cornelia had kept me informed, I’d at least not have looked a complete idiot to the rather sexy man sitting next to me.
He chuckled. “Tetchy, aren’t we?”
I folded my arms across my chest and turned away, fixing my sight on the blur outside the passenger window. A definite defensive posture. I’d gone from embarrassed to indignant in seconds. I couldn’t wait to reach home.
He stroked the steering wheel with his fingertips. “Sorry, that was rude. Somebody should have told you,” he growled. “It’s disrespectful. You’re a good clarinetist.”