; ‘That must be hard on your wife.’
He blinked.
‘Not especially. Not since the divorce.’
‘Divorce. Oh.’
Let me rewind, take everything back, go to the beginning and start all over again.
I wondered if this was one of those occasions when an awkward “I’m sorry” was called for. What is the correct response when a man you fancy like mad tells you that he is not, as you suspected, married and actually appears to be making a tiny play for you, much too late, because you are now fully embroiled in the BDSM scene?
I settled for, ‘I didn’t realise.’
At that point, the cast and crew trooped through the hall doors and I retreated to the piano.
The lacklustre November weather seemed to be affecting everybody’s mood. Our gangs couldn’t muster much aggression, the Latinas’ flirtatious joie de vivrewas too low-key and as for Tony and Maria, I’d seen more passion in the sloth enclosure at Marwell Zoo.
‘This is ridiculous.’ Patrick acted, interrupting a rendition of There’s a Place for Usthat wouldn’t have been out of place on a nursery rhyme CD. ‘This is supposed to be tragic, Tunde. Kacey, your one true love is dying. You look as if you’re resigned to the fact that you’ve missed the bus to town. We need agony here.’
Kacey shrugged. ‘I ain’t never known no one what’s died, innit? Except my nan and I was only three then.’
‘Well, then, think about it. How do you think you’d feel?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Look, it’s like this … Ms Delaney, perhaps you could help out. Why don’t you be Maria and I’ll be Tony and we’ll try to give Kacey an idea of what she should be aiming for?’
Me? He wanted me to grieve dramatically in song over his pretend dead body?
The chorus sniggered as Patrick feigned a long, slow stagger, clutching at an imaginary bullet hole in his chest before thudding to the woodblock flooring.
Trying not to laugh, or cry, I hurried over and crouched at his side, searching for the opening note in my head and hoping this gave me enough of a preoccupied air to make me look convincingly devastated.
His hand, large and long-fingered, lay across his expensive shirt and rumpled tie, chunky watch weighing down his wrist. His eyes were shut but the lids fluttered a little and his cheekbones twitched. He was trying not to breathe too hard, trying to look as if the life was draining out of him, but all I could see was energy, vigour, health and potency. He worked so hard, and yet he never seemed to tire. He was so attractive, and yet he was lonely. How could such a man be alone?
I put my hand on his, and the contact was mildly electric. I didn’t need to force the quiver into my voice when I sang the first few notes of the song.
There’s a place for us.
Is there?
Leaning over him, singing, I could feel his warmth, what they call the vital signs. His pulse, bumping in his wrist, his heartbeat so close to my ear. The melodious, melancholy promises I made sounded sincere, a forlorn hope genuinely held. A place for us, for me and for him.
At the end of the song, the students cheered. A few of them whistled.
Patrick sat up straight, grinning, and clapped me himself.
‘Exactly what I mean. Real emotion, Kacey. It is possible to sing the right notes and act at the same time. Want to give it a try?’
The moment of eye contact when he found his feet was fleeting, but powerful. It probed inside me, turned me inside out, examined every hope and wish I had for my personal life.
He had moved on to stage-directing as soon as the fuse was lit, but I was still feeling its slow, deadly fizzle when I arrived back at the piano.
I think I’m actually in love. Am I? Is it?
Perhaps I could cancel the weekend plans. I pictured myself strolling around some breezy marina with Patrick, picking out yachts for some reason. Yachts? Why? I was beyond analysing myself. A dinghy would be more our budget.