Read Online Upright Piano Player by David Abbott - Free Book Online
Authors: David Abbott
Tags: Fiction
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eager to find out if these qualities would enable her to prosper as a management consultant.
He looked up from his grilled sole. “You’ve been working on the market appraisal for our French friends, haven’t you? They want to get a foothold over here?”
“Yes, lights and fittings; mostly lightbulbs, as far as I’ve been concerned. Lots of focus groups.”
“Ah, I understand.” His head had tilted once more. “You shouldn’t judge us on those—how tedious they are—those front rooms in far-flung Basildon or Epsom—no one telling the truth, perfectly dreadful, I know. But that’s not the job, when these six months are over you need never go to another focus group in your life.” It was all he could do not to lay his hand on hers and give it a reassuring caress.
“I know that.”
She felt herself leaning to the side, mirroring his movements as some people unconsciously adopt a companion’s accent.
“It’s not the mechanics that are the problem; my unease is more fundamental. You see, I’ve discovered I don’t care how many lightbulbs the average householder buys each month and I’m sure I’d be the same with pension policies or water softeners. They’re not things I want to worry about; I don’t want them filling the space in my head. I don’t want my highs and lows to be dependent on a Monday morning printout from a supermarket.”
She smiled at him. “I didn’t know that before I started, but I do now. I’m sorry.”
He had given her the check and told her that he wanted her to clear her desk that afternoon. He said it was company policy. But he had been nice and wished her luck.
“What will you do now?”
“Get a job, I don’t know, wait table, see what happens.”
She lived in a rented flat in north London in a street where every Edwardian house had been converted. The developers had found a way of turning wine into water, transforming large, elegant rooms into minuscule flats. What was once an impressive drawing room or master bedroom became a living area with kitchenette, bedroom, and a shower/loo. That the bedroom lacked a window, that the dividing walls were so flimsy you could hear ice cubes tumble into a glass in the next room, none of that seemed to matter. The flats were sold or rented as soon as they became available. The road could no longer cope with the influx of more cars and residents. The bin men came twice a week, but there were always people who missed the collection and put their rubbish out late. Maude’s street had become an all-night diner for stray dogs and urban foxes. The postmen had learned to deliver eyes-down, watchful for dog shit and plastic bags leaking trash. Double parking had become endemic and the hooting of trapped motorists a familiar refrain.
Maude had an attic conversion and counted herself lucky. There was a small sitting room with a galley kitchen, a bathroom, and best of all, a bedroom in the roof with a large skylight. She had placed a mattress on the floor directly under the skylight and on cloudless nights she lay there bathed in moonlight.
She had painted the walls and ceiling to resemble awoodland bower, treating the trees in the manner of Mary Adshead, a noted muralist in the 1930s. Maude’s degree in art history had refined her eye, but not her hand and her rag-rolled foliage had turned out more brassica than arboreal.
The only man who had stayed the night had laughed out loud on waking.
“I hope you didn’t pay for that rag-rolling,” he had said looking up.
“I did it myself.”
“Look, I’ll show you. Keep the movements tight and disciplined, see. Remember, always keep your circles small.”
He was naked, bouncing unattractively on the mattress, using his scrunched up socks to demonstrate the correct technique. Maude had decided to follow his advice and ten minutes later had made her circle smaller by a factor of one.
8
It was Roy Greening who spotted Henry’s letter in the
Times
. He read it with disbelief and
He looked up from his grilled sole. “You’ve been working on the market appraisal for our French friends, haven’t you? They want to get a foothold over here?”
“Yes, lights and fittings; mostly lightbulbs, as far as I’ve been concerned. Lots of focus groups.”
“Ah, I understand.” His head had tilted once more. “You shouldn’t judge us on those—how tedious they are—those front rooms in far-flung Basildon or Epsom—no one telling the truth, perfectly dreadful, I know. But that’s not the job, when these six months are over you need never go to another focus group in your life.” It was all he could do not to lay his hand on hers and give it a reassuring caress.
“I know that.”
She felt herself leaning to the side, mirroring his movements as some people unconsciously adopt a companion’s accent.
“It’s not the mechanics that are the problem; my unease is more fundamental. You see, I’ve discovered I don’t care how many lightbulbs the average householder buys each month and I’m sure I’d be the same with pension policies or water softeners. They’re not things I want to worry about; I don’t want them filling the space in my head. I don’t want my highs and lows to be dependent on a Monday morning printout from a supermarket.”
She smiled at him. “I didn’t know that before I started, but I do now. I’m sorry.”
He had given her the check and told her that he wanted her to clear her desk that afternoon. He said it was company policy. But he had been nice and wished her luck.
“What will you do now?”
“Get a job, I don’t know, wait table, see what happens.”
She lived in a rented flat in north London in a street where every Edwardian house had been converted. The developers had found a way of turning wine into water, transforming large, elegant rooms into minuscule flats. What was once an impressive drawing room or master bedroom became a living area with kitchenette, bedroom, and a shower/loo. That the bedroom lacked a window, that the dividing walls were so flimsy you could hear ice cubes tumble into a glass in the next room, none of that seemed to matter. The flats were sold or rented as soon as they became available. The road could no longer cope with the influx of more cars and residents. The bin men came twice a week, but there were always people who missed the collection and put their rubbish out late. Maude’s street had become an all-night diner for stray dogs and urban foxes. The postmen had learned to deliver eyes-down, watchful for dog shit and plastic bags leaking trash. Double parking had become endemic and the hooting of trapped motorists a familiar refrain.
Maude had an attic conversion and counted herself lucky. There was a small sitting room with a galley kitchen, a bathroom, and best of all, a bedroom in the roof with a large skylight. She had placed a mattress on the floor directly under the skylight and on cloudless nights she lay there bathed in moonlight.
She had painted the walls and ceiling to resemble awoodland bower, treating the trees in the manner of Mary Adshead, a noted muralist in the 1930s. Maude’s degree in art history had refined her eye, but not her hand and her rag-rolled foliage had turned out more brassica than arboreal.
The only man who had stayed the night had laughed out loud on waking.
“I hope you didn’t pay for that rag-rolling,” he had said looking up.
“I did it myself.”
“Look, I’ll show you. Keep the movements tight and disciplined, see. Remember, always keep your circles small.”
He was naked, bouncing unattractively on the mattress, using his scrunched up socks to demonstrate the correct technique. Maude had decided to follow his advice and ten minutes later had made her circle smaller by a factor of one.
8
It was Roy Greening who spotted Henry’s letter in the
Times
. He read it with disbelief and
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