Semi-Sweet (30 page)

It was now or never. “Excuse me,” Adam said, smiling. At least he hoped it was coming out as a smile.

Vivienne stopped, the color flooding into her cheeks like before. She gave no sign of remembering his earlier approach. Adam
stood between her and the door. There was nowhere for her to go—unless she bolted back the way she’d come.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I wanted to say I really admire your clarinet playing.”

She blinked and pushed her glasses up her nose, the tiniest of smiles flitting for an instant across her flushed face. “Thanks,”
she said quickly, her eyes darting to the door behind him.

“I believe,” he hurried on, “that you give lessons, and as I’ve recently come into possession of a clarinet, I was wondering
if you would—”

“No,” she broke in, shaking her head rapidly. “Sorry.” Pushing her glasses up again, looking beyond him to her escape route.
“I don’t.”

“Pardon?” She couldn’t be turning him down out of hand. “But I was told that you’re a music teacher, and I would really love—”

“I don’t teach adults,” she said in a rush. “Children, I just teach children.” Her voice was low, and he strained to hear
it. She looked more pointedly at the blue door. The blush was receding, leaving her face blotchy. She blinked repeatedly behind
her round glasses.

Children. The one thing Adam hadn’t anticipated, that at thirty-one he’d be too old. It was a blow, but he held his ground.
“Well, would you consider making an exception?” he asked. “I don’t know any other clarinet teacher, you see, and I’d really
like to learn. And I promise I’m as ignorant as any child.”

But she shook her head again. “Just children,” she repeated. “I’m sorry.” She shifted the position of her clarinet slightly
and took a small sideways step toward the door.

“Please,” Adam said, nothing left to lose. “I’ve just bought it, you see, and if you don’t teach me, it’ll sit in my house
gathering dust and nobody will ever get to play it. It’ll be a terrible waste of a clarinet. You don’t want that, do you?”

She was clearly uncomfortable. She opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d run out of ways to tell him no. He could feel
her anxiety, her whole body tense with it, but his determination drove him on. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the
keyboard player approaching.

He decided to make one last attempt. “How about you just try me out for two or three lessons, and if you’re not happy, you
can send me on my way and I’ll never bother you again? Would you consider that? Please? Just a few lessons?”

She sighed, a frown creasing the skin above the bridge of her glasses. “Half eight on a Thursday,” she said, her eyes fixed
on the blue door.

“Sorry?” Her sudden surrender caught him unawares.

“Half eight on a Thursday,” she repeated, in precisely the same resigned tone.

“Okay. Great.” Adam stepped aside at last and pushed the door open for her. “Where do I go?”

She moved toward the blue door, close enough for him to smell the lemony scent that rose from her tightly bunched hair. “Ten
Fortfield Avenue.”

“And your name?” he asked, wanting to hear her say it.

“Vivienne O’Toole.” Over her shoulder as she disappeared.

The keyboard player arrived, and Adam held the door open, struggling to remember his surname—was it O’Toole too? Were he and
Vivienne married? Was Adam’s enterprise doomed before it started?

“Thanks, mate.”

Nodding at Adam but not recognizing him, by the look of it. No curiosity evident, no suspicion as to what Adam might have
been saying to Vivienne. Surely a husband or partner would want to know.

“Great gig tonight,” Adam told him, and the man thanked him again as he walked through the blue doorway.

She hadn’t asked Adam’s name. She didn’t want to teach him—he’d bullied her into it. She was more comfortable, probably, in
the uncritical presence of children. Chances were, she was dreading next Thursday already.

But she’d agreed, and in five days Adam was going to see her house and be in her company for at least an hour. He was going
to be her very first adult pupil.

And he was finally going to discover whether or not she was single.

Ten Fortfield Avenue. Vivienne O’Toole.
Baby steps,
he thought, still hardly understanding what drove him on but knowing he wanted to persevere. Baby steps and lots of patience.

As he made his way back to the bar, he noticed that the Scotsman was talking to Hannah. He managed to retrieve his drink without
either of them seeing him, and he moved farther up the counter and replayed the conversation in his head.

“You didn’t have to leave us alone,” she said as they walked home.

“But I did,” Adam replied. “And you look like the cat that got the cream, so my cunning ploy worked.”

Hannah smiled. “I’m meeting him for coffee on Wednesday morning. I decided I’m tired of being a hermit.”

“Good for you.” They turned onto the bridge.

“And you?” she asked. “What did she say?”

Adam ran his hand along the smooth, cold surface of the metal rail. “Get this—she teaches children, not adults.”

“Oh.” She threw him a sympathetic look. “Oh, Adam, that’s too bad—and after buying the clarinet as well. Will you try selling
it again?”

“Actually, I won’t—because she’s agreed to take me on. She tried her best to turn me down, but I nagged a bit.”

Hannah laughed. “Are you serious? You’re going to a children’s music teacher?”

“I am.”

“You do realize that she’ll probably have you playing ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’?”

Adam regarded her sternly. “We may well begin with that, yes. But I’m confident that I’ll progress to more adult material
in due course.”

Hannah tucked her arm into his. “Of course you will. You’ll be giving recitals by Christmas.”

“Very funny.” They turned off the bridge. “But now that you mention it,” he added, “maybe I could do a bit of busking.”

“Why not? You could be like that fellow in the Kit Kat ad—remember? Everyone throws money at him the minute he stops playing.
You could make a fortune.”

“Ha ha.” After a pause he added, “What was the keyboard player’s surname, can you remember?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Wally, the taxi driver. Can’t remember what his surname was. Why?”

“Well, the night we met him, he said he was driving her home.”

“Did he? I don’t remember.”

“So they might be together. A couple, I mean.”

Hannah considered. “Or he might just be doing her a favor. Maybe they live near each other.”

“Mmm…She’s O’Toole, but I can’t remember what his surname is.”

“Tell you what,” she said, “until we know for sure, let’s not dwell on it. Let’s plan your busking career instead.”

They walked on, both in high good humor. Both hopeful of happy outcomes.

“So,” Nora said after they’d ordered, after their menus had been replaced with her martini and Leah’s tonic water. “How are
things?”

The puffiness she’d seen in Leah’s face the last time they’d met was more pronounced, the earlier suggestion of a double chin
now a distinct reality. Leah was still attractive—or rather the echo of her attractiveness was still there in the dark brown
eyes, the regular nose, the full lips. But the overall effect was blurred now, as if her original elfin prettiness had been
diluted. Little wonder that Patrick’s thoughts were straying.

Leah sipped her tonic water. “Just wish it was over at this stage. I am so sick of being bloody pregnant.”

“How long more?” The martini was ice cold and delicious. Nora pulled one of the olives from its cocktail stick with her teeth.

“Four weeks, about. Seems like forever.”

Nora smiled. “Poor you. Soon be over.”

Leah grimaced. “Yeah—and then I’ll be up to my neck in Pampers while Patrick swans out to work every day.”

“Ah, he’ll help though, when he’s around.” But Nora couldn’t see Patrick holding a baby with any degree of comfort, let alone
changing a nappy.

Leah nodded glumly. “Hope so. This baby…” She hesitated. “Well, it wasn’t exactly his idea. I mean,” she added hastily, “he’s
thrilled, of course, but…”

The baby hadn’t been Patrick’s idea—what a surprise. “He’ll rise to the challenge,” Nora said. “Just wait and see. As soon
as he sets eyes on it.”

“Of course he will.” Leah looked far from convinced. “Anyway,” she said, shifting her position, adjusting her weight on the
chair, “enough about me. How’s the job going? Patrick tells me you’re settling in well.”

A new note of horribly false brightness in her voice—but as far as Nora could tell, nothing more. No hint of suspicion, no
sign of jealousy.

They hadn’t met since Nora had begun working for Patrick, well over a month ago now. The occasional text had been exchanged,
each mentioning vaguely a future lunch date, but until the previous evening nothing had been arranged. And then, out of the
blue, a text from Leah:
LUNCH 2MORO? MY TREAT.
And here they were.

“The job is fine,” Nora said. She hadn’t missed Leah’s look when she’d walked in, the envious glance her lilac wool top, silver-gray
pencil skirt, and black stilettos had earned. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

She wouldn’t mention Patrick directly. She was still feeling her way toward the reason for today’s lunch. “The people are
nice. A few of us went out for drinks the other night.”

She’d spent the first twenty minutes trying to escape from Evan in Accounts, who clearly fancied his chances. In the end she’d
gone to the toilet and joined another group when she got back, where the talk was of babies and teething and weaning. She’d
excused herself after ten minutes, pleading stomach cramps. Back at the flat, she’d watched an episode of
Law & Order
she’d seen six months ago in the States.

“It’s interesting, working for a newspaper. I haven’t done it before.”

“And you’ll stay in Clongarvin?” The waiter appeared, and Leah regarded her plain pasta without appetite.

“For the moment,” Nora replied, plucking a cube of feta from her Greek salad as it was placed before her. “I’ll have another
of these,” she told the waiter, holding up her martini glass. “I’ll do the drinks bill,” she added to Leah, “since you’re
not having any.”

“Don’t be silly,” Leah said. “You can pay next time. We mustn’t let it go so long before we do it again.”

“Absolutely not,” Nora replied.

Leah envied her, that much was obvious. She probably wasn’t entirely happy still about Patrick’s being in close proximity
with Nora, whose looks and figure were so much more attractive than her own right now. But as far as Nora could see, Leah’s
only motive for inviting her out to lunch today was that she needed someone to talk to—or possibly, Leah being Leah, she might
have decided that by keeping Nora close it would make it more difficult for anything to happen between her and Patrick.

She had no idea, none at all, that she was too late. Shame, really.

Why don’t you lock the door?
he’d said as soon as she’d walked in.

Why don’t I leave it open?
Nora had replied.

Not surprised, not in the least, by his suggestion. It was what she’d known would happen, very soon after she’d started to
work for him. Sooner even, his eyes lingering on her crossed thighs, on the V of her top, at the interview. His hand holding
hers a second too long as he’d thanked her for coming, as he’d promised to be in touch. She’d thought,
You’re up for it.
They were always so obvious.

Leave it open, then,
he’d said. Watching her as she’d crossed the room that smelled of the drinks he’d had at his three-hour lunch. Better sober
up before he went home to Leah. Nora hadn’t minded that he was fairly well on—it usually added to the fun. Got rid of the
inhibitions.

Come in for a minute,
he’d said as he’d passed her desk on his way back. She’d smelled the alcohol, and she’d known.

She’d made her way unhurriedly around the desk to where he was slouched in his big leather chair. She’d swiveled the chair
around to face her.

Are you ready for this?
she’d asked softly.