It was just after six when I parked outside his building and went in. He buzzed me up, and I took the lift to his place to find him sitting by his piano, sheet music everywhere and an electric sort of aura about him. The very sight caused an exhilarating tremor to go skittering down my spine. I took a peek at the pages, noticing a lot of them contained his own handwriting, musical notes scribbled down in pencil. Was he composing something?
He started to play a gorgeous melody, and I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
“Do you mind?” I called.
“No,” said King absently. “Go ahead.”
I found a small box of peppermint that Elaine must have left there and turned on the kettle. When I returned to the living room, King was still sitting by the piano, practicing.
“So, you’re playing again?” I asked tentatively as I lifted the cup to my mouth and took a sip.
King’s eyes were alight when he turned his attention to me. I swear they almost glittered, and I could tell his mind was racing. The creative muse was upon him.
“Yes, the music, it’s, well, it’s pouring out. The focus is liberating. I’ve barely stopped all day.”
What he said concerned me. “Have you eaten?”
He furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. “I think I ate some toast at lunchtime.” Well, that was a lie if ever I heard one. Pulling my phone from my bag, I quickly dialled my favourite Chinese takeaway and put in an order. With that done, I stood in front of the piano and levelled him with a reprimanding look.
“You have to eat, King.”
He reached forward to cup my cheek. “I will. Don’t worry, darling. It’s just that I get so absorbed when I play that I forget everything around me, and it feels like there’s never enough hours. What Rachmaninoff once said was true: Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music.”
“Yeah, well, what Selina Kyle once said is also true: A girl’s gotta eat. I think that goes for boys, too,” I told him with a wink.
He grinned. “I don’t think Catwoman can trump Rachmaninoff, darling.”
Oh, I could have smacked him right then for his superior little tone on “darling.” Somehow though, it made me grin. Any signs of his old self always made me grin. They mixed in with his new self to create something I loved so much better. Anyway, I didn’t bother to retort, because I was far too curious about the sheet music. “Have you been composing?”
His expression turned guarded, but he answered me anyway. “Yes.”
“Will you play some of it for me?”
When his body stilled, I knew I’d made him uncomfortable. “I’m wary,” he said and then paused, his eyes meeting mine. “Don’t get me wrong — you’re the one who inspires me, but I just don’t want to fall into the trap of playing for praise. That’s what I used to do before. I worked so hard so that people would respect and look up to me, praise me for a job well done and tell me how bloody fantastic I was. Then when I lost it all, I felt like I had nothing left to live for. I want this music to be something I do because I love it, not for the sole purpose of being the best.”
“That’s understandable,” I said, coming and taking a seat next to him. “I want you to do what makes you happy. And if you never play for me or for anyone, then that’s fine. So long as it’s what you love.”
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I’m acting crazy. Sometimes the way my mind works baffles me.”
I reached out and took his hand, sliding my fingers through his. “Don’t be sorry. I like your mind. It suits my mind.”
The smile he gave me lit up his entire face, and my heart beat faster at the sight of it.
I squeezed his hand as I continued meaningfully, “But just remember, your music doesn’t have to mean praise for you. It can be the gift you give to other people.”
He stared at me, thoughtful, before his attention wandered to the piano keys. I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said. A few moments passed as we sat there in silence, the weight of the years surrounding us and the love we held for one another making all the heartache worth it. I swallowed the last of my tea and bent to place my cup on the floor. My top rode up at the back, exposing skin, and I felt King’s palm press down on the base of my spine. I went utterly still as he leaned down to murmur seductively in my ear.
“I think I remember telling you once that I was going to fuck you on this piano until you forgot your own name.” He paused and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Shall we try that?”
I didn’t need to speak, because my body had already told him the answer.
Yes, Oliver, let’s try that.
Twenty-Four
Two months later.
King had a secret.
Well, I wasn’t exactly sure if it was a secret, but he was definitely up to something. Every couple of nights he’d go missing, not telling anyone where he was going. If I wasn’t such a good judge of character, I’d think maybe he was drinking again, or worse, having an affair. But no, he definitely wasn’t drinking, nor was he having an affair. His love and desire for me was something that felt impenetrable. Solid. Constant.
In fact, he kept asking me to marry him, and it was becoming a bit of a bother. The first time he asked, he’d arranged for a romantic candlelit dinner in his penthouse. He was keeping it as a place to store his piano mostly (I know, weird.) But other than that, he’d basically moved in with me and Oliver. I loved having him here, loved his smell on my sheets and his voice in the mornings as he spoke to our son.
This was why I surprised even myself when he popped the question and I told him no, I wouldn’t marry him.
At first he’d been upset, but when I explained to him that the answer was no for now, but yes for the future, he’d gotten a gleam in his eye, determined to wear me down. I just didn’t want to rush into marriage. It felt superfluous to me. We loved each other. Neither one of us was going anywhere. A wedding was a pointless expense. Not to mention I wanted to be a bride about as much as I wanted to stick pins in my eyes.
No, if we were ever going to get married, it would have to be a small affair. Quick and painless. It also wasn’t going to be something I dived right into. Unfortunately, King was a singularly focused individual, which meant I was proposed to at least once a day. Sometimes two or three times. I’d find Post-It notes inside the tea caddy. Voice messages on my phone. Texts with picture attachments of “Marry Me?” written in sand or on foggy car windows. He’d even sent one of him topless, with the words scrawled in marker pen across his chest.
Kinda sexy? Yes. Bordering on ridiculous? Also, yes.
I was standing by the cooker, heating up some soup for Oliver, when King came up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. I geared myself up for yet another proposal, but it never came. Instead, he told me, “I’m heading out for a couple of hours. Don’t wait up for me.”
I nodded quietly, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, and off he went. He’d started driving his old Merc, but he’d sold his other cars, which had been stored in the underground garage beneath his apartment, and donated the money to charity. In fact, he’d donated a huge sum of his wealth to foundations for homelessness and alcoholism, keeping just enough to live off. After years of living with nothing, I didn’t think he felt comfortable with wealth anymore. I also didn’t try to stop him. In fact, I supported the action. In my opinion, money only brought happiness up to a certain level. Any riches over and above that just made you as miserable as being poor. Okay, maybe not for everyone, because the Kardashians seemed pretty fucking happy with their lot. Perhaps I should adjust my statement. Vast riches for those with hearts and brains made you just as miserable as being poor.