How To Choose a Sweetheart Read Free Page A

little less care about his choice of socks than anything else and he can’t remember if they’re respectable or not. Instead, he leaves the shoes on and moves ahead to take the stairs to the ground floor.
    When he gets to the top, he stops and feels his heart pounding. He knows it’s not the exercise that’s done it, but the fear that his pretence will be exposed. A pang of guilt stabs at his middle. He’s a fraud.
    It occurs to him that he can still turn back. Run down the stairs and take flight. No one will be any the wiser and no one will end up with egg on their face.
    Then he sees that the door to Flat B is already open. His feet walk towards it without waiting for his guilt to influence the decision. His hands don’t join in with his body’s rebellion and Max knocks gently on the wood before entering.
    Flat B is another step up in class.
    The spacious hallway is lined with original oil paintings and pastel drawings, some looking old, others looking modern and more concerned with shape and colour than form.
    The woman appears from Max’s left and takes him by surprise.
    She looks different this afternoon. Better, even, than he remembers. Her hair hangs in wet strands down past her shoulders and he assumes she’s taken a shower. Taking a shower before he got there seems like a good sign, like she’s maybe decided he sounded handsome on the other end of the phone.
    Her look is still casual. She has flip-flops on, with plastic daisies separating her big toes from the rest. She still wears jeans, though they’re a darker shade of denim than the ones he’d seen her in when she was in the shop. Her top causes him some consternation – it’s a thin-strapped shirt that has a low neckline and it takes all Max’s restraint not to let his gaze dip to try and get a better look at what’s inside. He’s helped in this respect by her eyes. He’d not seen her eyes properly the first time. Now, faced with them directly, he almost lets out a swear word. They’re like jewels. Pale green jewels with flecks of hazel that he supposes should technically make them flawed. He almost tells her, even if it sounds utterly corny, but then he hasn’t even introduced himself so he puts on the brakes.
    Thankfully she helps him out of his hole by putting out her hand.
    Max reaches out and takes it as if it were a lifeline. “Hi. I’m Max. The piano teacher.”
    Her face breaks into a smile and Max feels a little warmer now he’s caught the beam of her radiance. “And I’m Cath. Come on in.”
    Cath gestures to the room ahead into which the hallway opens and Max walks on through.
    There are more paintings, originals by the looks of them. 
    A wall of windows leads to a balcony. The furniture is huge and luxurious looking, most of it upholstered in brown leather. The shelves are full of books and old, black-and-white photographs of family groups and of men in uniform. Happily, he notices no pictures of Cath with a ‘significant other’.
    The centre piece is a Grand Piano upon which stands a vase brimming with exotic flowers. He thinks that maybe he’ll learn the names of a few plants in case it comes in handy later on.
    Max feels a little overwhelmed, as if he’s turned up at a surprise party. He feels the sweat on his palms making them clammy. At the same time he’s oddly comfortable in the surroundings, as if he’s found his place. 
    Cath straightens up a couple of magazines on the coffee table by the sofa, not that such a small detail could let down the general impression.
    There’s a short silence and Max decides to go with the first thing that comes into his head. “Do you paint?” It seems reasonable to ask.
    “When I was at school. Most of these were given to my father.”
    Father, not Dad, Max thinks. She’s posh. “He must know some pretty interesting people.”
    “He knew many.”
    He’s alert enough to pick up on the tense change. “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s OK.  He was always telling great stories