Untouchable Things Read Free

She fluttered along the glassed length of the building, a sparrow with a death wish, twittering ever so quietly to herself: “I can do this. I can play this role.”
    She needed to look serious. In this coat she could be a peacock, strutting disdainfully around the instruments, even preening. No, not preening. Preening might draw attention to her scuffed boots and shapeless jeans. Instead she should move swiftly, a hawk swooping down on its prey, seizing it before anyone had time to challenge her. Even if she was pulled off she would have filled her mouth by then, the taste dripping out of her, ravaged hunks to take home.
    With a haughty inclination of her head she spins on her heel and collides with a woman behind her. Instant apologies, retreat, the gathering of resolve over again. A tide rising inside her, threatening to cut off her ability to act.
    In the end it was the rain, swinging in from the West, from a tourist-soaked Carnaby Street, that drove the sparrow to seek shelter in an unfamiliar habitat. It paused briefly in the entrance, considering hurling itself back at the double doors, and then found it surprisingly easy to hop forward, avoiding the brazen overtures of electric guitars and drum kits, until it arrived at the foot of the curved central staircase.
    Heel-toe, heel-toe, with a little hamstring tensing thrown in, is all it takes to mount the stairs, slowly like a queen, all poise and gravitas. She knows it’s important to get into role early, lest a jittery entrance reveals her imposture.
    I’d like to buy a piano.
    Can you show me your best pianos?
    I’m in the market for a top-of-the-range grand piano.
    She scratches the last one – too American, new money, all show. This establishment values modest understatement. Though not in matters of footwear. She hopes no one looks at her feet.
    She’s reached the halfway point and there it is, the first gleam of ebony. Keep going. Heel-toe, the thrusting young uprights materialise first, bit by shiny bit, top down, coffins that turn into keyboards, perched, finally, on three funny little feet. Heel-toe and the veterans appear, the grands, grumbling away at the back.
    She halts. Row upon row of pianos basking in the lights, a colour swatch of browns and blacks. Rosewood, mahogany, ebony, maple: a blinding mass of perfection. She feels herself growing smaller, as in the face of the sea. Breathe. Look at ease. You are at home with expensive pianos. You know that under their dazzling veneer all they want is to be touched properly, responsively. And you know how to do that.
    She emerges as a child reaching the top of a fairy tale tree, stepping out into a different land. A tang of woodiness cools her nostrils and the hush that ghosts over her face is not a silence but a breathing presence. A piano choir watches her, waiting for her next move. For a second she breathes with them. And then the jolt of eye contact with a dark-haired man smiling at her next to a black Yamaha upright. Tall, polished, intimidating, looking disconcertingly like his product. If she’s a sparrow, this one, under his sober suit, is a jay. Do jays eat sparrows? His feathers puff out as he strolls towards her, smiling.
    “You look like the proverbial child in the sweet shop.”
    And you look like… but his words goad her and she lifts her chin. “I’m here to buy a piano.”
    “Well, you’ve made it to the right place.” Something untrustworthy – sarcasm, perhaps – glitters green in his eyes. It’s as if he has seen into her, watched her halting progress outside the shop. Has he? He’s talking again. “Anything particular in mind?”
    “Well…” she flicks her eyes as if to survey the room. “I’m after a grand. Something with a big bass.”
    “I see.” His eyebrows arch into inverted smiles and she clenches her fist against a rising blush. “I presume it’s okay to try one or two out?” Stand still. Mirror his self-assurance. Ignore the fact that he’s just glanced