Untouchable Things Read Free Page A

at your shoes.
    “I can’t see that being a problem. It’s the back right-hand corner you need, if I’m not mistaken.”
    You’re not. She nods thanks and reins in her legs to walking pace. Is it still there? Why is he following her?
    Stretched out in the corner she spots the focal point of her dreams for the past three months. Steinway Model B, Hamburg 1928. She wants to run her hands down its length, lay her cheek on its cool mottled surface. And she wants to be alone.
    “Ah, the Steinway.” The salesman looks at her as if she has answered a question correctly.
    “Yes, I – I tried it once before and I guess I fell in love.” She can’t quite meet his gaze.
    “Well, be my guest.”
    She pulls out the leather stool, adjusts the height slightly and is still. Her fingers strain towards the keyboard but her mind is negotiating enormity, the need to do the instrument justice. What is most fitting? Bach, to show off the clarity? Beethoven, for the brazen power of the thing? Or Chopin for both? Chopin it is. She dives in, finds herself in the slow movement of the E minor concerto, fingers plucking out the notes even though she hasn’t looked at it for more than a year. She watches herself play a little slower, more indulgently, than she might have done in front of her teacher, lets herself soak in the sound.
    Feather touch on the right hand runs, hear that crispness, each melody singing out like ice-cold champagne on a hot day. Notes rush up to meet her fingers, ripple through them leaving a river of sound. And sweeping her to the big chords, increase pressure, bigger, bigger… the whole world is resonating with E major and she’s no longer in control, she could stay there, wants to stay, but cool keys caress her right hand and gently guide her down. It wasn’t exactly what Chopin had written but it told his story.
    At the final chord she finds she can’t lift her head, can’t emerge, won’t emerge, even as she remembers her surroundings, the salesman. Perhaps he’s wandered off. But when she raises her face, there he is, sitting on one of the nearby stools, staring out of the window with his back to her. Without warning he snaps round and gets to his feet. The movement shocks her, an expletive in church, and she raises a hand to protect herself. He is moving in on her with a brisk sense of purpose. About to start the sales pitch, no doubt. Her game is up.
    “Well, you’ve made up my mind for me.”
    “Sorry?” She tries to stand, foggily, stumbling as she pushes back the stool. Always the same after a moment like that, when the music passes through her, like she’s forgotten how to use her limbs. Fluidly he reaches over to move the stool away.
    “I feel like we’ve had sex. Even though I was just watching.”
    She feels her eyes expand into outrage. And then another suited man appears from nowhere, clutching some sort of pamphlet.
    “I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Here’s the updated catalogue.” A quick disapproving glance at her as he holds out his hand.
    The man smiles but doesn’t accept the catalogue. “I won’t be needing it now. I’ve decided to take this one.” His vague wave of the hand could have been meant for Catherine or the piano.
    “Sorry, sir, I’m not sure I understand.” The second man’s face is elongating in wonder, prompting Catherine to shut her own mouth. What is going on? She ducks her head against the barrage of sales patter – excellent choice, methods of payment, delivery dates – peppering her like hailstones. A name, spoken and then spelled: Seth Gardner, without the ‘e’. The ground is swaying slightly and the top of the stairway urges her to get out of this strange land before it moves on and leaves her stranded. The two men are so busy with each other it will be easy to slip away unnoticed.
    “Excuse me!” At the ground floor exit she hears a shout. A hand on her arm. She turns into the green-eyed piano purchaser, lit with the shop lights