Page 68 of Duplicity

‘Please,’ I beg her, stopping just short of the piano. ‘Sing it again. Just pretend I’m not here and don’t hold back.’

She considers, then nods and lets her eyes drift closed, and the haunting melody starts up again.

I may have told her to pretend I wasn’t here, but I don’t take my eyes off her for a second. The woman not only looks like an angel; she sings like an angel. She’s also a performer. She’s captivated me in two minutes flat. I have no doubt she would captivate anyone who watched and listened to her sing.

It strikes me that she sings the first few lines of the hymn a little more self-consciously. She doesn’t falter, but her voice is fainter than it was. Then she finds her stride and goes for it. She’s probably already forgotten I’m here.

Marlowe is beautiful every single day, but when she sings, she lights up. Like this, in her casually sexy cycling gear, sitting at my piano with the sunlight casting a halo around her hair, she commands every ounce of my attention.

As she concludes the hymn once again with that breathtaking, transcendentAmen, I fight the urge to tell heragainlike a little boy who’s just watched something so cool he never wants it to stop. She’s not a performing monkey. She’s a very, very special person, a person whom, I suspect, I’ve repeatedly underestimated so that I can treat her as an object and a convenience.

When she opens her eyes and smiles self-consciously at me, she finds me staring at her.

‘I don’t know what to say. That was… beautiful. So moving.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs.

‘May I?’ I ask, gesturing at the wide piano stool.

‘Of course!’ She shifts to the side so I can sit beside her. ‘Please tell me you play.’

She says the words in a rush, as if she’s trying to brush off whatever awkwardness she perceives from having just performed for a man who had no clue she could sing. A man who should have paid far more attention to her CV, because I knew she was a choral scholar at school, for Christ’s sake.

I give her a self-deprecating smile. ‘I do, but I’m not good at classical stuff.’

She grins at me. ‘Thank God. If you owned a Steinway and couldn’t play it, I might have to strangle you.’

‘I’m not that much of a wanker.’ That said, I may enjoy playing my piano, but it’s guaranteed that I don’t appreciate it enough. Not the way Marlowe so clearly just appreciated the hell out of it. ‘You can come over and play anytime,’ I tell her. ‘It’s no hardship for me to have the odd private concert.’

‘Thank you.’ She tilts her head to one side and plays a couple of wistful one-handed chords. ‘What kind of stuff do you play?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Alright then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Move up.’ I nudge her over further on the stool and let my fingers attack the keys, going straight intoGreat Balls of Fire.She lets out a gasp ofsurprise as I launch into the lyrics, channelling my inner Jerry Lee Lewis, and deliver a sweet glissando. When I hit the chorus, she joins in.

It’s clear she doesn’t know the lyrics of the verses, so I keep going with my little one-man show, giving it all my swagger. I hunch my shoulders; I pull back dramatically; I make my voice growl; I hit the keys so hard you’d think I was trying to punch through the keyboard. It couldn’t be more different from her beautiful, pared back version ofAve Maria,but she asked for a Brendan Sullivan Special and I’m damned if I’m not going to deliver.

By the time I finish, she’s laughing and clapping her hands beside me. She twists around to face me.

‘Oh my God! That wassogood!’

‘It was a party piece,’ I tell her. ‘A good one, but just a bit of fun. It’s nothing like your talent.’

She shakes her head. ‘It was amazing. When did you learn to play like that?’

‘Top Gun,’I confess. ‘My parents were on me to learn the piano when I was little, but I found it really boring. Trying to get a kid with undiagnosed and untreated ADHD to practise his chords? Not happening. But when I saw Goose play this onTop Gun, I was like, that’s pretty fucking cool. I remember I marched out to the stables and told my dad that I’d learn the piano as long as I could only learn rock and roll songs. He agreed, and here we are.’

‘You must be great at parties,’ she says.

‘I’mgreatat parties, love.’ I brush the stray locks of blonde hair off her shoulder and stare at her bare skin. ‘But what you have is a very, very special talent. So what the fuck you’re doing being my assistant and taking fucking meeting notes, I have no idea. Why the hell didn’t you pursue a career in this?’

I glance up at her face, but she turns her head, gazing out the window.

‘It’s not an easy career. You’re very kind, but I had no guarantee I’d make it. And the lifestyle is hard—long hours, travelling, really unpredictable. Life got in the way, and my priorities changed, you know? So now it’s just a hobby.’ She looks down at the piano and smooths her fingers over the keys. ‘And it’s a very nice hobby when I get to play one of these.’

‘But you love it.’ It’s not a question.

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