Then
Nathalie insisted Renee come to her party.
“You can’t stay in the studio stressing out twenty-four seven,” said Nathalie. “You’re starting to grow moss.”
Renee was in her final year of a BA in fashion at Central Saint Martins and she was haunted by the looming spectre of her graduate collection.
“I am not growing moss,” she protested. “I just don’t want to humiliate myself.”
Nathalie rolled her eyes.
Renee had first met Nathalie, a glamorous Parisienne of mixed French and Vietnamese heritage, in an online group for young women interested in starting their own business, a couple of years back. They’d bonded over a shared love of Asian food and scurrilous gossip, as well as the fact neither was doing what her family wanted of her. Renee’s father had thought she was going to London to study economics, and had not been happy to be disabused of the notion. Meanwhile, Nathalie was planning to abandon a family-mandated lifetime’s worth of classical violin training in favour of something else. She thought she might design textiles, or found a cosmetics brand.
“You cannot create without living,” she said now. “Come and get some inspiration. You might meet someone and fall in love, that’s very inspiring. And it would help you to forget your ex.”
Renee frowned. “I wouldn’t have a problem forgetting Andrew if he’d get over me.”
“He is kind of a stalker,” Nathalie admitted. “Maybe if you had a new guy, he’d take the hint. You might like my friend Ket.He’s super cute, a third-year pianist. If it wasn’t for Mihai, I’d date him myself.” Nathalie was pining after a Romanian computer scientist she’d chatted up at a bus stop, who seemed perplexed at the idea that he might choose to hang out with a girl instead of spending all his free time playing video games. “Ket is from Malaysia. Don’t you have family in Malaysia?”
“I am not looking for a new boyfriend,” said Renee firmly. “I haven’t even gotten rid of the old one yet.”
But she went to the party, in the tiny lounge-cum-kitchen of Nathalie’s Bloomsbury garden flat, with her battered old workhorse of a piano in one corner and prints of twentieth-century Vietnamese art on the walls. The room was crammed with a surprising number of people, including—from the look of it—every single Asian student currently at the Royal Academy of Music.
Renee found she was enjoying herself. Nathalie chose her friends with more discrimination than her crushes, and the refreshments were notably good. The wine was served in plastic cups, but—Nathalie being French—it was quality wine. Plates of cheese and crackers and Vietnamese spring rolls were set out on the small white dining table.
Renee felt vaguely sorry for the cheese platter. The spring rolls were going a lot faster, given the demographic. She was reaching out to help herself to some brie when a large, warm body collided with hers.
For a moment Renee was crushed against the table, the edge digging painfully into her side. She was mostly preoccupied with trying not to send the cheese platter flying, but she did notice that the heavy weight squashing the breath out of her smelt nice.
“Sorry!” The guy had been shoved into her by someone else passing by. He righted himself, freeing Renee, his ears red. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” Fortunately Renee had put her plastic cup of Beaujolais down somewhere else and forgotten it, so her silky grey vintage dress was safe.
The guy looked down at her and went even redder. This was not an unusual thing for boys to do around Renee, but on this occasion, it did seem to be because he felt bad. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s not a lot of space. I’m amazed Nathalie managed to fit so many people in here.” Renee smiled up at him. He was tall for a Chinese guy, six foot, with the slightly hunched shoulders of someone who felt he was taking up more space than was quite polite. “I’m Renee. How do you know Nathalie?”
“I’m studying at the Academy. I’m Ket.”
“Oh, you’re Ket?” said Renee. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Nathalie’s told me about you, too.” Nathalie’s friend had a nice voice, and a nice way of talking—quiet, but not nervous. His accent reminded Renee of home. And he was, as Nathalie had said—for Nathalie was a connoisseur in such matters—super cute.
He looked down at the plastic cup he was holding, looking oppressed. Renee guessed he wasn’t used to introducing himself to girls by crashing into them at parties.
Reneewasn’tlooking to date. But Ket seemed nice. She wanted to cheer him up.
“Whereabouts are you from in Malaysia?” she said, to try to take his mind off his faux pas. “Sarawak? Are you from Kuching? Good, it’s the only place in Sarawak I can name. My dad goes there on business sometimes. He’s from Malaysia originally, but he moved to Singapore when he was young. Is Ket short for something? Oh, so I should really be calling you Ket Siong? I grew up in Singapore, but I have this weird accent because my parents sent me to international school. I’m a total banana, it’s embarrassing. I have to pretend to be Korean when I go to Chinatown. Do you speak Chinese? And dialect, too? Wow.”
Ket Siong looked slightly dazed by the flow of talk. Renee needed to adapt her strategy. She glanced around the room, her eyes falling on Nathalie’s piano.
“You’re a pianist, right?” she said. “Nathalie said. Will you play something for me?”
Ket Siong didn’t answer at first. She must have put him off. Her brothers always said she talked too much.
But then he said, “What do you want to hear?” and Renee saw he’d only been thinking about her request.
“Something beautiful I could learn,” she said. In her relief she added, “I’m pretty good, you know. I got up to Grade Five ABRSM on pure talent. After that, they could tell I never practised, so my teacher fired me.”