The Piano Man Project (4 page)

Honey shook her head. ‘There were no cuts on his wrists, if that’s what you mean. I checked. It was his actual hands, but both of them. That’s weird, isn’t it? I think he’d tried to clear up my glass jug, but then why would he have been so clumsy? And then not finished the job!’

‘Prison’s such an odd thing to call your home,’ Nell said.

Honey glanced around the warm, welcoming kitchen. Nell’s tidy, gorgeous home embraced everyone who entered through the door in a big warm hug. Just being there was balm for her tattered nerves.

‘He was angry, Nell. Proper angry.’

Nell frowned. ‘I don’t like the thought of you living alone next to him, Honey.’

‘That’s another odd thing.’ Honey reached for her coffee mug. ‘I’m not scared of him, not in that way. If anything, I felt sorry for him.’

Nell leaned back against the kitchen surface with her steaming mug cupped in her hands. ‘I’m not sure I do. He’s been nothing but rude to you from the day he moved in.’

‘Well, I won’t be nominating him for neighbour of the year, that’s for sure.’ Honey stroked the sleeping baby’s fragile fingers, struck by how vulnerable and innocent she was. She couldn’t imagine the man she now shared a house with ever being like this. She had no clue who he was, but something had happened to him. Something awful, and it had made him just about the most angry, jaded person she’d ever met.

‘Tash texted me this morning from Dubai,’ Nell said, changing the subject.

Honey glanced out at the rain through the window, her train of thought broken.

‘Lucky cow. She moans about that job, but at least she gets to see the sun every now and then.’

‘She’s found you a pianist.’

Honey looked up sharply. ‘Jeez, Nell. It was a joke. She isn’t serious?’

Nell shrugged with a half-suppressed smile. ‘I think she is. She’s going to call you when she gets home tomorrow.’

‘Nell. I’m about to lose my job and Freddy Krueger has just moved in next door to me. Do you think I need any more hassle in my life right now?’

Ava stirred, her sleep disturbed by Honey’s agitation.

‘Probably not,’ Nell conceded. ‘But then what if he looks like Michael Bublé?’

Honey grinned. ‘Then I’d let him buy me dinner.’

Nell eased the half-awake baby out of Honey’s arms and into her own, where Ava slipped straight back into contented sleep.

‘Just wait and see then, okay?’ Nell winked as she headed upstairs to lay the baby down. Honey sighed. The relentless gloom outside was a fitting reflection of her mood, and the idea of having to endure a blind date with some random stranger to satisfy Tash and Nell’s ridiculous quest wasn’t a welcome addition to her burden.

Honey walked past the chemist on the way home, and then backtracked and went inside. A few minutes later, she emerged with a carrier. When she let herself into the house she approached her neighbour’s door rather than her own.

‘Umm, hello?’ she called out without knocking, as he must have heard her come in. She could make out the strains of music, something heavy metal by the sounds of it. Maybe he hadn’t heard her after all. She rapped on the door, loud enough to be heard, but hopefully not loud enough to be annoying. She waited, and then knocked again when he didn’t answer.

‘I have something for you,’ she called out. In answer, he turned the music up full blast, loud enough to drown out any further attempt at conversation. Honey shook her head and growled with frustration. He really was a nightmare neighbour. She bent and left the carrier leaning against his door, and after a few uncertain seconds she turned away and left him to stew in his misery.

Hal sat in the hard, unforgiving armchair with his forearms clamped against the sides of his head to drown out the noise of MTV and Strawberry Girl’s knocking. Only when he was sure he couldn’t take it any longer without putting his foot through the TV did he turn it off. The sudden silence was almost as deafening as the music. Was she still out there, waiting for him? He sat stock still and listened for a while until he was sure she’d gone, then sat there some more with his head in his sore hands, for some considerable time. He wanted a drink. He needed whisky, but the empty bottle was on his bedside table after he’d tipped the last of it into his mouth last night. He ran through his options in his head. Go without. Not an option. He could call someone, but who?

His close friends would no doubt feel duty bound to let his worried family know where he was, and anyone who didn’t care very much about him would value the gossip above his friendship. Poor old Hal, living in a grotty flat with just a whisky bottle to talk to. Such a shame.

No, calling someone he knew was out of the question. Maybe he could just go out in the street and hope that some kindly passer-by took pity on him enough to take his twenty-pound note and fetch his whisky? He thumped the arm of the chair in temper. How low did he have to go with this fucking thing? It scared him that as low as he was, there were still further depths to which he could plummet. There was only one option available to him; he’d known it even as his mind had cast around for alternatives. Strawberry Girl. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pulled his dark glasses over his eyes, then heaved himself out of the chair and along the hallway which had fast become familiar territory.

Hal paused as his fingers found the catch on the door. He hadn’t stepped foot outside since he’d knocked her flowers over. Apprehension encroached on his psyche, but he shoved it aside. He wasn’t going to become that man.

He swung the door open and stepped out, then lost his footing over something and slammed hard onto the floor.

Honey heard the almighty crash as she wandered out of the steamed-up bathroom in her dressing gown with a towel wrapped around her hair, still hot from the shower. She dashed for the front door without thinking, and opened it to find her neighbour sprawled face down across the floor, surrounded by the antiseptic cream and bandages she’d left for him.

‘Go back inside and shut your fucking door right now!’ he roared at her without looking up as his hands scrabbled around on the floor for something.

‘What? No, let me help …’ Honey’s hands flew to her cheeks in panic. It went against her every instinct to leave him there, but she was under no illusion – he meant exactly what he’d said. She stepped forward, and her toes touched against something unexpected. When she looked down, she found his dark glasses about to disappear beneath her foot. She bent and picked them up, relieved to find they were still intact.

‘Here.’ She held them out to him, and at the sound of her voice he went from groping around on the floor to absolutely bone still.

‘My glasses?’

Honey nodded, then after a beat she let out the softest of gasps at the significance of him needing to ask the question. ‘Oh.’

He reached out towards her without looking up. ‘Give them to me.’

She stepped out of her doorway and placed them in his fingers. He grabbed them and shoved them onto his face, then rolled over and scooted back against the wall, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

Honey moved quietly around him, collecting up the chemist supplies back into the bag and putting them on the hall table. Shit. Why couldn’t she have just left them there in the first place?

‘I brought you bandages. And antiseptic. It was for your hands,’ she murmured, knowing it was insignificant. ‘I’m sorry.’

He made a guttural sound and scruffed up his hair with his fingers.

‘I was wrong when I called you a girl guide. You’re way beyond that. You’re a regular Mother fucking Teresa.’

Honey hesitated, unsure whether to stay or go. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Not setting up any more obstacle courses in the bloody hallway would be a good start.’

‘Deal.’ Honey realised in that tiny moment of thaw that she didn’t even know his name. ‘I’m Honey, by the way.’

‘Well, that’s ridiculous. What’s your real name?’

‘Honey
is
my real name. Well, it’s Honeysuckle, actually.’

‘Fuck me. That’s even more ridiculous.’

Honey was well used to her name being cause for comment, yet still his blatant derision riled her. ‘Just another thing about me to annoy you then, rock star.’

‘“Rock star”?’

‘Yeah. That’s your name in my head. Mostly because you’re an arrogant twat who swears all the time and drinks whisky for breakfast.’

‘I’ll take that,’ he said. ‘Or Hal. Just in case you ever feel the need to revise your opinion.’

‘Where were you going?’

‘To knock on your door.’

‘To apologise about the flowers?’

‘Not fucking likely. Do you have any whisky?’

Honey contemplated her answer. She didn’t. She did, however, have an almost-f bottle of tequila in the back of the cupboard, but enabling a drunk felt wrong. Was he a drunk? He certainly seemed to drink enough to qualify for the title. ‘Not whisky, no.’

‘But you do have something?’

Honey sighed. He might not be able to see her expression, but her voice had obviously given her away and lying wasn’t her strong point. ‘I have tequila.’

‘Thank fuck. Can I have it?’

‘Mother Teresa wouldn’t give it to you.’

‘Will you give it to me if I apologise?’

‘For smashing my jug, or for calling me Mother Teresa?’

‘Either. Both. Hell, I’ll even apologise for the fact that your mother named you Honeysuckle if you give me tequila.’

‘Do you have lemon and salt?’

He lifted his head towards Honey slowly, and even though his eyes were hidden behind his glasses she could clearly read the incredulous look on his face. For a second she thought he was going to yell again, and then he started to laugh. And not just a snicker. A great, huge, belly laugh that shook his shoulders first, then his entire body, and it went on and on uncontrollably until tears poured down his face.

Honey didn’t laugh with him, because it was pretty obvious that despite his current appearance, her mysterious neighbour was far from amused.

She slipped into her flat to dig the tequila out of the cupboard. When she returned to the hallway Hal had pulled himself up to standing and almost pulled himself together, although tear streaks still dredged across his face.

‘Tequila,’ Honey said, and stepped close enough to touch his arm. He took the bottle she placed into his hand with muttered thanks. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asked. ‘You know, any help with … stuff?’

Hal huffed. ‘Don’t start the Mother Teresa thing again just because you know I’m blind.’

‘I won’t. I still think you’re an arrogant twat who drinks too much.’

The smallest twitch of humour tugged at the corner of Hal’s mouth. ‘And I still think you’re a frustrated girl guide with a stupid name.’

‘Good. Then we understand each other.’

‘Don’t bang on my door again.’

Honey watched him turn and walk away, staying close to the wall until he reached his own doorway. ‘Fine. But shout if you need anything.’

‘I won’t need anything you could possibly give me, Honeysuckle,’ he said, his voice low and gravelly. He clicked the door closed, leaving Honey alone in the hall – a little enlightened, a little troubled, and, strangely, a little in lust.

Lucille and Mimi stared at Honey with slack mouths and trembling hands.

‘So I’m afraid that unless someone steps in and buys the place, the shop will be closed down. The home too,’ Honey finished. She’d waited until the end of the day to tell the ladies, knowing they’d need some quiet time to digest the news.

‘They can’t do this to us!’ Lucille cried, her face anguished.

Honey smiled sadly. ‘There’s still six months yet, Lucille. Let’s hope for a miracle.’

‘Over my dead body are they closing our shop.’ Mimi squared her fragile shoulders, which were swathed today in the palest lime green cashmere twinset. As was often the case, Lucille had coordinated her outfit with her sister’s and had arrived this morning sporting an identical twinset in a complementary shade of lemon. Lemon Meringue and Key Lime Pie. Both ladies had knotted long strings of beads around their necks and large rings sparkled on their fragile fingers. Their outfits sang of sunshine, summer days and sweet spun sugar, but their faces told a far more melancholy story. Lucille’s big blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and Mimi had a look of fierce defiance that would have caused Emmeline Pankhurst’s heart to swell with pride.

Lucille turned to her sister with a flicker of hope. ‘Do you think we should fight it?’

‘Why ever would we not?’ Mimi said, looking from Lucille to Honey.

Honey frowned. Much as she hated the idea of closing the shop down, the idea of actively protesting hadn’t crossed her mind until now. Was there any point? For all his official talk of periods of consultation, Christopher had made it sound like a cut and dried decision last night. He’d probably been offered a sweetener to keep him onside, a golden handshake to make sure he didn’t allow anyone to rock the boat. He certainly hadn’t seemed overly concerned by the plight of the residents. ‘Dispersed’ was the word he’d used, and one Honey had carefully avoided when she’d tried to explain to Mimi and Lucille how the residents would be rehomed at other places.

‘Rehomed. We sound like a bunch of unwanted dogs,’ Lucille said, wringing her slender hands in her lap. ‘No one wants old animals so they get put down. Is that what’s going to happen to us, Honey?’

The wretched expression on Lucille’s face tore at Honey’s heartstrings. She wished she could offer her friend some genuine hope, but at that moment there wasn’t much to offer beyond a hug and a cup of hot, sweet tea.

‘What if they can’t place us together, Mimi?’ Lucille said, and Honey took the violently trembling cup and saucer gently from the older woman’s grasp for fear of it spilling on the ivory sunray pleats of her skirt. The sisters had shared connecting rooms in the home with their own bathroom for the last seven years, building a life of sorts amongst the residents and voluntary work in the shop. The idea that they might be placed apart from each other was awful, like adopted siblings being split up to maximise their appeal.