‘I bloody miss him. I keep thinking I’ll drop in and have a drink with old Julius. And then I remember … So I can’t imagine how you must feel.’
Marlowe took off his coat and threw it on the sofa. Underneath he wore black skinny jeans and a grey cable-knit sweater and a pair of oxblood Chelsea boots. When he took off his hat his black curls sprang free, wild and untamed.
He looked at Julius’s cello, standing in the corner of the room.
‘May I?’ he asked, mindful of its significance.
‘No, please – go ahead.’
He strode across the room and lifted the cello off its stand. He ran his long, slender fingers over the strings, expertly listening to see if it was in tune, adjusting the pegs until the notes were just as he wanted them. Emilia felt a pang, wondering about the last time Julius had played it: what had he played? He had played every day. It was his way of switching off. He never considered it a chore.
She watched Marlowe tune up, fascinated, always intrigued by the way a true musician handled an instrument: with absolute confidence and mastery. She could never take her playing to the next level because she was always slightly afraid the instrument was in charge, rather than the other way round.
He picked up Julius’s bow and ran it over a small block of resin until the fine hairs were as smooth as silk. Then he sat down and let the bow dance over each string and the notes rang out loud and true in the stillness of the living room. He began playing a tune, short sharp staccato notes, and Emilia smiled in delight as she recognised it. ‘Smooth Criminal’. Not what one would expect from a cello.
Then he segued into something sweeter, something she didn’t recognise. He finished with a flourish, stood up and pointed her to the seat. ‘Let’s see how you are.’
‘I haven’t played for years. I meant to practise before you got here—’
‘Ah. The fatal words. I meant to practise. I don’t want to hear you say that again.’
Emilia blushed. Now he had pointed it out, it did sound lame. Brilliant musicians were brilliant because they practised, not just because they had talent.
She warmed up, playing a few scales. It was surprising how well she could remember. It was almost instinctive as she moved her fingers up and down the strings, stretching and curling them to capture just the right note, then moving on to arpeggios to reignite the muscle memory.
‘There you are, you see?’ Marlowe looked delighted. ‘It doesn’t go away. It’s like riding a bicycle. You just need to put the time in now.’
She took out the sheet music for ‘The Swan’ from the pile on the piano. She began to play. She had done it years ago for one of her grades. She couldn’t remember which – six, she thought. She had been note perfect then, and had got a distinction. But after all this time, her playing was dreadful. She scraped and scratched her way through it, determined not to stop until she got to the end.
‘It’s awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll do something else. I’ll read a poem.’
‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘This is perfect for your father. And yes, it was bloody awful. But you can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you. If you practise two hours a day between now and the memorial, it will be the perfect tribute.’
He started breaking the music down for her, picking out the fiddly bits and getting her to master them before putting them back in, marking up the manuscript with his pencil. After an hour and a half of painstaking analysis, he asked her to play it through again.
This time it sounded almost like the tune it was. Not perfect, far from perfect, but at least recognisable. She laughed in delight, and he joined in.
‘Bravo,’ he said.
‘I’m exhausted,’ she told him.
‘You’ve worked hard. We better stop now. There’s only so much you can take in.’
‘Would you like a glass of wine before you go?’ she asked, hoping he’d say yes. ‘It’s going to take me years to work my way through Julius’s wine collection if I don’t have help.’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Go on then. Just a glass. I mustn’t be late.’
She couldn’t help wondering if it was Delphine he mustn’t be late for, but she couldn’t really ask.
She flicked on the sound system in the kitchen. Some Paris jazz sessions flooded the room: cool, smooth sax and piano with an infectious beat. It took her breath suddenly. It must have been the last thing Julius listened to.
Marlowe found his way around the kitchen, pulling a bottle of red from the rack, opening the drawer to find Julius’s precious bilame, the corkscrew favoured by French wine waiters. He opened the bottle effortlessly and poured them each a glass.
He looked at her, and she couldn’t hide her tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she laughed. ‘You just don’t know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always music that does it.’