As I was emptying the tip jar, having played through to closing time, Shanksy walked by with his bucket and mop.
“You know who that was, don’t you?” he said.
“Who do you mean?”
I was kidding, of course. It had been a quiet night for young women with beautiful brown eyes walking into the bar and singing “Take me now.”
“Sergeant Carey from Mornington Police. Angelina Brown.”
My singer did not look like a cop. Why would I recognize a police officer from out of town anyway? And was her name Carey or Brown?
Shanksy cleared up the confusion, which was due to my recent arrival in the country that had given the world Neighbours and Home and Away. “Carey” was in fact “Kerrie”: only on television are police sergeants referred to by their first names. Ms. Brown was an actress, which explained the special reception.
“Who was the boyfriend?” I asked.
“No idea. I’ve never seen her in here before. Not a bad set.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You liked the Beatles song?”
He laughed. “‘You’re Gonna Lose That Girl.’ Sailing close to the wind, mate. Lucky everyone else was thinking the same thing.”
Except everyone else knew who she was and that she was out of my league. I must have been the only person in the bar who had felt it might be the beginning of something. There is a particular magic when people play and sing together, and it had been there at the piano, along with the tease about my accent and the moment with the mascara. But my ungracious parting shot would have blown any chance I might have had.
Perhaps there was an element of self-sabotage. My move to Australia had been prompted by more than the promise of money and sunshine. There had been a relationship—my first serious relationship—back in the UK. After eighteen months together, nine of them sharing a flat and a cat, Joanna wanted to have children and I was not ready. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready. I couldn’t put a date on it. It had ended with me catching a plane to the other side of the world. Now I wanted to work myself out before I let anyone else down.
Even if I had been looking for a new partner, I would not have chosen a well-known actress who should have been free to sing a couple of songs without being stalked by the pianist. In any case, she apparently had a boyfriend. For all those reasons, I didn’t do anything about it.
Angelina did. A fortnight later, she walked into the bar, alone. It was six P.M. and the place was empty. Normally I would not have been there so early, but I had asked one of the admin staff from work out for dinner, my first date in Australia. Angelina was indirectly responsible. She had awoken something, even if it was just my mother’s mantra of getting on with it.
The obvious way to begin my date with Tina was with some special attention at my bar. We had come straight from the office, so I was in suit and tie, with my hair cut and beard trimmed for the occasion.
The absence of other customers detracted a little from the effect I was aiming for, but we took a table near the bar and had just ordered drinks when Angelina walked in.
She was showing none of the self-confidence that had fueled “Because the Night”; rather, the uncertainty that had undermined its credibility. She looked younger than I remembered her. She caught my eye, saw Tina, and turned to leave. Then, one table away from the door, she sat down.
It took a few moments before I allowed myself to believe that she might have come to see me, and a few more to realize that this was exactly what her actions had signaled, right down to deciding that she didn’t want to confirm my suspicions by walking out.
When Shanksy walked over to take her order, Tina said, “Isn’t that Angelina Brown?”
Normally I would have responded by showing off my recently acquired knowledge: “From Mornington Police. She plays Sergeant Kerrie, doesn’t she?” Instead I said, “Who?”
“She’s an actress in a soapie. I watched it once or twice, you know, just to see what it was about. She plays the smart one, not the hot one, but seeing her here in person, she’s quite attractive. You think so?”
I took the opportunity to look at her again.
“She’s okay,” I said. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
“She’s always solving the crime or counseling people, and she seems really together, but she’s actually having an affair with a pathologist. She’s not married but he is, and he’s a slimeball, and everyone wants her to get a grip and go with the detective sergeant who really likes her but who’s too shy to say anything.… Anyway, like I said, I don’t really watch it.”
At least Tina was giving me time to think. Why had Angelina left it so long? What about the boyfriend? How was I going to connect with her before she walked out of my life again?
I could hardly ask Tina to make herself scarce so I could pursue another woman. Even putting aside basic decency, it would have been career suicide to insult the woman who ran the office football tipping competition and was thus connected with everyone in the department. I could have claimed to have met Angelina before—friend of a friend—or, God forbid, told the simple truth that she had sung at the piano one night, but I had effectively stated that I did not know her. There was no practical way I could give Shanksy a message to deliver in front of Tina.
Behind the bar, he poured Angelina an orange juice. She was not going to stick around. Somehow I had to get a message to her. And in that thought lay the answer. It was a clunky answer, but it would have to do.
I intercepted Shanksy on his way to Angelina’s table.
“Tina, this is Shanksy. Tell her what I do here.”
“He’s the piano player. When he feels like it.”
“No way,” said Tina.
I signaled to Shanksy to refill her glass and walked to the piano, now having an excuse to play to the empty house.
I was struggling to think of the words to the Bee Gees’ “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You.” The preacher tortured me?
I was at the piano, about to regale a beautiful woman with a fudged impression of the brothers Gibb, when inspiration of sorts arrived.
“You Are So Beautiful.”
It was more of a one A.M. last-drinks-stagger-off-into-the-night closer, but the sentiment was on the mark.
I was under way before I had time to consider the rest of the song. It was not a total screw-up, like singing “Go Away Little Girl,” but the lyrics needed Joe Cocker’s voice to offset the schmaltziness.
I did my best. I tried to keep looking toward Tina rather than Angelina, singing about a woman being everything I’d hoped for, the joy and happiness she brought me, a gift from heaven, and then I realized that Angelina might think I was singing it for my date. So, as I growled the last drawn-out “to me,” feeling a complete idiot, I turned to Angelina and gave her what I hoped was a meaningful look.
She was laughing.
I went back to my table and could tell something was wrong. Surely one look had not given me away? I had focused on Tina for most of the song.
That turned out to be the problem—and the solution.
“Adam, that was lovely,” she said, “but … wow. Just a bit heavy. I mean, we don’t really know each other yet. I’m just getting over a relationship, and I’m more about—you know—having a good time.”
Being taken to an empty bar and serenaded with a full-on love song at six P.M. was probably an unnerving start to a first date with the new guy in the office.
“Hey,” I said, “me too.”
“I wish that were true,” said Tina, “but it’s obvious you’re looking for something more. Would you be really upset if we just called it a night now? I can get the tram, and then it’s like nothing happened.”
I began to stand, but Tina stopped me.
“It’s okay. We can finish our drinks. You seem like a really sensitive person. It just wasn’t what I was expecting. After the way you are at work. No offense.”
While Tina finished her drink, Angelina walked to the bar, settled her account, and disappeared down the stairs.
Shanksy waited until I had paid—“Playing one song for your girlfriend doesn’t get you two free drinks”—and allowed me to get halfway to the door before calling me back.
“Almost forgot. Your girlfriend left you this.”
He gave me an envelope, with English Piano Player written on the front. In another pen, Angelina had added and friend. She had probably just been planning to drop it in, not expecting I would be there so early in the evening.
It was a photocopied invitation to a farewell party for Jenny and Bryce, strangers to me. They were “off to England,” probably to live in Earl’s Court, work in a bar, and save for a hitchhiking trip around Europe. Or, more likely, to get some up-to-date experience in database design so there would be no need for overpaid imports like me.
The party was accordingly themed “Bring a Brit.” It was hardly insulting—even a little more respectful and euphonious than the “Bring a Pom” that my workmates would no doubt have written—but I had allowed my imagination to run to something more personal.