When Nicola entered the church, the sound nearly flattened her. The sheer force of that power, so low and deep; the melody echoing off wood and stone, almost to the edge of discord, sent her mind into freefall. To a dark, haunted place that she had glimpsed only in nightmares. And memories. The door shut behind her. All of a sudden, a starburst of fast, light notes flew above the dark bass. Uplifting and free, like a flock of birds taking flight. She felt quite literally like the sound might tear her in two.
She hadn’t been sure this was the right place, or what she had hoped to find. Now, on some deep, unfathomable level, she knew.
The vestibule was heated and she took off her coat, folding it over her arm. The church was empty, the apse lit only by dim side lights near the altar. The only other light came from the choir loft above.
The music continued on, relentless. She couldn’t hear her heels on the tile floor. There was a small wooden staircase off to one side near the back of the church. She began to climb. The sound drew her onwards, each step taking her closer to the source. The black bass notes, the sparkling treble, the giant pipes of the organ rising above her head. And finally, when she reached the top, she saw him.
His back was to her, his body moving trance-like, as his fingers danced over the keys of the grand piano. He was tall, that much she had remembered, and was wearing a grey jumper and dark trousers. As he played, his shoulders rose and fell in exertion, like David wrestling Goliath.
She took another step forward, tentative and unsure.
He stopped abruptly, the echoes of the sound still crashing against the walls. Then, he turned around. His eyes were black and wild, and at first, she wasn’t sure if he’d even seen her. As reality dawned, his mouth fell open and then shut again.
‘Don’t stop,’ she blurted out.
But he just stared at her, his eyes narrow and hawk-like. She couldn’t read the expression in them.
‘I’m… sorry I disturbed you,’ Nicola stammered, unable to stand the silence as the last echoes died away. ‘That was the most incredible… I mean, I’ve never heard anything like it. What was it?’
Her voice seemed to bring him back to his senses. ‘It is a Prelude by Rachmaninov,’ he said, his voice a rich, accented baritone. ‘It is known as The Bells of Moscow. He raked back his dark hair and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘To be honest, I haven’t played it in years. But tonight, it just came to me.’
His frown still hadn’t wavered, but she could feel his eyes moving away from her face. Appraising all of her. She already felt stripped and raw from the music, and she was sure he could see right through her to the core of ugliness at her centre.
He turned back to the piano and put on a pair of fingerless gloves that had been tossed to one side. This time they weren’t festive Christmas knit, but plain grey wool. He flexed his fingers and winced. It was as if the music had stolen something from him and he hadn’t quite regained his equilibrium.
When he finally turned back to her, he didn’t speak, and the silence seemed to pulse between them.
‘I’m Nicola Taylor,’ she said to break the tension. ‘You may not remember me but—’
‘I remember you,’ he said. The rest was unspoken but sent a jolt of electricity down her body.
‘I…’ Nicola suddenly felt at a loss for words. ‘I came to apologise for the way I acted the other night. It’s just, well… I was annoyed with the cancelled trains. It had been a really bad day – you know how it is…’ She laughed awkwardly.
He stood up from the piano and took a few steps towards her.
‘I mean, I’m sure that lots of people love Christmas and carolling.’ As he came closer, she felt unnerved and started to ramble again. ‘You probably made a lot of people happy that night at the station.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess Christmas isn’t really my thing. But I shouldn’t have spoiled it. I’m sorry.’
Her heart accelerated as he came up to her and, for a second, his arm brushed lightly against hers. But whether he noticed or not, intended it or not, she wasn’t sure. He went past her and sat down in the pew nearest the edge of the gallery, leaning his elbows forward on to the railing.
‘And why, Nicola, is Christmas “not your thing”?’
Direct to the heart of the matter – and none of his goddamn business. The walls she’d built up around herself had been battened down by the music, but instantly, they sprang up again.
‘I don’t see why everyone has to act like they’re so happy,’ she said, frowning. ‘I mean, don’t you think it’s all just commercialism? Get people to spend money – buy presents and food and alcohol? Overindulge and then spend the whole of January regretting it?’
He shrugged his shoulders, not broad, but lean and muscular. ‘I suppose that’s true – in a way. But isn’t it also about getting through a dark time of year? Taking time to focus on family, and friends, the things that matter. In this world of ours, is this such a bad thing?’
‘Maybe not, but why do we need all the trappings of Christmas for that?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment. Here she was, arguing with him, when, really, she had come to apologise. Her issues, such as they were, hadn’t given her licence to be rude.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I can see your point.’ He turned slowly to face her, his dark hair falling softly over his eyes. ‘You’re probably right. But what do you think is the answer? For the choir not to sing? For the people who want to meet other people – enjoy themselves – not to do so?’
She didn’t have an answer for that. Most of the men she interacted with on a daily basis would just have accepted her apology and then moved on to make small talk or flirt a little. Yet this conversation with this man seemed much more difficult – more intimate – than she ever would have expected.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Obviously you have a right to sing where you want. Spread joy, good cheer – whatever you want to call it.’
‘But you think you should have the right to walk away, is that it? Not listen if you don’t want to. What was the word you used? “Trapped”?’
She looked at him in surprise. He’d obviously remembered the details of the whole unfortunate encounter.
‘Actually,’ he added, ‘to me, that sounds reasonable.’
‘I don’t know,’ she countered. ‘Maybe if it had been another night, another place…’ She shook her head. ‘But, as it was, all I wanted to do was get on that train and go home for a few hours. Pretend I didn’t have to get up for work the next morning and do it all over again.’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘If that’s how you feel, then why do you do it?’
‘I don’t know!’ His calm poise was making her angry, just like it had the other night. ‘Why does anyone do what they do? I mean, not all of us can play – what was it again? – Rachmaninov?’
‘No, that’s true.’
Nicola paced back and forth a few steps by the edge of the gallery. She hadn’t come here to have a discussion with this man about the meaning of life and the joys of Christmas. She’d come here to apologise, and she’d done that. So why was she still here?
‘Anyway, for the record, I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I came here to tell you that. I thought I could make a donation. For… mince pies or something.’
He laughed, and that irritated her. Standing up, he came back over to her. Once again she felt that growing sense of tension as he stood in front of her, close enough that she could smell his scent: wool, sweat, an undernote of musky aftershave. He must be about her age, she thought – mid to late thirties. But the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes reminded her more of a boy.
‘For mince pies?’ he asked.
‘Or something…’
That look in his eye. This ridiculous situation. Actually, she had to keep herself from laughing too. Mince pies – God, had she actually said that?
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I don’t actually like mince pies.’
‘No?’
‘But the choir loves them.’
‘Well then…’ she shrugged.
‘And Nicola,’ he continued, drawing out the syllables of her name, ‘I appreciate your coming to find me.’
Her pulse sped up and she felt a tightening in her abdomen as he leaned in closer to her, his face near enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. And just like in that one previous encounter she’d had with him, she was unsure whether his next action would be to slap her across the face or… reach for her and kiss her. She felt even more disconcerted when he did neither, instead turning away and walking a few steps, staring out at the expanse of the church below.
‘You say that you are sorry for what you did. Then you argue your right to reject Christmas – which I accept, by the way. It can be… difficult.’ Just for a second he turned back to her and she saw a shadow cross his face. But then, he smiled again, warily. ‘You say you wish to make a donation – for mince pies.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do your penance, make yourself feel better. Is that correct?’
‘Yes…’ Nicola said through her teeth. ‘So where can I make the donation?’
‘Take an envelope from the collection box. On your way out.’ The words slammed into her. He wasn’t smiling now.
‘OK.’ The instructions were clear enough. And yet, she didn’t move.
Once again he moved past her and went back to the piano. He picked up some music that was stacked on the side and shoved it into his shoulder bag. Nicola noted that there was no music on the stand. He’d been playing The Bells of Moscow, or whatever it was, from memory.
For the hundredth time, she willed herself to go. And yet, she just stood there watching him. Aware of him. And he was aware of her too. Yes, as soon as the thought came into her head, she knew she was right. He was aware of her, and now, he was playing with her. A shiver wracked her body.
‘But if you really wish to atone, Nicola – to me,’ he turned and looked at her, giving her the full benefit of his dark eyes and sharp classical features, ‘then tell me – what are you doing tomorrow?’
*
Dmitri watched Nicola Taylor walk down the steps of the church, her high heels clicking on the stone as she reached the street without looking back. She got into the taxi that was waiting for her. And then, she was gone.
What the fuck was he doing? He closed the heavy wooden door and collapsed against it. Why had she come here? Shattering his fragile equilibrium. Making him feel something; want something.
He thought of Tanya, so well-meaning, so loved up and happy herself, telling him that it was time to ‘try again’. When she knew perfectly well why that wasn’t going to happen. He felt angry with her. Angry at himself.
He’d deliberately not taken Nicola’s phone number, or given out his. The stupid part of him even wanted to go ahead with this crazy idea that had formed in his mind.
Dmitri took out his phone. It was time to call in a few favours. He dialled the first number as he went back up to the choir loft to collect his things. Right now the only consolation was that, almost certainly, Nicola wouldn’t turn up. He would never see her again, and all would be well.