Marta stood on the verandah of her mother’s house and watched Joe step from a late model Range Rover. She eased out a breath she was unaware she was holding, her joking words to Christophe Duval a drumbeat in her blood—‘Don’t worry, Joe scrubs up well’.
What an understatement—he was a knockout.
And he obviously owns a better vehicle than his battered ute.
It was a very long time since she’d seen Joe dressed for a night out.
Tonight, he was dressed in a grey suit that fitted him like a second skin, the starkly plain white shirt and black bow tie emphasising the glowing good health of a man in his prime—‘I nearly died from a bleeding ulcer’.
Fresh anger thrummed through her bloodstream.
If she ran across Adele Marshall any time soon, Marta would struggle to keep her anger in check. The memory of talking Rebecca down off the dangerously close ledge of suicide was still raw, and to know Joe had come so close to death—it didn’t bear thinking about.
He strode up the path and it took all her self-control not to salivate.
‘You all set?’ he asked, his deep voice touching a tender chord.
As he stepped up onto the verandah beside her, she caught the faintest whiff of mothballs.
‘Farmer Joe,’ she drawled softly, her gaze skimming him from head to toe. ‘You look stunning. No thongs or work boots?’
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass a classy lady like you.’ His eyes sparkled with devilment. ‘It would never do for me to get chucked out of Chez Christophe for not meeting their dress code. I would never live it down.’
‘Are you sure you’re not intent on winding your friend up.’
‘That too, Marta, that too,’ he drawled, his voice dropping to a husky register. ‘Christophe is so sure he knows me well.’
She held her head to one side and studied him. ‘Maybe he knows Farmer Joe,’ she said, her own voice suspiciously husky. ‘He’s yet to meet Yousef, the concert pianist.’
Joe flinched and visibly paled, his whole body recoiling. ‘You want me to go home and change?’
‘No,’ she whispered, clinging to his arm. ‘Forget I even mentioned it.’
‘Shit, Marta, promise me you won’t breathe a word of that to Christophe, or anyone else. Promise?’
His mother, in one of her more grandiose dreams, was determined to have Joe change his name. Marta recalled her strident voice berating Joe—‘You need a name much more elite. Whoever heard of a concert pianist with a pedestrian name like Joe Marshall?’
And the woman had even gone so far as to obtain the forms for him to change his name by deed poll, despite Joe’s adamant protests that this wasn’t going to happen.
Marta laid a hand on his arm, and felt its subterranean tremble. ‘Rest easy, Joe, I would never do that to you.’
He huffed out a ragged breath that shook his sturdy frame. ‘I’ve left that life behind, forever, and I’m never, ever going back.’
‘I can’t say that I blame you.’ She pulled her filmy wrap a little closer, chilled despite the late afternoon warmth. Deep inside, a sense of unease continued to niggle. Marta tried to shrug off the sensation, with little effect. ‘We need to get going.’
‘We do,’ he said softly, and drew her into his arms, ‘but not before I get a welcome kiss.’
Without hesitation, she lifted her face to his.
After a few breath-stealing seconds, he raised his head and touched his fingers to her lips. ‘Now I’m ready to get this show on the road.’
They drove in companionable silence until they reached the cove; Joe was a good driver, the background music he favoured discreet. As he found a parking space near the restaurant, he turned to her. ‘Are you nervous?’
She grinned. ‘Always.’
He sighed softly and released his seatbelt. ‘Me too, but that’s all to the good.’
‘I’m pleased to share,’ she quipped, trying desperately to lighten the mood.
She’d learned a long time ago that all performers were subject to nerves, especially on the opening night of a new show or gig. Anyone who claimed otherwise was either no good as a performer, or a bare-faced liar.
Joe opened her door and held out a hand to assist her down from the high vehicle. She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her short black skirt.
With a hand under her elbow, Joe escorted her into Chez Christophe.
The place was abuzz with the sound of a dozen discreet conversations. A Christmas tree, elegantly decorated in blue and white, graced the foyer. As they stepped through the door the maître d’ looked up from his podium and smiled in greeting. ‘Good evening sir, madam. Do you have a booking?’
The man, dressed in a bright blue suit that toned with the Christmas decorations, looked down his long nose at them, his expression snooty.
Marta struggled to repress a giggle.
‘We’re not here to dine, Ambrose.’ Joe’s voice matched the other man’s starch. ‘We’re here to entertain.’
The man’s expression grew more reserved. ‘Ms Field and Mr Marshall?’
‘Marta and Joe will do nicely, Ambrose.’ Joe winked at Marta. ‘We’re colleagues after all.’
The man seemed to stand a little taller, his chin a little haughtier. His voice was clipped as he replied, ‘Through this way, sir, ma’am.’
He led them through a side door so they skirted the main dining area and reached the raised dais without disturbing any patrons. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Bring me a beer,’ Joe said crisply and looked at Marta.
‘I’ll have iced water, tap water not the bottled stuff, in a jug please, with a glass.’
‘Certainly, a waiter will bring your drinks presently,’ Ambrose said through thinned lips, before he turned away and walked back to his post in the foyer.
‘Ever get the feeling we’re plebs?’ Joe asked.
Marta grinned and whispered in his ear, ‘He’s just a stuck-up dweeb. Don’t take it to heart. Let’s correct his impression, shall we?’
Joe sat at the piano, lifted the lid and began to play, and soft delicate notes echoed on the hot air. Marta felt the change in vibe as she picked up the mic, took a deep breath and began her practised spiel.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Marta Field and my accompanist tonight is the very talented Joe Marshall. We both hail from Marandowie, a little country town someway north of here. Christophe has requested that we include one or two Christmas songs in our line-up tonight. We are open to requests, if you have a particular favourite, hand a note to your server.’
Joe segued into the carol ‘It came upon a midnight clear’ and Marta’s rich voice echoed throughout Chez Christophe.
They performed for half an hour before taking a break. Marta switched off the mic and immediately the lights over the dais dimmed.
Joe took a swig of beer. Marta poured herself a glass of iced water, the chill soothing her dry throat as she drank.
‘How’s it shaking down, do you think?’ he asked, his voice a husky murmur.
‘So far, so good.’
Mandy, one of the waitresses, appeared at their side. ‘Christophe would like you to step through to the kitchen for a few moments.’
Joe and Marta looked at each other in silent communication, and stood.
‘It’s a bit strange, me being on this side of the business,’ Joe murmured, bending close to her ear as they followed the waitress through the half door into the kitchen where they were greeted by a rich mix of savoury and sweet scents.
‘Evening, Marta.’ Christophe looked past her at Joe. His jaw literally dropped and he went bug-eyed as he stared, shaking his head. ‘C’est toi, Joe?’
‘Nah, it’s not me, it’s the local yobbo.’
Christophe walked around Joe, muttering, ‘If I didn’t see this incredible transformation, I’d never believe it possible.’
‘I told you he scrubs up well.’ Marta laughed, delighted to see ruddy colour bloom under Joe’s tan.
‘Knock it off you two.’ Joe’s voice was testy with embarrassment. ‘It’s me, just trussed up like a bloody penguin. I knew this was a mistake.’
‘Never, Joe.’ Christophe suddenly sobered and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Mandy tells me the patrons are delighted with your performance.’
Marta eased out a soft breath. ‘That’s music to our ears.’ She touched Joe’s arm. ‘We need to get back.’ She lifted a hand to Christophe. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘We will indeed.’ His voice echoed behind them as he turned back to his pans.
‘He’s really pleased.’ Marta gripped Joe’s arm.
He stopped mid-stride and stared down at her. ‘I wish I could say the same. I should never have agreed to this.’
‘You’ve always been talented, and you love music.’ Her grip on his arm tightened. ‘There’s no shame in sharing this love with others.’
With a distant expression, he said, ‘As long as you realise our collaboration is a one-off, and goes no further than here. I will not be drawn back into that world.’
‘Performing here is a far cry from the world of a concert pianist.’
‘I hated that life with every fibre of my being,’ he said vehemently, his voice filled with corrosive bitterness. ‘Always on show, always dressed up like some bloody overgrown stuffed penguin. All those elitist, stuck-up snobs looking down their aristocratic noses at me, this uncouth country bumpkin who could make a piano talk. They didn’t see me, the person. They only saw the talent. I was a thing; their sole interest lay in what prestige my talent could give them.’
The hurt, the anger, the bewilderment in his voice lodged like a stone in Marta’s chest and she found it a struggle to breathe.
‘And my mother was the worst of them all.’
And she did this to her own child—children. Rebecca had suffered just as much as Joe.
Marta leaned forward and hugged him, holding him tight against her, wanting to ease his pain, pain that set off the deep-seated tremors she felt coursing through him.
‘I would never do this to you. Never,’ she whispered, for his ears alone. ‘I like you, Joe, just as you are.’
His arms tightened around her, and for several long moments they stood there in the busy corridor between kitchen and dining room, oblivious to everything and everyone bustling around them.