Page 123 of The Stranger

“You play beautifully,” she says as my fingers slow. My attention moves to her face, pink washing her cheeks with regret. She makes a pre-emptive motion. “I’m sorry, I should⁠—”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve played anything.” Delaying tactics that she’s bound to see right through. Not that it stops me from adding, “Do you play?”

Her eyes answer me before her mouth does. “I had lessons when I was younger. I think we all did, my brothers and sisters. I didn’t have the patience.”

I give a soft chuckle. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

Her brow furrows.

“Dr. Whittington.”

“Ah, patients,” she replies with a tiny smile.

“Most people assume playing well is about talent,” I say. “Mostly, it’s repetition. Hours spent doing the same thing badly until one day you do it less badly.”

Her smile turns teasing. “Inspiring.”

“I imagine medicine is much the same.”

Her nose scrunches. “Six years of doing things badly?”

“Six years of turning up when it would be easier not to some days.” I glance at her. “Eventually, everyone else calls it talent because they weren’t there for the work.”

“I suppose I gave up because I don’t like things I’m no good at.” An admission that speaks volumes, and as though she’d given too much away, she hurries on. “The song, does it have a meaning? Old songs often do, right?” She looks uncomfortable now.

“It’s about a woman who abandons her lover for another.” I begin to pick at the keys again because now I feel like I ought to kick myself. It sounds like a calculated choice. It could be a subconscious one. “My wife, Allegra, she would sing it to Sylvie when she was a baby.” That is hardly a better direction. Done with overthinking, I lift my hands and place them on my thighs. Maybe I ought to shove them in my mouth.

“I know.”

I angle my gaze her way.

“I mean, Felix was just telling his sister that she’d sing a song to her. That he’d heard you playing it on the piano. He made it sound like it was a happy and a sad thing at the same time.”

My mouth goes dry. Maybe from the cognac.

“She was going to ask you to play it for her, but…” Her expression flickers.

“What?”

“He said not to because it makes you sad.”

“He’s right,” I admit.

“Because it reminds you of your loss.”

“It reminds me of her.” The admission sits between us for a moment.

“Do you want… do you want to tell me about her.”

I’m glad she doesn’t ask if I want to talk about it. About loss. The elephant that lurks in most of the rooms. I feel my chest tense anyway, not sure why she’s asking—for her or for me—but I find myself inhaling anyway. “She was—” The sentence disintegrates. How do I do justice to the woman who held my heart, the woman who brought our children into the world? “She was fearless,” I say, after a second. “She did nothing by half-measures. She loved, and she was loved, and she lived life to the full. She had this…” I search for the right words but come up lacking. “Life force, I suppose,” which doesn’t capture even the shadow of her.

Primrose nods as if she understands, but how can she?

“She was beautiful,” I say, softer now as I ignore the dull-edged blade of shame when I try to explain what we had to another woman.

“Yes, she was,” Primrose offers, easing that sense of discomfort.

“Cancer.” I don’t need to tell her but it’s usually the next questions. “One minute she was here, and the next…” The room falls silent, but for the sound of cicadas and crickets beyond these walls.