My eyes followed Luca’s around the hall, falling on a pigeonnestled in the gap where the roof met the wall.
‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’
A drop of leaky-roof water landed with a plop on my forehead at precisely that moment, trickling down my face as though in protest at my cynicism. A smile teased the corner of Luca’s mouth. Of course, he enjoyed that.
‘I’d love to meet your Dadaji at some point. Maybe interview him for the paper?’
Something resembling sadness swept across Luca’s face, his cheeks slipping a centimetre or two. ‘He moved back to India last year, always dreamt of spending his final years in Calcutta. But he wouldn’t go until he was sure this place was in safe hands.’
‘And that’s when you took over?’ I deduced, the final missing piece of the puzzle slotting into place.
Luca nodded once, stubbing the toe of his boot against a loose bit of skirting board. ‘Safe hands, my arse. One year in, and we’re already in danger of having to close.’ He raked his fingers roughly through his hair, tugging at the ends as though intent on ripping them straight out of his scalp. He was still gripping the maraca with his other hand, holding it so tightly I was afraid it would splinter into a million tiny pieces. The intensity of it prompted something to shift inside me, as though I was having to make room for a new way in which to view Luca Patel – or at least, this softer, caring version of him that I’d not seen before. Luca flinched at the unexpected contact as I reached out to take the maraca from him, our fingers momentarily overlapping.
‘Not if I can help it,’ I said gently. ‘Dog with a bone over here, remember?’
His grip loosened, shifting slightly so that the tip of his forefinger was now over my pinky.
‘My Dadaji used to say that music could heal the wounds that medicine could not.’ Luca smiled to himself, as though remembering the words after the longest of times. ‘And that’sall we’re trying to do here, for the adults as much as for the children. Music has always been there for me, through the good times and the bad. And I know how important it is to have a place you can go where you feel safe and heard. Where you can get lost in the music, and not feel so alone in whatever battle you’re fighting. Because we’re all battling something, right?’
I nodded dumbly, my mouth too dry to speak as his words hooked something deep in my chest, pulling it taut. I relinquished my hold on the maraca, my hand suddenly feeling useless and obsolete by my side. I fixed my eyes on my notebook, scared to meet Luca’s gaze for fear he’d be able to see right through me to the darkness that lay within.
‘And what are you battling, Luca Patel?’ I asked playfully, speaking into my pen as though I were a field reporter with a microphone before angling it in his direction. But it must have been one question too many, because he turned away, leaning down to pluck a drumstick from beneath a chair. When he straightened back up, the mask was firmly back in place.
‘You mean other than your annoying questions?’
And we were back to deflection. I recognised it better than most, seeing as I was a black belt in the discipline myself. But what did Luca have to hide? I pressed the stop button on my phone to end the recording. The interview was over.
Just then, a commotion by the door made us both look up. A red-faced, slightly flustered Jacob stood in the middle of the double doors, surrounded by a mound of camera bags and lighting equipment.
‘Sorry I’m late, Derek had me over at Mile Oak Farm photographing a supposed UFO landing site,’ Jacob explained, rolling his eyes in a way that saiddon’t askbefore turning to face Luca, camera in hand. ‘Ready for your close-up, Mr Patel?’
Luca’s face dropped, glaring accusingly at me. ‘You didn’t say anything about a photograph.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Jacob beamed, carrying on as if he hadn’t even heard him. ‘Just one step to your left? Perfect, now just act casual. Relax.’
But Luca looked the opposite of relaxed. He flinched as soon as Jacob’s flash went off, his whole body stiffening like a plank of wood.
‘Just pretend you’re back at school and you’re having your prom picture taken.’
‘I didn’t go to prom,’ Luca said flatly. Jacob looked horrified. I pretended to play an imaginary violin, my awkward sawing motion through the air the point at which I realised I had zero idea how to play a violin.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Playing my teeny-tiny violin for poor ickle Luca,’ I teased, laughing at my own joke.
‘Well, the joke’s on you, because I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s not that. What’s your arm even doing?’ Luca frowned at my left arm, which was straight out in front of me at a 90° angle. Jacob shooed me out of the way before I could answer, circling Luca in search of an angle that didn’t make him look like – well, that.
‘Just relax, pretend we’re not even here,’ Jacob suggested.
‘Iamrelaxed,’ Luca grumbled, his lips unmoving as they remained frozen in his attempt at a smile. He looked like he was suffering from a severe bout of constipation.
‘Maybe let’s try a few over by the piano?’ Jacob gave me athis is going to be harder than I thoughteye bulge as he shepherded a reluctant Luca to the opposite side of the hall.
I chuckled quietly to myself as I shoved my notebook back in my bag, Luca’s blatant discomfort surprisingly entertaining. A handful of remaining adults – parents of those children still rounding up their belongings and trying to locate missing shoes – had congregated into a semi-circle, little ginger-haired Harry’smum covering her mouth with one hand as she whispered something to the others that made one woman’s face turn full-blown tomato. They were all staring intently at something on the other side of the hall, and I followed their collective gaze to see Luca sat at the piano, his long fingers moving gracefully over the black and white keys, his relaxed shoulders no longer bunched awkwardly around his ears. That one lock of hair longer than the rest fell partially across his face as he dipped his head, his t-shirt straining across his back as his whole body rose and fell in time with the music, as if the delicate melody were emanating from his very core. The waning sun streamed in through the opposite window, emphasising his cheek bones, which seemed to have been carved specifically with moments like this in mind.
It was the first time I’d seen Luca smile. I mean, really smile. Not the sarcastic smirk he normally taunted me with. I watched the way his nose wrinkled ever so slightly as he threw his head back at something Jacob said, eyes sparkling with something other than irritation or mockery for once. Provided he wasn’t talking/goading/arguing/being his general self, he was – well, handsome. No, hot. Luca Patel was hot. And now I was hot. Why wasIhot?
He looked up then, his gaze – softer than normal – catching me watching him. His lips parted, his chest rising and falling with a sudden intake of breath. I turned away quickly, my heartbeat thumping in my ears as I fussed unnecessarily with the contents of my bag, checking three times for my car keys before realising they were already in my hand.
