My Lies, Your Lies - Susan Lewis Page 0,48

me glad that I’ve practised so much in my spare time in order to show him how important it is to me. I want him to know that it’s only because of him that I’m doing so well.

After an hour of being close to him, of listening to his voice, of breathing in the scent of him, and learning about flats and sharps he looks at his watch and says, ‘It’s time for the lesson to end now.’

I don’t want to go. I can hardly make myself move, but I have to. I say, ‘Do you promise not to cancel next week?’

He doesn’t answer straight away, he stares at nothing, it seems, but then he’s staring at me. ‘Next week when you come,’ he says softly, ‘you mustn’t wear your hockey kit.’

I leave in a hurry so upset and angry that I think he should be punished for being mean to me, something to make him sorry so he’ll never make me feel stupid again. I go up to my dorm thinking up ways to hurt him as much as he’s hurt me, and I decide that one of them could be to report him for putting a hand on my leg while I was practising my scales. Or I could say that he tried to kiss me when he leaned forward to point out the bass clef symbol on the sheet music. That would definitely get him into trouble, a lot of trouble, but then our private lessons would be stopped and I couldn’t stand for that to happen. I know I’ve only had two so far but already I live for those lessons. Nothing else matters.

It’s lesson three and I’m wearing my usual school uniform of navy kilt and pale blue blouse. I’ve rolled my waistband over a few times so my hem is above my knees and when I sit down I toss back my hair and say to him,

‘Is this better?’

He looks puzzled.

‘You told me not to wear my hockey kit,’ I remind him.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Would you prefer it if I didn’t wear anything at all?’ I say and I can hardly believe the words have come out. My nerves are suddenly jumping around inside me, and I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that I really did speak out loud, and I don’t know what he’s thinking.

In the end he leans forward and opens the piano lid. He speaks so quietly that I can hardly hear him. ‘That’s a very beautiful image you’ve created for me. Thank you.’

I swallow, shocked and disbelieving – and elated that he thinks the image is beautiful. I want to say it again and again, but my heart is beating too fast, everything is jumbling up in my head. I want to show him the real thing. Should I offer to? I could go to the store cupboard at the back of the room and take off my clothes.

Would he like that?

Would I have the courage?

‘Shall we begin?’ he asks.

We start the lesson as if no wonderful things have been said or even thought about, but my hands are clumsy and when he puts his over them, like bigger shells protecting small ones, I stop and wait for him to tell me what to do.

He doesn’t say anything and nor do I as we sit there next to one another staring at our hands and the piano keys as if they might play themselves.

I can feel my chest going up and down as I breathe and I think I might be shaking.

He says, ‘Perhaps we should end the lesson now.’

‘No,’ I cry. In a panic I turn my hands in his and hold onto them.

He doesn’t pull away, he lets me hold onto him until finally I let him go. I lower my head so that my hair is falling around my face. He pulls it back and when I look at him he says in an odd sort of voice, ‘Can something be impossible if it’s already happened?’

I don’t know what he means so I don’t try to answer, I just carry on looking at him.

‘I understand what you want,’ he says softly, ‘but you know it can’t be.’

‘Why?’ I ask in a croak.

His smile makes my head spin and as he watches his hand touch my hair I feel sure he wants to kiss me. If he does I know my heart will explode.

He says, ‘You have no idea what simply looking at you does to