piece, that moved from melancholy to an uplifting crescendo, but Simon stopped suddenly as though he could sense that there was someone else in the room. He turned around and looked at her, and then laid the guitar on the ornamental parquet floor.
“Ah - I thought you were still in the garden,” he said sheepishly.
“Don’t stop, Simon. That was amazing. I mean, it was wonderful. I had no idea.” Tamara finished awkwardly. “What were you playing? Should I have recognised it?”
“Only if I was playing it well! It’s a romantic piece by a Spanish composer; he wanted the piece to transport the listener to another place and time. It just seemed the right thing to play on a beautiful summer’s evening, don’t you think?”
“I have to admit it was lovely - very romantic.” Oh no, wrong thing to say?
He paused. “I agree….” His voice trailed away, then he bent and placed the guitar in its case.
“No, please, Simon, go on playing.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then retrieved the guitar. Tamara leaned against the panelled wall; Simon stared intently as his fingers started to slowly pluck the strings before quickening the tempo so that Tamara couldn’t help herself and began quietly tapping her feet in time to the riotous rhythm filling the room.
Simon’s fingers were a blur as the music reached a crescendo, his dark eyebrows furrowed, his chiselled features taut with concentration. My God - I’ve never heard someone play so beautifully.
Tamara was still spellbound when the music reached a crescendo before dying away as Simon finished playing. He sat motionless until Tamara broke the silence.
“Bravo!” Tamara clapped enthusiastically. “You’re brilliant! Encore!”
He smiled awkwardly. “No - that’s enough for one evening. But, thank you, Tamara.”
“Is your guitar special? It looks as though it is quite old.”
“It’s not especially old, but it is special,” Simon said, reaching down and picking up the guitar again. “It was made in Spain, of course - the home of classical guitar music, it seems to me. It was made by Jose Ramirez. He founded a company that’s world famous for its instruments. They have been making them for over a hundred years. Here - you hold it.”
Tamara took the instrument from him carefully. “It’s very light,” she said, but the workmanship is amazing.”
“It’s true. Look at the intricate pattern running around the edge and in the middle under the strings. Fantastic workmanship.”
Tamara noticed that his voice had changed. Rather than the voice of a man used to giving directions, Simon was talking softly.
“The polished wood is beautiful,” she said.
“It’s the type of wood, and the shape, that makes a guitar truly great. Even a poor guitarist sounds professional playing one of these - as you can tell!”
“Stop doing yourself down. You played beautifully.”
She saw him flush with embarrassment. I wonder if anyone acknowledges him for talents other than making money?
He took the guitar back and placed its case before shutting the lid gently. “A lot of people think the guitar is just for pop and modern music,” he said brusquely, “but I think it’s sometimes more expressive than words.” He stood up and looked at her. Those eyes again.
“I don’t really like playing for people,” he said quietly. “It’s a way I relax. It helps me to get perspective on business hassles. Music has a calming effect on me. I sensed you had come into the room - maybe I caught your shadow out of the corner of my eye. But it didn’t disturb me. I felt ok about playing … for you….” His voice trailed off.
God, he’s really opening up.
“I could have listened to you for ages” she answered truthfully. “The music seemed to just, oh, just flow towards me,” she finished lamely. “Oh God, doesn’t that that sound so feeble?”
“You’re the last person on this planet to be
“Ah - I thought you were still in the garden,” he said sheepishly.
“Don’t stop, Simon. That was amazing. I mean, it was wonderful. I had no idea.” Tamara finished awkwardly. “What were you playing? Should I have recognised it?”
“Only if I was playing it well! It’s a romantic piece by a Spanish composer; he wanted the piece to transport the listener to another place and time. It just seemed the right thing to play on a beautiful summer’s evening, don’t you think?”
“I have to admit it was lovely - very romantic.” Oh no, wrong thing to say?
He paused. “I agree….” His voice trailed away, then he bent and placed the guitar in its case.
“No, please, Simon, go on playing.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then retrieved the guitar. Tamara leaned against the panelled wall; Simon stared intently as his fingers started to slowly pluck the strings before quickening the tempo so that Tamara couldn’t help herself and began quietly tapping her feet in time to the riotous rhythm filling the room.
Simon’s fingers were a blur as the music reached a crescendo, his dark eyebrows furrowed, his chiselled features taut with concentration. My God - I’ve never heard someone play so beautifully.
Tamara was still spellbound when the music reached a crescendo before dying away as Simon finished playing. He sat motionless until Tamara broke the silence.
“Bravo!” Tamara clapped enthusiastically. “You’re brilliant! Encore!”
He smiled awkwardly. “No - that’s enough for one evening. But, thank you, Tamara.”
“Is your guitar special? It looks as though it is quite old.”
“It’s not especially old, but it is special,” Simon said, reaching down and picking up the guitar again. “It was made in Spain, of course - the home of classical guitar music, it seems to me. It was made by Jose Ramirez. He founded a company that’s world famous for its instruments. They have been making them for over a hundred years. Here - you hold it.”
Tamara took the instrument from him carefully. “It’s very light,” she said, but the workmanship is amazing.”
“It’s true. Look at the intricate pattern running around the edge and in the middle under the strings. Fantastic workmanship.”
Tamara noticed that his voice had changed. Rather than the voice of a man used to giving directions, Simon was talking softly.
“The polished wood is beautiful,” she said.
“It’s the type of wood, and the shape, that makes a guitar truly great. Even a poor guitarist sounds professional playing one of these - as you can tell!”
“Stop doing yourself down. You played beautifully.”
She saw him flush with embarrassment. I wonder if anyone acknowledges him for talents other than making money?
He took the guitar back and placed its case before shutting the lid gently. “A lot of people think the guitar is just for pop and modern music,” he said brusquely, “but I think it’s sometimes more expressive than words.” He stood up and looked at her. Those eyes again.
“I don’t really like playing for people,” he said quietly. “It’s a way I relax. It helps me to get perspective on business hassles. Music has a calming effect on me. I sensed you had come into the room - maybe I caught your shadow out of the corner of my eye. But it didn’t disturb me. I felt ok about playing … for you….” His voice trailed off.
God, he’s really opening up.
“I could have listened to you for ages” she answered truthfully. “The music seemed to just, oh, just flow towards me,” she finished lamely. “Oh God, doesn’t that that sound so feeble?”
“You’re the last person on this planet to be
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