Never Mind Miss Fox by Olivia Glazebrook

its appearance it must be special. She spelled in her head the plain, gold letters of its name: C. Bechstein. “Is it old?” she asked, too shy to touch it.
    â€œAbout a hundred years old,” said Eliot. “So yes for a person, but no for a piano.” She adjusted the stool to suit Eliza’s height. “Half an hour,” she said, “and then a break.”
    â€œOK,” said Eliza, resigned. She began to pull her music from her rucksack and then said, “I won’t play ’til you go, Mum. You know I don’t like you listening in.”
    â€œI didn’t like to play for my parents either,” Eliot said.
    Eliza was pleased when she heard this, but Martha was hurt.
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    In the kitchen with Martha, Eliot opened the fridge door and asked, “Will you have champagne? I found a whole case in a cupboard.”
    â€œI like the sound of your friend,” said Martha. “Yes please.” She was embarrassed when Eliot did not drink it herself. “Won’t you?” she said.
    â€œNo, I won’t…I don’t. Not anymore.”
    She meant alcohol, and thinking of it Martha said, “Do you remember France?”
    â€œYes.”
    It was the end of both subjects: France and drinking.
    Martha sipped her champagne. She wished she did not feel such a fool but why did she? She had expected laughter and stories but this reminded her of an interview.
    They sat in the garden, a brick-flagged square the size of a Ping-Pong table and yet containing, somehow, two wooden chairs and a glossy magnolia tree. The high walls of the surrounding houses peered over them. “Not much of a garden,” Eliot said.
    Martha hinted, “I suppose it depends what you’re used to.” She wanted to know more about America but Eliot did not respond. In the end Martha had to fill the silence herself. “You’re lucky,” she said. “I’d kill for some outside space.”
    A magnolia leaf, bottle green and velvet brown, clattered through the branches to the ground. “Odd how much noise they make,” Eliot said. “Like falling slates.”
    â€œI’d never noticed.” Martha felt disadvantaged, as if there would always be sights and sounds that reached Eliot’s eyes and ears but not her own.
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    Clive worked on Saturdays—or at least, spent the mornings in his office—and then went to a smart, spacious gym where he swam or ran on the machine. Afterwards he would sit in the steam room and look down at his body, pleased. When it came to suppertime—pizzas, on Saturdays—he could eat without guilt.
    Today he would not get that opportunity. Changing back into his clothes he read a message on his phone: Mum drunk can you come.
    He rang Martha’s number. “What does this mean?”
    Martha’s voice was thickened by alcohol: “I think Eliza wants you to join us. So do I. It’s really nice here.”
    â€œAre you drunk?” He knew she was—he could hear it in her voice—but he wanted to let her know that she had been caught.
    â€œNo! Of course not. I’ve only had…a glass…of champagne. Or so.”
    â€œI can’t come,” said Clive, thinking of what Belinda had said. “It’s impossible.”
    But then it was Eliza’s voice in his ear: “You have to come. Miss Fox says we can all have pizzas here. She says there’s a place around the corner, it’s really good, they throw the whatsit—the dough—in the air. Come on, Dad.”
    He could not say no.
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    When he arrived Eliza opened the door and tried to tug him into the house. “Come on, Dad, we’ve all been waiting—”
    â€œWe’re not staying,” he said to her, “we’re going. Now.”
    She looked up at him. “But—”
    â€œGet your stuff. Where’s Mum?”
    â€œI’m here.” Martha stepped forward from the