Upright Piano Player by David Abbott Page A

men they had worked together as embarrassed trainees in the circulation department of a woman’s weekly. Henry had left to go into business and Simon to write a novel. His book, which had appeared two years later, had been a high-minded story about old age called
Remaindered
. Sadly, the title had proved prophetic and Simon had gone back into publishing.
    Henry read the letter again. He wasn’t at all sure that there were twenty-six meaningful things to say about management and he certainly was not going to prove it. He had always been wary of business books and their familiar lexicon of warrior virtues. At best, they take a normal business career with its usual mixture of talent, stupidity, and luck and impose on it the neatness of post-rationalization. The story is invariably one of unrelenting brilliance. At worst, the “wonderful me” quota is so generous that the books belong on the fiction shelves. He decided to send Simon a gracious letter and excuse himself.
    A young woman had stopped at his table. Henry looked up to ask for the bill, but realized that she wasn’t a waitress.
    “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I’m Christine. I’m the manager—may I sit down?”
    Instinctively, Henry reached to shake her hand. It felt cold.
    “Look, I’m really sorry, but a customer has been complaining about you. He says you have been staring at his girlfriend—repeatedly—on several occasions.”
    Henry felt himself blushing.
    “Is it true?”
    “Yes, no … not really. If it’s the person I think, I did look for too long about a week ago, I was thinking about something else and I just, you know … it was rude.”
    “He says you were staring at her this morning, using the mirrors.”
    “That’s not true. I caught a glimpse of her in the mirror when I came in, that’s all. That’s why I came up this end of the room.”
    He looked down at the paper tablecloth, minutely aware of its coarse weave.
    “There’s no charge for your breakfast today—but it might be better if you went somewhere else in future.”
    “That hardly seems fair.”
    “I have noticed you before. Staring seems to be rather a habit.”
    Henry stood up and took his coat from the hook. He had stuck his scarf in one arm and could not get the coat on. She tried to help him, but he shrugged her off. “I’m all right, thank you.” He gathered up his things from the table and rushed out, the hem of his coat trailing on the floor, an empty sleeve waving to the room. At the door he was delayed by a flurry of people coming in. He stood to one side and looking back into the room saw the couple watching him, the man throwing his head back in laughter. Henry knew then where he had seen him before—the man’s moving head a chilling action replay. He was the man who had head-butted him on New Year’s Eve.

    On the last Friday in January, Mrs. Abraham resigned.
    Henry had stopped going out for breakfast and was often still in bed when she arrived. She was an orderly woman and her schedules did not allow for Henry’s mid-morning presence in bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Several times he had made her late for her afternoon job.
    “To be honest, Mr. Cage, it’s not right—you moping around the house like this.”
    He had promised to be out of the house before she arrived and to stay out until late morning—sometimes for longer. She had seemed unsure and before he knew it he had said, “Oh, and I’ll be in America in April.”
    Mrs. Abraham smiled. She routinely read the letters that Henry carelessly filed in the kitchen toast rack and had been waiting to learn the outcome of Nessa’s invitation.
    “All right, we’ll give it another go, shall we?”

7
    It had taken Maude Singer six months and three interviews to get a job at Henry Cage & Partners and eight weeks to decide that it was not for her. Aged thirty, she had been the oldest person in that year’s graduate intake, and that was the sole reason (though she did not know it) why she had