The problem with relatives is that they always found a way to interfere. Or at least interrupt. They were running out of places to meet. A car was out of the question. Neither of them owned one. Emmet wasn't going to besmirch his sister's car. He wouldn't be able to keep a straight face every time she drove it. And they needed a bit more space than that. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman and he was determined to enjoy it. No cramped spaces for him. He'd been uncomfortable enough on their first meeting. She'd not so much perched on his lap as burrowed as he felt a treacherous stirring below. He prayed he wouldn't disgrace himself, much relieved when she squeezed out of the car. He couldn't say when he thought she was attractive. She was the blonde one. The one with the friendly legs. One of Hyacinth's sisters for goodness sakes. His nerves could barely tolerate Hyacinth, how could he think of her sister? Except, Rose was different. Different to his staid ex-wife, the one he thought he'd stay forever with. He thought he wanted that. Someone sensible, like him, to while away the evenings companionably, indulging in each other's interests. Rose did not share much of the same interests. But she was exciting. He'd always steered clear of women like her. Too temperamental. And she was. Not something he thought he would enjoy. She draped herself around him like satin, melted when he played the piano, especially for her. She wasn't interested in learning too much about classical music or theatre scores. She just wanted to hear the music, she understood music by feeling it. She had an enthusiastic appreciation for music that had surprised him. A lot of things about her surprised him. She had a way of thinking that was most unusual. And she could sing. He had no idea. This sultry contralto, vibrating with promise. In fact, that was where he'd discovered her talent. Singing for the seniors. He had been approached to play piano for a teatime concert at the old folk's home. He'd heard her before he'd seen her, that marvellous voice echoing from the rafters. He had warmed to her already. Humming along to her warmup, he strode around the corner, smile dying on his face as he was confronted with one of his worst nightmares. At that point he might have even welcomed Hyacinth. But it was one of her sisters. The tarty one. He could see her legs from a mile away. He remembered those legs. Very friendly they were. He tried to backtrack but she'd already seen him. She was delighted.
'Mr Hawksworth!'
She sashayed towards him and he stayed rooted to the ground in terror. She kissed him on the cheek and murmured about how nice it would be to work with him. He wasn't so sure, especially after her next comment that bordered on lewd. He muttered that she'd need to keep it professional and strode to the piano. He had no idea how he was going to get through the afternoon. She winked at him, took her place by the piano and off they went. He tried to relax his trembling fingers and rigidly focused on the keys and the papers before him.
They muddled along together. She knew the songs, he knew the music and they managed a rough rendition of everything before the eager crowd filed in. He was nervous. She was not. He marvelled at her cool. Her perfume was distracting. Her shapely legs in the tight black mini skirt were too close for comfort. It didn't take long until she'd came a little closer, turning over the pages of sheet music for him when needed. He muttered a thanks and carried on playing, relaxed just an inch, now properly listening to her voice again. He marvelled at how beautiful a sound she uttered. Gone was the frantic tone, the rushed words, the fidgeting fingers. She seemed serene and in her element. Her eyes told a story. He was transfixed, stealing glances at her every so often. Their eyes met as she was turning over the sheet in the middle of the last song. He risked a tiny smile, her eyes danced with delight. She received a resounding applause and a request for encore. She picked the song; he went along with it.
The manager had been ecstatic. They had been most popular and could they come again next Wednesday afternoon? Every Wednesday afternoon? Emmet promised to check his diary as Rose exclaimed her assent joyfully. She's taken hold of his arm as they left.
'Well, how about we go for a cup of tea?' She suggested. He hesitated, then decided that he would. Two teapots and a plate of cream cakes later, Rose had discovered more about her sister's neighbour than Hyacinth ever could. Emmet impulsively agreed to doing next week's gig.
'See you then' she purred kittenishly as she walked to the bus stop. Emmet wasn't sure what he was getting into.
The next Wednesday afternoon they went for tea and cream cakes again. The audience had been enamoured. They'd begged for regular weekly slots. Rose and Emmet spent the rest of the afternoon drawing up a programme for the next month, argued about rehearsal time. Rose's enthusiasm swept Emmet away. He drove her home that time, didn't flinch at her ramshackle lodgings. He'd met Daisy and Onslow before and liked them. He was humming the last song as he got home and gave the keys to his sister. Elizabeth noted how cheerful he looked but he wouldn't tell her why.
'You're getting on well at the old folk's home' she commented. He just smiled.
Third time they finished to rapturous applause, Rose turned around and winked at him. He felt happiness radiate between them. They skipped the tea and went straight to a hotel. It was fast and furious and quite out of his league. He felt exhilarated but panicked afterwards. He was out of practice. But nothing deterred Rose. Revealing patience that he hadn't thought she had, they took it slower after that.
He was sure they'd part fickle ways within the month. But several weeks slipped by and there was always something to do, somewhere to go. That new Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town. A jazz concert one summer evening that he borrowed the car for. Their first scheduled hotel date, reading one of Daisy's softcore romance books aloud, collapsing in laughter at the ridiculousness of it, then using it for reference later in the evening.
'Do I have limpid eyes?' She asked him mischievously.
Emmet smiled warmly at her. She certainly did, he informed her. She was thrilled.
He had forgotten the healing power of frivolous fun. When had he become so boring? Rose had sprinkled fairy dust and made him feel alive, invigorated. She gave as good as she got, wrapping those legs around him most effectively. He enjoyed that. Her lingerie tended to be black and scandalous. He enjoyed that too. She was wildcat and sweet flower wrapped into one. He'd stopped thinking of her as cheap. Each performance she gave, she radiated elegance despite her tawdry attire. There was an unexpected tenderness to her that he reckoned not many people had the privilege of seeing.
Rose in turn was feeling a contentment that she had never felt before. She'd been on the rampage ever since she'd seen Emmet but to really get to know him was a pleasure she hadn't realised would give her true satisfaction. The weekly music, his company, the adoring audience, she felt as if she could walk on air. No more did she restlessly flit about, waiting for some shmuck to call her in between shifts with his wife, no longer did she think about topping herself or desiring to become a nun, the dishy vicar was left well alone. Daisy and Onslow didn't know which man had made her so chirpy. She only referred to her new lover by the pen name of Mr Boy. She couldn't answer the phone to 'oh Mr Hawksworth!' No one could know. It was their delicious little secret. Even Hyacinth's beady eyes had noticed the change in her little sister.
'Whoever he is, Rose, he'd better make an honest woman out of you and soon' she huffed, the implication that whoever he was, he would get bored of her soon enough. Contrary to opinion, Emmet was not getting tired of her. He revelled in her bold sensuousness, her reckless attitude. Many a time he was tempted when she enticed him in public. She delighted in making him smile, bringing out his most uninhabited self. He loved her for that.
'My God, Rose, your singing voice could corrupt the angels' he told her.
She laughed and stroked his cheek, sliding on top of him with barely harnessed energy.
'I'll start with you first' she murmured.
The next time when they were squashed in the back of the car on some fool's errand (daddy was on the loose again), they just glanced at each other in acknowledgement. Nobody noticed. Nobody had to know.
Except Elizabeth.
She'd come back early. They froze, desperately trying to think of an innocent explanation that would make sense of Rose in his arms, caught against the piano. None was forthcoming.
'Oh' exclaimed Elizabeth. But said nothing else on the matter. Just a wide smile.
'Are you staying for tea?'
She went to put the kettle on for her brother's guest. She was delighted.