Out of Practice (45 page)

‘You okay?’ he mouthed.

She nodded. Jesus, she’d have to be lying on the floor dying for Milo to take notice. A few seconds looking a bit downcast though, and Taffy was checking in.

She managed a sad smile and carried on giving herself a talking to, while Jade was offering to do a gymnastic routine that involved ribbons and what sounded like a very skimpy costume.

Milo may not be the greatest husband in history, she thought, and he certainly wasn’t the most hands-on dad to Tom and Ben, but for all his faults, he was
their
dad. How could
she, in all conscience, and considering herself an honourable person, do anything to jeopardise their relationship?

And Milo was finally making an effort – a slightly misguided effort – booking this night away, but nevertheless it was a step in the right direction.

Here she was, a responsible adult, on the brink of losing her job, and she was actually considering throwing away a perfectly serviceable marriage for a crush. A laugh bubbled in the back of her
throat as she could hear Lizzie’s voice in her head – ‘He’s a man for Christ’s sake, not a Vauxhall Astra!’

Holly slowly counted to ten in her head to eclipse the image of Taffy as his rather shabby, slightly eccentric Land Rover Defender – certainly not in its first flush of youth, rather well
worn, with a slightly torn roof, but tremendous fun. Not unlike Taffy himself.

Were cars like dogs, she wondered, sharing characteristics with their owners? Milo with his anally retentive and overly pampered Saab; Holly with her much loved, much abused Golf that could
still kick in a turn of speed when required? Lizzie with her soft-top Peugeot – all style no substance? Thinking of Lizzie made Holly’s stomach flip over – she missed Eric’s
doggy cuddles, the noise and chaos of their family home and Will’s dependably dry sense of humour. She hated to admit it, but she missed Lizzie too. It had been wonderful getting to know
Julia better and Elsie was like a whirlwind of positivity, but sometimes an old friend was required. Someone who didn’t need any backstory – someone who had driven an acid-green VW
campervan all through university – adaptable, quirky and fun – the Lizzie, in fact, that she’d been missing.

‘What about you, Holls?’ Dan’s voice interrupted her reverie and she looked up to find all eyes on her. ‘What are you going to do?’

For a moment, she froze, convinced that Dan could read her mind and wanted an answer: Taffy or Milo? Then she remembered the topic under discussion and relaxed. ‘Well, for the silly, I
quite fancied doing a duet – if someone wants to play the guitar? And for the other – well – I can play the cello a bit, if that helps,’ said Holly quietly, almost instantly
regretting the words as they left her mouth.

A few eyebrows raised and she shrugged. ‘Haven’t played properly for a while, though.’

Dan looked at her shrewdly. ‘Now come on, Graham, is that like when Julia told us she’d once “played a bit of tennis”?’

‘Oh God, do you remember?’ snorted Taffy. ‘And she quietly neglected to mention that she’d qualified for Junior Wimbledon! You really didn’t like being my doubles
partner, did you, Jules?’

Holly was amused to see Julia stiffen at being called Jules. To her credit though, she relaxed almost instantly, actually looking a little chuffed to have finally earned an endearing
diminutive.

Put on the spot about her cello-playing abilities, Holly wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘I’m not exactly Yo-Yo Ma but I’ll be fine to play something nice.’ She
tugged at her earlobe nervously. ‘I just don’t get much time to practise really, not with everything else going on.’

She suddenly wanted to blurt out the truth though – it wasn’t that she didn’t have time to practise, was it? Not really. She’d rather be playing the cello than watching
TV, or cooking, or jogging. But Milo didn’t like the noise. He didn’t like the intense concentration that overcame Holly when she played and that made him feel left out. Although it
sounded bonkers to Holly to admit it, it was almost as if he were jealous of her cello. It was the only logical reason why an otherwise sane man would be moved to banish her beloved instrument to
their storage locker.

She knew that she could probably practise at a friend’s house, if only she had asked. But somehow Holly couldn’t bring herself to admit, even to Lizzie, that not only would her
husband not allow her to have a dog, he had also banished her cello.

Which implication was worse though, she wondered, that her husband really was turning into a controlling nutter, or that she was stupid enough to put up with it? Some days, it seemed to be a
miracle that he allowed her to keep the twins in the house either.

And there was that word ‘allowed’ again. It made Holly’s heart race with the looming panic of knowing that she had to make a decision. A big decision. And soon.

Before things got any worse.

She was so distracted by her own mental melodrama that she wasn’t really paying attention when Taffy asked her what piece she might like to play.

‘Probably the First Bach Suite for Cello,’ she answered distractedly, noting how Dan’s eyes flickered to Julia every moment or two and wondering what that meant. Jesus, she had
the attention span of an ADHD toddler today. ‘It’s my favourite.’

There was an awkward silence, before Taffy dared to say what everyone else was thinking. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier choosing something simpler? Less pressure on you to find time to
practise, if time’s short . . .’

Holly watched as Taffy’s cheeks flamed as his words petered out. She knew that the very last thing he would ever want to do was not be supportive, but he obviously couldn’t bear the
idea of Holly setting herself an impossible goal. He’d tried so hard to build her confidence lately, not undermine it. She felt a bit mean that she’d put him in this awkward
position.

Holly blinked hard, hoist with her own petard. She’d mentioned playing the cello a bit and then blithely suggested she play one of the most challenging pieces in the cello repertoire.
Alone. On stage. She wondered if now was the best time to confess that she could actually play this technically and emotionally demanding piece in her sleep? That really, at seventeen, it had been
a toss-up between medicine or The Royal School of Music? But that somehow felt like bragging and Holly didn’t do bragging – it made her feel uncomfortable and off kilter. She’d
have been shit on
The Apprentice
. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said, buying herself some thinking time, ‘but it has to be Bach. He really is my favourite.’

‘And the duet?’ asked Grace, taking notes.

‘Erm . . . I know it’s a bit old school, but the Carpenters maybe? If someone could play the guitar while I strangle a cat with my singing?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Dan said bluntly, ‘I’m all thumbs.’ He paused and gave a meaningful look across the room. ‘Taffy’ll do it, won’t you,
mate?’

‘No problem,’ said Taffy easily.

Brilliant, thought Holly to herself. Not only did she have a raging argument running in her head, trying to be a decent person and do the right thing, but now she had to contend with Dan Carter
playing Cilla bloody Black . . .

After a couple of days of practising in their lunch-break and managing to get Taffy up to speed with a few basic chords, Holly was running on caffeine, adrenalin and sheer
determination. The sun was shining, the birds were singing but they were tucked away in the Phlebotomy suite amongst all the empty blood vials. Both of them tired, impatient and more than a little
frustrated. Possibly for different reasons though, Holly admitted to herself.

‘Listen, Holly, maybe we should pick something easier? I clearly have the manual dexterity of a wombat. In fact, I’m not entirely sure that this was your best idea, Holly. No
offence,’ said Taffy cautiously.

‘Oh, I never said it was a good idea,’ Holly replied, ‘it just gained a certain credibility for being, you know, the
only
idea.’ She grinned and shuffled the
sheet music, quietly enjoying every moment of his nervous discomfort. ‘And it is starting to sound better – well, marginally, but still better. A bit more practice on those chords and
we’ll be fine.’

‘I’m going to look a right prat in front of the whole town, you do realise that, don’t you?’

‘I could be wrong, Dr Jones, but isn’t that exactly what we’re banking on? We put ourselves out there, take a chance, humanise The Practice . . .’

‘We get laughs and support and everyone claps us on the back. Hooray, The Practice is saved and we all go home for tea and medals?’ finished Taffy for her tiredly, making no effort
to disguise the scepticism in his voice.

Holly flinched, as if Taffy had slapped her. ‘Well, you don’t have to join in, you know.’ She busied herself with the music stand which seemed to have gained a life of its own
and kept collapsing, until it gave one last shudder and trapped Holly’s fingers in its mechanism. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, glad of an excuse to cry.

Glad of the opportunity to be upset for a normal, logical reason, rather than the bubble of hurt that had blocked her throat at Taffy’s dismissal of her plan. Anger tussled with the upset;
after all, it wasn’t as though anyone else had been forthcoming with any genius suggestions, was it?

She bit down hard on her bottom lip, as she extricated her bleeding finger from the metal, furious with herself as a small sob escaped her lips.

‘Here, let me see,’ said Taffy quietly, reaching for her hand. He cradled her fingers in his, gently bending and flexing them. ‘All in one piece. No broken bones. Let’s
get that cleaned up, though.’ Deftly and carefully, he cleaned the broken skin and, rummaging in the freezer, turned out a bag of sorry-looking peas that had clearly served this very purpose
once or twice before.

Holly hiccupped rather pathetically, pulling herself together repeatedly, only to be undermined at every turn by Taffy’s attentiveness. She hated crying, but for some reason, she simply
couldn’t stop herself (she was not an attractive genteel crier like in the movies either; if she wasn’t careful there would be full-blown snot bubbles to contend with, and that was
hardly a winning proposition).

‘Cheer up, chicken,’ he said, after the third little sob slipped out, ‘you’ve got a few fingers left over and it’s not like you need them to play the guitar or
anything, is it? You’ve got Muggins here for that. I’m not going anywhere, so you can relax. I’ll be your Sonny, if you’ll be my Cher.’

‘Who?’ managed Holly, bemused as ever by Taffy’s random musical references. ‘Isn’t that the old lady who’s always wearing a leotard?’

‘Sacrilege, Graham! She’s won more awards than you’ve had hot dinners . . . She’s a legend in her own lunchtime! Most famous musical partnership of all time? Tch, well,
as long as we don’t end up like John and Yoko. Oh dear God, woman, don’t look at me blankly like that . . . Lennon, Yoko Ono? Split up The Beatles?’

Taffy’s look of intense frustration was too much for Holly and she couldn’t maintain the façade any longer. She pressed her unwounded hand to her chest to stop the giggles
hurting so much. ‘Your face . . .’ she managed, before another peal of laughter overtook her.

‘You know what, Taff, sod this, it’s a beautiful day: can we get out of here for a bit? Find somewhere outside to practise?’

Taffy stood up, Holly’s old guitar slung across his body and his hair falling in his eyes. Holly had to resist the urge to brush it away. Credit where credit was due – you may have
been able to feel the attraction between them from across the room, but Taffy had respectfully kept his distance. That first rehearsal, he’d leaned in just a little too close as Holly showed
him the correct finger positions, and Holly had snapped, ‘Oi, no funny business, Jones!’ and he’d stuck to that arrangement. To be fair, she’d slightly regretted saying it,
but it was still absolutely the right thing to do.

‘Come on then, my little diva, let’s go find a bench in the park and we can frighten the birds.’ Holding open the door to the car park, Holly was overwhelmed by the warm sweet
scent of the burgeoning wisteria that covered the front of the building. The lazy buzzing of the bees made her want to lie on a bench and switch off from it all.

As they made their way through to the Market Place and the park beyond, Holly could all too easily imagine herself and Taffy on a bench, like the end of
Notting Hill
, with the twins
running around them and another one on the way . . .

She jolted suddenly. ‘Get a grip,’ she muttered furiously to herself.

‘It’s alright, I’ve got it,’ Taffy responded, misunderstanding and tapping her guitar.

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean . . .’ Holly spluttered, all the while thinking, yeah, really attractive Holly. Maybe she should take a blood test, get her hormones checked? This was
getting silly. She tripped over her toes a little as the ground began to slope upwards and Taffy steadied her.

‘You have to be the clumsiest grown-up I have ever met,’ he said with a grin.

Holly grimaced. ‘It’s a family trait. My dad was too and they let him carry a fire-arm!’

‘To be honest, I was a little concerned when I first saw you doing stitches, but then I hadn’t realised you were so good at embroidery.’

‘Well, it’s always the way, isn’t it? You end up working harder and longer on the things you can’t do.’

Taffy was suddenly silent beside her.

‘Did I touch a nerve?’ she asked gently.

‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘with me it’s relationships. Some would say that I’ve been out with so many girls because I hadn’t met the right one.’

‘Some might,’ Holly conceded. ‘Or some might say that you’re young and attractive and single and why shouldn’t you?’

‘Is that what you think?’ Taffy asked, stopping in his tracks and fixing her in his gaze.

‘I don’t know what I think about anything at the moment,’ Holly answered honestly. ‘These last few weeks, it’s as though everything I thought I knew . . . well,
maybe I got it wrong? And Elsie’s helping me to look at things in a different way . . .’

Taffy stepped forward and closed the distance between them. He looked down at her, not touching, just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body.