Upright Piano Player by David Abbott

not told him why she had left Henry Cage & Partners, but yesterday she had said in reply to his repeated inquiry, “I’m not working this Sunday—buy me lunch and I’ll tell you.”
    When he got to the brasserie, the nonsmoking section was full. He had to sit among the puffers and coughers in the back room. He was irritated that Maude would not be serving him.He had hoped to talk to her about Sunday lunch. She had seen him and indicated that she would come over later. He ordered his usual decaffeinated black coffee and plain croissant (no butter, no jam) and opened his book.
    On Sunday he dressed carefully, several times. He was increasingly disheartened by the images thrown back by the wardrobe mirror. In a sports jacket and tie he felt stuffy and saw himself sitting across from Maude like an uncle up from the country. In a suit, he was her bank manager. He took off his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. It was more casual, but when he lowered his chin a vertical fold of skin appeared. His head seemed to be perched on the neck of a turkey. Finally, he settled for a polo-necked sweater and a pair of cords. What did it matter? It wasn’t exactly a date. Or was it?
    He had arranged to meet her at the restaurant, a small Italian place where they knew him well. She had declined his offer to pick her up at her flat.
    “Believe me, you don’t want to see me on Sunday mornings until you have to. I’ll be at the restaurant at 1:30.”
    Henry arrived early to make sure they had given him the table he wanted. It was at the rear of the room by two windows that overlooked a courtyard garden. He asked the waiter to change one of the place settings so that when Maude arrived they would both be looking into the room. He was never comfortable with his back to the action and avoided restaurants that could not offer him a round table and reasonable privacy. He opened his book. He was rereading
A Game of Hide and Seek
by Elizabeth Taylor, a particularly English love story, he had always thought, and one of the best. He looked at his watch—good, he had fifteen minutes before she was due.
    And that was how Maude saw him from the door. Head bowed, deep in his book. She noticed the long arch of his back, his shoulders frail without a jacket. It was the first time she had really looked at him.
    “Hello, I see you’ve brought some insurance against a boring lunch.”
    He stood up and held her chair.
    “It was only insurance against a boring wait.”
    When the menus came, Maude was decisive: gnocchi to start with, followed by lamb. She accepted with enthusiasm the offer of potatoes and spinach. Henry was amused. For years at business lunches he had sat opposite ladies who had ordered grilled vegetables with monkfish—and an espresso, thank you.
    “You remind me of my ex-wife,” he said.
    “Is that good?”
    “She loved gnocchi—all Italian food.”
    “Did she like it here?”
    Henry realized that he had been tactless.
    “No, this place wasn’t here when we were together.”
    He was back in the lift again, metaphorically staring at his shoes, unable to think of anything else to say. He had steered the conversation into a cul-de-sac.
    They were rescued by the arrival of a platter of
carta da musica
—crisp, paper-thin sheets of unleavened bread, seasoned with rosemary and olive oil.
    “This is special. The chef is from Sardinia and … well, you’ll see … it’s completely addictive.”
    The awkwardness passed and over the next two hours they began the age-old journey from attraction to involvement. Itis always a passage fueled by confession. He talked of Nessa and the divorce, she of the man with the socks.
    When it was time to go she invited him back to her flat. Inside the building she had kissed him—encouragement, she said, to climb the five floors to the attic. Once there, she led him by the hand into her bedroom. He was breathless from the stairs and hesitated at the door. She sat on the bed and lifted her