He laughs. ‘Give me five minutes to have a shower, yeah? Make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee on the counter.’

Sure enough, there’s a glass French press standing on the huge marble island. I shamelessly watch his arse as he skips lightly back upstairs. As soon as he’s gone, I move over to the grand piano as if bewitched. Coffee has nothing on the allure of this baby.

Holy shit, it’s a Steinway, and it’s their Model D—their concert grand piano—in the glossiest black. If it’s not tuned I think I might cry, and I’ll definitely never be able to speak to Brendan again.

Gingerly, I take a seat and lift the lid, letting my fingers brush over the keys before I attempt a couple of chords.

It’s tuned. Holy hell, is it tuned. I’ve died and gone to heaven, it seems. I hope Brendan doesn’t have much work for me today, because he’ll have to physically tear me away from this thing.

I let my eyes flutter closed, and I play Bach’s beautiful prelude from The Well-Tempered Clavier, the one to which Charles Gounod set his Ave Maria. It’s one of my all-time favourite pieces of music.

I may not have had my hands on a piano for a few years, but this is less muscle memory than a melody scored deep into my DNA. It’s who I am. My aura is probably made up of musical notes instead of colours. My love of music is at the very essence of me, yet it’s been subjugated so much these past few years since graduating. It’s been squashed down in favour of other, more important passions like keeping my daughter alive. But it’s never far from the surface, and there’s nothing like a Steinway and an empty room the size of a concert hall to coax it out, to allow it to stream from me.

Eyes still closed, I begin to sing.

CHAPTER 32

Brendan

My shower is quick and perfunctory. I crank off the torrent of water and towel myself down impatiently before moving through to the dressing room that sits between my bathroom and bedroom. I find any sort of self-processing, from showering to brushing my teeth, boring as hell and a total waste of time.

I’m pulling a t-shirt on over my still-damp torso when I hear it.

To call it merely singing would be like calling Mark just a dog. It’s soaring and operatic and spectacular, and it’s accompanied by my piano. Unless Katherine Jenkins has surreptitiously entered my home while I was in the shower and set up camp, this sensory heaven must be my assistant singing.