A worker moved past me, collecting empty glasses, and I pulled her aside, nodding to the stage.

“Does he play here often?” I asked.

She glanced at King, then back to me. “Not often. He performs in different places around the city. A couple of weeks ago he showed up at a bar in Soho and asked the manager if he could play. The place was quiet, so the manager said yes. He’s been gaining a following ever since, but he never announces a gig, just shows up randomly, and people spread the word.”

“Oh,” I said, absorbing her answer, skin tingling at the idea of King just randomly playing piano for people wherever and whenever it took his fancy.

“What’s his name?” I asked just before she turned to leave.

“They call him Oliver,” she answered.

“Just Oliver?”

“Yeah, just Oliver.”

And then she was gone and I was looking back at King, everything about him holding me captive. The fact that he kept his eyes closed most of the time and never really looked at anyone in the audience meant he didn’t see me there. Still, I made sure to stand behind a couple of other people just in case. For a second I thought of waiting around until the end, pouncing on him, and declaring I’d discovered his secret. But no, that wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted him to go on playing, to keep doing what made him and the people he managed to touch with his music happy. I’d never be the one who turned what he loved into something that required praise, something that had once destroyed him.

So, when he finished his final song of the night, I inhaled a deep breath, savoured the moment, and soaked in the reactions of those around me, the catharsis they felt from the emotions portrayed in his wordless song. Then I turned and left the bar.

***

A couple of days later, I found myself waking Oliver up on a Monday morning and getting him ready for his first day of school. I had his uniform all set out: a white shirt, grey tie, navy jumper with the school crest, and grey slacks. I swear he looked so handsome, tiny yet grown at the same time, and I felt like crying.

I bet all mothers cried on their kid’s first day of school. It was programmed into our DNA. Oliver was full of questions and enthusiasm. He’d been gearing himself up for this for a year. Often we’d drive by the school and he’d see the kids, and I’d tell him that’s where he’d be going soon. I marvelled at how he never acted frightened or apprehensive. No, his eyes lit up at the prospect of something new.

King was sitting in the kitchen, eating a slice of toast, when I came down with Oliver, all clad in his new uniform.

“Daddy! Look at me, don’t I look handsome?” he said, and King turned to take him in. Unlike me, he didn’t get-teary eyed. No, his lips twitched in amusement.

“You’re looking very dapper indeed, little man,” he said, shooting me a smile.

“What’s dapper?” Oliver questioned.

“Your daddy’s being fancy again. He always tries to be fancy,” I teased. “And it means you look sharp. Sharp and handsome.”

He seemed pleased with my answer, and King went about getting him some breakfast. Once it was time to go, all three of us left the house to walk him to school. It was only ten minutes away, and it was a sunny morning, so we decided to forgo the car. I held one of Oliver’s hands and King held the other. All the while, our son strolled along between us, chatting away about how he was going to make friends with everyone and how he was going to play hopscotch in the yard during his break.

I glanced at King at one point to see him smiling down at Oliver, affection and love in eyes as he listened to his every word. Then, too soon almost, we were at the school, and the teacher was waiting outside as the children gathered.

“There’s Timothy,” Oliver shouted, spotting his friend. “I’m going over.” Before he could run off, I pulled him back and knelt down, looking him in the eye and fixing his tie. There was something about how small it was that made me feel like welling up again. King noticed my ridiculously emotional expression and took over, bending down to give Oliver a hug.

“You be good today, son. Your mum and I will be back later to collect you.”

And with that he was gone, running excitedly to his friend, his little blue rucksack on his back. All around me, parents said goodbye to their kids, and there was a lot of crying going on. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out at the prospect of being separated from her mum, and it kind of broke my heart. In a way, I wished Oliver had been more like her, more upset, because that way I’d feel like less of a wuss.

King and I stood side by side, watching Oliver as he got in line with the other kids. “I hope you don’t think me a soppy fool after this, but when we go home, I might get back into bed and be weird for a while. And by that I mean I might get back into bed and have a good cry.”

King slid his hand into mine, a quiet show of affection, as he cocked his head to me and smiled. “Don’t you have to be at the office in an hour?”

“Stop effing with my plans, Mr King,” I snipped, but there was humour in my voice.

“You know, you haven’t referred to me as Mr King since you were my employee,” he teased. “Want to take the morning off? Maybe go home and get into bed for a different reason? Do some role-playing perhaps?”

I shoved him in the shoulder and scowled. “Don’t be a cad.”

He bent and whispered in my ear, “Aw, but you love it so much.” His voice gave me tingles, and I closed my eyes for a second to push the images of our sex life from my mind. This clearly wasn’t the time.