Eighty Days Yellow by Vina Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

swimming and running, and weight training alone at the gym, to keep my arms in shape for long stretches of instrument-holding.
    Finally I managed to collect all of my takings, bundle the broken pieces of the violin into the case and escape the watchful glare of the London transport officers.
    I hadn’t gathered more than ten pounds in coins from the passing commuters before the louts had broken my violin. It had been a month since the mysterious passer-by had dropped the fifty into my case. I still had the note, tucked safely inside my underwear drawer, although God knows how desperately I needed to spend it. I had increased my hours at the restaurant I worked at part-time, but hadn’t had a paid gig for a few weeks, and despite subsisting on cafe food and Pot Noodles, I’d had to dip into my savings to cover last month’s rent.
    I had seen Darren only once since we fought over the Vivaldi record, and I’d explained to him, badly probably, that things weren’t working out for me and I needed a break from our relationship to concentrate on my music.
    ‘You’re breaking up with me to be with a violin?’
    Darren had looked incredulous. He was well-off, good-looking and of baby-making age; no one had ever broken up with him.
    ‘Just taking a break.’
    I’d stared at the gleaming leg of one of his stainless-steel designer bar stools. I couldn’t look him in the eye.
    ‘No one just takes a break, Summer. Are you seeing someone else? Chris? From the band?’
    He’d taken one of my hands in his. ‘God, your palms are cold,’ he’d said.
    I’d looked down at my fingers. My hands have always been my favourite part of me. My fingers are pale, long and very slender, piano-playing hands, as my mother says.
    I’d felt a sudden rush of affection for Darren and turned to him, running my hand through his thick hair, tugging a little on his locks.
    ‘Ow,’ he’d said, ‘don’t do that.’
    He’d leaned forward and kissed me. His lips were dry, his touch tentative. He made no move to pull me towards him. His mouth tasted like tea. I’d immediately felt ill.
    I’d pushed him away and stood up, preparing to pick up my violin case and my bag with some spare underwear, a toothbrush, the few things that I kept in a drawer at his flat.
    ‘What, you’re turning down sex?’ Darren had sneered.
    ‘I don’t feel well,’ I’d said.
    ‘So, for the first time in her life, Miss Summer Zahova has a headache.’
    He was standing now and placing his hands on his hips, like a mother berating a petulant child.
    I’d picked up my bag and my case, turned on my heel and left. I was wearing his least favourite ensemble: red Converse ankle boots, denim shorts over opaque stockings and a skull T-shirt, and as I’d pushed open his front door, I’d felt more like myself than I had in months, as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders.
    ‘Summer . . .’ He’d run after me and grabbed my arm as I stepped through the door, spinning me round to face him. ‘I’ll call you, OK?’ he’d said.
    ‘Fine.’ I’d walked away without turning, imagining that he was watching my back disappear down the stairs. I heard the door click on the lock just as I turned the corner to the next flight of steps, out of his sight.
    He’d called me regularly since then, at first every night and then dying away to twice or thrice weekly as I ignored all of his messages. Twice he’d called me at 3 a.m., drunk, and left slurred messages on my voicemail.
    ‘I miss you, babe.’
    He had never called me ‘babe’ – in fact, he professed to hate the word – and I began to wonder whether I had ever really known him at all.
    For certain, I wouldn’t be calling Darren now, though I knew that he would jump at the chance to buy me a new violin. He had hated my old one, thought it looked shoddy and was not suitable for a classical violinist. He also hated my busking, considered it beneath me, though I knew that for the most part he worried about my safety.