Sunrise By the Sea by Jenny Colgan

Chapter Forty-six

Marisa was incredibly nervous grasping the big heavy earthenware pot and going down one set of steps and up another. The road was still muddy, even after two days of sunny weather had dried out most things. But she knew she was so, so lucky to live up high. She’d been texting Polly about possibly getting together to discuss her idea, but the bakery didn’t even have a door yet. Still, thought Marisa, Polly would obviously be fine. She was one of the most capable people Marisa had ever met. Polly would have been amazed at how many people who met her came to that conclusion.

Out of the sun the air was still chilly, and Marisa was glad Polly had let her keep the scarlet hoody. The wind blew a little colour into her cheeks – already pink with nerves – and she took a deep breath, abruptly instructed herself to get out of her own way – and rapped at the door.

The door was flung open in consternation by Alexei who looked worried, as if he’d forgotten a lesson – then incredibly surprised to see her there. He didn’t move, just stared at her, his brown eyes blinking slowly in confusion.

‘Um, hi?’ said Marisa. She offered up the dish. ‘I . . . I have . . . I mean. Did you have plans?’

Alexei shook his head.

‘I haff no plans,’ he said. He still looked puzzled. ‘Balcony is shut?’

‘Oh,’ said Marisa. ‘No. I thought . . . I thought if you like . . .’

She swallowed painfully. The stupid part of her brain, the stupid blushing part, still wanted her to turn around and run away, just toss the heavy dish in the air and get back to safety.

‘I wanted to say thank you for what you did at the hospital. And perhaps you would like to eat . . . together?’

‘Oh!’ His face still looked puzzled. ‘Of . . . of course . . . come in . . .’

And he stood back from where he was blocking the doorway.

His house, despite being identical to her own, except blue instead of yellow, could not have been more different.

Whereas she had added very little, keeping everything pristine and exactly more or less as she’d moved in to it, here something very different was happening.

The neat little table and chairs had been moved to accommodate the piano, which she noticed was actually against the far wall; as far away from her house as it could possibly be. The table itself was piled high with sheet music, and with empty sheets of music paper, the five staves drawn. Marisa wanted to look at it; as a stationery nerd it appealed to her, and she could have written beautifully on it.

The sofa was covered in intricate throws, and there were plants everywhere; hanging and jutting out. A music stand stood tall, and next to it a clarinet, which she’d never even heard. Pictures hung on the walls and books were piled up and jammed on every available surface, in Russian, French, different languages. It didn’t look like it would leave him a lot of room to get around. Finally, as he had promised, in the kitchen was lined up an entire bar’s worth full of the oddest liqueurs and spirits Marisa had ever seen.

‘You weren’t kidding about the bar,’ she said eventually.

‘Why would I kiddink?’ he said a little defensively.

‘No reason,’ she said. ‘Is your oven on?’

He looked at her. ‘I have magic oven?’

‘No, obviously not I just wondered . . . if you turn it on I could heat up supper.’

‘Okay,’ he said. Then he stood for a long time in front of the oven.

‘What have you been eating?’ said Marisa crossly, coming up behind him and setting the temperature on the exact mirror image of her own cooker.

‘Polly is very good to me. And the fish and chips are good.’

‘You can’t eat fish and chips every day.’

‘Life is very sad,’ said Alexei. He turned back to the drinks trolley. ‘So! What would you like?’

‘What are you having?’

‘You are surprise guest.’

‘Okay, what would you normally have?’

Alexei narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, I would put some vodka in a cup.’

‘Yes?’

‘And . . .’

He shrugged.

‘That’s what you have?’

‘I am Russian.’

‘Okay,’ said Marisa. ‘Okay, I really don’t want that. Do you have any red wine?’

He did, and she brought it near the oven to warm it up a little and stirred some into the sauce. It was very quiet in the house. She looked at him and wondered why, and then she suddenly realised.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she exclaimed suddenly, before she could even think. ‘It’s so quiet in your house compared to mine!’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not living next door to you!’

He smiled, pushing his thick hair away from his face. He would need another haircut soon, and looked rather wistfully towards his piano.

‘How did you become a piano teacher?’ she asked. She decided the best thing to do was just to dish up and serve as if she was in her own house; she knew where everything was and Alexei didn’t seem helpless so much as completely and utterly disinterested. The bowls hadn’t even been moved, had never been used and she had to rinse them. She made up a salad, lifting up the untouched salad servers.

‘You don’t eat enough salad.’

‘No,’ he said, looking gloomy. ‘You sound like my mother. But I eat many, many bananas..’

Marisa smiled. ‘I’ll let you off then,’ she said, tossing the light herby salad with a little dressing she had brought over, using some of her precious balsamic vinegar as she did so.

‘Sit down,’ she said. He had to clear a space piled high with pictures and books and music on the table and she wiped it down.

‘How did you move in with so much stuff?’ she asked, looking around.

‘I know,’ he said sadly. ‘I had to leave so much behind. No drums. No cello.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘But I have friends . . .’

He sighed and looked sad suddenly.

‘I had friends.’

She placed the food in front of them and poured large glasses of the wine that, warmed and decanted, had grown full and sweet.

‘So how did you end up here?’ she said.

‘Is long and boring story,’ said Alexei dismissively.

‘Not to me,’ said Marisa. ‘Nobody ever tells me stories any more. Everyone’s forgotten about me, here at the end of the world.’

She didn’t mean to sound self-pitying, but somehow she did. He looked at her, those narrow brown eyes penetrating and clear. It was very odd: for someone who barely spoke the same language as her, she found him incredibly easy to read. She could see in those expressive eyes, with their long lashes, the exact way in which he turned over her question, looking for nuance, deciding within himself whether he was going to speak and how. He did it with everything. At first she had thought he was dopey or simply didn’t understand. Now she realised what a rare gift it was: to think before speaking.

‘Well,’ he said.