Headstrong (A Benedict Cumberbatch Story)

Chapter 11

I eventually managed to drag myself into work again, and got a few sympathetic nods as I went through to my office. My brother got around a lot, quite a few of his dates were my colleagues, so they knew my situation.

My in-tray was overflowing. By lunchtime I was half-way through sorting it, when I was beeped.
"Maria, he wants to see you." said the boss's secretary over the phone.

"Come in." he said before I'd even finished knocking.

The boss put down his mug of coffee and Marks & Spencers sandwich and smiled, motioning for me to sit down.

"How've you been? I assume you're fully recovered from your week-long illness if you're back at work." he said kindly, and I explained about moving in with my brother as well; he was very understanding.

"Well, anything you need just come and let me know."
I was about to edge back to my office when he came out with something I did NOT expect.

"Also, Maria, there are a whole load packages for you in Deliveries on level 2."
I froze. It couldn't be. They couldn't be from him.

I thanked the boss and hurried to the lift, down to Deliveries. Roy at the desk checked the records and unlocked the storage cupboard for me. Inside, were 5 unmistakably shapen packages. I hauled them all out to a taxi and went home. Antonio's cleaner was dusting the front step, so I whistled to her and she whipped round. I lifted each guitar over the little gate into the garden, asked her to put them in my room and grab me a salad from the fridge. She scurried off, came back with my lunch which I thanked her for, then leapt back into the taxi back to the office. Glancing back, I could see she was dragging the first 2 guitars into the house. Good. I would look at them tonight.

I hurried through the rest of my in-tray, took notes in a meeting and then took a train home. The silence in the carriage was extraordinary; everyone listening to music or reading or sleeping. No conversations, no hearty laughs, nothing. I still wasn't used to the way people are expected to travel during London rush hour.

Darting through the doors and onto the platform, I ended up crashing into someone, and their papers flew everywhere, across the tracks where the train had just been.
"Oh crap, I missed my train!" the man exclaimed.

I scooped up as many of his papers as I could and held them out to him, getting a proper look at him. Olive tone skin, tall with dark, curly hair and intense eyes that were now staring into mine. Wow. I took a ragged breath as he took the papers from me.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, too many thoughts going through my head at the same time." I apologised, and he accepted it graciously,
"I wasn't completely focused either. London's crazy at this part of the working day." he smiled, and the dimple that appeared in one of his cheeks made me light up. Any downer I might have been on disappeared. We sat down on a platform bench; with his next train due in half an hour, I offered him a honey roasted cashew and he showed me his designs (that were on the papers that went everywhere).

When his train did arrive, he waved as the doors closed, and I waved back.

I skipped along the 10 minute stretch of road home - well, I have to call Antonio's home mine now, got nowhere else - threw on a thick wool jumper for the cold December night and sat down with the cat.

Only to leap back up again at the memory of the 5 packages left for me.

Racing to my room, I scooped up a pair of scissors and tore through the brown cardboard like it was tissue paper. I abandoned the bubble wrap, though it would make an appearance later on one of my bored lazy days, and stared. Just stared.

A sleek black Fender Telecaster with a 2 tiny silver roses engraved on the back of the neck, a mock-battered Yamaha acoustic covered in Pink Lady Apple stickers and old postage stamps, a deep wine red Gibson SG with my name on the whammy bar, a cream Fender Stratocaster with a plaque on the back reading:
"Merry Christmas, B x"
And last but by no means least, the very same guitar he was playing the first night in the pub. Ibanez electro-acoustic, with Neil Finn's autograph scrawled on it in Sharpie. But now it had another line of handwriting:
"To Maria"
There was a note amongst the bubble wrap for this instrument. "My advice, say yes. Regards, Neil."

I sat on the floor, utterly bewildered. How did he have the money for this? When did he have the time to meet Neil Finn? What should I say yes to?

I ordered guitar stands and an amp online. I booked a guitar lesson. And I went to bed.