"Well You Needn’t"

Unwarranted Attention

The most romantic season of the year. As I stroll to work I pass shops selling roses and heart-shaped chocolates. I wonder how Valentines Day will look at the hotel. Who will have company? Who will continue to sit alone, acknowledging nothing? It would be a strange evening for me, accompanying romantic dinners here and solitary binges there. But most of all, some distinctly uncomfortable encounters with older women would make my face turn as red as the roses I had seen in shop windows en route to the hotel.

Sitting at the piano, I play a few romantic songs to serenade the many couples out for dinner, exchanging gifts and staring into each other’s eyes. Timeless songs like The Way You Look Tonight and My Funny Valentine go down well, prompting knowing smiles. However, I avoid the temptation to play Let’s Get It On, which is perhaps a little too far. At moments like this, I feel immensely powerful, knowing that the atmosphere in the room is completely at my mercy; the human jukebox can spoil the atmosphere at any moment, launching into anything that might spoil the mood. Hit The Road Jack by Ray Charles? I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace? Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit…? I resist the overwhelming temptation with all of these (in all honesty, I can only actually play one of them) and continue to play appropriate music; after all, I am being paid to do this.

Looking around the room, I see a middle-aged woman, sitting on the sofa by the piano, gently conducting with her glass of wine. She is a regular guest, always alone and always in seemingly deep thought; one of the many lonely people whose background I can only make guesses at. She smiles up at the piano as I play. ‘Can you do something old?’ she asks, in a delicate English accent. After some clarification we establish that she means George Gershwin, so I break into ‘They Can’t Take That Away From Me’. Suddenly animated, she leaps up and leans on the piano in a seductive manner which alarms me a little.

‘Will they mind if I stand here?’ She asks. ‘I’ve been kicked out of so many bars, you see!’

I wonder why, and my face evidently betrays a growing anxiety about what may be in store, as she goes on to defend herself.

‘What? If somebody’s talking shit, why can't I pour wine over their head?’

Suddenly, I’m concentrating very hard on my piano solo – a trusty technique at awkward moments such as this. Before she has a chance to say anything else, I cut her off and begin singing another verse. I can feel her eyes on me, but refuse to meet them, continuing to smile out at others in the room. Among them are the giggling bar staff who refuse to come to my aid.

As I finish playing, I catch her eye. She is still staring, chin propped up on her fist as she leans over the piano keys. As the last chord rings out, she utters a word I hoped never to hear from somebody my mother’s age:

‘Yummy…’

My heart skips a few beats and I feel the blood rush to my reddening face. I quickly excuse myself and take an early break. Defeated, she returns to the sofa, stumbling as she does so. Her Valentine’s Day continues alone.

Returning to the piano after an interlude slumped at the bar chatting to the staff, I see that a new group of people has arrived, now sitting at the table a few meters from the piano. The party is formed of two blondes, probably in their early forties, and two dark-haired men in suits. The women are loud, excitable and evidently a source of embarrassment to their partners, who sit quietly; it appears they do not to get on particularly well, but are obliged to spend time together as they accompany the “girls’ night out” that I find myself providing the music for.

Champagne is opened and the women scream with delight, eliciting raised eyebrows from the men. Glasses clink and the alcohol is swallowed with a speed that concerns me; this is the first step towards an overconfident attitude which will inevitably turn attention on the resident pianist later in the night.

Sure enough, by the time I am ready to slip off for my next break, the stalkers have found their prey. They approach the piano and, slurring their speech, pay me some flattering compliments. I smile and thank them before looking back down at the keys to remind myself of where I am in the song. Glancing back up, I see that the more confident one is stumbling around the table and into the narrow space behind the piano. She barges me gently with her bum and before I know it we are sharing the piano stool. The bar staff look concerned, their faces filled with panic – this is not the image the hotel wants – but their expressions soon turn to amusement as they realise the level of embarrassment I am feeling. Heads have been turned and we are the centre of half the bar’s attention.

“Can you do a song for me, darling?” She whispers gently, lips pressed against my earlobe.

“Erm… yeah… if I know it, that is…”

“Ah you gotta do it… You know that song… ‘Happy Birthday To Me’ by Hank Locklin?”

She looks at me with puppy eyes and waits to hear my response. It pains me to tell her that I don’t know it… partly because it is always disappointing not to fulfill a request, but also because I sense that she will persist nonetheless.

“No, no you have to sing it.”

“…but I don’t know it…”

“Look, you see my friend over there – it’s her dad’s birthday today. And he’s dead. You need to sing this song, it was his favourite.”

Before I can recover from my initial alarm at this emotional blackmail, she starts singing the song in my ear, in a full chest voice, complete with a wobbly vibrato. Her singing line clashes painfully with the song I’m playing, which is in another key entirely. Heads turn from every direction, and I ask her politely to stop. Most of the customers can see my facial expressions, and look on with sympathy and amusement.

“Can I have the microphone then? I’ll sing it, you play.”

I met the pianist at the Savoy Hotel once, and he told me about a time when a young woman, staying at the hotel, asked to perform some songs with him. Despite the fact this dazzling performer went by the name of Amy Winehouse and had recently released the phenomenal album Back to Black, the bar staff had shooed her off, telling her that no matter who she was, this was not a karaoke bar. Given this, I say, it is unlikely the bar staff here will bend the rules now. Eventually, she is asked to sit down, and cheers erupt as I pick up where I left off and continue singing without distractions. I soon take a break, and go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

The rest of the evening passes with few events. The group next to me continue to open bottle after bottle of champagne, the men showing no signs of excitement while the women increasingly run the danger of being thrown out. Meanwhile, others come and go; old couples who sit in silence, new couples entwined and deeply in love, and the usual escorts, providing company for the loneliest of people on this romantic day.

Following the final song and some scattered applause, I pack up my things and make my way towards the door to catch the last tube. As I leave, I catch sight of the middle-aged woman, still on the sofa with a new bottle of wine freshly opened.  As I leave, she follows me out with her eyes.

I really need to catch that tube, as quickly as possible.