The House at the End of Hope Street Read online

  “Yes?” Her supervisor’s voice was impatient.

  Alba poked her head around the door before stepping inside. Dr. Skinner sat behind an enormous wooden desk in the corner. A twitchy student sat on the sofa across the room.

  “Sorry,” Alba said quickly, “sorry to interrupt, it’s just I’ve found something, something incredible, and it changes everything.”

  “Is this about the paper?”

  Alba nodded.

  “All right then, bugger off, Henry,” Dr. Skinner snapped at the student. “Come back next week when you’ve got something decent to show me.”

  As the student scampered out, Alba walked slowly across the room, eager to tell everything but wanting to prolong the glory a moment longer.

  “So.” Dr. Skinner leaned across the desk, eyes shining. “What have you got?”

  Alba looked into the deep brown eyes, pretending for a second they were shining with delight at seeing her. “Five hundred letters to the Daily Telegraph in 1888, from people all over Britain, in answer to a question posed by Mona Caird: ‘Is Marriage Dead?’”

  “But—”

  “No, no one’s written about them yet, I searched every database. Nothing. And it gets better.” Alba grinned. “Only five hundred letters were published, but twenty-seven thousand people wrote in. The population stood at twenty-eight point one million in 1891, so—”

  “One percent of the whole population.”

  “Almost exactly, yes.”

  “Well, that’s bloody incredible. It’s the best source material for our paper so far.” Dr. Skinner gave her a rare and brilliant smile and, reaching across the desk, squeezed Alba’s hand. For a second of unrestrained joy, Alba thought she might be about to have her first kiss. But then the smile shifted. “How are we going to sift through all this in time? We need to submit at the end of next month to stand a chance of summer publication. I’ve got that Harvard conference to prepare for, you’ve got your MPhil research—”

  “It’s okay, I can do it,” Alba said quickly. “My research can wait. We can’t risk anyone else getting this.”

  “Wonderful.” Dr. Skinner smiled. “And when I’m done with all this, then I’ll help you with the write-up.”

  Alba glanced down at their fingers entwined on the desk. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to. I’ll finish in time. You can look it over when you’re back and we can publish it together.”

  “My dear,” Dr. Skinner said, kissing her hand, “you are amazing, in every way.”

  And it took every ounce of willpower Alba had not to faint on the spot.

  Shaking free of the memory, Alba brings herself back to the task in hand: finding her father. She is sitting on her bed writing a list:

  Find out if he still lives on Inverie.

  Go to Inverie.

  His surname?

  Call every family on the island, try to find him.

  Ask Ed if he knows anything, i.e. where/who he is.

  Check my birth certificate.

  Hire a private detective?

  If all else fails, go to Inverie.

  Every now and then she stops, bites the tip of her pen and glances up at the bookshelves, at the infinite and ever-expanding rows of books. She wonders which ones her biological father has read. Does he like the same books as she does? What else might they have in common? Alba wants to fall asleep, so she can see her mother and quiz her about Albert. But she knows it’d be no good—she never remembers their conversations. Still, the comfort of holding Elizabeth’s hand, even in dreams, would be better than nothing.

  In addition to writing the list, Alba’s been re-reading the same letter over and over again for the last three hours, tracing her finger along the curves of the inky letters. It was the last letter, dated nearly eleven years after the first. She folds it up again and speaks the sentences softly, by heart…

  DOVE COTTAGE, INVERIE,

  SUNDAY, 31ST OCTOBER, 1999

  My dearest Liz,

  I love you. There, I’ve said it again. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know I promised never to write. But I had a dream last night—I won’t explain, in case this letter is found, but you see the date, so you’ll guess—and I needed you to be able to contact me, just in case. I need you to know where I am. If you want to find me, I’m here. I’ll wait for you. I won’t leave. And don’t worry about me wasting my life waiting. I love you, there is nothing else for me to do.

  I hope it all worked, I like to imagine you happy. And I’m happy here, whenever I think of you. I look up at the stars at night, when you might be doing the same, or the sunset—I remember how you always loved all those colors—and I imagine you next to me. I talk to you. We have wonderful conversations and hardly ever argue. On your birthday I read our favorite book aloud, from beginning to end. Perhaps you hear me. If not, I hope he reads to you, I remember how much you love to be read to.

  I know you won’t write back to me. Don’t worry, I don’t expect it. But I do hope you’ll keep the letter, hide it somewhere safe for one day, a maybe day, a just-in-case day… And if that day comes, I will be here, waiting for you.

  Forever, Albert

  He must have known about her, Alba thinks. The date, her seventh birthday, is surely too much of a coincidence? But perhaps it was something else: their anniversary, the day they met, kissed, or made love for the first time. How can she know for certain, unless she goes to Scotland to find him? But what if he doesn’t want to see her? Could she stand the rejection? After the betrayal of the unmentionable one, would her heart finally snap in half and never beat properly again? It’s possible.

  Alba’s thoughts are interrupted by a rapid staccato knocking on her bedroom door. She sits up. No one has knocked since she moved in, nearly six weeks ago. Then, with a sigh, she remembers. It’s tonight, the promised trip to The Archer. Now it’s too late to come up with excuses. Alba swears under her breath, jumps off the bed and dashes to the door, finding Carmen and Greer on the other side.

  “Oh,” Alba says, her heart sinking even lower, “is this a group outing?”

  “No.” Carmen smiles. “Greer’s just here to make you beautiful and dress you up.”

  Alba grimaces at the thought of what this might entail. “Is this really necessary?”

  “Don’t worry.” Greer takes her hand. “Wait until you see my wardrobe. By the time we’re done you’ll be a showstopper.”

  Alba suppresses a tiny scream. She can’t imagine anything worse.

  —

  Two hours later Alba and Carmen are clattering across the cobblestones in their heels. “We will be late,” Carmen says. “We must go faster.”

  “It’s okay, it’s only ten to eight.” Alba wobbles, feeling her left ankle nearly give way, wondering what the hell she’s doing. She’s never worn high heels before in her life and feels tall and exposed. For the first time, too, she’s wearing makeup: black mascara with heavily kohled eyes which, even Alba was surprised to see, give her a striking, sparkling blue stare. Her lips are highlighted in dark red, her skin powder-white with a little blush on her cheeks. A sapphire silk dress matches Alba’s eyes. Finished off with blue velvet shoes, the effect, much to Alba’s shock and embarrassment, is quite breathtaking.

  “Here we are.” Carmen slides to a stop on the pavement. A few moments later, Alba, heart beating fast, arrives at her side. She glances at the door, painted the color of her lips, before Carmen pushes it open and steps into the darkness.

  Alba is grateful for the candlelight. She can hardly see the faces of the people darting around her, flitting in and out of view like butterflies, and they can hardly see her. When they reach the bar Carmen turns to Alba. “What you want first? I will pay.”

  “Just a glass of water, please.”

  Carmen frowns.

  Alba shrugs. “I’m hot.”

  “What about win
e?”

  “I don’t drink,” Alba admits, feeling like a child. “I don’t really like the taste.”

  “Okay.” Carmen turns to the tall barman with big green eyes. “Red wine, please, Blake, and one water for my beautiful friend.”

  “My pleasure.” He flashes Alba a smile. “Anything else I can get you?”

  Alba shakes her head, unable, for a moment, to form words.

  “Well, I’m here all night, at your beck and call.” Blake puts down the drink, the glass slipping soundlessly across the marble countertop. Then, with a wink, he turns to serve another customer.

  Carmen swallows a mouthful of wine and smiles. “That’s my boss. He’s very cute, right?” she whispers into Alba’s ear. Alba shivers slightly at the rush of Carmen’s warm, boozy breath on her skin. Suddenly the room feels like a sauna. Her palms are slippery with sweat and she feels beads of condensation on her upper lip.

  “The singer must be out soon,” Carmen says, “she’s late but not long now.”

  Alba follows Carmen’s gaze, preparing words to explain she’s not ready for adventures involving bars and men who look like film stars. She is unwilling and unprepared. It is then that she sees them, at a table near the far end of the stage, their faces barely visible in the flickering candlelight. Dr. Skinner and a beautiful young student lean together, deep in conversation. A punch of pain winds Alba, she clutches the edge of the marble counter to stop herself from falling off the stool.

  Carmen follows Alba’s gaze. “Are you okay?”

  Alba shakes her head. She opens her mouth but no words come out.

  Carmen turns to her, now rather worried. “What’s wrong?”

  Alba shakes her head again. When Carmen reaches out and rests her long, delicate fingers gently on her new friend’s arm, Alba starts as violently as if Carmen’s bright red nails had just electrocuted her.

  “You are sick?” Carmen asks, quickly withdrawing the offending hand.

  “I—” Alba finds her voice in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”

  “But why? What’s happening, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “No, you must not…” But while the rest of the sentence is still in Carmen’s throat, Alba slips off her stool, throws one last withering glance in the direction of Dr. Skinner and the student and hurries, with as much dignity and finesse as she can muster, toward the exit.

  Outside, Alba can’t catch her breath. At the end of the street she stops running and leans against a wall, gasping until she thinks she’ll faint. A few people stare as they walk past and one asks if she needs help. Her lungs on the edge of explosion and her heart beating sixty times a second, Alba shakes her head and stumbles away, utterly mortified. As she makes her way back to Hope Street, she curses the fact that she let Carmen drag her along to the bar. She was just starting to recover from the whole Dr. Skinner debacle, her memories were fading, the sharpness of her pain softening. And now she has to start forgetting all over again.

  —

  Now alone with her wine, Carmen glances around the bar, wondering why Alba ran away. Between sips, she sneaks glances at Blake. If she hadn’t entirely sworn off men she’d gratefully succumb to his advances. But she has to be strong, no matter how stunning and seductive he is. Swiveling around on her stool, she looks at the empty stage, biting her lip. Carmen takes another sip of wine. It mixes with the taste of blood in her mouth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Back at Hope Street, Alba still can’t believe it. The first time she allows herself to be taken out, to go somewhere public, other than a library, something horrible has to happen. A dreadful coincidence, a frightful shock that she doesn’t deserve. This, she thinks, is why it’s best to stay indoors. There they were, in that silly posh bar—Dr. Skinner with another girl, another student. The former object of her adoration with her replacement: next year’s Alba, who has already got farther than she ever did: being taken to a public place, a social event. A month ago this was the holy grail to Alba, more important even than a kiss. She hadn’t rated physical intimacy high on the list of what she’d wanted with Dr. Skinner, having no experience of it; the practicalities scared her a little.

  Only once did Alba step outside King’s College with her teacher. Dr. Skinner had invited her to attend a two-day conference in London. They would go up on the train in the morning, stay overnight in a hotel, then return the following evening. Dr. Skinner would be presenting a paper on the first day and Alba would act as a sounding board and general assistant.

  They set out for London very early, sitting side by side on the train, and all Alba could think about was the closeness. She couldn’t focus on a single word of the speech Dr. Skinner was reading aloud, though the colors exploded around them like a fireworks display. When they finally reached the hotel, every inch of Alba’s skin was alive with electricity. She felt ready for anything.

  But as she stared at the door of room 236, Alba was suddenly petrified she might be faced with a double bed. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t cope with it. She was suddenly and absolutely sure that, were Dr. Skinner to touch her, she’d dissolve into a pile of dust on the floor. When the door opened to reveal twin beds, Alba had let out a tiny, silent sigh of relief. Then the pesky itch of disappointment started to scratch at her heart. For the next forty-eight hours she watched every move her teacher made—waiting for a sign, for a purposeful touch on her thigh. All the while torn between wanting it and fearing it.

  —

  Albert finally left Inverie in 2008, a few years after the local pub linked up to the Internet and he began spending hours on it, monitoring the Ashby family, every morning typing in Alba’s name. He longed, more than anything in the world, just to see what she looked like. Sometimes the longing took him back to the edge, though he never again fell over it.

  It was during one of his first searches that he learned about Lord Ashby’s disappearance, only a year after he’d written that letter. It took every ounce of willpower, loyalty and love not to jump in the next boat, then take a taxi straight to Ashby Hall. Liz was free, alone and available. But she hadn’t written to him. She hadn’t called him back. And so Albert had to accept that, for one reason or another, she didn’t want him anymore.

  Lord Ashby’s disappearance meant Albert no longer had to stay in Inverie, but he stayed anyway, out of habit. However, when he finally saw it—the picture of a frowning fifteen-year-old over an article announcing Alba Ashby as the youngest entrant ever to King’s College—he at last left Scotland and moved to Cambridge, skipping Hampshire and the heartbreak of seeing Elizabeth on the way.

  He found a flat, a teaching job and a weekend position in a little bookshop opposite Alba’s college. Nearly two months passed before he finally saw her, and it was all Albert could do not to cry out and run to her. But he’d made a promise to Elizabeth and he would keep it. So he watched Alba hurry across the street, half a dozen books clutched to her chest, a tatty black scarf flapping out behind her. And he stared down the street long after she’d gone out of sight.

  Over the next four years he came to know her schedule and, fortunately for Albert, his daughter was a person of habit. Every day she went to the library at the same time. Every day she bought her lunch from the same café and ordered the same thing. At the weekends she ate in hall. He always hoped that one weekend she’d wander into the bookshop. And then one Wednesday, a dark day of heavy rain, she finally did. Alba walked through the door, shaking her short hair free of water, and Albert looked up to smile at the new customer. He stared, gripping the counter with white knuckles, while Alba glanced around the shop, breathing it in. After that Albert ignored all the other customers, watching her walk to the section on historical fiction and slip a book about the English Civil War off the shelf. Albert prayed to all the gods he’d ever known that she’d come to the counter and buy the book. Someone smiled down o
n him, and she did.

  “It’s very good,” he said.

  “Sorry?” Alba asked, and Albert realized he was whispering.

  “The book.” He slid it into a paper bag. “I hear it’s very good.”

  “Oh.” Alba handed him a ten-pound note. “Okay.”

  Albert took the money, opened the till and gave his daughter her change.

  “Thank you.” Alba dropped the coins into her coat pocket and picked the bag up off the counter. “Have you read it?”

  Albert shook his head as though this oversight was the biggest regret of his life. “No, sadly not, but I will, tonight, as soon as I finish work.”

  “Oh, okay.” Alba looked puzzled.

  Albert smiled. He realized he hadn’t stopped smiling since she looked at him. “Have you read A Room with a View?”

  “Once.” Alba frowned. “A while ago. Why?”

  “Because it’s wonderful, that’s all.” He tried not to stare, he tried to seem normal, nonchalant, but he couldn’t manage it. “Didn’t you think so?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Alba edged toward the door. “’Bye, then.”

  “’Bye.” Albert turned to the window to watch her cross the street and disappear through the King’s College gates. While he replayed every word of their conversation, every look on his daughter’s face, Alba walked to her room, wondering why she always felt drawn to that little bookshop and why on earth she’d just bought a book at random on a topic she wasn’t even studying, when she could get anything and everything she wanted from the university library.

  Two weeks after that, Alba seemed to disappear. She stopped coming into college, going to the library or eating in the café. Albert waited for her every day but, by the end of May, he realized she wasn’t coming back.

  —

  Carmen sits at the piano in the empty bar. It’s past midnight, everyone else has gone home and she promised Blake she’d lock up. But first, she wants to play something, even if in her excitement her fingers won’t relax. She can’t wait for next Friday night: three days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. She can’t think of anything else. Choir practice hovers on the horizon of her week like a beacon of light calling her home. Now she stumbles around in the happy haze of someone who’s finally found IT: the one thing in the world that makes her feel more alive than anything else.