The House at the End of Hope Street Read online

  She should be worried. Tonight is the tenth of June and she can stay at Hope Street only another six weeks or so, until July 31. The idea of where she’ll go and how she’ll stay safe after that is a troubling one. But now that she’s started singing again she can’t seem to get worried about anything at all. As she rests her fingers on the keys, Carmen remembers the singer last night and the fiery beauty of her songs. Then she thinks of Alba. The plan to shake Alba up, to see her get drunk and dance on tabletops, might have failed the first time, but she will succeed in seducing Alba’s spirit with music, Carmen decides, no matter what it takes. She will free this clueless young woman, shut up tight as a clam, so that Alba can know joy and passion and love. And if Carmen is lucky, this good deed will undo the very bad deed she has done. Invigorated by the thought, she starts to play: something sensual and sexual, notes that bounce off the walls and shiver through the air. Then she starts to sing.

  Sleeping in the office with his feet on the desk, Blake wakes with a start. He loses his balance, slips off the chair and falls to the floor. Then he hears the music. Slowly he gets up, opens the door, creeps down the corridor and steps into the bar.

  When she sees him standing in the doorway, Carmen stops.

  “Please.” He tries to swallow the longing creeping up his throat. “Don’t stop.”

  For several moments they are both silent and still; the air around them is heavy with the echoes of music. And then Blake walks slowly up to the stage. This woman that he never paid much mind to before, except to admire her rather splendid curves, has suddenly activated his radar. Blake can sense a familiar feeling beginning to stir. He’s never been able to resist a woman who’s sexy and talented. He gazes at Carmen as if he wants to run his fingers over every inch of her body. Here is his antidote to Greer.

  “You are a knockout.” Blake draws out every syllable. “An absolute knockout.”

  Carmen stares back into his bright green eyes without blinking. She’s a little surprised by how direct he is. After six weeks in England she’s become used to the bumbling, stumbling seductions of British men. It’s unnerving to be confronted by this confident American, so completely sure of himself. Of course, she sees how Blake can afford to be so bold. He is, even including Tiago, the best-looking man she’s ever seen.

  “I reckon I never heard singing like that before.” Blake smiles. It’s a smile of pure seduction, fixed on her as if she were the only woman in the world. Hypnotic. Dangerous. Designed to make Carmen lose her heart as well as her head. “Never in my life. Let’s have a drink.”

  It isn’t a question. Carmen feels a little lightheaded. Cautionary tales about dating in the workplace, along with memories of Tiago, swim around the back of her mind. She isn’t sure if she really wants to do this, have a drink and whatever might follow. If she was thinking straight, Carmen really ought to decline the offer, she really ought to say no. But then, to a man like this, how can she?

  —

  Alba has now memorized every line of every letter. She can piece together the scenes, the places her parents met and what passed between them. Elizabeth met Albert by chance in a coffee shop. They were sitting on opposite sides of the small room, each reading the same book. It was Elizabeth who noticed the coincidence. She examined him—rather sweet and friendly looking, if a bit short and scruffy—before commenting.

  “Are you enjoying it?” She spoke a little louder than usual and, because there was no one in the café besides them and the waitress, he looked up at her.

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I always do.”

  “Always?”

  “I read it every year, on my birthday.” She noticed the way his bright blue eyes lit up his face. “I know it by heart now. I could probably quote long passages to you and bore you silly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I always thought it was a girly book,” she said, teasing him. “I’ve not met a man before who loves this book as I do.”

  “Well, I suppose I’m in touch with my feminine side.” He smiled.

  Elizabeth laughed, shocked and delighted. That was the moment she fell in love with this stranger. She couldn’t imagine her husband saying something like that, not if his life depended on it. It was Charles Ashby’s complete lack of humor that had disappointed Elizabeth most of all, even more than his philandering, quick temper and aversion to physical affection. He was a wonderful dancer and he’d once swept her off her feet, many years ago, but that was about the best that could be said about her husband.

  “Would you like to share a slice of apple cake?” she asked. “I can never eat a whole slice.”

  “Well, in that case, how can I refuse?” he said. “I’m Albert.”

  And, because she suddenly wanted to be a different woman, a carefree, single woman without a husband and three children, she said: “Liz.” A name no one had ever called her before but now he always would.

  They talked about literature, writing novels and poetry (him), raising children and managing mental illness (her), watching films in the morning, going for walks in the woods, reading Shakespeare aloud in empty parks (both of them). They gazed at each other but never let their hands touch, though their fingers were only ever a few inches apart. At the end of the afternoon, they exchanged an apparently casual agreement to meet again, in the same place, the next day.

  Of all the scenes from her mother’s letters, this is Alba’s favorite. Thank God, she thinks, for letter writers. But some of her questions are still unanswered. Her father doesn’t write about everything. He never reveals his surname, for a start. And her mother won’t tell her that, or very much more during Alba’s dreams. Unless, of course, she does and Alba simply doesn’t remember when she wakes up. Snippets return to her sometimes, bubbles float up into her day and surface at odd moments. But the information is always a smattering of silly random facts, like the color of Albert’s socks the day they met, or what dress she wore on their first date or the smell of his hair. But Alba wants information of more significance. She wants to know if her real father has the slightly mystical gifts she has? If they share similar likes and dislikes. Does he look like her? And most important of all: if she ever finds him, will he want to know her?

  —

  Elizabeth replied to Albert’s last letter the day her husband left, a year and a month after she’d received it. A long letter of love telling him she was sorry, that she’d regretted her choice every day, she hoped he’d forgive her and, if he had waited as he promised, would he come back to her now?

  For another year Elizabeth waited for a reply. She wrote him a letter every week: the same words on the same paper, posted on the same day from the same post box, the envelope kissed before letting it go. Her magic ritual.

  Every morning of that first month, Elizabeth ran to pick up the post the moment she heard letters hit the mat; and for the whole year she kept hoping. At first she didn’t think of going to find him herself. Then, as events triggered by her husband’s disappearance overtook her, she wasn’t allowed to travel. Finally, faced with the fact of no letters in fifty-two weeks, Elizabeth could no longer bear it. She retreated into a place where she couldn’t feel the pain anymore, where nothing could touch her, a world she could no longer leave and no one else could enter. Of course, Elizabeth never knew that Albert still loved and longed for her, that none of her letters ever reached him.

  —

  Alba hurries toward the library, safe in the knowledge that she won’t bump into anyone she’d rather not see, since Dr. Skinner never visits the library, always sending research assistants instead. It’s been at least a decade since she read A Room with a View and, since it was the reason her parents met, she’s curious now to study it closely. Also, she hasn’t been to the library in nearly a month and she’s starting to get withdrawal symptoms. It’s not just the books Alba craves, it’s standing inside a place that houses millions of them. Libraries are Alba’s c
hurches, and the university library, containing one edition of every book ever published in England, is her cathedral.

  Alba approaches the counter, where Zoë sits behind a computer, absorbed in her work.

  “Hello,” Alba ventures.

  Zoë glances up. “Oh! Hi.”

  “Hey!” Alba smiles shyly. “How are you?”

  “Where have you been?” Zoë asks, forgetting herself.

  “I had to go away for a… my mother died.”

  “Oh no,” Zoë’s face falls. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Alba says, and she realizes it really is. Instead of Death taking her mother away, He’s actually given her back. “Hey, do you have Room with a View available?”

  “Gosh, I adore that book.” Zoë grins. “I’m in love with old Mr. Emerson. When he tells Lucy Honeychurch ‘You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you’—isn’t that wonderful? I think that’s how you know if it’s true love or not. It is if it stays with you for the rest of your life.”

  Alba looks carefully at Zoë, at her words still lingering in the air: as bright as fire, glowing brightly for a few seconds before extinguishing in little puffs of smoke. Their brief heat warms Alba and colors her cheeks.

  “You might like Howards End, too,” Zoë says. “It’s beautiful, though it doesn’t end happily. ‘Only connect! Live in fragments no longer. And human love will be seen at its height.’ I’m paraphrasing, of course, but that’s the gist. Isn’t it gorgeous? Do you know it?”

  Alba shakes her head, a little embarrassed she doesn’t. “I’ll take them both.”

  “Okay. Wait here, I won’t be long.”

  Only connect, only connect, only connect. Zoë rolls this mantra around her head as she runs down the steps to the book stacks. Now is the time. She can’t wait in the wings any longer. She must act, she must ask. Ten minutes later, holding the books in one hand, Zoë takes the steps two at a time, reaching Alba out of breath.

  “These are only a one-week loan,” she gasps. “I think they’re on the English Lit syllabus for the Freshers.” Ask her now, Zoë tells herself. Now, now, now.

  “That’s fine,” Alba says, hearing a strength in Zoë’s words she’s never heard before; they’re edged with magenta, the color of desire. “I won’t take long. I’ll bring them back in a few days.”

  Just then, the other library assistant staggers toward the counter carrying an enormous pile of books. His messy hair is covered in dust and his baggy jeans reveal the top of his underwear. “I’ve got ’em, babe.”

  “Cheers, Andy.” Zoë glances at him with a quick smile.

  Then Alba understands. She’d seen Zoë’s aura tinged deep red, the color of obsession, a few times before, and wondered who it was the librarian wanted. Alba’s a little surprised at the object of her affection; she’d have afforded Zoë better taste, but who is she to judge?

  “All right.” Alba picks up the books. “Well, thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “’Bye then.”

  No, wait, Zoë thinks. I haven’t asked you yet. Give me a second. Wait! Run after her, you coward. But instead she just gives Alba a little smile and a wave. “’Bye.”

  —

  “Do you fancy a film tomorrow night?” Greer lies across Blake’s bed, her head nestling in his armpit while she strokes the golden hairs on his chest, gently twisting tufts around her fingers and humming.

  “Huh?” He opens his eyes, having dozed off. A few days ago, mumbling something about office politics, he suggested they shouldn’t have sex at work anymore, in case someone should see them. So now they stick to his flat. Greer would like to take him to the house. But she has a funny feeling that it wouldn’t welcome him, so she hasn’t asked.

  “Adam’s Rib is on at the Picturehouse.” Greer glances up at him. “We’re both off, I thought we could go together.”

  “Sorry, Red.” Blake starts to sit up, dislodging Greer from her crook. “Not tomorrow.”

  “Oh, okay.” She tries to sound nonchalant, though it isn’t proving as easy anymore. She’s finding it harder to feign confidence or contentment or whatever emotion she chooses, which is proving a little disconcerting. Excepting her mother, Greer has always been able to fool anyone and fake anything she wishes. But now she’s losing her touch—just when she needs it more than ever. Greer can feel Blake starting to pull away, to withdraw little by little into a place she soon won’t be able to reach him. And she knows that trying to chase him now will only push him further away. A slight sigh escapes her lips and, quickly, she swallows it. “I’ll ask Carmen, then,” Greer says lightly. “She might fancy it. Or someone else, it doesn’t matter.”

  Blake doesn’t react to Carmen’s name. Not a flicker of guilt, surprise or even interest. Instead he smiles. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says, his voice as sweet as sugar. He runs his hand through her hair. “Sounds like a grand idea.” And though his tone is still kind and his actions still thoughtful, Greer knows deep in her gut, even though she desperately wants to deny it, that something significant has changed, that while there may once have been hope of his loving her, there is no hope anymore.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alba hates traveling. She hates staying in hotels, hates having to speak to strangers, hates not knowing where she is, hates being unable to find edible vegetarian food or a decent library. She’s never wanted to go to exotic places and is more interested in historical times and fictional worlds than those she could actually visit.

  After failing to find her father in the virtual world, and still a little too nervous to interrogate Edward or hire a detective, Alba finally decided to try to find him in the physical one. The sighting of Dr. Skinner last week also made the idea of leaving the country rather more appealing.

  Sitting on a sleeper train bound for Fort William, Alba bites her nails, trying to distract herself with books. She’s already read A Room with a View and they’re barely out of London. The scene of the bumbled kiss made Alba wonder if her own first kiss would be as unromantic. Considering her complete lack of experience and self-confidence, she imagines it might be. Although it also depends, she supposes, on the other party. Perhaps she’ll find someone like George Emerson, full of passion and fervor. But in all honesty, Alba doesn’t care how it happens, as long as it does. She’s beginning to worry that she’ll die a virgin, untouched, unloved and unkissed.

  By the time the train passes through Yorkshire, Alba has read Howards End, A Passage to India and Maurice. And although A Room with a View is still her favorite, it’s Maurice that makes her cry. She nearly misses the connection to Mallaig, pulling her book-filled bag behind her and falling through the train doors just in time. On this leg of the trip, Alba just gazes out of the window, running lines of her parents’ letters through her mind. Somewhere in Scotland she falls asleep and dreams again of her mother. This time they sit together in the gardens of Ashby Hall.

  “Are you finally happy now?” Alba plucks at a piece of grass. “You always seem to be nowadays.”

  “I am.” Elizabeth smiles. “I truly am. What about you, my darling girl?”

  “I’m fine.” Alba smiles. “And every time I see you I’m better than I was before.”

  Lady Ashby strokes her daughter’s cheek. “That’s sweet, my love. But I hope you’ll find happiness with someone you don’t have to fall asleep to see.” She laughs. “It’s all I want for you, to be happy. Nothing else matters, only that.”

  Alba reaches for her mother’s hand and is still holding it when the train jolts to a stop and she wakes up. As she queues for the boat trip across Loch Nevis, Alba is shivering so hard she almost can’t pay for her ticket. Great gusts of wind whip the water into waves that crash onto the wooden pier, splashing the passengers. Alba watches as the waves spray mists over her head.

  Alba grips the si
de of the small fishing boat, her fingers raw with cold, but she won’t wear gloves, in case she loses her grip. When Inverie comes into view, Alba nearly passes out with relief. As they come ashore, a seal pops up in the water and Alba smiles. It’s a good omen, she hopes: she will find her father, he will be overjoyed and they will get along brilliantly.

  An hour later, when she’s sitting on the edge of a bed in a twee little bed-and-breakfast, Alba’s not feeling quite so confident. She has forty-eight hours to find him, that’s until Monday morning, when the next ferry will take her back to the mainland. Her investigation is going to involve making inquiries of strangers, as well as, given the island terrain, physical exertion. Neither is a prospect she relishes. Alba kicks off her shoes, pulls off her jeans and drops them to the floor.

  She looks up at the ceiling, at the pink wallpaper scattered with rosebuds, thinking that this is the craziest and bravest thing she’s ever done in her life. And although thoughts of tomorrow still leave her trembling, she suddenly realizes she’s doing something so daring and different that her steady, staid life has just taken a sharp turn to the left. If she keeps this up, she might one day get that kiss after all. And for the second time that day, Alba smiles.

  —

  After getting up, getting dressed and swallowing three cups of strong coffee, Alba ventures downstairs with a list of questions. Last night she’d been greeted by a friendly, portly, middle-aged woman. This morning the woman has been replaced by a much younger version of herself: a sullen, pretty teenager who slumps behind the desk, scowling at her nails while she paints them scarlet. She reminds Alba of the gorgeous Cheltenham girls who made her childhood a misery. As Alba approaches the counter, map in hand, she tells herself that she’s older now and, hopefully, braver.