The House at the End of Hope Street Read online

  “No, of course not,” Stella laughs. “Never mind, the point is that some people don’t have what it takes to live happy lives, but you do. You’ve got everything you could possibly need. You’ve got greatness inside you, and love ahead of you, if only you’ll stop running from it.”

  Alba chews at her fingernail.

  “Speaking of which, I know what’ll give you some inspiration to write. Go to the library.” She nods at Alba’s notebook. And, although the pen is still capped in Alba’s hand, a list of titles and authors is now written down on the page.

  “The library?” Alba frowns again. “But I’m sure I can find them upstairs.”

  “No, you won’t.” Stella hides a smile. “You’ll have to go to the library for these.”

  —

  “I’ve come for more novels.” Alba hands Zoë the list. She still can’t understand why, given the few thousand novels that had recently materialized in her bedroom, she couldn’t find them at home. “Oh, and to return these.” She places the small stack of Forster novels on the counter.

  “Did you love them?” Zoë asks.

  “A Room with a View was my favorite. I loved Maurice, too; it made me cry,” Alba says, a little surprised at herself for admitting it. She thinks back to the train journey, Inverie and her father. The detective hasn’t been in touch yet, but it’s been less than a week, so she keeps telling herself not to worry.

  “Really?” Zoë asks, hopeful, wondering if the fact that Alba loved Maurice might be a sign. She glances down at the list: On the Road, Reality Sandwiches, Nowhere Man and Other Voices, Other Rooms, then turns to Andy, who sits behind the computer.

  “Will you cover me while I nip down to the stacks?”

  Andy shrugs and grunts his acquiescence.

  “That’s great.” Alba leans against the counter. “Thanks.”

  As Zoë disappears, Andy turns to Alba. “Don’t you wonder why she never makes you wait for books, just like every other silly bugger?”

  Alba is surprised by his tone. Perhaps their love affair has gone sour, perhaps Zoë broke his heart. She shrugs and steps away, pretending to be absorbed in reading announcements pinned to the notice board on a nearby wall: Violin Concert of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Tiddlywinks Championship at Corpus Christi, Guitar Lessons in Exchange for Spanish Lessons. Alba remembers Stella saying she once hitchhiked all the way from Spain to England.

  Someone taps her on the shoulder. Alba turns in shock.

  “Desculpa,” Carmen says. “Sorry, Peggy tells me I find you here.”

  “Oh.” Alba stares, slightly nervous. Since that night in The Archer, after the embarrassment of running away, she’s been sneaking around the house, studiously avoiding Carmen.

  “I want you to help me write a song.”

  “A song? Me?” Alba stares at her, incredulous. She wonders if Stella has set her up, somehow planting the idea in Carmen’s mind. Or the house. The house is full of tricks. “But why?”

  “Because I want to be a singer.”

  “Oh,” Alba says. It doesn’t surprise her that Carmen should be a singer. It’s a suitably glamorous ambition for someone so sexy. Even if Alba could sing she’d never do it in public. The very idea of standing on stage while people stare makes her feel faint.

  “Sim.” Carmen says, “I have a audition, a television show. With these two crazy ladies I meet. They will want to dress with horns and sing operas, if I don’t do anything different. So I must find something. I play piano, I have tune, but I don’t write words. Especially not English words, and…”

  Alba stares at Carmen, wondering what on earth she’s talking about.

  “Anyway, I need some song—qual e a palavra?— lyrics. I need a writer,” Carmen says. “I hope you might try.”

  “Just the words.” Alba muses on the possibility. “A bit like a poem, you mean?”

  “Sim.” Carmen nods, recalling Peggy’s suggestion. “A love poem.”

  “Love?” Alba frowns.

  “Yes.”

  Alba thinks of Charles, who told her she shouldn’t waste her time on something she had no talent for. Then she thinks of Albert, the poet, and ponders if perhaps she has some untapped abilities she can draw on. It’s the thought of Albert that decides it, the thought of creating a connection, however distant, between them. “Okay,” Alba says. “How long do we have?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Alba’s eyes widen. She has absolutely no idea if she can do this. She’s almost entirely certain she can’t. But she gives a little shrug, attempting nonchalance even though her heart is beating so hard in her chest Alba can barely hear her own voice say, “I’ll try. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

  “Excelente, excelente.” Carmen grins and kisses a very startled Alba on the cheek.

  —

  Two days later they stand in the living room at the piano. The pipes rattle and shake with excitement, the lights flicker on and off and Alba smiles.

  “It’s beautiful.” She runs her finger slowly along the honey-colored wood. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Sim.” Carmen nods. “It is very rare. Steinway. Roses wood. Very rare.” She sits, then pats the black leather. “Sit with me, por favor.”

  Alba inches onto the stool. They sit side by side in silence as Carmen gazes at the piano with a reverence reserved for religious relics. Alba waits. “So, um,” she says finally, “what do we do now?”

  Instead of answering, Carmen starts to play, pressing the keys so that the notes reverberate in the wood and echo softly through the air. Shivers of excitement run down Alba’s spine as if she’s being given tiny electric shocks, rooting her to the spot. The music sweeps around her in a thousand different hues: red notes in every shade soar above her head, yellow notes sink to her feet, green and blue notes linger in the air between them. At last, the piece reaches a crescendo and, as she hits the highest note, Carmen stops. Alba exhales, suddenly realizing she’s been holding her breath.

  After every echo of every note has evaporated, leaving a multicolored mist that settles and slowly disperses, Alba finally speaks. “My God, did you write that?”

  Carmen nods, her fingers still resting on the keys.

  “It was completely… utterly, purely magical. Your music, it made me feel…” She’s never heard anyone play anything the way Carmen just did. It filled her with emotions she’s never known before, like an empty glass filling with wine: sweet, fruity, intoxicating. She has to taste it again.

  Carmen smiles. “I think you do like music, then, no?”

  Alba’s momentarily confused, then remembers the lie she told. She thinks of how afraid she’d been of Carmen then. Now it seems like years ago. “Oh, yes,” she says softly, “sorry about that.”

  Still a little dizzy from the music, Alba glances at the wall above Carmen’s head and there she sees it—the photograph that, with the exception of Stella, she’s been most keen to find: Agatha Christie is standing in the front garden, a tiny smile on her lips as she glances toward the midnight glory. It’s a sign. Discovering the author who’s supposedly sold more books than any other writer in the world except Shakespeare is a sign she should do something equally brilliant and bold. Or at least take a baby step in that general direction.

  “So,” Alba says, realizing she hasn’t spoken for several minutes, “why don’t you tell me about this song?”

  Later, Alba glances around at all the books in her bedroom, wishing she could imbibe their brilliance through osmosis. How can she write a love song when she’s never been kissed, when her only experience of romance has happened entirely in her head?

  It had taken Alba a week to find the courage to confront the object of her affection. She had hurried across the quad, clutching The Journal of Modern History, her eyes on the ground, for the first time not admiring the intricately carved turr
ets and spires above her, the sculptures of gargoyles and saints, flowers, crosses and coats of arms. She scuttled past the chapel with its dozen stained-glass windows reaching fifty feet to the roofline, its delicate lattice of stone that took nearly a century to build. Her shoes slipped on the cobbled paving as she ran.

  When Alba reached Dr. Skinner’s office, she stopped. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all. Perhaps her supervisor had submitted her name and the editors forgot to use it. Maybe she should wait, maybe she should come back when she’s calm and quietly ask what had really happened. There would be a sensible explanation, Alba was nearly certain. But she needed to know it or she wouldn’t sleep for another week.

  So, very softly, Alba knocked and waited. She heard the voices inside the room stop talking, and imagined her supervisor scowling.

  “Come in!”

  Alba nudged the door open, poking her head into the room. Dr. Skinner sat behind a desk. A student sat on the battered leather sofa across the room.

  “I need to talk to you,” Alba whispered into the silence.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  She held the magazine up.

  “Oh.” Dr. Skinner turned to the student. “Bugger off, Nick.”

  Nick scowled, apparently sorry to miss the particulars, but picked up his bag and hurried out.

  “Sit.”

  Alba sat.

  “So, I suppose this is about my not crediting you.”

  Alba stiffened, her last pinch of hope extinguished. The room went white, bleached of all color, as if she was looking through fog. So it was intentional. Calculated. Cold. Alba was speechless.

  “Your research was good,” Dr. Skinner said, “but not enough to credit your name alongside mine. That would suggest we wrote it jointly, which wasn’t the case. Now, if you felt you deserved more than that, I’m sorry, but that’s how these things go.”

  By the end of this ridiculous speech, Alba had found her voice again. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, biting each word between her teeth. “We didn’t write it jointly. I wrote it. And you copied every word.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.” Dr. Skinner laughed.

  “You did,” Alba said, barely audible. “You did.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Of course I am. I’ve got, I’ve got…”

  “What?” Her supervisor leaned across the desk. “You’ve got what?”

  “My… Give me my notes back,” Alba begged. “Give them back.” For the first time in her career she deeply regretted resisting technology. If she’d written it all up on a computer instead of only on paper, she’d now have backups, files, proof.

  “I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll go to the dean,” Alba mumbled.

  “By all means.” Dr. Skinner gave a wry smile. “An excellent idea. In fact, I’m having lunch with the dean this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

  “I don’t believe… How could you steal from me?” Alba felt tears pricking. In a moment they’d be spilling down her cheeks. And if she could do nothing else, Alba wouldn’t allow that. She wouldn’t let Dr. Skinner see her broken.

  “I’m getting a little tired of this now,” Dr. Skinner sighed. “And if you insist on this behavior, it’ll be impossible for me to keep supervising you.”

  “How can you say that?” Alba asked. “I, I…” I did it all for you, I didn’t ask for anything, and I loved you, I love you.

  “Well, we need to reconsider our situation, don’t we? I don’t think this is quite working, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “What?” Alba gaped. “What do you—”

  “Us. This.” Dr. Skinner gave a small shrug. “I think it is time to part ways.”

  “But my MPhil, my… what am I supposed to do?”

  “You could find another supervisor, dependent on my recommendation, of course. Which, after your accusation, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly give you.” Dr. Skinner turned away to shuffle through papers, as though it was already over and they had never known or meant a single thing to each other.

  “You, you…” Alba shook, unable to get the words out. “I, I, I…” But she couldn’t find words that came within a thousand degrees of how she felt.

  So instead she turned and fled.

  —

  It’s been a week since Blake and Carmen worked the same shift. He’s arranged it that way, taking a little time out to focus exclusively on Greer. But now he’s ready to get back in the game. Having waited until after closing time on Greer’s day off, and sending everyone else home, he finds her in the wine cellar.

  “Hey, sugar.” He grins from the doorway. “How’s it going?”

  Carmen just shrugs and lifts another box onto her pile for re-stocking.

  “Look, I’m sorry it’s been a while. I had some personal stuff to sort out. But now it’s done I’d love to see you again.”

  Carmen looks up at him: the green eyes, the blond curls, the creamy complexion: white swan to Tiago’s raven, perfect for erasing his black imprint from her body and soul. But she can play this game, too, and contrition is called for. Groveling.

  “I don’t think so.” Carmen turns away.

  “Look, I know I don’t deserve it.” Blake steps toward her. “But give me another chance. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

  Carmen raises an eyebrow. “And how do I know you are worth it?”

  Blake tries to gauge whether she’s just toying with him. But he can’t read her. Unlike Greer, she seems to be able to see through his smile and into his cold, dark heart. “Try me and see,” he says. “I’m well worth it.”

  Carmen holds Blake’s gaze, then steps forward to kiss him. For a second he’s too shocked to respond but, quickly recovering, he presses his chest against hers and kisses her back, strong and deep and desperate.

  “Ow!” Blake steps back, his finger to his lip where she bit him.

  “Desculpa.” Carmen laughs. “I not mean to hurt you, at least not like that.” She gives him a wicked smile. She wants to scratch him, to tear at his skin and draw blood. She’s full of fire and fight. All she can think of now is Tiago, how much he hurt her, how much she wanted to hurt him. Fury burns through her body, lighting up the tips of her fingers as though she’s been ignited and could singe his skin. “I want to—”

  “Yes,” he whispers, stepping forward to kiss her again. “I know exactly what you want.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peggy can sense what’s happening with her girls, how events have taken a sharp downward turn, but she knows that intervening right now, especially with regards to Blake and Greer, will do no good. Sometimes a surrogate mother has to know when to step back and let her kids learn their own lessons. So instead she thinks of herself and Harry.

  Whenever she misses him during the week, she arranges a rendezvous in the bathroom. A decade ago, Harry bought a flat around the corner, the bedroom window of which overlooked her bathroom. Of course the other inhabitants of Mill Road Mews, in the absence of need or invitation, can’t see the house at all. Unfortunately, buying the flat didn’t halt Harry’s campaign for cohabitation. Sometimes he hangs homemade posters in his windows with Come To Me written in letters two feet tall. On their anniversary he writes Marry Me, not bothering with a question mark, but leaving it as a statement of interest, a declaration of intention.

  When she’s feeling frisky Peggy performs a little striptease at her bathroom window. Nothing very risqué—she wouldn’t want to give Harry a heart attack—just a suggestion of what’s to come on Sunday. For his part, Harry would gladly risk a coronary. What better way to go, after all? But he looks forward to these teases enormously. He is so in tune with the rhythm of Peggy’s heart that he’s always ready and waiting just before she appears at the window.

  Peggy can’t
now pinpoint the exact moment she must have fallen in love. Unlike Harry’s almost instantaneous tumble down the rabbit hole, her feelings crept up gradually. For their first anniversary they returned to the cinema to celebrate, watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Peggy thought the film dreadful, but refrained from saying so when she saw Harry with a tear in his eye at the end. That was the moment she first loved, although she’d refused to fully admit it to herself until now. Having never known real love before, she has taken a while to recognize it. But she recognizes it now.

  —

  “How are your lyrics coming along?” Stella sits cross-legged at one end of the table, elbows balanced on her knees, cupping her chin.

  “They aren’t, really,” Alba admits.

  “How long until the show?”

  “Two and a half weeks.” Alba puts down her pen. “I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself,” Stella says. “Have you heard from the private dick yet?”

  Alba shakes her head, caught by a sudden longing for her father. She wonders if she’ll ever find him. Then she thinks of her mother. “Please tell me about the song you were singing the night I came,” Alba says. “How did you know it? I’m going to keep asking until you tell me, so it may as well be now.”

  Stella smiles at Alba’s tone, at the new injection of strength and determination. “All right then, yes. I heard it in the air, on the breeze.” Stella tells a half-truth. “I heard your mother singing that night. The recently departed are easy to hear.”

  “But she didn’t die that night; it was a week after I came here.”

  “No, that was when Charlotte called you,” Stella says, “but that wasn’t when she died. She walked into the woods to take the overdose. They didn’t find her for five days.”

  “No,” Alba says, “that’s not true, they didn’t tell me that, it can’t be—” Shock and disbelief shiver through her body as if she was walking barefoot on ice.

  “They didn’t tell you a lot of things, though, did they?”

  “I don’t believe you.” Alba forces the words through her frozen lips. “How do you know?”