the bottom of a black leather chair. Blake asked her to do the morning cleaning shift and, unattractive as the job is, Carmen finds she can’t say no to him. Luckily she loves being in the bar when it’s empty. No one else there, just the polished oak floors, walls of exposed red brick, bottles of expensive wines on display in alcoves, a raised stage for singers with a microphone and a baby grand piano. There was nothing like it in Bragança. It’s quite the opposite of the shady little bar where she met Tiago, and Carmen adores every brick, seat and floorboard.
This morning she has a plan. Every few minutes she stops scratching the seat and looks up at the stage. Last night Carmen saw the singer she’d invited Alba to see. The woman sang Bessie Smith, Nina Simone and Ella Fitzgerald, and Carmen was utterly captivated. Echoes of the notes play in stereo now, bouncing around her brain, knocking out every other thought. Last night she actually slept, lulled to sleep by all that wonderful music. Everything fell away, leaving only white space and sound. And now Carmen can’t think about anything else. Which is exactly the way she wants it.
When she’s scraped the chair clean, she stands and stretches. Then, instead of returning to cleaning, as she should, Carmen hurries across the wooden floor and steps onto the stage. A dustsheet covers the baby grand piano. She pulls it off and sits on the wooden stool.
She hasn’t played in over a year, not since Tiago first taught her. She shakes her head to unlock the memories, places her fingers on the ivories, and slowly begins testing the notes, seeing what will come. But as she tries to remember the songs she most loved, Carmen realizes it’s impossible. They’re locked away in some distant place she can’t reach, trapped deep in her mind, along with all the other things Carmen never wants to remember. And so, just as Tiago gave her the music, now he has taken it away.
Chapter Seven
I’m not saying you should get back together with him, sweetie, I’m only saying you should think about it.”
“Mum, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” Greer says, having only just confessed to her engagement ending. “He’s with the twenty-two-year-old and he’s welcome to her.”
“Stop feigning flippancy,” Celia says, “you’re too old for it. If you were the twenty-two-year-old, then perhaps, but you’re nearly forty.”
“In eleven months, Mum, not tomorrow.” Greer sits on the bottom step of the stairs, wearing 1950s men’s silk pajamas, the phone cord wrapped around her wrist. This is the topic she always dreads and the one her mother always brings up. Greer stares at the photographs lining the walls. She can picture Celia now: perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, legs crossed, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other. Greer’s grandmother named her daughter after Celia Johnson when she went into labor while watching Brief Encounter, and her mother in turn named her own after Greer Garson, star of her favorite film, Mrs. Miniver. They’d both been trying to live up to their names ever since. Sadly, neither of them has proved any good at either being brilliant actresses or managing to get married.
“You’re no spring chicken,” Celia says. “And if you leave it too late you’ll end up regretting it, I promise you. If I hadn’t had you I’d have nothing now, would I?”
“No, Mum.” Greer sighs. “I suppose not.” Her mother is the only one Greer can’t act with, the only one who isn’t fooled by the smile, the laugh, the pretending that everything is wonderful when it isn’t. No, Celia knows her daughter too well for that. The only thing she doesn’t know is the secret Greer’s been keeping since she was nineteen years old. Greer sighs again.
“I heard that,” Celia snaps.
“Sorry, Mum, it’s not you,” Greer lies. “I’m just knackered, that’s all. I had to do a double shift last night. Blake asked if—”
“Blake?” Celia perks up and Greer inwardly curses.
“He’s my boss, Mum.”
“Is he . . . ?”
“No, and we’re not.”
“Oh.” Celia blows out a puff of smoke. “Shame. He sounds nice.”
Greer laughs. “I only told you his name.”
“Well, it’s a good one,” her mother insists. “It holds promise. I’ll bet he has strong sperm.”
“Mum!”
“Listen, love, you can’t count on a man to stick around, but your kids will always love you. And you can’t wait much longer. I know it’s unfair, but that’s how it