The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,23

fourpence necessary for admission every Saturday. And when he snuggled down deep into his red velvet seat, his feet dangling off the edge, when the lights went off and the picture came on, he forgot—for two glorious hours—that his father was gone. His first favorite film was Ninotchka, when he fell in love with Greta Garbo, a crush he loyally stoked for seven years, until his fourteenth birthday and Rita Hayworth appeared in Gilda. Two months after that, with the revelation of Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, he was never monogamous again, at least not where celluloid was concerned.

As a man Harry had a few affairs in real life, but none that touched the heights of his film-star fantasies, so he never bothered with them for long. Women always looked at Harry, even after his hair turned white and his wrinkles multiplied. He rather resembled Paul Newman, with a strong jaw, high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and had aged just as well. Sometimes they waited for him when he delivered their milk, and sometimes he went inside when they invited him in.

Harry heard Peggy Abbot before he saw her. The cinema was almost empty, no more than a dozen other people cluttering the seats, just how Harry liked it. She sat three rows in front, her wild white hair slightly obscuring his view, so he disliked her at first, until he heard her laugh. There was something about Peggy’s laugh: a magical mixture of sunshine and champagne that floated through the air and lifted him out of his seat. He’d never heard anything so beautiful, so inviting, and, despite the fact that the giggling mess of white hair was ruining his film, he knew he had to meet her.

When the credits rolled, Harry hurried down the aisle and back along her row before sitting in the seat right next to her. Peggy turned to him and smiled. “Hello.”

Harry opened his mouth, but his mind was blank. She was in her early sixties and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, either in real life or in film.

“And you are?” Peggy prompted him.

“H-Harry,” he said at last.

“Well, hello, Harry.” Peggy smiled again and he felt his heart thump against his chest. “What can I do for you?” She waited, gazing at him.

“Did you like it?” he finally asked.

“What?” she asked, giving him a look that sent a sharp shiver of excitement through his body and made his heart beat faster still.

“The film,” he said.

“It was funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Isn’t all that just a matter of perspective?”

That was the moment Harry knew he was hooked. “Do you come here often?” he asked, regretting the cliché before the last word was out.

“No.” Peggy laughed. “I really came in just to get out of the rain. Not that I don’t love the cinema, but I just wasn’t in the mood today, you know?”

Harry had never met a woman quite so unpredictable, whose words knocked him off balance and whose way of being—her stillness and total lack of self-consciousness—made him forget where and who he was.

“Anyway.” She picked her bag up off the floor and stood, letting the seat flip back into place. “I’d better be off, now the rain’s stopped.”

“Has it?” Harry asked. He didn’t mind that it was a strange thing to say, or care how she knew; he just didn’t want her to leave. She waited, pulling on her gloves, while he gazed up at her. He opened his mouth again, desperately trying to think up something witty or charming to say, but nothing came out.

“Okay.” Peggy slipped her hat on. “Since you’re clearly a little lost for words, would you like to come for tea on Sunday morning? You could practice some conversational subjects before then, give yourself a head start.”

“What?” he said, torn between shock and sheer delight. “I—”

“I believe that’s yes, then.” She smiled, then pulled a card out of her bag and handed it to him. “Ten o’clock is fine, but don’t be early. I like to sleep in.”

And that was how Harry’s love story began.

—

The four Ashby siblings sit around a long mahogany table. It’s ancient, dark and gleaming. Alba stares at her plate while her two brothers and sister consume vast quantities of wine. Every humiliating childhood memory settles around the table, materializing in the empty chairs; ghosts anchoring Alba to her past. Until somewhere between the pea soup and the pheasant she can’t remember who she is anymore. All she