The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,66

you.”

“But where has he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why’s he not coming back?”

“I told you, Al, I don’t know.”

“But he didn’t say good-bye. Won’t he come back to say goodbye?”

“That’s not how it works. You just have to accept it, okay?” Charlotte said. “That’s how life is. It doesn’t always go the way you want it to.”

“Where’s Mummy? I want to see her.”

“She’s resting.” Charlotte sighed. “I already told you.”

“No, she’s not. I went to her room. She’s not there. I waited until dark.”

“Yes, well, she went to have a little rest in a hospital.”

Alba held her breath. She knew what hospitals were for.

“Is Mummy going to die?”

“Oh God, no.” Charlotte laughed. The sound spun out of her mouth in gray curls, collecting in clouds above Alba’s head. “Of course not. It’s not that kind of hospital. She’s . . . unhappy, they’re going to help her. We’ll visit her next week, so you can see her then.”

“Are you going back to school at the end of the summer, like last year?”

“Of course I am.”

“So, who’s going to look after me?”

“Well, it’s been decided that this year you’ll come to Cheltenham with me.”

Alba frowned up at her sister. She hated school, hated the teachers and the other pupils, and the only saving grace of the one she went to now was that she could run home when the day ended and be in her bedroom in ten minutes. Then at four o’clock their cook would bring her tea and homemade ginger biscuits. She didn’t imagine that this new school would have better teachers and students, ones who wouldn’t treat her like a leper, and this one she wouldn’t be able to run home from.

“Don’t expect me to watch out for you, though,” Charlotte said. “You’ll have to learn to take care of yourself, okay?”

Alba nodded, wishing her mummy were there. Because even though Elizabeth hadn’t talked for months, didn’t respond when Alba hugged her, didn’t stroke her hair or sing the butterfly song anymore, Alba still wanted her. Right then she would have given anything for a hug, heartfelt or not. Because a hollowed-out mother was better than no mother at all.

—

“This is nice.” Greer smiles. “We’ve not been out in public for ages. I was starting to think you might be hiding me.” They’re sitting in Blake’s favorite restaurant, and to celebrate the occasion she’s wearing her favorite outfit: a turquoise velvet version of the iconic Marilyn Monroe dress, along with red slippers.

“Hiding you?” Blake returns her smile, his tone light, nonchalant. “I like to be discreet, is all. So,” he quickly shifts the subject, “you’re looking particularly ravishing tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more delicious-looking female.”

“Thank you.” Greer blushes. She wonders if it’s too soon to be talking about the future, about maybe moving to London, about what he wants to do with his life and whether or not they might do it together. He’s been so attentive since she nearly broke it off, but for all his honeyed words and gentle caresses, Greer still senses she has to tread very softly with this subject. She bites into a tiny potato and chews slowly. “Hey, do you still want to write something for me to star in?”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember?” Greer asks, tentatively. “You said you might.”

“I did?” Blake pours them each a little more wine. He’s been with Carmen nearly every night since that first time in the wine cellar—in parks, in alleyways, on benches. He can’t call what they do making love, it’s far too ferocious for that. They meet, fuck, then part, and he can’t get enough of it. He’s in no danger of falling for Greer now.

“I don’t remember,” Blake says, a little confused. “But yeah, sure, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’d love to read some of your work,” Greer ventures. This is another subject she’s been longing to broach. She’d been waiting for him to offer but doesn’t think he will. “I didn’t want to ask, but . . .”

“Oh, right.” Blake nods, cutting up his steak. “Sure.” Then he remembers. The writer line is something he sometimes uses in the early stages of seduction. It sounds sexy and the women never last so long that he has to worry about them actually wanting to see his nonexistent work. Until now.

“I bet it’s great,” Greer says. “I wish I could write, then maybe I’d have done a one-woman show and starred in that, instead of having to audition for everything else, along with