The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,67

five hundred other likely candidates.”

“Don’t worry, Red,” he says carelessly, without looking up, “I’m sure it’ll all figure itself out.”

“Do you think so?”

“I surely do.” Blake swallows his steak. He’s never been with a woman like Carmen before, someone who kisses as if she wants to bite off his tongue, who touches him as if she’d rip the skin from his bones given the chance. She’ll never look him in the eye and won’t cuddle afterward, not for a minute. And every time they have sex it is like she’s shaking him awake.

“So.” Greer is as careful as if she’s stepping on glass. “Do you think you’ll ever . . . ?”

This time Blake listens, not hearing the words she actually says but the ones he knows she wants to say: love, marriage, babies. The Holy Trinity. Waves of Greer’s longing hit Blake across the table and, with a twinge of guilt, he looks up. He wishes she were made of stronger stuff so she wouldn’t hurt so much. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and it’s a shame that he must.

To soften the blow he’s about to give, Blake offers Greer a piece of himself he’s never offered anyone before. “You know—” He pauses, pulling the words up from the deep well he’d long ago dropped them into. “When my mama left, my father locked himself in the restroom for three days. The noises he made, I’d never heard noises like that before, like . . . the sounds of hell. When he came out he told me, ‘Your mom’s gone and she’s never coming back.’ And that was the last he ever said of it. I cried ’til I threw up, every night for a year. And when I stopped I promised myself, I promised myself that I’d never let it happen to me again.”

Greer gazes at him. “God, I’m sorry—”

“It’s not that.” Blake stops her. “I’m trying to tell you, I won’t let myself . . . Do you see?”

She thinks she does, but it’s not what she wants to hear. “No, not really.”

“I’ll never marry,” Blake says, sorry that he has to spell it out so crudely. “I’ll never have kids.”

In the silence Greer grips her fork so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palm.

“Do you understand?”

Greer nods.

—

Alba spends the rest of the evening with Carmen, listening to her play, writing down words that float into her head along with the notes. The living room walls silently shake in appreciation of the music and, during a particularly splendid piece, all the lights in the house flicker on and off, then blow a fuse at the crescendo. Carmen plays for hours without stopping. Sometimes Alba puts down her father’s pen and closes her eyes, letting herself be carried away with the music, drifting, soaring and falling, entirely forgetting herself. Two sentences drift into her head, perfect and complete. She writes them down, then reads them to Carmen, who smiles and nods and continues to play. At eleven o’clock, when the phone rings in the hallway, it’s Alba, having nipped into the kitchen for a bedtime hot chocolate with cream (Peggy’s influence), who picks up. “Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Peggy Abbot?”

Alba stiffens. It’s her brother Edward. What should she do? Put the phone down. Hang up and flee. “Hi, Ed.”

“Al?” Edward says, relieved at the sound of his sister’s voice. “Is that you?” It’s taken him weeks to pluck up the courage to call, knowing that she’ll ask questions that will unravel all the secrets he’s been struggling to keep.

“Yes,” Alba says. “How did you know my number?”

“Charlotte gave it to me.”

The phone line is silent. All Alba can hear is static and she wonders if Edward’s hung up. “How did Charlotte get the number?”

“Your landlady called up a week before Mum died to say you’d moved in,” Edward says. “Didn’t you ask her to?”

“Yeah,” Alba says, because it’s easier that way. “Yeah, I did. How’s my little niece?”

“Tilly’s okay. She still cries for her mother most nights. I’m afraid I’m a poor substitute. I never learned much about being a good father.”

“I’m sorry,” Alba says, and she is. “I miss her.” And she does.

“Perhaps you could visit us in London sometime,” Edward says. When she doesn’t respond, Alba hears him take a quick breath. “Al, we need to talk.”

“What’s wrong?” Alba feels a shot of panic in her chest. “Is everyone okay?”

“Well, Til and I are coping. And, apart from being a couple of prats in need