The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,69
it hits her. “Oh God. It’s not a coincidence that he’s here, is it? It can’t be. I just—”
“It’s not unheard of.” The detective shrugs. “Occasionally parents who abandon their children will find them again and move to be close to them. I’ve seen it before.”
“But how did he know, how did he find me?”
“It’s easy. If you’re ever in the paper, if you make the news, it’ll most likely be on the Internet . . . Everyone’s an amateur detective nowadays. Fortunately most people are thick as two short ones, no offense, so I’m not out of a job just yet. Anyway . . .”
“But what should I do now?” Alba whispers. “What will I say?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” the detective says. He’s always a little uncomfortable when his clients threaten to get emotional. “Start with hello. Go from there.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Tears cloud Alba’s eyes and she swallows.
The detective fixes his own eyes on the piles of paper covering his desk. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Now, my next client’s due any minute now, so . . .”
“Yes, sorry.” Alba forces herself to stand, though the room seems to be spinning.
“Ms. Ashby?” says the detective, stopping Alba as she reaches the door. “Good luck.”
—
“You’ve got to give her up. It’s time to let go.”
Zoë sighs, staring at the computer, refusing to look at him.
“And I’m not saying it ’cause I want you so desperately,” Andy deadpans. “I’m totally over us now. It took a lot of therapy, grief counseling, prayer; but I’m finally okay.”
“Shut up.” Zoë giggles. “You’re an opportunist and you know it.”
“You think so little of yourself, eh? Sounds like someone else needs therapy. I’ve got my counselor’s card.” He pretends to reach into his pocket.
“Stop being so pathetic.”
“Pathetic? Moi? Pot. Kettle. It’s been, what, two years?”
“Three years, four months . . .”
“You know the minutes too?” Andy laughs. “You are seriously screwed.”
“Of course I don’t. Shut up.”
“Why the hell haven’t you just asked her out?” Andy leans against the pile of books they’re supposed to be cataloguing. “You don’t even know if she . . .”
“What?” Zoë interrupts. “Plays for the other team, bats for the other side, swings the other—”
“I was going to say, ‘is attracted to spineless, blue-haired pixies.’” He shrugs. “But whatever.”
“‘Spineless’?” Zoë scowls. “Have a little sympathy. You’ve obviously never been rejected, never had your heart stamped on.”
“No.” Andy grins. “I can’t say I have. But then I am a love god. You know, I could probably cure you of your little problem, if you gave me half a chance.”
“Hey.” Zoë swivels around in her chair to face him. “Are you saying that my—”
“No, touchy. I meant your hideously heavy crush on that bookish midget, not your particular brand of sexuality.”
“She must be. You’ve been celibate for practically a decade.”
“I haven’t.”
“Have you had sex since you fell in love with her?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Well then,” Andy says, returning to the computer. “I rest my case.”
—
Albert must find Alba again. If he can’t find her himself, he’ll sell his signed first edition of A Moveable Feast and hire a private detective. If only he could knock on every door in Cambridge, if only he could put up posters. But of course he can’t. He has to keep himself a secret from Alba—he has to keep his promise. Even though her mother is dead, it’s still not his place to destroy her memories, to tell her what she might otherwise never know.
Albert sips his second glass of vodka and thinks about the night Alba was conceived. It’s the memory he’s visited most often over the years, so much so that he no longer remembers what was real and what he’s imagining. Was the wallpaper sky blue and Elizabeth’s dress deep red and dotted with roses? Were her nails painted to match her dress? Or are those details he has added? He’ll never know.
What Albert knows for certain is that, at the time, he had no idea he was creating his only daughter.
It was the second anniversary of the day they met. Albert rented a cottage in Brighton for the weekend. Elizabeth told her family she was visiting a friend in London. It was the first time they’d spent an uninterrupted forty-eight hours together. They walked along the beach, crunching stones beneath their bare feet, getting tiny pebbles caught between their toes. They stood in the sea, kissing as