The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,95
sudden stop and Alba, caught unawares, bumps into her. They move closer together, until they are only an inch apart. As Zoë reaches for her hand, hundreds of sparks of sunlight explode in the air around them. “Oh,” Alba whispers, as she finally feels it.
Stella was right. Her heart has burst open, she’s been knocked for six, yet feels safe, loved and more alive than she’s ever felt before. And Alba knows that whatever this turns into now, whatever happens next, it has been the very best afternoon of her life.
—
That night, creeping down the corridor to the bathroom, Alba stops by Daphne to give her a gloriously detailed account of the day’s events. When Alba finishes, the author claps. “But you didn’t kiss?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, all in good time,” Daphne says, “It’s lovely anyway, to at last see you smile.”
“Yes,” Alba says, “it’s rather nice for me too. I’m thinking . . .”
“Yes?”
“The song, it’s not,” Alba says, “not . . .”
“Not what?”
“I don’t know.” Alba shrugs. “It’s not quite true.”
“Ah.” Daphne smiles. “Now you’re discovering the great secret of great writing: one line of true feeling is worth a thousand pages of clever thinking.”
“Yes.” Alba nods. “Exactly. I need to rewrite it, but I don’t have time.”
“Why don’t you give it a go?” Daphne suggests. “You might surprise yourself.”
That night and the next, Alba stays awake, channeling her feelings of first love into her rewrite of Carmen’s song. Finally, at four in the morning the day of the show, Alba thinks she might have it: something beautiful, real and true. She opens her bedroom door, listening for the muted music drifting out of the living room—she knows Carmen plays into the morning hours with the muffler pedal—and, seeing bright red notes floating down the dimly lit hall, dashes on tip-toes toward them.
“I’ve got it.” Alba flies into the room, holding an open notebook above her head, the pages flapping like wings. “I’ve got it!”
“O que e?” Carmen frowns. “You have one verse more?”
“No—a whole new song.”
“Really?” Carmen brightens. “Show me.”
Alba hands her the notebook, virtually hopping up and down with excitement. Carmen quickly scans the sentences, pausing now and then to translate a word, then begins to play. And when Carmen at last falls silent, Alba’s so thrilled she can’t help but clap. “Brilliant, that’s absolutely brilliant!”
“Sim,” Carmen nods, delighted. “This one is perfecto.”
—
“A little more to the left,” Peggy says, “yes, that’s right. Stay there.”
“Why are we doing this?” Alba asks, trying not to sound as embarrassed as she feels.
“I’d think that you, of all people, would understand the importance of documenting everyone who stays inside the house.” Peggy steps back a little further from the kitchen table. Alba sits at one end with Carmen on one side of her and Greer on the other. “You’re the one who spends so much time talking to all the women who’ve lived here.”
“Yes, but they’re important women, great writers and . . .” Alba sighs. She hates having her photo taken. “No one’s going to want to talk to us.” She glances at Carmen and Greer, who are studiously avoiding catching each other’s eye. “Well, I mean, me anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Peggy says. “I think the next generation will be wanting to talk to you. And I think you’ll have a lot to say to them.”
Alba scowls slightly, though secretly she’s flattered. The other two, so intent on avoiding each other, don’t hear anything their landlady is saying. Then, suddenly, Carmen turns to Greer.
“Okay, you must please forgive me,” she pleads. “You must understand I did not know anything, I did not plan anything. I did not want to hurt you. Please believe this.”
Greer doesn’t lift her eyes off the table. “I do,” she says softly. “I do.”
“So why you won’t speak to me?” Carmen asks. “Why you won’t look at me?”
“Because I can’t, not yet,” Greer says. “Because if I do I think of him. I think of you kissing him. And I’d rather not right now. But it’s not your fault, I know that. I just need a little time, okay?”
“Sim,” Carmen nods, knowing that time is the one thing she no longer has. “Okay.”
“All right then, enough chitter-chat,” Peggy pipes up. “Smile, everyone!” She clicks the camera shutter then looks up at the awkward little group sitting around her kitchen table.
“Oh, well.” She sighs. “I suppose that will have to do.”
—
That night Greer leans against the wardrobe with the enormous book of