Alexandra screwed the letter up into a ball, holding it in her fist as she thought about what a beast her father was. He’d been happy to forget her for years until he needed money, and now he wanted what little she had of her mother’s so that he could sell it.
She fingered the diamonds in her lobes, the earrings she’d worn every day since her aunt had gifted them to her. There were so many items she wished she’d thought to pack when she’d left Greece—rings or necklaces, even her mother’s wristwatch—but she’d only been a girl and the only thing that had meant anything to her then had been her mother’s perfume, so she could still smell her.
When Alexandra stood, she heard something that made all the tiny hairs on her arms rise.It’s him. She knew it the second she heard the lilting sound of bow against string, the deep, enchanting notes of the cello that came to her on the wind, as if the music was embracing her as she stood and listened.
She hadn’t expected anyone to be there, had thought they’d be practising elsewhere. Alexandra walked slowly towards the open door, surprised it had been left open. She could only guess that they were trying to let the fresh air in, which had inadvertently let the music out.
A little voice in her head told her to turn and catch the bus, but her feet seemed to be acting of their own accord. She walked as quietly as she could, glancing around to make sure no one saw her, but there was no one there, not so much as a cleaner mopping the floors. Alexandra kept her eyes down as she hurried to the door that led into the theatre from the foyer, the soloist still playing, the music as haunting as it was beautiful.
Her final step took her to the edge of the door. She pressed herself against it, trying to make herself invisible, her eyes trained on the stage. It had been months since she’d seen him now, months of only remembering what he looked like; of imagining his fingers against her skin; of inhaling and trying to recall the scent of his aftershave.
The music abruptly stopped, and Alexandra found herself holding her breath. But then it started again, from the beginning, and she continued to watch, indulging in the way his hair flopped slightly over his forehead when he dipped his head low to play. She gave herself a few more minutes, listening and telling herself that the only person she was harming was herself.
Bernard had no idea she was there, couldn’t see her from his position on the stage, even if he was looking. And as much as she wished that he could somehow sense her presence, she knew that it was a childish thought.
Alexandra turned before the end of the piece. It seemed sadder today, the deep notes pulling her into their darkness, and the lighter notes barely releasing her. But however they did or didn’t make her feel, the way Bernard played them was flawless.
She took a few steps backwards before ducking her head and turning to leave, but as she did so she saw a man walking quickly towards her. It was the conductor; she’d performed her audition in front of him.
‘Hello there! I’m sorry, no one is allowed in here!’ he called out.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, lowering her head even more as she hurried to the door, not looking back, refusing to wonder if Bernard might be walking from the stage, about to take a break. If he was, they would have been hardly a handful of steps apart.
Go back. Tell him what happened. Show him what happened.
Alexandra began to cry then, walking as quickly as she could back to the bus stop, one hand placed slightly beneath her stomach to support it. It felt lower all of a sudden, and a sharp pain kept coming and going across the side of her abdomen. She estimated she still had about another three or even four weeks to go before the baby arrived, so she put the pains down to her heartache and the pace at which she’d been moving down the street, but when she boarded the bus, the sharpness made her pause.
‘Are you all right?’
A concerned older woman stared at her from one of the seats on the bus, but Alexandra just nodded, finding a vacant seat and gritting her teeth. It was a twenty-minute journey back to Hope’s House, although it felt much longer, every bump making her pain intensify, and if she wasn’t imagining it, the pain was coming in faster waves now than it had before.
When the bus finally pulled up to her stop, she forced her feet to move, pausing every few seconds before getting off the bus and hobbling down the road. She pounded against the front door when she finally reached Hope’s House, as she tried to open it.
‘Hope!’ she cried.
Alexandra stumbled inside, leaning back against the door as the biggest wave of pain she’d experienced yet grasped hold of her, as if a fist had tightened inside her stomach.
‘Alex?’ Hope came rushing down the stairs then. ‘Alex! What’s wrong?’
‘I think,’ she said through gritted teeth, her breath hissing from her lungs, ‘that the baby is coming.’
Hope frowned and rushed closer, placing her hand over Alexandra’s stomach. ‘It’s a bit earlier than expected, and—’
A loud, guttural groan escaped from Alexandra’s lips, her legs almost buckling as pain gripped her abdomen again.
‘Let’s get you to your room,’ Hope said, her voice soft and calm as she took hold of her arm and guided her up the stairs. ‘It appears that this baby of yours is in a hurry to see the world.’
28
SIX DAYS LATER
Alexandra was numb. She stared out of the window, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails may well have drawn blood.Six days. Six days she’d loved and nursed her little girl, six days she had known what it was to be a mother, and now it was over as if it had never happened at all.
Her bags were packed, both neatly placed near the door, but she didn’t want to leave the room. It smelt of Madeline; her sweet, milky, newborn scent seeming to waft around her. Her breasts hurt, aching with the milk that she would never feed her with, but most of all her arms ached from not holding the baby she already loved so fiercely with all her heart.
It was only now that she understood why her mother had looked at her with such tenderness, why she’d sometimes caught her watching her when she was reading or playing: it was the same way she’d found herself staring at her own child. If there was a gift born from her pain, it was that becoming a mother had brought back so many memories of her own mama, memories that she’d once feared had been lost.
‘Alexandra?’
