The House at the End of Hope Street

Chapter Fifteen





The next morning Carmen wakes feeling lighter than she has in years. And she knows, before she even opens her eyes that, for doing as it asked, the house has given her a gift. She has no idea what it is, but she has a sense of where. Slipping out of bed, Carmen pads across the room, steps into the corridor and hurries into the living room. And there, by the bay windows overlooking the front garden, stands a baby grand piano.

She walks to it slowly, postponing the moment of joy, savoring every juicy second. She slides her fingers along the smooth golden wood, sending sparks of excitement through her hands. Carmen smoothes the back of her nightdress and sits on the black leather bench. The moment she touches her fingers to the keys she begins riffing chords, jumping octaves, speeding up and down the notes.

At last she stops, her hands held in midair as a shaft of sunlight slips across the wood. She stares at the line of dust motes that dance in and out of the light, mesmerized by the way they move. Gradually a memory rises up inside her, a flicker, the shadow of a dream. And as she starts to play again, Carmen sings a song remembered from long ago. And then she thinks of Alba, knowing what she has to do now.

—

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Writing,” Alba admits. There isn’t any point in keeping her desire a secret anymore, since she can’t seem to do it anyway. And today is the first of July. She can’t wait for too long; in six weeks she’ll never see Stella again. This thought brings tears to Alba’s eyes and she blinks them back.

“Well, okay. What do you want to write?”

“I don’t know.” Alba holds the pen between her fingers, clicking the lid. “I wanted it to take my mind off . . . things. But it’s not really working.”

“That’s because you need some inspiration first,” Stella says. “You need to live a little. You need to get into mischief, fall in love . . .”

“Mischief?” Alba repeats, as if the ghost is speaking a foreign language she’s not sure she wants to learn. “Love?”

“Exactly.”

“Did you do that, then?” Alba shifts the subject. “When you were alive?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Stella smiles. “All the time.”

Alba snaps on the pen lid with a triumphant click. “You said you couldn’t remember anything.”

“Did I?” Stella asks, unabashed. “Well, maybe some of it’s starting to come back to me now.”

Alba sits up. “Like what?”

“Just things.”

“What things?”

“You don’t want to hear debauched tales of my misspent youth. It’s all too sordid. It’d shock you.” But Stella smiles, knowing it’s time.

“Please,” Alba says, “stop teasing me.”

“Oh, all right, then.” Stella feigns a sigh of surrender. “So, I grew up rather like you, amidst a great deal of material wealth but very little love. I was sent to Cheltenham Ladies’ College just after my sixth birthday—”

“Really?” Alba’s surprised at the coincidence. “I was eight.”

“You were luckier than me, then. God, how I hated it, I ran away a dozen times. I was an only child ’til I was nine, then I came home one day to a baby sister. My parents hadn’t said anything. It was a bloody shock, to say the least.”

“Did you like her?”

“No.” Stella laughed. “I wanted to kill her. Once, I tried to smother her with a pillow, and I would have if her nanny hadn’t walked in.”

“Oh.” Alba thinks of her half siblings, how they must have hated her even more than that. She wonders when they found out the truth. She wonders if she’ll ever dare to speak to them again.

“Exactly,” Stella says. “But, luckily, Beth was a rather forgiving sort of girl and we made friends, until I loved her more than anyone else in the world. She was twelve when I died. She still looked for me around every corner and in every room, poor thing. But of course I wasn’t there, I was here.”

“How did you die?”

“Drugs, drink . . . all very clichéd, I’m afraid.” Stella shrugs. “But then it was the sixties, all the cool people were dying that way.”

“You died here, in the house?”

Stella nods. “Pills. Like Joplin and Monroe and Morrison . . .”

“But I thought . . .” Alba thinks of her mother and takes a deep breath. “Peggy said the house helps everyone—”

“With a few tragic exceptions, remember?” Stella says. “Well, I was one of those.”

“But,” Alba whispers, “what, how . . . ?”

“I wanted to be a singer,” Stella says. “Not a star. I just dreamt of writing songs and singing them. In clubs and cafés, that sort of thing.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have the guts I suppose. I didn’t think I was good enough to start with and I didn’t try to be any better. Maybe I was just lazy or terrified, or both.” She sighs. “So instead I fell in love with a few musicians, and followed them around the country and listened to them play and let them write songs about me, and pretended I didn’t know when they were fooling around. And I pretended to myself that it was good enough, that it was a life close enough to the one I really wanted. It wasn’t until I found myself here that I knew it wasn’t.”

“So why didn’t you change, when you came here?”

“Like I said, I was one of those exceptions. I didn’t—”

“But why couldn’t the house help you?” Alba’s voice starts to crack. “I thought it was supposed to take care of people, I thought it was supposed to help.”

“It does its best,” Stella says. “But it can’t save everyone. It shows people the way, it gives them a little nudge now and then, but the house can’t do everything. And some people don’t have what it takes to be happy. It’s not an easy thing, you know. It takes great courage and determination, to keep looking for light in all the darkness of life.”

“And you didn’t have it?”

“No, not then, I didn’t,” Stella admits. “But don’t worry about me. I had my chance, and it was a good one. I didn’t suffer massive deprivations or diseases. I had a pretty comfortable time of it, all in all. Just like you. That’s why I’m a perfect example for—”

“Me?” Alba frowns.

“Exactly,” Stella smiles. “Most of my misery was self-inflicted, too, so—”

“Hey! That’s not—”

“Fair?” Stella interrupts. “Harsh, perhaps, but entirely fair. You didn’t have the best childhood, admittedly, but it wasn’t hideous. And you’re all grown up now, so it’s up to you to decide if you’re going to at last let go of all that and get on with your life.”

“But,” Alba protests, “you just said it wasn’t easy.”

“Not for some, true. Not for Sylvia and Dorothy”—Stella nods at the ceiling—“and the one in the tower.”

“Who?” Alba’s frown deepens. “Peggy?”

“No, of course not,” Stella laughs. “Never mind, the point is that some people don’t have what it takes to live happy lives, but you do. You’ve got everything you could possibly need. You’ve got greatness inside you, and love ahead of you, if only you’ll stop running from it.”

Alba chews at her fingernail.

“Speaking of which, I know what’ll give you some inspiration to write. Go to the library.” She nods at Alba’s notebook. And, although the pen is still capped in Alba’s hand, a list of titles and authors is now written down on the page.

“The library?” Alba frowns again. “But I’m sure I can find them upstairs.”

“No, you won’t.” Stella hides a smile. “You’ll have to go to the library for these.”

—

“I’ve come for more novels.” Alba hands Zoë the list. She still can’t understand why, given the few thousand novels that had recently materialized in her bedroom, she couldn’t find them at home. “Oh, and to return these.” She places the small stack of Forster novels on the counter.

“Did you love them?” Zoë asks.

“A Room with a View was my favorite. I loved Maurice, too; it made me cry,” Alba says, a little surprised at herself for admitting it. She thinks back to the train journey, Inverie and her father. The detective hasn’t been in touch yet, but it’s been less than a week, so she keeps telling herself not to worry.

“Really?” Zoë asks, hopeful, wondering if the fact that Alba loved Maurice might be a sign. She glances down at the list: On the Road, Reality Sandwiches, Nowhere Man and Other Voices, Other Rooms, then turns to Andy, who sits behind the computer.

“Will you cover me while I nip down to the stacks?”

Andy shrugs and grunts his acquiescence.

“That’s great.” Alba leans against the counter. “Thanks.”

As Zoë disappears, Andy turns to Alba. “Don’t you wonder why she never makes you wait for books, just like every other silly bugger?”

Alba is surprised by his tone. Perhaps their love affair has gone sour, perhaps Zoë broke his heart. She shrugs and steps away, pretending to be absorbed in reading announcements pinned to the notice board on a nearby wall: Violin Concert of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Tiddlywinks Championship at Corpus Christi, Guitar Lessons in Exchange for Spanish Lessons. Alba remembers Stella saying she once hitchhiked all the way from Spain to England.

Someone taps her on the shoulder. Alba turns in shock.

“Desculpa,” Carmen says. “Sorry, Peggy tells me I find you here.”

“Oh.” Alba stares, slightly nervous. Since that night in The Archer, after the embarrassment of running away, she’s been sneaking around the house, studiously avoiding Carmen.

“I want you to help me write a song.”

“A song? Me?” Alba stares at her, incredulous. She wonders if Stella has set her up, somehow planting the idea in Carmen’s mind. Or the house. The house is full of tricks. “But why?”

“Because I want to be a singer.”

“Oh,” Alba says. It doesn’t surprise her that Carmen should be a singer. It’s a suitably glamorous ambition for someone so sexy. Even if Alba could sing she’d never do it in public. The very idea of standing on stage while people stare makes her feel faint.

“Sim.” Carmen says, “I have a audition, a television show. With these two crazy ladies I meet. They will want to dress with horns and sing operas, if I don’t do anything different. So I must find something. I play piano, I have tune, but I don’t write words. Especially not English words, and . . .”

Alba stares at Carmen, wondering what on earth she’s talking about.

“Anyway, I need some song—qual e a palavra?— lyrics. I need a writer,” Carmen says. “I hope you might try.”

“Just the words.” Alba muses on the possibility. “A bit like a poem, you mean?”

“Sim.” Carmen nods, recalling Peggy’s suggestion. “A love poem.”

“Love?” Alba frowns.

“Yes.”

Alba thinks of Charles, who told her she shouldn’t waste her time on something she had no talent for. Then she thinks of Albert, the poet, and ponders if perhaps she has some untapped abilities she can draw on. It’s the thought of Albert that decides it, the thought of creating a connection, however distant, between them. “Okay,” Alba says. “How long do we have?”

“Three weeks.”

Alba’s eyes widen. She has absolutely no idea if she can do this. She’s almost entirely certain she can’t. But she gives a little shrug, attempting nonchalance even though her heart is beating so hard in her chest Alba can barely hear her own voice say, “I’ll try. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

“Excelente, excelente.” Carmen grins and kisses a very startled Alba on the cheek.

—

Two days later they stand in the living room at the piano. The pipes rattle and shake with excitement, the lights flicker on and off and Alba smiles.

“It’s beautiful.” She runs her finger slowly along the honey-colored wood. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Sim.” Carmen nods. “It is very rare. Steinway. Roses wood. Very rare.” She sits, then pats the black leather. “Sit with me, por favor.”

Alba inches onto the stool. They sit side by side in silence as Carmen gazes at the piano with a reverence reserved for religious relics. Alba waits. “So, um,” she says finally, “what do we do now?”

Instead of answering, Carmen starts to play, pressing the keys so that the notes reverberate in the wood and echo softly through the air. Shivers of excitement run down Alba’s spine as if she’s being given tiny electric shocks, rooting her to the spot. The music sweeps around her in a thousand different hues: red notes in every shade soar above her head, yellow notes sink to her feet, green and blue notes linger in the air between them. At last, the piece reaches a crescendo and, as she hits the highest note, Carmen stops. Alba exhales, suddenly realizing she’s been holding her breath.

After every echo of every note has evaporated, leaving a multicolored mist that settles and slowly disperses, Alba finally speaks. “My God, did you write that?”

Carmen nods, her fingers still resting on the keys.

“It was completely . . . utterly, purely magical. Your music, it made me feel . . .” She’s never heard anyone play anything the way Carmen just did. It filled her with emotions she’s never known before, like an empty glass filling with wine: sweet, fruity, intoxicating. She has to taste it again.

Carmen smiles. “I think you do like music, then, no?”

Alba’s momentarily confused, then remembers the lie she told. She thinks of how afraid she’d been of Carmen then. Now it seems like years ago. “Oh, yes,” she says softly, “sorry about that.”

Still a little dizzy from the music, Alba glances at the wall above Carmen’s head and there she sees it—the photograph that, with the exception of Stella, she’s been most keen to find: Agatha Christie is standing in the front garden, a tiny smile on her lips as she glances toward the midnight glory. It’s a sign. Discovering the author who’s supposedly sold more books than any other writer in the world except Shakespeare is a sign she should do something equally brilliant and bold. Or at least take a baby step in that general direction.

“So,” Alba says, realizing she hasn’t spoken for several minutes, “why don’t you tell me about this song?”

Later, Alba glances around at all the books in her bedroom, wishing she could imbibe their brilliance through osmosis. How can she write a love song when she’s never been kissed, when her only experience of romance has happened entirely in her head?

It had taken Alba a week to find the courage to confront the object of her affection. She had hurried across the quad, clutching The Journal of Modern History, her eyes on the ground, for the first time not admiring the intricately carved turrets and spires above her, the sculptures of gargoyles and saints, flowers, crosses and coats of arms. She scuttled past the chapel with its dozen stained-glass windows reaching fifty feet to the roofline, its delicate lattice of stone that took nearly a century to build. Her shoes slipped on the cobbled paving as she ran.

When Alba reached Dr. Skinner’s office, she stopped. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all. Perhaps her supervisor had submitted her name and the editors forgot to use it. Maybe she should wait, maybe she should come back when she’s calm and quietly ask what had really happened. There would be a sensible explanation, Alba was nearly certain. But she needed to know it or she wouldn’t sleep for another week.

So, very softly, Alba knocked and waited. She heard the voices inside the room stop talking, and imagined her supervisor scowling.

“Come in!”

Alba nudged the door open, poking her head into the room. Dr. Skinner sat behind a desk. A student sat on the battered leather sofa across the room.

“I need to talk to you,” Alba whispered into the silence.

“Can’t it wait?”

She held the magazine up.

“Oh.” Dr. Skinner turned to the student. “Bugger off, Nick.”

Nick scowled, apparently sorry to miss the particulars, but picked up his bag and hurried out.

“Sit.”

Alba sat.

“So, I suppose this is about my not crediting you.”

Alba stiffened, her last pinch of hope extinguished. The room went white, bleached of all color, as if she was looking through fog. So it was intentional. Calculated. Cold. Alba was speechless.

“Your research was good,” Dr. Skinner said, “but not enough to credit your name alongside mine. That would suggest we wrote it jointly, which wasn’t the case. Now, if you felt you deserved more than that, I’m sorry, but that’s how these things go.”

By the end of this ridiculous speech, Alba had found her voice again. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, biting each word between her teeth. “We didn’t write it jointly. I wrote it. And you copied every word.”

“I did nothing of the sort.” Dr. Skinner laughed.

“You did,” Alba said, barely audible. “You did.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Of course I am. I’ve got, I’ve got . . .”

“What?” Her supervisor leaned across the desk. “You’ve got what?”

“My . . . Give me my notes back,” Alba begged. “Give them back.” For the first time in her career she deeply regretted resisting technology. If she’d written it all up on a computer instead of only on paper, she’d now have backups, files, proof.

“I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll go to the dean,” Alba mumbled.

“By all means.” Dr. Skinner gave a wry smile. “An excellent idea. In fact, I’m having lunch with the dean this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

“I don’t believe . . . How could you steal from me?” Alba felt tears pricking. In a moment they’d be spilling down her cheeks. And if she could do nothing else, Alba wouldn’t allow that. She wouldn’t let Dr. Skinner see her broken.

“I’m getting a little tired of this now,” Dr. Skinner sighed. “And if you insist on this behavior, it’ll be impossible for me to keep supervising you.”

“How can you say that?” Alba asked. “I, I . . .” I did it all for you, I didn’t ask for anything, and I loved you, I love you.

“Well, we need to reconsider our situation, don’t we? I don’t think this is quite working, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What?” Alba gaped. “What do you—”

“Us. This.” Dr. Skinner gave a small shrug. “I think it is time to part ways.”

“But my MPhil, my . . . what am I supposed to do?”

“You could find another supervisor, dependent on my recommendation, of course. Which, after your accusation, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly give you.” Dr. Skinner turned away to shuffle through papers, as though it was already over and they had never known or meant a single thing to each other.

“You, you . . .” Alba shook, unable to get the words out. “I, I, I . . .” But she couldn’t find words that came within a thousand degrees of how she felt.

So instead she turned and fled.

—

It’s been a week since Blake and Carmen worked the same shift. He’s arranged it that way, taking a little time out to focus exclusively on Greer. But now he’s ready to get back in the game. Having waited until after closing time on Greer’s day off, and sending everyone else home, he finds her in the wine cellar.

“Hey, sugar.” He grins from the doorway. “How’s it going?”

Carmen just shrugs and lifts another box onto her pile for re-stocking.

“Look, I’m sorry it’s been a while. I had some personal stuff to sort out. But now it’s done I’d love to see you again.”

Carmen looks up at him: the green eyes, the blond curls, the creamy complexion: white swan to Tiago’s raven, perfect for erasing his black imprint from her body and soul. But she can play this game, too, and contrition is called for. Groveling.

“I don’t think so.” Carmen turns away.

“Look, I know I don’t deserve it.” Blake steps toward her. “But give me another chance. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

Carmen raises an eyebrow. “And how do I know you are worth it?”

Blake tries to gauge whether she’s just toying with him. But he can’t read her. Unlike Greer, she seems to be able to see through his smile and into his cold, dark heart. “Try me and see,” he says. “I’m well worth it.”

Carmen holds Blake’s gaze, then steps forward to kiss him. For a second he’s too shocked to respond but, quickly recovering, he presses his chest against hers and kisses her back, strong and deep and desperate.

“Ow!” Blake steps back, his finger to his lip where she bit him.

“Desculpa.” Carmen laughs. “I not mean to hurt you, at least not like that.” She gives him a wicked smile. She wants to scratch him, to tear at his skin and draw blood. She’s full of fire and fight. All she can think of now is Tiago, how much he hurt her, how much she wanted to hurt him. Fury burns through her body, lighting up the tips of her fingers as though she’s been ignited and could singe his skin. “I want to—”

“Yes,” he whispers, stepping forward to kiss her again. “I know exactly what you want.”