Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

“Sleep tight, babe.” I hear the hurt laced in his voice. It makes me want to tell him I'll give him a chance. To offer him a hint of hope. But instead I stay silent, ending the call with a slide of my finger.

Sleep is elusive that night.

* * *

The following day, there’s an emergency at work. A girl holes herself up in the bathroom, threatening to slash her wrists unless social services give her baby back. I spend three hours, leaning against the red-painted door, trying to talk her down.

I fail.

She ends up being blue-lighted to the accident and emergency room, while we all put on protective equipment to clean up the blood. All I can think about is her baby girl.

It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, each occasion makes me want to scream. We’re supposed to be here to help people, and yet there’s still a girl fighting for her life tonight.

By the time Max and I return home to our empty flat I realise there’s only one person I want to talk to, and not about the suicide, either. He’s been honest enough with me, it’s time to lay my cards on the table. To tell him what I’m really thinking.

Putting the kettle on, I warm up Max’s dinner—an elegant concoction of mashed carrot and potato—then I grab my phone and text Alex.

Can you come over tonight?

His reply is as fast as lightning. What time?

If you get here before seven you can put Max to bed.

He arrives at quarter to. While he finishes off the bedtime routine, I clear up the kitchen and pull a bottle of wine out of the fridge, filling two glasses and putting them on the counter. I need some liquid courage for the conversation we need to have. Perhaps Alex does, too.

When he strolls out of the bedroom, carrying a now-empty bottle of milk, I can see contentment softening his features. It’s the same expression I know I have after seeing Max sleeping cosily. The knowledge he’s safe and happy. Protected.

“Everything okay?” I ask, handing a glass to Alex. He raises his eyebrows at the gesture but doesn’t comment on it.

“He’s fast asleep. They must really wear him out at nursery.”

“Thank God,” I laugh out, lightly. “I’m still recovering from the last string of sleepless nights.”

Alex leans on the counter, his arms stretched out in front of him. The tendons in his forearms flex. “How are you doing?”

I take a long, deep sip of cool white wine. “It was a bad day at work. But I’ll be fine.” For now I need to concentrate on Alex. On Max. On finally getting everything out there. Over the past few days I’ve realised that hiding the one thing that’s still niggling at me isn’t only unfair, it’s counterproductive. It’s been weighing on my mind for too long.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I know he’s referring to work, but I nod anyway. “There’s something I need to show you.”

I already have the laptop out. I’m logged in to Facebook, and am on the group’s fan page. It looks as though it hasn’t been updated since Alex left the tour.

“What’s this?” Alex leans forward, eyes squinting he looks at the screen. “I haven’t seen this before.”

I guess that explains why he didn’t tell me about it.

“Amy found it. She’s been following you all on there.” I click on the photographs. “There’re lots of these.”

Alex doesn’t reply. Simply clicks through the pictures. There’s a smile on his mouth as he looks at them silently, as if he’s reliving the memories. “God, we look a right state,” he finally says, seeing a photo of them all half-asleep, eating breakfast at some diner in the middle of nowhere.

He clicks through a few more, following the progress of the tour in the same way I did weeks ago. With each image he sees, I feel the nervousness build, my stomach churning.

Finally, he comes to the night in Austin, shaking his head when he sees the photographs of him on stage. He’s never really liked seeing pictures of himself, and he scrolls through them furiously, missing the ones of the after-party.

“Go back,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest. He looks at me curiously, but does it anyway, slowly pressing the button on the laptop, until we’re back at the gig. And because the tension is killing me, I lean forward and scroll to the pictures at the bar, starting with the one of Stuart signing a groupie’s tits.

“Typical Stuart,” Alex mutters. “Why the hell did he post that one?”