What is her problem?
She knows the deal; she’s known me long enough. A quick tumble between the sheets isn’t going to change how I feel about her. I love her…in my own way, but as a friend, a good friend.
I scowl. I haven’t called her. I don’t want to. I don’t know what to say.
Coward. The voice of my conscience whispers. I need to put this right. Above me the shimmers from the Thames bob and weave, free and easy. Taunting me. Reminding me of what I’ve lost.
Freedom.
And what I have now.
Responsibility.
Shit.
Guilt overwhelms me. It’s an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling—Kit has bequeathed everything to me. Everything. And Caroline has nothing from his estate. She’s my brother’s wife. And we fucked. No wonder I feel guilty. And deep down I know she feels it, too. That’s why she left in the middle of the night without waking me, without saying good-bye. If only the girl beside me would do the same.
I quickly type out a text to Caro.
Busy today. You OK?
It’s five in the morning. Caroline will be asleep. I’m safe. I’ll deal with her later today…or tomorrow.
Heather stirs, and her eyelids flitter open.
“Hi.” She gives me a tentative smile. I reciprocate, but her smile fades. “I should go,” she says.
“Go?” Hope swells in my chest. “You don’t have to go.” I manage not to sound disingenuous.
“I do. I have to work, and I don’t think my red dress will cut it in the office.” She sits up, clutching the silk quilt to conceal her curves. “That was…good, Maxim. If I leave my number, will you call me? I’d rather speak on the phone than message on Tinder.”
“Of course,” I lie smoothly. I pull her face to mine and kiss her tenderly. Her smile is bashful. Rising, she wraps the quilt securely around her body and starts to gather her clothes from the floor.
“Shall I call you a cab?” I ask.
“I can Uber.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Okay, thank you. I’m going to Putney.”
She tells me her address, I get up, slip on my discarded jeans, and taking my phone, leave the bedroom to give her some privacy. It’s strange how some women behave the morning after: shy and quiet. She’s no longer the lascivious, demanding siren of the night before.
Once I’ve ordered a car I wait, staring out across the dark Thames. When she finally appears, she hands me a scrap of paper. “My number.”
“Thanks.” I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Your car will be here in five minutes.”
She stands awkwardly, her postcoital shyness taking hold. As the silence stretches between us, she surveys the room, looking anywhere but at me.
“This is a lovely flat. Airy,” she says, and I know that we’ve resorted to chitchat to fill the awkwardness. She spots my guitar and the piano. “You play?” She walks over to the baby grand.
“Yes.”
“That’s why you’re so good with your hands,” she says. Then frowns as if she’s realized that she’s spoken aloud, and her cheeks flush a fetching pink.
“Do you play?” I ask, ignoring her comment.
“No—I never made it further than recorder group in year two.” Relief softens her features, probably because I ignored her comment about my hands. “And all that?” She points to my decks and the iMac on a desk in the corner of the room.
“I DJ.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Couple of times a month at a club in Hoxton.”
“Hence all the vinyl.” She glances at the shelved wall housing my record collection.
I nod.
“And the photography?” She waves a hand at the black-and-white landscapes that hang on large canvases in the drawing room.
“Yes. And occasionally on the other side of the camera.”
She looks confused.
“Modeling. Editorial, mainly.”
“Oh, that makes sense. You really are a man of many parts.” She grins, feeling a little more confident. She should. She’s a goddess.
“Jack of all trades,” I reply with a self-deprecating smile, and her grin vanishes, replaced by a puzzled frown.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
Wrong? What the hell is she talking about? “No. Nothing.” My phone buzzes, and it’s a text to let me know her car has arrived. “I’ll call you,” I say as I pick up her jacket and hold it open for her to shrug on.
“No you won’t. But don’t worry. That’s Tinder for you. I had fun.”
“Me, too.” I’m not about to contradict her.
I follow her to the front door. “Do you want me to walk you down?”
“No thanks. I’m a big girl. Good-bye, Maxim. It was nice knowing you.”
“Same here…Heather.”
“Well done.” She beams, pleased that I’ve remembered her name, and it’s impossible not to return her smile. “That’s better,” she says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Reaching up, she gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek. She turns and teeters on her high heels toward the lifts. I frown at her departing figure, watching her fine arse move beneath her red dress.
Find what I’m looking for? What the hell does that mean?
I’ve got all this. I’ve just had you. It will be someone else tomorrow. What more do I need?
For some unknown reason, her words irritate me, but I shake them off and head back to bed, relieved that she’s gone. As I strip off my jeans and slip between the sheets, her challenging parting words echo through my mind.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Where the fuck did that come from?
I’ve just inherited a vast estate in Cornwall, an estate in Oxfordshire, another in Northumberland, and a small portion of London—but at what cost?
Kit’s pale, lifeless face surfaces in my imagination.
Shit.
So many people are now relying on me, too many, far too many: tenant farmers, estate workers, household staff in four houses, the developers in Mayfair….
Hell.
Fuck you, Kit. Fuck you for dying.
I close my eyes as I fight back unshed tears, and with Heather’s parting words ringing in my head I fall into a stupor.
Chapter Two
Alessia digs her hands farther into the pockets of Michal’s old anorak in a vain attempt to warm her cold fingers. Huddled in her scarf, she trudges through the freezing winter drizzle toward the apartment block on Chelsea Embankment. Today is Wednesday, her second day here without Krystyna, and she is heading back to the big apartment with the piano.
In spite of the weather, she’s feeling a sense of achievement because she’s survived the cramped and crowded train journey without her usual anxiety. She’s beginning to understand that this is what London is like. There are too many people, too much noise, and too much traffic. But worst of all, no one speaks to anyone else, except to say “Excuse me” if they jostle her or “Move down the carriage, please.” Everyone hides behind their free newspaper or listens to music on headphones or stares at their phones or electronic books, avoiding all eye contact.
That morning Alessia had been lucky enough to find a seat on the train, but the woman beside her had spent much of the journey shrieking into her phone about her unsuccessful date the night before. Alessia had ignored her and read the free newspaper to improve her Englis
h, but she’d wished she could listen to music through headphones and not this woman’s loud whining. Once she finished the paper, she’d closed her eyes and daydreamed of majestic mountains dotted with snow and pastures where the air was scented with thyme and filled with the hum of honeybees. She misses home. She misses the peace and quiet. She misses her mother, and she misses her piano.
Her fingers flex in her pockets as she recalls her warm-up piece, hearing the notes loud and clear in her mind and seeing them in blazing color. How long has it been since she played? Her excitement builds as she thinks of the piano waiting for her in the apartment.
She makes her way through the entrance of the old building toward the elevator, barely able to contain her enthusiasm, and then up to the top-floor apartment. For a few hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, this wonderful place with its large airy rooms, dark wooden floors, and baby grand piano is all hers. She unlocks the door, poised to switch off the alarm, but to her surprise there’s no warning tone. Perhaps the system’s broken or it’s not been set. Or…No. She realizes to her horror that the owner must be at home. Listening hard, trying to detect any signs of life, she stands in the wide hallway that’s hung with black-and-white photographic landscapes. She hears nothing.
Mirë.
No. “Good.” English. Think in English. Whoever lives here must have gone to work and forgotten to set the alarm. She’s never met the man, but she knows he has a good job, because the apartment is huge. How else can he afford it? She sighs. He might be rich, but he’s a complete slob. She’s been here three times already, twice with Krystyna, and each time the apartment is a mess and requires hours of tidying and cleaning.
The gray day is seeping through the skylight at the end of the hall, so Alessia flicks the switch and the crystal chandelier above her bursts into life, illuminating the hallway. She peels off her woolen scarf and hangs it up with her anorak in the closet beside the front door. From her plastic shopping bag, she pulls out the old sneakers that Magda has given her, and after taking off her wet boots and socks she slips them on, grateful that they are dry so her frozen feet can warm up. Her thin jersey top and T-shirt are no match for the cold. She rubs her arms briskly to bring some life back into them as she makes her way through the kitchen into the laundry room. There she dumps her shopping bag on the counter. Out of it she pulls the ill-fitting nylon housecoat that Krystyna bequeathed her and puts it on, then fastens a pale blue scarf around her head in an effort to keep her thick braid in check. From the cupboard beneath the sink, she takes out the cleaning caddy, and from the top of the washing machine she grabs the laundry basket and heads straight to his bedroom. If she hurries, she can finish the apartment before it’s time to leave and the piano will be hers for a short while.