Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

“She's sweet.” It comes out as a warning. My tone surprises me, but with his muscled bulk and lascivious smile, David looks like he eats librarians for a mid-morning snack. Plus she's Alex's sister, and I don't care how much they managed to smooth things over last night, David shouldn't go there.

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

I shake my head. The teensiest bit of regret starts to bloom in my gut. “She's single, I think she likes it that way. Andrea is an independent woman.” If she has any flings she keeps them well out of the way of her mum's house in Plaistow. I've probably only seen her with a guy twice in the last five years.

My warnings do nothing to cool David's interest. When I mention her independence his eyes light up. “She sounds perfect.”

Seeing Andrea through his eyes makes my stomach hurt. I feel guilty I've dismissed her as being a sister, a daughter. Now, the thought of her is blooming in my mind like a rose, and though I'm no matchmaker, I can't help but wonder what she'd think of him. Because from the little I know of David, she may be the one thing he needs.

“She is.”

“So what are the plans for the concert?”

“The festival? I haven't firmed anything up yet, but I'm hoping Andie might drive.” She's the only one of us with a car—as old and temperamental as it is. Alex will be going in the van with the band, but that still means four of us plus Max need to squeeze into Andrea's car. “It should be fun, though,” I say brightly. “Lots of good bands are playing there.”

I'm understating it. Landing a spot at the festival has been a huge coup; Alex is so excited he's practically vibrating. The whole band are constantly talking about record deals and YouTube discovery, and if I'm being truly honest I feel a little bit left out. Even worse, I feel as though I'm a dead weight, holding Alex down when he should be soaring.

If it wasn't for Max and me, I know he would have given up his building jobs by now. It makes sense he should be recording songs and travelling the country rather than carrying bricks and laying floorboards. Underlying it all—the black thought I keep trying to swallow away—is the awareness that I was the one who wanted a baby more than Alex. Even if he came around, I can't help but feel that one day he might resent me.

“I saw the list of bands, they're amazing.” David smiles, totally unaware of the shamed thoughts flashing through my mind. “It's going to be great, thanks so much for asking me.”

“You're welcome.” I mean it, I really do. “As long as you know you're second in command with baby duty. Amy's never changed a nappy in her life, and I can't see Andrea being a fan of dirty ones.”

“Dirty nappies I can do,” he agrees easily. “A small price to pay.”

* * *

The day passes in a blur of naps and baby rice, set to a soundtrack of gurgles and wails. When I glance in the mirror at seven o'clock I realise I haven't even brushed my hair, let alone put on any make up. Not that it matters; apart from my jaunt downstairs to see David, the farthest I've been all day is a trip out to the local shop to pick up a pint of milk.

When Max is finally asleep, I check my phone to see if Alex has called or texted. It's their night at the recording studio, so I'm not surprised when there's no message. I busy myself with cleaning up the kitchen, putting some bottles on to sterilise as I sip at a cup of tea. Apart from his night time feed, Max is finally weaned to the bottle, and I'm hoping to drop the final one, just as soon as he sleeps through the night.

Sleep. It seems like the Promised Land, a nirvana I can never reach. Alex's mum has suggested controlled crying, but the irony is I'm too tired to listen to his grizzles. Faced with a choice between a night awake list

ening to him cry, versus a short feed followed by blissful sleep, I'm going to take the easy way out.

At nine, I take a welcome shower, letting the hot water soothe my skin. Steam fills the cubicle like fog in a horror movie, rising up, seeping through the cracks. I stay in there for so long that even my towel is damp when I get out, and the glass is misted and opaque. There's the outline of a heart in the mirror, with an A above and an L below, and the sight makes me roll my eyes. I'm guessing Alex did it this morning, all happy and sated from our night time shenanigans.

I'm in my pyjamas by the time Alex gets home. He climbs the stairs to the flat like a ninja, because the first time I hear him is when his key slips into the lock. The mechanism clangs as he turns it, and I hear him having to lean on the door where the wood is stuck. It opens with a bang.

“Hey, babe. How was your day?” He shrugs off his coat and walks over, kissing my cheek. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. He smells of beer and smoke. Not the cigarette kind, either. He doesn't seem to notice my grimace, instead he flings himself into a chair, running his hand through his hair. “Max okay?”

“Fine.” My mood has turned on a sixpence. I've gone from mellowed out to annoyed in one breath. Alex knows how I feel about drugs. I've been working in a clinic for five years, for goodness sake; I've seen the effects they have on families, on relationships. Even the mildest of weed can destroy lives. And yes, I dabbled when I was younger—smoked pot and tried cocaine—but I haven't touched anything for years, haven't wanted to. I've seen too many people suffer as a result of them.

Alex is completely oblivious. He grabs the remote control from the coffee table and switches on the TV, flipping through the channels until he finds a football game. Crossing his legs, he puts his feet on the table, leaning back into his chair.

“How was the session?” It's an effort to keep my tone cordial.

“Yeah, it was good. We managed to lay down a couple of tracks.” His eyes are on the screen as he talks to me, as if I'm the distraction. It's no good, I can feel the anger simmering. If I don't say something I'm going to explode.

“Have you been smoking?”

This time he looks at me. Surprise lifts up his brow. “We shared a joint afterward.” He shrugs. No big deal, not to him.

“Who's we?” Now I feel like his mum. This is not what I want to be doing at half past ten on a Monday night.

“Me and Stu.” He mutes the TV, though I notice he doesn't turn it off altogether. “What's the problem anyway? It's not like I was stuffing my nose or injecting. It was only a joint, sweetheart.” He says the word with a sneer, cancelling out the endearment.

“Don't patronise me. I know people who have died from joints, or ended up with personality disorders. Why d'you think the stuff is banned?”