Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

“What the fuck do you know about it?”

“A lot more than you do. I know when someone's reached the end of her tether. I know when a woman's suffering from depression.”

Oh. I really do need to get up. I push myself to sitting, letting my head fall back against the wall. Bracing myself on the bed, I shuffle out until I'm standing. My legs wobble, but I don't fall down.

“She's not depressed.”

“Oh yes, she is. She was diagnosed today. So while you've been off playing Jimi Hendrix, your wife's been crying herself to sleep, blaming herself for everything that's gone wrong.”

Then there's silence. I walk to the door, curling my fingers around the jamb, pushing it open with a creak. Standing there, leaning on the painted wood, I watch as my husband and my neighbour, alerted by the groaning hinges, both turn to stare at me.

I don't need a mirror to know how bad I look right now. I can feel the tangles in my hair where it is stuck to my cheek, and the way my eyes sting from almost twenty-four hours of tears. But more than that, I can see it in Alex's expression, the way his eyes widen and his jaw drops.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I croak. And it's weird, because in spite of everything, I actually feel the best I have all day. Not quite human, but pretty close. It's amazing what a few hours of sleep can do. “Where's Max?”

Alex points to his buggy. “I was going to take him up.” For some reason I bristle at that. I have to remind myself Max is Alex's baby, too. Even if I seem more aware of it than Alex, sometimes.

“Okay.”

“You coming?”

Throughout the conversation, David remains silent. But this time he turns to look at me. “You can stay here if you want.”

Maybe it's the fact I'm still half asleep, but this whole conversation seems slightly off kilter; the kind of inane, incomprehensible words you'd hear in a dream. I have to remind myself this is reality, that Alex is asking me to go upstairs with him, and that David is offering me a refuge.

I have no bloody clue what to do.

I should go back up. Explain calmly and quietly about my possible diagnosis, suggest we both take a breather from accusations and yelling. But a part of me wants to crawl back into David's bed and bury my head beneath the duvet, because I want to block it all out.

“Thank you for letting me use your bed,” I tell David. “I haven't slept so well in ages.”

“Anytime.”

“But I'll go back upstairs with Max. I need to get my stuff ready for work tomorrow.” When I reach the buggy, Max is awake, playing with a little hanging toy I've clipped to the frame. His breathing sounds better and he doesn't look as miserable as before. In fact, as soon as he sees me he smiles. It feels like a break in the clouds, a blast of warmth on a snowy day. I crouch down and nuzzle him, rubbing my cheek against his. He makes a grab for my hair and giggles.

This is what it's about. Not the arguments, or the depression or a possible tour halfway across the world. Nothing else really matters except Max being happy and healthy. “Come on, little man. Let's take you up and get you bathed. Get that disgusting crust off your nose.”

He burbles something incomprehensible and pulls at my ear.

“I'll do his bath,” Alex says. “You can put your feet up and watch some telly.”

Um, who is this and what has he done with my husband?

“Okay?” It comes out as a question.

“See you later, David.” From the tone in Alex’s voice I can tell things are still frosty between them.

David doesn't reply, walking over and rubbing Max's head. “See you later, little fella.” Then he pulls me up, giving me a quick hug. “If I hear any shouting I'll be up in a shot,” he whispers in my ear.

“There won't be, not from me, I'm too tired.”

“It's not you I'm worried about.”

As he still holds me, I look over his shoulder, catching Alex's eye. His jaw is tense, his lips a bleached, pale line, and I can tell how unhappy he is about this situation. But instead of pulling back like I normally would, I squeeze David tighter, because he was here for me when I needed him, and I'm so grateful for that.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his shoulder. “For everything.” I step back and grab my bag, following Alex as he pushes the buggy out of David's flat.