Broken Chords (Love in London 2)

Poppy is my friend Beth’s replacement, as Beth has moved to Brighton to start a new life. Though she seems a nice girl, somehow we don’t gel as Beth and I did. Which is a shame, because I could do with some new friends.

Elaine finishes making the coffees, throwing the teaspoons in the dishwasher and wiping down the sides. I try not to laugh at her meticulousness; we both know the place is going to look like a stink hole by lunchtime. “There you go. One coffee, black, no sugar. Is that right?”

“It’s what I need,” I say grimly, taking the cup and letting the bitter fluid burn my lips. “If I’m going to stay awake for the next eight hours.”

My office is on the first floor, at the top of a long flight of stairs. Though it’s been used occasionally during my maternity leave, there’s still an aroma of staleness to it when I open the door. A light covering of dust lies on top of my textbooks—where I haven’t pulled them out at all in the past six months. It feels as if I’m walking into Miss Havisham's dining room.

Even my chair seems odd. Harder than I remember, stiffer when I try to spin. I sit at my desk and drum my fingers on the table. I should check my emails, re-read some case notes, but all I really want is a hug from my best friend.

But she isn't here.

I met Beth nearly five years ago, when she started working at the clinic. I can still remember her first day, the way her eyes widened as I showed her around, the dip of her lip as I explained the range of abuse we dealt with. Back then she was still recovering from the drug-related death of her friend, a death she blamed herself for. It took her years to accept it was a tragic accident, to forgive herself for not being there when he died.

I suppose I saw something of myself in her. Two years earlier, I'd suffered my own tragedy when my mum died, and like

Beth I'd found it difficult to pull myself out of my misery. If it hadn't been for Alex, I may never have succeeded. Maybe that's why we became friends. She liked my strength, and I knew she could find her own. We became so close, she even moved in with us for a while when she had nowhere else to go, and I loved the way we would all talk into the night. The way Alex liked her as much as I did.

Likes her. She's not dead. Just moved away.

I miss her so much. I know she's happy, living in Brighton with her lovely boyfriend and foster daughter, but I'm feeling nostalgic for the days when we used to escape from the clinic at lunch time, stuffing our faces with greasy chips and a cold glass of white wine. When responsibility was a four-letter word.

That's why I decide to call her. I pull out my iPhone and select her number, and she answers after a couple of rings.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hey, yourself.” For the first time since I left Max at the nursery, a smile threatens at my lips. “How's life in the sticks?”

A mock sigh. “I told you, Brighton's where it's at. You need to move here immediately.” I can hear a voice in the background. Her boyfriend Niall, maybe? “So what's up, buttercup?”

She's so much more playful since she started seeing Niall. I love the way he's helped her become the person she wants to be. The way she's turned into such a kind, wise mum to Allegra, her eight-year-old foster daughter.

“I'm at the clinic. I miss you.” And Max, I add silently.

“What are you doing there? I didn't think you were going back until next month.”

“It’s my ‘Keeping in touch’ day. They're reacclimatising me, like a plant that needs to be moved. I'm hoping they might be able to give me a brain transplant, too.”

“Still getting no sleep?” she asks, sympathetically.

“Max woke up three times last night. I can't even imagine how I'm going to cope when I'm working full-time.”

She clucks. “You'll cope. That's what you do. And anyway, isn't Alex helping?”

“Where he can, but as he keeps reminding me, he doesn't have the right plumbing. But don't worry, I'm working on weaning Max onto a bottle, then I'll have my revenge.” I let out a Dracula-style laugh. My mwah-ha-ha reverberates down the phone.

“Score one for the sisterhood.” Her tone is the oral equivalent of a high five. “Max might sleep better when he's on the bottle.”

He might... but then again, that little carrot has been dangling in front of my face for months. Maybe when he starts to roll, maybe when he starts on solids, maybe when he reaches fifteen pounds…

He's done all of those things, and still he isn't sleeping.

“Fingers crossed.”

“How's Alex?” As soon as she asks, an image pops into my head; the way he cuddled Max this morning, his biceps knotted and taut as he swung him in his arms, the delighted smile on Max's face as Alex blew raspberries on his pudgy tummy.

“He's good. Their band has a new manager, reckons he can help them hit the big time.”

“And that's a bad thing?” She must have caught my inflection. “Imagine if they become famous, you can give up work and be a groupie.”