Broken Chords

by Carrie Elks

  “Yep, he’s definitely feeling better,” the doctor groans, his eyes bulging out as he steps away from the examination couch. “I think he’s going to be a footballer when he gets older.”

  The second part of the appointment is about me. Dr Jensen asks me about the PND group, and I confirm that until last week I’d been attending regularly, and I’m planning to go back next week. He asks me to retake the Edinburgh test, and as I tick the boxes I realise that I really am able to see humour in life again, and that happiness doesn’t seem like an abstract concept.

  “Your score’s in the normal range,” he tells me, after he looks at my answers. “That doesn’t mean everything’s magically okay, but it means you’re making some progress. I have to say that’s a pretty good result considering everything you’ve been through recently.”

  I think it is too. “Does that mean I’m discharged?” I ask.

  He smiles. “I’d like to see you in a month, just to make sure everything is on track. Keep going to the group, and keep an eye on your feelings, but I think you’ve got things under control right now.”

  Max squirms in my arms, making an attempt for freedom, and I have to pull him back. He’s getting stronger, enough for it to hurt sometimes when he’s wriggling, but after everything that’s happened, I love his hardiness.

  As soon as we leave the doctor’s surgery, I call Alex with the good news. His warm, happy voice is enough to make my heart thump against my chest, and I realise that this newfound control I have doesn’t quite extend to my reactions to him.

  * * *

  Alex picks Max up at nine on Sunday. I stand behind the curtain, watching him out of the window as he pushes the buggy down the street. Though it's almost autumn, the weather is still warm, and he's wearing a thin shirt that does nothing to hide his muscles. I have to grab hold of the wall to steady myself, trying not to let the need for him sweep me under.

  Are we ever going to get back to what we were?

  His question echoes in my ears. I hate that I don't know the answer. He's my best friend, the love of my life, the man I wanted to grow old with.

  And I'm watching him walk away.

  The flat seems empty and hollow without the boys. Though I try to keep my mind occupied by cleaning madly, my efforts fall far short. Eventually, I tire of folding tiny clothes and dusting painted surfaces, and grab my jacket, shrugging it on as I leave the flat.

  Autumn is my favourite time of year. Though the Indian summer is trying to cling on desperately, there's no hiding the leaves as they turn golden, and the pale blue of the sky as it readies itself for winter. When a gust of wind lifts up the tendrils of my hair I feel the chill against my neck, bringing goose bumps out on my skin.

  I walk for a while, ending up at a small café in Hoxton Square. The whole place is heaving, full of people trying to get their fill of fresh air before the winter makes hermits of us all. I sit alone at a tiny table overlooking the fenced-in green. The trees sway softly in the breeze, dry leaves rustling. A small girl darts between the rugged trunks, chased by her dad, and I find myself wondering what Max and Alex are doing right now.

  It's as if somebody is squeezing my stomach when I think of them. We should be here together, enjoying the last of the sun. Sharing a picnic as we watch Max trying to stand up.

  Is this how it's going to be? Stilted conversations as I hand over our son. Lonely Saturdays spent thinking about what could have been. Sundays stuck in the flat, surrounded by silence and memories. A life none of us ever wanted.

  Alex once told me I was everything to him. Held me close and whispered that nothing else mattered. I take another sip of coffee, feeling the bitter liquid burn at my throat, wondering if there's anything I can do to get my old life back.

  “Lara?”

  I crane my head to see Laurence Baines from group therapy standing over me. His tall frame blocks out the sun, casting a shadow across my table. I order my expression into a smile, seeing how awkward he looks, shifting from foot to foot as if he's fifteen, not fifty.

  “Laurence, how are you?” Hastily, I stand up.

  “I'm good.” Even his smile is awkward. “Am I supposed to talk to you? Outside of the clinic, I mean?”

  “Of course. As long as you're happy to say hello, I am too.” It's something I've encountered before. Clients never know how to treat me outside of the confines of the clinic. I've always let them take the lead. If they want to acknowledge me, I'm happy to respond, and if they'd rather pretend I don't exist, that's fine too. Looking at Laurence, I notice that in spite of his reticence there's a need in his eyes. To talk. To share. To be heard.

  “Would you like to join me?” I ask. There's something about him that makes me want to speak formally. Perhaps the fact he's a head teacher.

  “Only if I'm not disturbing you.”

  “Company would be nice.”

  Immediately, his shoulders relax. I watch as he pulls a chair over from a half-empty table and orders an Americano. In spite of the fact it's a weekend he's still perfectly turned out. Dark blue slacks and a white button down shirt.

  “What’s new with you?” I ask, after his drink finally arrives.

  Laurence pours a packet of sugar into his coffee, stirring it slowly as the brown granules slowly sink into the liquid. “Same old, same old. We saw Tom again on Friday. He had a black eye. Won't tell us how he got it.”

  Tom is only twenty years old. He's been in prison for nine months now. It's been less than a year since Laurence's world was torn apart.

  “How did you feel?” Old habits die hard. Seeing this proud man tremble before me, I can't help but feel sympathy piercing my heart.

  “Like I've failed him. Completely and utterly. Didn't manage to teach him right from wrong. Can't protect him from the thugs that slam their fists in his face. I'm in charge of a generation of children at my school and I can't even bring my son up right.” Laurence stares down at his feet. “And to top it all, Julie's talking about separating. We don’t talk anymore. I used to think I had everything. The best job, a perfect family. Turns out it was all an illusion.”

  Horrified, I watch as a single tear falls onto the plastic table top. The urge to take him in my arms and hug him is huge. He's a shadow of a man, confused and stumbling. Not able to understand how it all went so wrong.

  “Why don't you talk anymore?”

  He rubs his face with the heel of his hands. “I don't know. Maybe she blames me for everything. God knows I blame myself.”

  “Do you really think you're to blame?”

  Looking at me through red-rimmed eyes, Laurence shrugs. “I'm not sure of anything anymore. I used to be so certain, thought I knew right from wrong. But if you offered me a way to get Tom out of prison I’d do it. Even if it meant breaking the law.”

  I reach out, covering his hand with my own. “Of course you would.”

  “But I can't change any of it. I just want to go back in time. Make sure I listened to him, spent time with him.”

  “You can still do that, when he's released.” I try to find the words to reassure him. But there's no reassurance when his world is crumbling around him. Laurence slides his hand from beneath mine, running it through his silver hair.

  “It might be too late. I'll have lost everything by then. My son, my wife, my family.” A flock of birds choose that moment to swoop down, landing on the concrete around us, pecking at the crumbs left behind by a multitude of diners. “You have a son, don't you?”

  I nod. “He's a baby.”

  “Where is he?”

  His question takes me by surprise. It's a Sunday morning, of course I should be with Max.

  “He's with his father.”

  “Make sure you appreciate your time with him. Tell him you love him. Don't make the mistakes I did.”

  Long after our coffees cups are empty, and Laurence has headed back to his silent house, I'm still contemplating his words. Remembering the lost expression on his face as he talked about Tom and Julie. It m
akes me think about Max, and about all the trials we have ahead of us. The cut knees, and the broken hearts and the rivers of tears before bedtime. We came so close to losing him, and somehow we did manage to lose ourselves. That special spark that tied us together. The certainty that it was us against the world.

  I want it back. All of it. The sleepless nights and the too-early mornings. The tears and the giggles and the warm feeling of Alex's body wrapped around mine. I want his voice to wake me up and his hands to hold me when I drift off to sleep.

  I want my family back.

  I just have no idea how to make it happen.

  * * *

  My first month with Alex was filled with frantic kisses and stolen moments. With hot, sweaty sex and middle of the night conversations that seemed to take on a rhythm of their own. With his shift work and gigs, along with my crazy hours in the City, Alex turning up at 2:00 a.m. and pushing me against the wall as I desperately tore at his clothes wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

  It was enticing, it was sexy; I had no idea where it was going.

  One night, about five weeks after that first gig, I was lying on my side, staring at him as he slept. Dawn was trying to force her way through the cracks in the blind, casting little shafts of light that illuminated the ink etched across his body.

  I was captivated by his tattoos. It was one of our main topics of conversation at the time. I traced them with my fingers, asking him what each one meant. When he got them, why he got them. Was he planning on having any more?

  In return, he questioned me about my job, my family and the private girls' school I attended until I was eighteen. Wanted to know if I wore a short skirt and tight shirt. Was I as beautiful then as I was now?

  I basked in the warmth of his attraction. Loved the way he would look at me from the corner of his eye. He'd stare at me for long minutes, the smallest smile on his lips, and it made my stomach lurch every time.

  Between the desperate sex and the questions, and the stupid hours we both worked, there didn't seem time to talk about us. Where this was going. Was it going anywhere? Were we in a relationship or messing around?

  Alex rolled in his sleep, breathing softly. I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes. It was razor sharp, darkened by stubble. I wanted to trace it with my tongue.

  I was about to do just that when the shrill ring of the phone cut through the early morning silence. Groaning, I rolled over, feeling the bed dip as he did the same.

  “Hello?”

  “Lara? It's Dad.”

  My father never called me. Never. We would talk on the phone very occasionally, but only after my mum had called first.

  “Dad?”

  Alex sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, and ran a hand through his messy hair. When he looked at me, there was a question in his eyes.

  “I'm at the hospital. Mum's had a funny turn. The doctor said I should call you.”

  “What kind of funny turn?” I reached up to wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. “What's happening?” They'd only recently come back from holiday. Mum hadn't even called to tell me about it yet. “Is she okay?”

  My dad sobbed, and it made me queasy. He never cried. Not my career-focused, go-getting father. Shouted, yes. Ranted, all the time. Cried? Never.

  “Dad, you're scaring me.”

  “She woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe. She was coughing up blood. They said it could be an embolism. I'm waiting for someone to tell me what's going on.”

  “But she's going to be okay, right?” I asked. “I mean, she's in the hospital now. She's going to get better?”

  Silence. I glanced to my left to see Alex staring at me. He reached out to take my free hand, squeezing it tight. The look of compassion on his face took my breath away.

  Then my dad finally broke the silence. “She wasn't breathing by the time we got here.”

  I started to cry; big sobs that wracked my chest and echoed in my throat. I could hear my dad doing the same down the phone line, and that frightened me more than anything.

  Gently, so carefully, Alex took me in his arms, stroking my hair and whispering comforting words. Then he took the phone from my hand, lifting it to his ear. Clearing his throat before speaking.

  “Mr Stanford? My name's Alex Cartwright. Can you tell me what hospital your wife is in?”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. The next few hours were a blur. Somehow we got dressed, left the flat and climbed into my car. Then Alex drove us to Dorset, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding my hand securely in his as I fretted and cried. Every now and then he'd glance across at me, his face soft, and his eyes gentle.

  Though I didn't realise it then, I was starting to fall in love with Alex Cartwright. Not because of his sexy body, or the hot tattoos. But because when it came to a crisis, he was there for me.

  He held tightly to my hand when we walked into the hospital. He stroked my hair when I sobbed as they lowered my mother’s coffin into her freshly-dug grave. Three months later, when I left my high-paying, high-flying job, he pulled my body to his and told me everything was going to be okay, that I’d made the right decision, and life was too short to stay in a job that made you miserable.

  He was a keeper, he was everything.

  I miss him like crazy.

  23

  When I was a child, Sunday evenings meant Antiques Roadshow. The aroma of roast beef would waft through the house as I bent my head over the geography homework I should have finished a week earlier. That night had a taste of its own¸ the sweetness of the weekend turned bitter by the promise of Monday morning. It was as sharp as a lemon.

  Now, Sunday nights mean ironing and packing Max's bag for nursery and mine for work. Folding tiny sleep suits and pint-sized nappies for somebody else to dress him with.

  I'm counting vests when the door buzzes, and I abandon the pale blue cotton clothing on the bed. A sense of anticipation nestles in my stomach, making itself cosy. A cat in front of a fire.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey.” Alex looks tired but happy. Max is in his arms, head nestled in his shoulder, fast asleep. His thumb hangs loosely in his mouth, a lock of hair has fallen over his eyes. I haven't seen him look so peaceful in a long time.

  “Come in.” I speak softly. “Where's the buggy?”

  “At the bottom of the stairs. I'll go get it when I've put Max down.” His eyes catch mine. “Is it okay to take him through?”

  It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him this is his flat, to make himself at home. But I don't want to send out mixed signals. This situation is confusing enough.

  “Of course. Excuse the mess, I was getting things ready for tomorrow.” I can't shake off this sense of weirdness.

  After Alex has placed Max in his cot and brought up the buggy, things only get stranger. I busy myself in the kitchen, putting away pots that have been bone dry on the draining board for the past few days. Leaning on the counter, Alex watches me, looking as awkward as I feel.

  “How was lunch?” I ask, switching the kettle on to break the silence.

  Alex shrugs. “It was fine. Mum fawned over Max. I ended up chopping down a tree. Andie's got a promotion at work.” He looks up at me through thick lashes. “It wasn't the same without you.”

  I ignore his sweet words. “Was Amy there?”

  He stares at me for a moment, as if he's trying to read my thoughts. Finally, he speaks. “Yeah. And Luke, the knob.” It's no secret he doesn't like Amy's boyfriend. “I don't get why she stays with him. He treats her like shit. Ended up leaving halfway through lunch to meet up with a mate. Didn't even finish his dinner.”

  “I bet Tina was pleased.”

  “You can imagine.” He rolls his eyes. “Not clearing his plate was worse than committing a crime. Amy won't hear the end of it.”

  “It's not her fault.”

  “She puts up with it. She should give him the elbow.”

  I pour hot water into our mugs. Swirl around two tea bags. I st
ill have my back to him when I speak again. “Maybe she loves him.”

  “Doesn't mean she should let him treat her like shit.”

  Turning around, I offer him one of the mugs. “I know.” This time I stare right back at him. I wonder if he can read my thoughts now. I'm remembering all the arguments we had, the way he never answered the phone on tour.

  That girl sitting on his lap.

  Tearing my eyes away, I take a sip of my tea. Then Alex steps forward, gently taking the mug from my hands. Places it onto the counter. He puts his hand up to mine, palm against palm, fingers against fingers. It sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.

  “I love you,” he says, out of nowhere.

  I can't deny the way his words affect me, every syllable warms my skin. But they can't obliterate the memories, not matter how hard I try.

  “They’re only words.” I pull my hand away, unsure who I'm trying to convince.

  Alex steps back as if I've slapped him. The pain in his face is clear and it makes me feel like a bitch. But I'm scared to open up, to let him in. So afraid this time he could actually slay me.

  “I know it's going to take time.” His fingers grip the edge of the counter. “I hurt you, and I'm so sorry for that.”

  My lip trembles, but I say nothing. I can't look at him.

  The next moment he drops his bombshell. “I've left the band.”

  “What?” This time he has my attention. Alex has been with the band since he was a kid. Long before he met me. They're his second family.

  “I told Stuart I was leaving.” He runs a hand through his hair. His expression twists. “After everything he did, I can't stay. I won't let it tear us apart.”

  “But it's all you've ever wanted,” I breathe out. “You're letting go of your dreams.”

  Alex glances down at his trainers. There are lines on his face where there used to be smooth skin, thin as thread but they're there. I want to reach out, to smooth them, and make them disappear. The last few months have taken their toll on both of us.

  Finally, he looks up. “It was never my dream. Stuart's maybe, but not mine.” Taking a step towards me, he grabs my hand again and wraps it in his palm. “You're my dream. You and Max. I won't be giving up on that one.”