‘I had a sandwich earlier,’ he said. It might even have been true; he mostly ate on the run between lessons and rehearsals. But had he eaten today? He couldn’t remember.
‘You are going to have to do better than that,’ she said. She took a tea glass from the cupboard, removed her woollen overcoat and put it over the back of the chair. She was wearing a black T-shirt with ‘The Braided Loaf’ written in intricate white lettering.
Dmitri poured her a glass of tea, and then one for himself.
‘I can take care of myself,’ he said.
‘Good, brother, I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.’ All of a sudden, she smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. Her dark eyes, so like his, seemed almost to glow. ‘Look.’ She thrust out her left hand. A small diamond set in white gold twinkled on her finger.
‘Oh Tanusha! He asked you!’ Dmitri stood up. In a second he was over to her. He lifted her up and twirled her around, laughing and kissing her cheek.
‘Yes!’ Tanya said, breathless as he set her down. ‘Finally.’
‘I am so happy for you!’ He swallowed back a tear. His little sister. Tanya had lost and suffered so much – mostly because of him – but now, she had found love. She would be happy…
She would be leaving.
He pushed the thought from his mind. This moment was for her.
They sat back down and he raised his glass of tea. He made a toast in Russian to love and health, clinking his glass against hers.
‘So when is the lucky day?’ he asked.
She took a sip of tea. ‘It’s not set yet.’
‘No? Why not?’ The words came out sharply. A flash of pain nearly blindsided him. A face invaded his memory… Irina… the words she had spoken when she left… the ring cast aside… He almost choked on the sip of tea, but forced himself to speak. ‘You should set a date – the sooner the better. You know I have some money saved up. I will pay for it all. Don’t worry about that.’
Tanya’s smile was replaced by a frown of concern. ‘Are you really OK, Dimochka?’
‘Yes, fine.’ Her use of the nickname softened him. ‘I am so happy for you. I am, as they say, over the moon.’
‘We have not set a date because I wanted to speak to you first,’ Tanya said. ‘It’s just…’ She paused, as if struggling to find the words. ‘I’m worried about you. Being here on your own.’
He laughed. Too loud, too bright. Tanya’s eyes narrowed. Fuck – she could see right through him. ‘I am fine, Tanusha. All these years, and finally I can be rid of you!’
Tanya laughed at his joking manner, but he could tell it was forced. She stood up from the table and began unloading the carrier bag and turned on the oven to preheat. Dmitri was aware of the ache growing inside him. An ache that seemed only to grow deeper as time went on.
He stood up too and began helping to put the food away. As Tanya was about to hand him a box of loose tea, she stopped. She was looking at the Christmas-pattern half gloves that he had cast off by the sink three nights ago.
Tanya picked up the gloves. ‘Do you want me to mend these?’ She turned to look at him. He refused to acknowledge the pity in her eyes.
‘Can you?’
‘I think so. I do not knit as well as Mama did, but I can try.’
‘If you like.’ Dmitri shrugged. In truth, he preferred the plain grey or brown half gloves he usually wore, and was wearing now, to the Christmas ones that might draw attention to his hands.
His hands. By force of habit, he was about to lower them out of sight, but Tanya reached out swiftly. She grabbed his right hand and squeezed it, so tightly that it almost hurt. She raised it to her lips and kissed his fingers.
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘And you know what I am going to say.’
‘No.’ He shook his head and pulled his hand away. He went back to putting away the food.
‘It’s been so long. Isn’t it time to try again?’
‘I said – don’t, Tanya. Please. Now, I must go upstairs and get ready for rehearsal.’ Before she could say anything else, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and left the room.
6
Nicola walked along the river. Lights shimmered on the water as she walked towards Canary Wharf Pier. She’d stormed out of the office, unable to stand another minute of the Advent Calendar and everything it represented. She needed to clear her head, but so far it hadn’t worked.
An old man was fishing from the bank as she walked by. He looked up at her and grinned toothlessly, giving her a little wave. Right now, she envied him. He had a purpose, which was more than she could say.
Her phone vibrated with a text. Predictably, from Ollie.
Hey babe, why’d you leave? Got a few things to finish here but maybe we can meet up later. I told Chloe I’m working late!!! Ox
Bile rose in her throat as she pressed delete. How had it ever come to this?
She stared down at the dark waves lapping below the pier. The night was cloudy, the air so chilly that it almost hurt to breathe. Advent Calendar – what a stupid tradition. She’d never even heard of it before she’d joined Privé, though apparently it was growing in popularity among the bigger banks and law firms.
It had been a Friday night in early December, three years ago now, when it had begun. The partner doing that night’s Advent Calendar had hired out the entire restaurant on the top floor for the occasion. All of the PAs, analysts and juniors had sloped off early to get ready, the women donning sparkly dresses and high-heeled shoes in the ladies’ loos. Nicola hadn’t bothered to change. She was wearing a designer suit in a deep cherry red colour and a cream silk blouse underneath. She knew she looked good – not that it mattered. She wasn’t planning on staying long.
The party was already noisy and raucous by the time she arrived. She accepted a flute of champagne from a roving waiter and declined a mince pie. She’d stay at most an hour, and then make her escape. Work was keeping her busy, but this time of year always felt lonely. It had been a long time since she’d been with anyone. She would leave the party, get a taxi to the Mandarin Oriental or the Four Seasons, one of the hotels where the foreign businessmen congregated. Pick out someone at the bar, have a few drinks, pretend not to notice if a wedding ring was slipped into a pocket. Names would be irrelevant, and she’d make the last train home.
Just as she was about to leave, she’d heard Ollie’s voice behind her, his hand on her back too low for collegiality. He had joined the firm as a lateral partner about six months earlier. Though she’d felt Ollie’s eyes on her before, she’d always dismissed it as strictly an appraisal rather than a call to action. Yes, he could be funny and charming – once or twice she had actually laughed outright at something he’d said at a meeting or a client do. But he also talked about his family around the office.
He’d clearly had a few drinks already. That hand on her back, his eyes looking down at her curves. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she’d asked him pointedly and begun to edge away.
But then he got this funny-looking grin on his face. He pointed upwards at a large sprig of mistletoe hanging from one of the chandeliers. Leaning in, he’d whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
As he’d bent to kiss her under the mistletoe, she’d laughed in his face. His handsome, clean-cut features morphed into something ugly and surprised. She’d kept laughing as she walked away, turning for a brief moment to blow him a kiss.
Why had she stayed at the party? She couldn’t remember now. One hour had turned into two, one drink into three or four. She’d done the rounds, eating canapés and making small talk. Nicola could feel Ollie’s anger from across the room. She was up for a challenge, and obviously, the flirtation could lead nowhere. So she cast him a few glances, taunting him, fuelling the flame she’d lit inside him by her rejection. And, later on, when things had become pleasantly vague, she spotted him at a corner table, nursing a whisky. She’d walked past him towards the door, trailing her nails over his arm. Then she left the restau
rant, taking the lift back down to the deserted tenth floor where her office was.
She’d waited exactly eleven and a half minutes (three more than she’d been expecting), when Ollie appeared at the door. She made a bargain with herself: if he said something stupid – if he said anything at all – she would send him away for good. And, in the end, when he said nothing, just walked across the large office to the desk, she wasn’t sure how she felt that he had won her silent wager.
She had removed her jacket and let him do the rest. He stood behind her, his hands moving everywhere underneath her clothing and over her skin, his lips and tongue hungrily exploring her neck. She didn’t move as she heard the snap of a condom, didn’t respond or make a sound.
Afterwards, it had ended. Days later they’d discussed what had happened; they’d both agreed it had been a Christmas party cliché. A one-off, a mistake.
And the time after that.
Now, three years had gone by. Three years of her life that she wouldn’t be getting back again. The excitement of those illicit liaisons was long gone. The empty promises had fuelled the spark for a while, and then things had continued because it was easier than breaking them off.
Before the ill-fated night at Waterloo Station, it had been two months since they’d last been together. He’d made a few attempts to rekindle things, and the damn texts never stopped, but she’d made excuses. Then, when holiday loneliness had set in, she’d booked their favourite hotel on Charlotte Street and he’d let her down—
Come on, Nic, you know I’m sorry. I really want to see you. Tonight.
Nicola sighed, her finger hovering over the delete button. But she’d taken the coward’s way out for long enough.
No.
Texting back the single word, she turned off her phone and put it in her bag. She walked back the way she had come. In her rush to leave the office, she hadn’t brought her flat shoes with her. Her left shoe was already rubbing a blister on her heel.
She had to be strong. Over meant over. No more moments of weakness. She’d go home, regroup, call Jules back like she’d promised. Lie down on the sofa, put on some music. In the new year she’d start looking for another job. There were plenty of other private equity firms that would love to have her. She’d choose a new industry to specialise in – maybe energy or infrastructure. Raising finance to power villages in Africa must feel more worthwhile than taking another fashion brand or cosmetic company global. It would be a clean break from Ollie, and generally, a new start all around. A new start… Yes, that was exactly what she needed.
Canada Square was buzzing with people. Office workers out for dinner or drinks, and tourists come to see the lights and decorations. The plaza had been transformed into a winter garden. Icicle-shaped lights hung from the trees and giant mythical birds made of wire and lights glowed overhead, swooping down towards globes shaped like golden apples. Part of the square was taken up by an ice rink, with strobes of coloured lights reflecting off the mirror-like surface. Had she come here as a child, she would have been transfixed. And even the way things were now, a part of her appreciated the effort it had taken to transform a city of concrete and glass into something so magical.
She walked towards the giant tree at the centre of the square, made entirely out of strings of white lights on wire formed into thousands of leaf shapes. All of a sudden, voices rang out above the background noise—
Good tidings we bring
To you and your kin,
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
And a cup of good cheer.
Nicola felt a strange lightness as the words floated through the air. Christmas carollers. There were lots of groups carolling at the Wharf this time of year. There was no reason to think that it might be the group she’d heard at Waterloo Station. Still, she walked as quickly as she could towards the din.
The conductor… she’d only seen him for the minute it had taken her to vent her frustrations. And yet, in that time, she’d felt something. It probably would make no difference, but she really did owe him an apology for what she’d done. Make a donation, start making amends. That way, she could put it behind her.
Could it possibly be the same group of carollers? What had they been called? The Choir of Saint something – St Anne’s, maybe? Yes, that was the name.
In front of the Christmas tree, a stage had been erected, framed by large white light snowflakes. There was a choir on the stage, but it was a school choir made up of children, aged probably ten and eleven. The conductor was a round, matronly woman. A sign in old-fashioned lettering at the front read: ‘West Ham Invitational Children’s Choir’.
Fighting back an irrational surge of disappointment, Nicola sat down on a bench and took out her phone. Her inbox showed that there were twenty-seven new emails and two new texts from Ollie that she deleted immediately. Instead of checking her emails, she opened up a web browser and typed in: St Anne’s Church London. There were quite a few listings in and around London and the immediate suburbs, all of which seemed to have choirs.
The first listing she opened was a church in Westminster. The choir was headed by one Stephen Richardson-Ward, Director of Music, with a load of degrees and initials after his name. The next had a Music Director listed as Catherine Evans-Jones. The fifth link, an Anglican church near Clapham Junction, had a broken web link in the choir section. Could that be the one? Maybe.
She stood up – her feet were killing her now – and limped in the direction of the taxi rank. It was complete and utter folly, that much she knew. But then again, she really had nothing better to do.
7
‘Thank you. That’s all for tonight.’ Dmitri set down his baton on the music stand. ‘Give yourselves a round of applause.’
Books were closed and clapping commenced. He made a few notes on the score in front of him as the choir members began chatting and coming down from the risers. It had been a good rehearsal – a reasonable turnout for a Friday night – and everyone had seemed full of energy. Quite possibly it was down to Tanya, who, before the rehearsal, had spread the news of her engagement and shown around her ring. Everyone had been delighted for her, giving her hugs and good wishes.
Mark, her fiancé, had come to the rehearsal directly from the bakery. Dmitri had taken him aside for a quiet word of congratulations. He liked Mark – he was what the English termed ‘no-nonsense’. He would make Tanya a good husband and that was the thing that mattered. Not for the first time, though, Dmitri wondered how much Mark knew. Had Tanya told him about the things that they themselves did not speak of?
Now, as he gathered up his music, Carole-Ann stood up from the piano and came over to him. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘It’s coming along.’
‘The sopranos were a little thin,’ he said.
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. They both knew the reason why – Sophie’s leaving. But there was nothing to be done about that. ‘Are you coming to the pub?’ she asked.
‘No. Not tonight,’ he replied.
‘Oh – is everything OK, Dmitri?’ She gave him a worried, motherly look that, frankly, annoyed him. But he pushed that aside and gave her a warm smile. Carole-Ann had been widowed for over ten years. She had no other family nearby and was no doubt lonely this time of year. The choir was everything to her, just as it was to him. She had been friendly with his mother, Marina, who had been of a similar age. When she had died, everyone in the choir had pitched in to help him and Tanya through their time of grief. They’d endured endless visitors and cups of weak English tea, bottomless casseroles and many shepherd’s pies. Carole-Ann had spearheaded all of it, and he was grateful – really. But sometimes, she went a little overboard.
‘Yes. I’m fine. It’s just that I want to stay for a while,’ he said. ‘I want to…’ he hesitated – if he said it aloud, he might not go through with it �
�� ‘…do some practising.’
Just for a second, her blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘That’s good, Dmitri.’
‘Yes,’ he said non-committally.
In truth, he had been planning on going to the pub after the rehearsal. Or at least, that was what he usually did, and he hadn’t given it much thought. But at the break, when the choir members were drinking teas and coffees and eating Tanya’s mince pies, two things had happened.
First, he heard one of the altos mention a new CD she had bought as a Christmas gift for a friend – a recording of Rachmaninov’s piano concertos. As the woman spoke, his fingers had started to feel tingly and strange. It had been building for weeks now, this urge. Tonight, the music had flooded through his head, an impossible counterpoint to Handel’s Messiah. He’d tried to silence it, but it was stuck there.
Second, as the choir was reassembling on the risers, Charles, one of the tenors, had mentioned that he’d seen ‘The Heckler’ – the woman from Waterloo Station – getting off a train at Richmond. A vision of her had instantly popped into Dmitri’s mind. Alluring, beautiful – a face a Victorian painter might try to capture, but with sharper edges to it. Those sharp edges…
‘And umm, Dmitri…’ Carole-Ann was speaking but he hadn’t been listening. He’d been thinking of her again – the woman from the station – which was pointless and stupid. She was like the Firebird in one of his favourite fairy tales. Stealing golden apples, captivating young Ivan by leaving behind a single glowing feather. But unlike the hero in the story, he would not be going to the ends of the earth to find her. He would never see her again, and that was for the best. ‘Have you filled out the form yet? You know the application’s due by the twenty-first?’
The application. Dmitri cringed inwardly. Carole-Ann had heard through a musician friend about an Oxford College that was looking for an assistant choir director. There was a bursary that went with it, and he’d have a chance to study for a doctorate in choral music. ‘A very exciting opportunity’, she’d called it – a perfect way for him to advance his career. And he’d agreed with her. Yes, it sounded wonderful, perfect. He’d promised her that he would fill out the form, get the letters of reference. It shouldn’t be difficult. And yet, some part of him was holding back.
Moonlight on the Thames Page 4