‘So what happens now?’ Kevin’s voice was heavy and desperate. ‘What are you going to do? Go to the police? Try to get justice after all these years? Do you want me to tell you everything I have to lose? My job. My family – my kids. Their names are Ella and Sam.’
‘Do you swear that I was the only one?’ Nicola said.
‘Yes. I swear.’
She swallowed hard, her voice gaining strength. ‘I want you to go home, Kevin. Go home to your daughter, and for fuck’s sake, protect her. And I want to say—’ A tear dripped from her eye. This was not in the script. Whatever she had planned to say – it was not this. ‘—That I forgive you.’
Nicola ended the call.
Her legs were so unsteady that she could barely walk. She managed to make her way downstairs to the room where Dmitri was practising and went inside. He stopped playing immediately, turning to her, a smile on his face. The look quickly turned to one of shock. ‘Nicola, what has happened?!’ he said.
She rushed over to him and collapsed, shaking, into his arms. It took a long time before she could speak – tell him what she had done. Once she started, the words gushed out of her, tearing her open all over again.
‘And I said… I mean, I wasn’t planning to…’
He stroked her hair, holding her close.
‘…but now, I don’t know. It seemed like the only way ever to let it go.’
I forgive you.
She buried her face in his neck, breathed him in, and kissed him.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said a little breathless. ‘And I think you’re right – it was the only way.’
‘I don’t know. I just feel so…’ It was impossible to describe what she was feeling. That after all these years, she’d finally done something. Taken action. Let go.
‘I love you,’ he whispered, as he’d done many times before. But this time, with the cracks wide open, his words and his touch filled up the void, and she finally began to believe it.
Smiling, she wiped away the tears on his cheek – his, hers – she didn’t know. Then she began to laugh. Hard and breathless, like she might never stop. She kissed him, wanting to share this strange new sense of joy inside of her. Of something bright and magical, spreading its fiery wings and launching into a shaky, tentative flight.
Epilogue
7th July
His hands were ice, but in the heat of the lights, they felt like they were burning. The biggest surprise was that he could feel them at all. The rest of his body was completely numb. The applause fell silent as he sat down on the bench and adjusted the tails of his coat. The silence thundered in his ears. Had he ever played a piano before?
He took a breath, then another. He stared down at the row of black and white keys. In that moment, his entire life was there before him. All the people he loved, and who loved him. The people he had lost, the people whom he had hurt, and the people who had saved him, over and over again. And somewhere out in the sea of faces in the packed concert hall, she was there, probably just as nervous as he was. Because she loved him and knew how much this meant.
How it had all happened in such a short time, he had no idea. Sometimes, late at night, it all seemed like a dream that belonged to someone else. He waited for it to shatter into a million pieces like a sparkly bauble dropped on the floor by a careless child. But in the morning, everything would begin anew. The rehearsals, the interviews, the hours spent in recording studios and concert halls. He was neglecting his family and friends, the choir – that was inevitable for right now. Every hour in the day was spent making up for years of lost time. But everyone had been so supportive, shown so much love and understanding. And now, everyone he knew was here tonight.
The conductor made eye contact and he nodded. The baton was raised, the orchestra raised their instruments and came to life. And as the opening bars began, he pushed aside all thoughts, hopes and memories, all the lightness and the dark. He went deep down inside to that place where only the music lived and let it fill him, consume him.
Dmitri raised his hands and put his fingers to the keys.
*
How he did it, she had no idea. Nicola felt like she had lived a thousand years and died a thousand deaths – and that was before the concert had even started. And now, as Dmitri stood up and took a bow to a standing ovation, smiling and looking impossibly handsome, she was as happy as she had ever been in her life. On her left, Tanya was gripping Mark’s hand and crying. On her right, Kolya took her arm, because she was so overcome with emotion that she could barely stand up.
Dmitri shook the hand of the conductor and the concertmaster, went off stage and came back on for another bow. Kolya and the others in the row – Phil, Carole-Ann, half a dozen members of the choir, Mikhail Aslanov – all of them made room to let her pass. And at the end of the row, Chrissie handed her a large bouquet of flowers.
Walking up the steps to the great stage was like walking into the sun. Somehow, just as she thought she would never make it to the top, Dmitri was there. His eyes shining as they met hers, his hands, as always, there to steady her.
‘Congratu—’ she half got the word out before his mouth was on hers, in front of the entire crowd. The applause turned to a few whistles and shouts of ‘bravo’.
Dmitri came to his senses long before she did. He took a single red rose out of the bouquet and handed it to her. Then, he took her hand and pulled her off the stage to the wings.
As they half ran down the corridor to his dressing room, Nicola could barely keep her sharp heels from catching on the thick red carpet.
Dmitri pulled her inside the room, closed the door and locked it. ‘Was it OK?’ he asked, panting for breath, his dark hair slick with sweat.
‘Was it OK?’ Nicola took a breath, drawing out the words. She walked very slowly and deliberately over to the make-up counter and mirror. Setting down the rose, she made a show of checking her lipstick and adjusting her dress. Dark blue and glittery, it hugged every curve of her body, was too low-cut to wear a bra and had a mile-high slit up the side. Dmitri had picked it out. Nicola had rolled her eyes at him when trying it on, but now, when he looked at her like he was doing now, she was proud to wear it.
‘I think you were a little bit OK,’ she said, giving him a seductive smile.
She sat down on the counter as he came over to her. In an instant, the straps were down on to her arms and his mouth was on her neck.
‘I think you were quite a bit brilliant.’ She gasped as he pushed her skirt all the way up and ran his hand up her thigh. ‘And I think you are incredibly sexy.’
She arched her back, pulling him against her, untucking his neat formal shirt. But as she was about to undo his trousers, he stepped back.
‘Hold that thought,’ he said.
Dmitri rushed over and grabbed his bag, bringing it over to her. She readjusted the straps on her dress, but as soon as he was back over, he pulled them down again.
Someone knocked on the door. ‘Dmitri?’ Bill Campbell’s voice. ‘I’ve got some people for you to meet.’
‘I need ten minutes,’ Dmitri growled.
‘If you need to go—’ Nicola said.
‘They can wait.’ Dmitri sounded more authoritative than she’d ever heard him before. ‘First I have something for you.’
He took out an oblong box wrapped with a ribbon.
‘Not more lingerie, Dmitri,’ she said, laughing.
‘This is special,’ he said. ‘Open it.’
She did so and was surprised by what she saw. ‘White?’ she said. She lifted out the lacy silk and found another smaller light blue box underneath. He took it out and opened the box. If she was surprised before, this time, she gasped.
‘I wanted to do well tonight,’ he said, ‘because I wanted to see if you would accept this.’ His hands – those hands she trusted; hands that could master the most difficult music with rock solid perfection – were shaking now as he took out the ring. The icy diamond solitaire flashed rainbows of fire.
‘I love, you, Nicola,’ he said. ‘You are everything to me. I want you to be my wife. Please say yes.’ His voice was so fraught with emotion that he could barely get out the words.
‘You should have played badly,’ she said, smiling even as a tear formed in her eye. ‘That way you’d know that no matter what, the answer is still yes.’
The ring dazzled in the light as he put it on her finger. She brought his hands to her lips, kissing them, never wanting to let them go. He twined his fingers through her hair and lifted her face to his. She kissed him hard and deep, drinking in his warmth, savouring the healing power of the love between them. Desire rushed through her body, arcing to his until finally, his hands were on her and he finished what he had started.
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Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Thank you for reading Moonlight on the Thames, and best wishes for a happy holiday season. This book is a work of fiction and is not based on any real person or event (with apologies to the lovely choir that sang one evening last December at Waterloo station, brightening up the evening for many stranded commuters!).
The issues, however, that are raised in this book are very real and affect the lives of millions of people all over the world. I am not a counsellor or an expert in these subjects, I am just a writer telling a story. Any mistakes that I have made in portraying these situations are purely my own. The book is intended as a romantic fairytale, and I know that in real life, things are much more complex and not wrapped up so easily in ‘happily ever after’. If you or anyone you know are affected by any of the issues raised in this book, I would encourage you to seek help, even if taking the first step seems difficult or impossible. A good place to start is the Samaritans (www.samaritans.org) who can provide further advice. While justice may seem like a thing of fiction books or Hollywood films, it is only by people speaking out that we move closer to banishing these dark things.
I have tried to portray my Russian characters in an honest and non-stereotypical way, but again, any mistakes are my own. I did have the privilege to visit Russia back in 1998 with a group of American friends. While this trip is now going on twenty years ago, I was very much captivated by the country and enchanted by its people. I would like to thank the people at Masterrussian.net who helped me with many queries on name conventions, culture and language. The tale of The Firebird in this book is my own amalgam of several classic Russian fairytales, and I have taken some liberties in the retelling. I believe, however, that the power of fairytales is that their archetypes apply far beyond whatever their original contexts may have been, and as such, they are often adapted in the retelling.
I would like to thank my dad, who raised me to love and appreciate classical music (and my mum who did the running around and paid for music lessons). It is a legacy that I feel strongly about passing on to my own children. We listen to a lot of Classic FM in the car, and I listen to a lot of piano practice at home. I have a particular love of Russian composers and their music has always resonated with me. Many years ago, I studied music – oboe performance – at university. It took me only one year to determine that, unfortunately, I did not have what it took to be a professional musician. In addition to raw talent, it takes a ruthless focus, a lot of luck and a lot of hours in a tiny room practising, not the world’s greatest music, but scales and exercises.
Looking back now, I’ve discovered that I do have that kind of passion, focus and drive – but as a writer, not a musician. Some days when I’m deep in the process of editing a book, I long for those ‘simpler’ days of my music studies. I’ve always wanted to write a book that explores the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair that music can evoke. I don’t know if I’ve achieved that here, but if you do feel inspired to listen to the music referred to in this book, I’ve put together a Moonlight on the Thames playlist on Spotify. My words may not be sufficient, but the music can speak for itself. The link is www.goo.gl/JCWbpV.
I’d like to thank all of the people who have helped make this book possible: my agent, Anna Power; Caroline Ridding and all the rest of the team at Aria, who agreed to publish my somewhat dubious interpretation of a ‘light-hearted Christmas romance’. And then there is my writing group: Chris King, Ronan Winters, and Francisco Gochez. Given the tight deadlines on this book, they read some very long excerpts and revisions (over wine, of course) and their comments (from the male perspective) were very helpful and enlightening.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank my family. Last Christmas, I was supposed to be taking a break from a difficult work and writing schedule to spend time with them. But when the idea for this book came into my head, it took over. Being a writer, you often live inside the heads of the characters and go where others cannot follow. Thank you to my parents, Suzanne and Bruce, Monica Yeo, and of course, my partner, Ian, and my daughters, Eve, Rose and Grace. I appreciate your love and support, even if I don’t always show it.
If you as a reader have enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Goodreads, Amazon, Kobo, iBooks, Google Play or wherever you purchased it. I hope to be able to continue writing books that are a little different to what else is out there and am reliant on readers to help spread the word. I am also happy to receive correspondence and feedback via my website email.
Thank you for reading, and may your holidays be filled with love and music.
Lauren
June, 2018
www.goo.gl/JCWbpV
About Lauren Westwood
LAUREN WESTWOOD writes romantic women’s fiction, and is also an award-winning children’s writer. Originally from California, she now lives in England in a pernickety old house built in 1602, with her partner and three daughters.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Lauren Westwood, 2018
The moral right of Lauren Westwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Song acknowledgements: The Messiah - George Fridrich Handel 174
1, with text compiled from the King James Bible and the Book of Common Prayer by Charles Jennen; Angels We Have Heard On High - Traditional French carol, English lyrics translated by James Chadwick, 1862; Joy to the World - lyrics by Isaac Watts 1719, melody by GF Handel; We Wish You a Merry Christmas - Traditional West Country carol; Jingle Bells - James Lord Pierpoint 1857; Let Me Call You Sweetheart - Beth Slater Whitson 1910; Deck the Halls - Welsh carol, English lyrics translated by Thomas Oliphant 1862
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781788541466
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