Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
A few moments later, she appears in the doorway and leans on the frame. She’s wearing the clothes I bought her, and I know it’s going to be a good day. “In the bottom of the armoire, there should be a bag you can use for your clothes. Or I can ask Danny to pack them for you.”
“I can do it.” She folds her arms, studying me. “I like to watch you shave.”
“I like you watching me,” I murmur as I finish up. Turning, I brush her lips with a kiss, then wipe my face of the remaining foam. “Let’s have some breakfast and get on the road.”
* * *
Alessia is animated on our drive back to London. We talk and laugh and talk some more—she has the most infectious giggle. When we hit the M4, she takes command of the music, and we listen to the Rachmaninoff. As the first bars of the piano concerto begin to play, I’m reminded of when she played this piece at the Hideout—the memory is stirring. I watched her lose herself in the music, and she took me with her. From the corner of my eye, I notice Alessia’s fingers pressing imaginary keys through the cadenza. I’d love to see her play this again, but this time as a performance with a full orchestra.
“Have you seen Brief Encounter?”
“No.”
“It’s a classic British film. The director uses this piece throughout the movie. It’s cool. It’s one of my mother’s favorite films.”
“I’d like to see it. I love this music.”
“And you play it so well.”
“Thank you.” She gives me a shy smile. “What is she like?”
“My mother? She’s…ambitious. Clever. Funny. Not very maternal.” As I say it, I feel a stab of disloyalty, but the truth is, Rowena always seemed bored or inconvenienced by her young children. She happily handed us over to our various nannies and sent us off to boarding school. It was only after our father died that we became more interesting to her.
Though she was always interested in Kit.
“Oh,” says Alessia.
“My relationship with my mother is a little…strained. I suppose I never forgave her for leaving my father.”
“She left him?” She sounds shocked.
“She left all of us. I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She met someone younger—and broke my father’s heart.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. We have an uneasy truce now. Well, ever since Kit died.” Talking about this is grim. “Choose another song,” I prompt when the Rachmaninoff finishes. “Something cheerful.”
She smiles and scrolls through the list. “ ‘Melody’?”
I laugh. “Rolling Stones? Yes. Play that.” She taps the screen, and the countdown begins: Two. One, two, three, followed by the blues piano. Alessia grins. She likes it. Lord, I have so much music I’d like to share with her.
* * *
The roads are quiet and we make good time. We fly past the junction for Swindon, with a further eighty miles to go until we reach Chelsea. But I have to stop for petrol, so I take the slip road for Membury Services. Alessia’s demeanor suddenly changes. Her hand grips the door handle and she casts large, apprehensive eyes at me.
“I know that service stations make you anxious. We’ll just get petrol. Okay?” Reaching over, I give her knee a reassuring squeeze. She nods but looks unconvinced. I pull up by a petrol pump, and she hops out to stand beside me while I fill up. “You going to keep me company?”
She nods and dances from foot to foot to stay warm, her breath a gauzy cloud around her. Her eyes survey the locale and fix on the parked trucks. She’s watchful. Wary. It’s painful to see her this way, especially when she’d been so relaxed this morning.
“You know you’re safe now. The police have them,” I say to reassure her, but then the pump stops with a loud metallic clunk, startling us both. The tank is full. “Let’s pay.” Hooking the nozzle back in its holder, I slip my arm around her shoulders, and we head into the shop. She walks beside me, subdued.
“You okay?” We’re in the queue, and she’s radiating anxiety, taking furtive glances at everyone in the shop.
“It was my mother’s idea,” she blurts, quickly, quietly. “She thought she was helping me.” It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what she’s referring to.
Bloody hell. She’s telling me this story now? A frisson runs up my spine. Why now? I have to pay for my petrol. “Hold that thought.” I raise my index finger and hand the shop assistant my credit card. His eyes shift to Alessia, several times.
Man, she is so out of your league.
“Please enter your PIN,” he says, smiling at Alessia, who barely gives him a glance. She’s watching the petrol pumps, checking who’s out there.
When I’m done, I take her hand. “Shall we continue talking in the car?”