I am babbling nonsense and staring so hard at her finger I don’t even blink.
‘He told me everything. How he was part of a police force investigating some guy called Lenny, and while they had him under surveillance they found out that he was plotting to get rid of Zane, and how he happened to see you coming out of Zane’s house that time you went in my place. It was a bit creepy but he had such a thing for you, he followed you home, and then, pretended to bump into you at the supermarket the next day. I know how it sounds, but at heart, he’s a really nice guy. He is dying to come and visit you, but of course, Zane won’t ever allow it.’
I never take my eyes off her fingers, but they never move again. It must have been my imagination. Disappointed, I resume my seat.
‘Not that I blame Zane for holding him responsible. I did too. You should know that I’ve changed my mind about Zane, too. I believe he really loves you. He’s like all cold and distant, but I can feel how much he loves you. From what I have seen of Zane, I know now that you’re never coming back to stay with me. It’s obvious as hell both of you are going to get married and play happy families so I’ve got myself a flat mate. She’s from this unpronounceable little village in Ghana.’
I sigh unconsciously and quickly make my voice bright and peppy again.
‘She’s all right, I guess. I took her to Jamie’s the other night, but she doesn’t really drink. She had one glass of white wine all night, and she doesn’t like the music there either. So really, I desperately need you to wake up and come for a girls’ night out with me.’
Zane
I come into the room and the nurse stands up, smiles politely and leaves. I wait until she closes the door before I approach the bed. I see instantly that Dahlia is wearing makeup. I can only imagine that Stella must have dolled her up. I go up to her. The sight is bittersweet: she looks so beautiful, like Snow White lying in her glass box, but I can’t wake her up, take her in my arms.
I go really close so I can feel the heat of her skin, and watch the tiny pulse in her throat beating. She’s not gone yet. She’s still alive. I just have to reach in and find her.
‘You look beautiful tonight,’ I tell her. ‘Want to listen to some music?’
Of course, she doesn’t answer. I go to the piano, open the lid and begin to play for her.
December
Thirty-five
Zane
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts.
– Percy Bysshe Shelley
As soon as I finish the call I rush to Dahlia’s room. The nurse is exercising her legs, and usually I would come back, but today I cannot wait.
‘Could you finish that in a bit?’ I ask.
‘Certainly,’ she says and, placing Dahlia’s leg gently back on the bed, covers it and leaves the room.
Dahlia’s hair has started to grow back. It is not yet two inches long, but it is enough for Stella to bring some pink clips and get the nurses to decorate it with them. To be honest, I don’t like the clips. I’ve never known Dahlia to wear anything so babyish. She was always a woman thru and thru and now between Olga, Stella and the nurses she’s always dressed like a kid.
I run my finger on her cheek. ‘Oh, Dahlia, Dahlia,’ I sigh softly. ‘When will you wake up and come back to me?’
Careful not to touch any of the tubes and lines running into her, I rest my forehead against hers. My lips brush her eyelashes. I close my eyes with the familiar sensation. This should have been such a happy moment, but it feels so sad.
‘You did it. You really did it. Guess what you did, my little thieving angel?’ I whisper. ‘I just had a phone call from the great Andre Rieu. I thought it was a prank call until he told me that a violinist named Eliot Scarborough had called him. I know you went with Stella to a client called Eliot so I pricked up my ears and listened.’
The sharp edge of the plastic juts into my cheek. I lift my head, take off the clip and smooth her hair.
‘He said Eliot sent him a few pages photocopied from a symphony I composed that my girlfriend had apparently given to him. It was all meant to be a great surprise. And believe me it was. An unbelievable surprise,’ I say.
‘Anyway Andre said he wanted to personally thank my girlfriend because during his many years as a celebrity composer and conductor with his own orchestra, he is inundated daily with phone calls, emails and letters from people who have composed arias, overtures or waltzs, all begging him to play their work. Over time he came to the conclusion that a new Johann Strauss or Mozart were things of lore, until he played my music.’