Moonlight on the Thames Page 10

  He removed his hand from hers and raked back his hair. Nicola felt bile rising up into her throat. She’d suspected at the onset that this story couldn’t have a happy ending. But she hadn’t been expecting this.

  ‘My mother began to make arrangements for us to get away. She had a friend who had managed to come to the west. Knew a person who knew a person – that sort of thing. She applied for us to get tourist visas. But by the time they arrived, my father was dead. A hunting accident in the woods – that was the official verdict. My mother decided that we would leave anyway. By then there was nothing left.’

  Nicola opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  ‘So, you see, Nicola, I am not worthy of the name my friend has given me. Saint Dmitri. I am just a man who threw away his life and ruined his family.’

  His cheek glistened as a tear rolled down it. She felt desperate to say something – do something – to make it better. She lifted her hand, traced the line of the tear with her finger.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. The words sounded so hollow and futile.

  ‘Thank you.’ He put his hand up briefly and brought hers back down to the railing and let it go. ‘But really, there is no need to be sorry. That was all a long time ago.’ He smiled, and she wondered what it cost him to do so. ‘Now, I have a good life. I may be conducting a choir who sing Christmas carols in a station, but for that, I am very grateful.’

  ‘You say that. But are you really?’ The words came out sharper than she’d intended.

  He looked surprised, then gave a little laugh. ‘Well, OK – sometimes I do think about what might have been. But, for many years now, I have barely even played the piano, except for giving voice lessons.’

  ‘But why?’ Nicola felt a stab of anger at hearing this. ‘I mean, I understand why you feel like you do. But how is your not playing making things better?’

  Dmitri shrugged. ‘I suppose I couldn’t play piano because I needed to put everything behind me. What happened with my father, and the difficulties when we came here. The music was gone – I had left it behind. I no longer had the urge to play. I couldn’t play.’

  ‘But it’s not gone,’ she said, challenging him. ‘Is it?’

  ‘That is what I have been trying to find out. Lately, I’ve been trying – dabbling, playing scales, exercises, things like that. Late at night at the church, where no one can hear me.’ He met her eyes, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I have been trying to push past how difficult it is. Turning the key in the lock – is the music gone, or is it still somewhere inside? Like the Rachmaninov.’

  ‘What else do you play?’ she asked. Whatever this day had or hadn’t been, she knew that on some level these last few minutes were the most important. That she had to keep him talking.

  ‘Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt. And the Russians: Rachmaninov, Mussorgsky, and my namesake, Dmitri Shostakovich.’ He smiled. ‘Those were the composers I liked in my youth. Beautiful, complex… dark.’ He turned to look at her then, his eyelids half lowered. She felt a tremor travel down her body, sensing that he was no longer talking about the music…

  ‘It has been an interesting experiment,’ he said, once again breaking the tension. ‘But now, with my sister getting married, I too need to focus on what comes next.’ His face hardened. ‘I have a chance to apply for a job in Oxford. It’s a bursary, and some teaching, and I would work towards my doctorate in choral music.’

  ‘Choral Music? Is that what you really want?’ Nicola felt a frown deepening in her forehead. ‘Why don’t you just play piano?’

  His eyes met hers again, and in that brief second before he looked away, she saw the truth. The impossible sadness underneath the joy and good cheer he tried to spread through the choir and the Christmas music. Doing good works, trying to atone for some sin, real or imagined.

  ‘It is nice that you believe it might be possible,’ he said. ‘But that’s not the way it works. My dream of being a concert pianist ended long ago. I am very lucky that I can make a living, though a small one, by your standards, doing what I love. In Oxford – who knows? I might have some occasion to perform. I think I would like that.’

  ‘Oxford,’ she mused. The wind was gone from her sails. Undoubtedly, he knew much more than she did about such things. And he was the kind of person – intelligent, talented, a bit naïve – who would probably fit in well at a place like Oxford. Still, to her it seemed a waste.

  ‘I still need to fill in the application,’ he said. ‘And get letters of reference. It is by no means a given.’

  He fell silent, seeming very distant now. Nicola was sorry that she’d upset him. Sorry that she’d let the whole thing get under her skin, which had never been her intent. He’d obviously suffered so much already, and here she was, making things worse.

  ‘And what of you?’ he said finally. She recognised his bright attempt to change the subject. ‘Are you happy in your job? It all sounds very glamorous.’

  ‘No.’ The word came out even before she could decide if she wanted to lie. Compared with his story, hers seemed so grubby and entitled – so insignificant. ‘I mean, yes and no. I do well under pressure, and I like the adrenalin rush. But financing luxury brands isn’t exactly saving the world, is it? And then there was…’ she trailed off.

  ‘Ollie?’ He finished the sentence for her.

  Nicola let out a long sigh. She deserved this, she supposed, after grilling him. ‘We work together. Then we were lovers.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ She considered. ‘It’s over. It’s been over for a long time – whatever “it” even was. But still, it’s painful. Having to see him every day.’ She shrugged. ‘In the New Year I might have a look around for something else. Another fund or a bank, I don’t know.’

  ‘But is that what you really want?’ he asked, a hint of the former laughter back in his eyes. ‘You asked me, after all.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Nicola felt suddenly overwhelmed by the situation, the question, and the change in the course of the day. ‘How pathetic does that sound?’ She shook her head. Her dreams, whatever they’d been, had long ago been taken from her – just like his had. She knew the exact moment it had happened – when the course of her life had changed forever. And the decision she’d made that had turned her life into a lie even to this day. Dmitri had told her so much. Opened up to her, shared his secrets. That was the difference between them. He was turning the key in the lock, trying to see what was inside, whereas she never wanted to go near that door that she so carefully kept locked. She knew what was there. ‘I just want to be happy,’ Nicola said at last. ‘But I find it difficult.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  There was so much unspoken in that single word. She felt the intensity of his dark eyes on her, so deep and full of turmoil. The pod continued its slow descent, the snow flurry dwindling. Her heart began to race. Now was the moment for him to move in. Bridge the distance between them. Her heart sped up as adrenalin warmed her body. For a second she closed her eyes, waiting. She heard the step, felt the world grind to a halt, then… nothing.

  Nicola opened her eyes, feeling idiotic. Dmitri had moved away from her to the other side of the pod. She realised then that they’d reached the unloading area and the door had opened.

  ‘Nicola?’ he said softly. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  She stepped down out of the pod, feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. The pod moved on; the cocoon where only the two of them had existed. Her questions, his story… time had raced on. He’d told her that this was the last thing he’d had planned. Is this how the day was destined to end?

  Outside the pod, Dmitri had another long conversation with the operator. Nicola managed to smile at the man, say ‘thank you’. As she walked beside Dmitri back to Waterloo Station, neither of them spoke, and he made no move to take her hand. The snow was now mixed with rain, and the pavements were slick and shiny. They mounted the steps to the main station, crowded wi
th people on their way for a night out in London. She had no idea what he was thinking. Was he regretting opening up to her? Feeling the same turmoil inside that she did? If she hadn’t asked, or he hadn’t obliged by telling her about his past, everything now would be so much easier.

  At the entrance to the underground, Dmitri inclined his head, speaking in a low voice. ‘Thank you for a most delightful day, Nicola.’ He took her hand and held it to his lips. ‘I wish…’ he faltered, unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘Dmitri,’ she said, putting a finger to his lips. ‘It’s me who’s grateful.’ And before she could talk herself out of it, she laced her arms around his neck. She moved against him, feeling his strength and warmth. There was surprise in his eyes as her lips brushed his. Surprise and then, in an instant, his mouth came on hers with a raw, unstoppable force and need so deep that it almost frightened her. His fingers tangled in her hair, as she drank him in, long and deep, feeling heat glittering through her body, and into his. His tongue sought and twined with hers. It lasted a moment, or maybe longer. She lost track of all time or place. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end…

  The pressure on her arms was a gentle push at first, and then firmer with intent. His mouth broke from hers.

  ‘No,’ he said, breathlessly stepping back. He held up his hands as a shield. ‘No, Nicola. No.’ He gave her a nervous half-smile and took another step back. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.

  He turned and walked off, losing himself in the crowd that was making its way down the escalator to the Tube. She was left standing there alone.

  Part III

  ‘After travelling for days, the grey wolf took Ivan to a small village. The moon was bright in the sky as Ivan climbed off the wolf’s back and knocked on the door of a cottage. The door was answered by an old woman and an old man. They both looked very sad. They invited Ivan inside for food and refreshment. He warmed himself by the glowing hearth and listened to their story. Childless until their later years, they had been blessed with a beautiful daughter made of ice and snow. Her name was Snegurochka. They loved her more than the fruit of summer, the first snows of winter, the wild flowers of spring.

  “Where is she?” Ivan asked.

  “Gone,” said the old woman. “For she fell in love with a shepherd boy who played to her on his pipe.”

  “And what of it?” Ivan asked.

  “Her heart was made of snow and ice. As it kindled with love, she melted into a puff of snow.”

  “Then I am sorry for you,” Ivan said.

  “Remember our Snegurochka,” the old man said as Ivan thanked them for their kindness and climbed on to the wolf’s back. “And if you can, choose a heart of fire over one made of ice.”’

  – ‘The Firebird’, The Anthology of Russian Tales

  13

  Shame burned a hole in Nicola’s stomach as she watched Dmitri disappear into the crowd. She had got this spectacularly wrong. Swallowing back tears, she walked further into the station and looked up at the boards. This time, there was no choir, and no delays.

  The train wasn’t due for twenty minutes. She went into M&S Food and bought a bag of salad, a carton of tomatoes and two bottles of red wine. Trying to push the day – the magical, unreal day – from her mind and focus instead on the evening ahead. She’d have a bath, eat dinner, catch up on work. Then she’d do a few internet searches, maybe browse some dating sites. Try to figure out what the hell she was going to do with the rest of her weekend. The rest of her life.

  The platform number came up, and Nicola went through the barrier. Though she wasn’t cold, she couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t the rejection – OK, not just the rejection – and in hindsight, she might well have brought that upon herself. Showing him those texts, acting rude and ungrateful, laughing… God. Then, she’d really set in: bullying him over the piano, picking at the scab of what was obviously a deep and painful wound. And then there was the mysterious Irina, the woman who had once captured his heart. In her mind she pictured a tall, blonde, Russian ice queen. ‘It didn’t work out,’ he’d said. What did that mean exactly? Was he still in love with her?

  She’d never know, and it didn’t matter anyway. Nicola boarded the train, slumping down in an aisle seat. Saint Dmitri, a man who had suffered great tragedy and loss in his life. A man who still found it in him to spread warmth and joy to others. He’d had no ulterior motive, she realised that now. For all his wit and charm – and the occasional flash of desire in the abstract – she was just one more person that he collected on his travels. Another waif and stray. His goal had been to shine light into the life of a person who lived a dull, grey existence. Her. That was all it had ever been.

  How wrong she had been to build it up in her mind as a beginning, rather than an ending. To believe in those feelings she’d had on the bridge, when everything had seemed so clear; her life shimmering with possibilities like moonlight on water. And now, she was paying the price. This was what came with breaking the cardinal rule – no confidences, no emotion, just sex.

  Except, there was the kiss… A warm flush softened her body. She hadn’t imagined that. The deep, unsatisfied hunger. He’d wanted her, with a desire so complete and focused that it was beyond her experience. And then, he’d walked away.

  ‘Stop it,’ Nicola murmured aloud. It didn’t matter. Not in the slightest. She was going to forget all about Dmitri, forget about the time they’d spent together. What she had to do now was survive the holiday season and start focusing on the future, a ‘new start’. Find a new job; maybe even quit finance entirely. Find something more worthwhile in her life.

  But right now, she hadn’t even the slightest idea where to look.

  *

  Dmitri lost himself in the crowd. He could still feel Nicola’s eyes burning into his back: hurt, rejected. He wanted nothing more than to rush back, take her in his arms, and lose himself in her. Satisfy that deep need that had been exposed by the extraordinary feel of her lips on his, her body against his. But it could never be. Although he’d told her the truth – for the most part – he had omitted one crucial detail. The only thing that still mattered.

  He hoped that she would have happy memories of the day they’d had together, the time they’d shared. Let her remember the electric sparks between them; the moment on the bridge when the night had seemed alive with possibilities. Let her remember that kiss.

  He clenched his fist, looking down at his hands. The gloves he hated, the tight red skin underneath. A cooking fire. He had the story ready if people asked, though few actually did. Had she believed it?

  The underground station was full of people out for a Saturday night. He made his way through the long corridors, but instead of getting on a train, he went back up and out another exit that led to the street. It was still raining and the snow on the ground had already turned to slush. He walked back to the South Bank, letting the rain wash over his face. The day was a beautiful memory, and even the invocation of Irina’s name hadn’t spoiled it. He closed his eyes for a second, remembering the crystal flakes swirling and billowing around the pod on the London Eye. Nicola standing beside him, the warmth of her skin as he took her hand, the smell of her hair— No. He’d cherish every moment they had spent together, but ultimately, he’d been right to walk away.

  Now, without her beside him, the city seemed drained of colour, the lights dim and hazy. He went back across the footbridge, through Charing Cross Station and on to Trafalgar Square. The square was crowded despite the weather and there was a carolling group in the centre near the giant tree. Out of professional courtesy, he stopped and listened. It was a teen youth choir, sixth-formers, most likely. The conductor was a white-haired man with a rounded back. Dmitri didn’t recognise him. There were very few males in the choir, and to Dmitri, the balance sounded off. But what grated most was the music itself. Cheerful and bright, full of joy and hope. So opposite his mood. Now he knew what Nicola had felt like that night at Waterloo Station. Trapped. And so lonely.

&n
bsp; Forcing himself to keep listening, he looked around at the crowd. There were families and theatre-goers and groups of students. The tourists and backpackers reminded him of Moscow. Playing tour guide to Americans, with their Levi jeans, their dog-eared copies of Dostoyevsky and Bulgakov, their perfect teeth, and their packs of Trojan condoms (back then no self-respecting Western tourist would ever trust Russian-made condoms). Stumbling out of a taxi in the early hours of the morning after a night of clubbing, trying to make it to class. Rarely succeeding.

  Sasha was from Moscow, which had given him an edge. He’d been the golden boy at the Conservatory before Dmitri came on the scene. They had been rivals, and then friends. So he’d thought, anyway. For those few months in his second year, Sasha had orchestrated his entire life. From picking a girl for him to lose his virginity to, to teaching him English swear words, to introducing him to the club bouncers, to when he practised – or didn’t practise – the piano.

  When Dmitri had told Kolya about Sasha, the bastard had jumped to the conclusion that Sasha had deliberately sabotaged him. Dmitri had got angry. Because, of course, Kolya was right. He’d been too stupid and naïve to see it. Not to mention too drunk, or simply, too hungry.

  Sasha had graduated from the Conservatory and gone on to have a career as a concert pianist, mostly in the Far East. Dmitri had followed his career from afar, even bought a few of his recordings. He hadn’t listened to them, though. As much as he tried not to think about what might have been, the life he had thrown away was his crown of thorns. Sasha had burned out in his late twenties. Dmitri had lost track of him now. He was probably teaching music somewhere in Russia – perhaps their lives had not turned out too differently. Except in the ways that mattered.

  He walked across the square past the group of backpackers, headed up St Martin’s Lane, and over to Charing Cross Road. Today, he’d played tour guide again in very different circumstances. All he’d had to do was stay detached and in control. He’d failed. Nicola had bewitched him, with her intelligence and strength, and the vulnerability that lay underneath. He’d allowed himself to feel a powerful hope – that schoolboyish notion that the world was his to reach out and seize with both hands.