Why should she be different?
Why should she think that what they’d had had been any more?
Because it had been more, she tried to tell herself, but wavered, because in Demyan’s arms she felt beautiful and sexy and wanton, but out of them she was well above her ideal weight and as bumbling and shy as ever before.
‘Oh...’ Elizabeth continued. ‘And the real estate agent called. The painting in the bedroom—the prospective buyer wants to know the artist...’
Alina felt her heart squeeze and then stopped herself. It was Demyan, just trying to boost her confidence, trying to buy her the career that she wanted.
‘I can’t remember,’ she answered.
* * *
It was a beautiful drive, even if her heart was heavy. She remembered each bend in the road from the last time she’d been here.
And it hurt to remember,
Hurt even more to drive into the farm where she had spent that glorious afternoon with Demyan, to look over to the creek and see the green trails of the willow dipping into the water, to remember the balmy shade and the cool green light in the place he had taken her and made her his lover.
‘Alina.’ Ross looked a lot younger and a whole lot more relaxed than the last time she had seen him. ‘Thank you so much for coming. We tried ringing but we couldn’t get through.’ He led her into the house. ‘It’s a very expensive jacket.’
He probably had five hundred of them, Alina thought, but she just gave them a smile and thanked them.
‘Would you like to stay for lunch?’ Mary offered.
‘No, thank you.’ Alina forced that smile. If she stayed she’d end up breaking down.
‘Do stay,’ Mary insisted. ‘We want to pick your brains. Are you in touch with Demyan?’
‘Not really.’
‘Only we’re trying to work out how to thank him.’ Mary shook her head. ‘How do you thank someone for that, though?’
‘For...?’ Alina frowned.
‘Giving us the farm!’
Alina blinked. They clearly thought she already knew as Mary continued. ‘I got the shock of my life when I opened the door and there he was with all the paperwork handing over the farm to us—I thought it must be a mistake, but...’ Mary started crying and Ross continued.
‘Never for a moment did I expect him to do that. I remember him as a teenager, a right sullen young man he was. “There’s trouble,” I said to Mary, but how wrong I was. He’s saved us twice.’
Alina did stay for lunch. Ross and Mary wanted to reminisce and Alina so badly wanted to hear, she wanted to know everything about Demyan. She wanted to gather every little piece of information that she could and just take it out piece by piece and, no, she was nowhere near over him.
Soon she would be over him, Alina said to herself, but she knew she was lying.
‘He used to steal food when he first lived here,’ Mary reminisced. ‘Katia couldn’t understand where it all went then she found it stashed in his bedroom.’ Mary smiled. ‘I guess none of us have ever been truly hungry before.’
‘Were they close?’ Alina asked. ‘Demyan and his aunt?’
‘Eventually,’ Mary said. ‘She was ever so proud of him. I remember his wedding...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It was hard, Katia had just been diagnosed.’
They spoke for hours and at the end of it Alina felt drained, just not quite drained enough to leave him behind for ever.
‘I was wondering...’ She felt awkward, standing at their door, holding onto his jacket and making such a request, but Alina knew it was her only chance. ‘Could I take a walk?’
‘Of course you can.’ Mary smiled. ‘You must miss the country, it stays in your blood.’
‘I’ll say goodbye here,’ Alina said. ‘It’s been lovely, talking.’
She walked down to the river and slipped under the tree. Yes, she could take photos and try to capture it in her art, but photos weren’t the same. She could feel it, she would remember it for ever, lying here, being made love to by him.
Alina buried her head in the silk lining of his jacket and wept till there were no tears left, wept as she never had before and hoped she never would again, because she felt so sick after.
It was just hard and a shock, such a shock that he’d sold the house.
The silk of his jacket was cool on her hot, swollen cheeks as Alina got to the gulping stage.
She parted the branches and looked over to the farmhouse where a young Demyan had once lived. The same house he’d hoped to raise his child in but Nadia had had other ideas.
Alina didn’t.
She’d dared to dream, she’d been foolish enough to let her mind wander, but this was where the dream ended.
She’d imagined them here in this house with their baby and now that too had been taken away from her.
‘We’ll find somewhere,’ Alina said to her late period and very sore breasts.
She was still too scared to confirm it.
She was, though.
She knew it.
She’d had her cry.
Alina threw the jacket on the back seat of her car.
Now she just had to get on with things.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE WORLD WASN’T KIND, Alina decided.
A kind world should surely follow certain rules.
There should only be ancient magazines in doctors’ waiting rooms.
Not glossy up-to-date ones with photos of Demyan and his son, walking along, both smiling, their breath blowing white in the cold Russian winter.
She flicked the page and stared down the long lens of the paparazzi and into the ritzy restaurant where he sat, chinking glasses with Nadia and Roman.
But was he happy?
Her eyes searched his features and Alina truly didn’t know.
Probably.
Demyan didn’t exactly laugh easily but in that photo in the restaurant, with Nadia and Roman, he clearly was.
Would it make it easier if she thought he was acting, that he’d gone back to Nadia rather than lose his family?
‘Ms Ritchie?’
Alina stood as her name was called and followed the doctor into her office.
There was so much hurt that all Alina felt was numb.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Of course, the doctor wouldn’t take her word for it and Alina handed over the mandatory urine sample and gave dates and things as they waited for the predictor to change.
‘You certainly are!’ The doctor hesitated and glanced at her lethargic and rather pale patient. ‘Are congratulations in order?’
‘They will be one day.’ Alina said. ‘It’s just a bit tough right now. I was on the Pill but...’ She shrugged. No, she hadn’t set out to trap him, just a little white pill had been so easy to forget when you were preparing to step onto a red carpet and falling in love when you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. All that should have been important and sensible had disappeared, thanks to the most dizzying, complicated man.
‘The baby’s father...’ the doctor probed.
‘Is back with his ex-wife.’
Oh, it was a sorry tale and no doubt to the doctor it was a familiar one.
‘He still has responsibilities.’
Alina gave a tired shake of her head.
‘Have you told him?’
‘He’s moved overseas. He was only visiting Australia for a couple of weeks,’ Alina said.
Foolish girl.
And, yes, one day she’d have to tell her child who its father was, but the future felt a terribly long way off when you were having trouble getting your keys out of your handbag.
There was one good thing about having a broken heart, though, one good thing about insomnia and a hear
t that was so bruised Alina was aware of each painful beat.
Her artwork.
She ran, to herself.
Alina moved out from Cathy’s and rented a tiny apartment but it was her tiny apartment. It was bliss to have her work left out, to have things untouched and no parties or noise as she lost herself in her work.
In her paintings she found herself day after day, night after night.
Buds of lilac that tasted of his kisses, and sunflowers and yellow roses and willows that dipped into water, but that wasn’t right...
Yes, she had stuff to sort out too. Demyan had been right because she painted holly and not with Christmas in mind. It meant—am I forgotten?
It was for her father, not that he’d ever see it, and the prickles cut deep as Alina shaded them in.
Then her heart returned to Demyan.
She painted and painted—Yellow Chartreuse liqueur that had rolled on his tongue, but in Alina’s style. She explored the flowers in the secret recipe that had graced his lips, the violets and saffron, the sharpness of citrus that had been the ingredients when there had been Nothing Left to Lose.
She had everything to lose now.
Alina cried as she painted their story, but they were healthy tears, good tears as he escaped through her fingers and, like the tiny life inside her, Alina grew.
So lost in her work was Alina she nearly didn’t hear her phone but whoever it was they were persistent.
‘Alina, it’s Elizabeth.’ Alina stared at the piece she was working on as Elizabeth spoke on. ‘I have a very exciting offer just in. Two months in Dubai and there’s a substantial bonus for you at the end.’ Alina swallowed as she considered it.
The money was amazing and her pregnancy wasn’t showing yet. She could return in eight weeks with security, except she had a stall booked to display her work. The easiest thing would be to say yes, yet she could almost see Demyan’s black smile as she took the easy option.
‘Alina?’
‘Elizabeth, it sounds amazing but I’m going to have to say no. I’ve got other work organised.’
She almost called Elizabeth back. Her work at the café might last a while longer, but single motherhood and waitressing at night wasn’t exactly a mix. She could get ahead now, Alina told herself, and concentrate on her artwork once the baby was here... She was so torn that she answered the phone without thinking, and then she heard a voice that had her heart racing all over again, propelling her to run, just as she should have the first night outside the restaurant.
‘Alina...’
She almost folded over at the sound of his voice.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you. I just wanted to see if you were okay.’
That was a lie. Not a complete one. He needed to know that she was okay, but more than that he needed to hear her voice, a voice that had always soothed him.
Just not today.
‘Why wouldn’t I be okay, Demyan?’ Alina’s voice was sharp, bitter but better that than broken. ‘Oh, that’s right, sorry, I forgot, I’m supposed to be pining.’
‘Alina,’ he said.
‘Curled up on the bed, or drowning my sorrows in wine. Sorry to disappoint you...’
‘You never once have.’
She closed her eyes at the slight huskiness she heard near the end, which told her that he was hurting too.
And to make herself strong Alina picked up the magazine she’d swiped from the doctor’s and stared at the images.
I hate you, Nadia.
Alina had never really hated in her life, but she looked at the supposed beauty and was filled with loathing at a woman who could use her child as a pawn.
And Alina wasn’t one for double standards, which meant she wouldn’t be using her own child either.
She’d tell Demyan about the baby when she was safely over him, when she could do it without breaking down.
‘What do you want, Demyan?’ she demanded, and when the line was silent, her bitterness spilled over like black champagne, ‘How’s Nadia?’
‘Alina. I know how it looks—’
‘You know nothing,’ Alina hissed, and hung up the phone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DEMYAN HEARD THE click of the phone as the lifeline that he needed today was terminated.
Perhaps it was for the better.
Some journeys were easier shared but perhaps better taken alone and Demyan was so much stronger now than then.
He hadn’t even told Roman where he was today. He would bring him here to visit her grave when the time was right. Demyan had spoken at length with a priest who had agreed with Alina that his mother had been ill, desperately ill.
He stood at the soft mound of soil, already partly covered in a fall of fresh snow. He had heard no screams of protest from his mother this time as she had been lowered and Demyan’s heart was at peace for she could now rest in the ground of the church. Now he could remember happier times. Now that she was here he could stand and remember not the fear but the love, and there had been love. This time when he walked away he did not need to look back.
She was resting peacefully now.
It was hard.
But not the hardest part to this day.
‘Ya tebya lyublyu, syn.’ As he had when Roman had been much smaller, Demyan told his son, in Russian, that he loved him, when they met.
‘Noh?’ Roman asked.
‘There is no “but”,’ Demyan answered in English. Roman’s Russian was good but it did not quite stretch to this conversation.
The hardest conversation to have.
But it was a necessity, Demyan had decided.
Lies had come between them these past months and the truth could no longer make things worse.
‘Your mother does not want me to have this conversation with you,’ Demyan said, ‘but I have told her that I must.’
There was the crunch of snow as they walked and the air was so cold that it burnt to breathe it but the words that came were not frozen or bitter, they came from summer and love. ‘She told me something that I believe she used as a weapon against me,’ Demyan said, ‘but that weapon has since turned on you and I. We are barely speaking.’
‘You have your...’ Roman hesitated. Growing up, his father had never so much as tapped him but that morning when Roman had hurled words, once his father had caught him Demyan had shaken him till his teeth had rattled for saying such a thing. ‘You have your woman to speak with.’
‘Alina,’ Demyan said. ‘Her name is Alina but right now—’ He didn’t get to finish.
‘And my mother’s name is Nadia,’ Roman interrupted, and Demyan halted at the threat in his son’s voice. Yes, he had said less than pleasant things to Nadia but never when Roman had been there, Demyan was sure of it. Then his heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds, it just stilled in his chest as Roman turned to him and Demyan realised that he didn’t have to tell Roman the dark truth, for it would seem his son already knew. ‘Whatever she might have done in the past, my mother’s name is Nadia.’
Demyan watched as Roman’s dark eyes filled with tears and he was so, so proud to see them. Proud, not just of Roman, for even if incapable himself, he had raised a son who could show his emotions in the most natural of ways.
Maybe he wasn’t so incapable of showing emotion for, as Roman spoke on, it was Demyan who felt moisture in his eyes.
‘And my father’s name, whatever happened in the past, will always be Demyan.’
It was discussed without words, it was said without saying.
Whatever some laboratory decided, Demyan was Roman’s father.
‘I do want to be in Russia,’ Roman said as they walked further and talked more deeply. ‘I want to learn about my culture, I want to learn the language better. Can you under
stand that?’
‘Of course,’ Demyan said.
He had never wanted to return but now that he had, through adult eyes he could see its beauty.
It just didn’t feel like home.
‘Who is this Alina?’ Roman asked.
‘We are not seeing each other,’ Demyan said. ‘She was working for me.’ It was pointless to lie, he simply could not dismiss her. ‘We were seeing each other for a while but it did not work.’
‘Why?’
Demyan told him that it was personal. ‘We will get a drink.’
They walked into a bar and sat at the counter. ‘When I was younger, before my mother was so ill, we would come here some mornings. She worked at the market and I would come here and have kasha.’ Roman pulled a face, the thought of porridge not appealing. ‘I had it with jam,’ Demyan said, and he sat there remembering days that he had never thought of before. His mother waving a spoon at his face, smiling and laughing as she cajoled a small child to eat. He remembered too the feel of her picking him up, ruffling his hair, before her illness had taken hold.
No, he had not done the opposite of his mother with Roman—the beginnings of a parenting manual had been put in place by Annika. He had known love and affection, but only now could he remember it.
As they were served their drinks at the counter Roman, as gangly teenagers often did, knocked the salt. Black eyes met his father’s and though Demyan had done his best not to pass on the superstitions, he saw in Roman that slight start of fear. But Demyan smiled and took a pinch and threw it over his left shoulder.
‘I do that,’ Roman said, ‘when you are not looking. A friend showed me that.’
Demyan smiled. ‘Here, we don’t throw it, but a friend showed me that too...’ Except she was far more than a friend to him. ‘Alina,’ he corrected. ‘Alina showed me that.’
Roman pushed for more information when perhaps he should not have, but he had never known his father with anyone. ‘Alina is the only woman you have ever brought to our home. Were you serious?’
‘No,’ Demyan said, and remembered how he had smiled more than he ever had when he had been with her. ‘We were rarely serious. Except when we argued, of course.’
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