Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  Lament

  Lynsey M. Stewart

  Lament

  Copyright© 2019 by Lynsey M. Stewart

  All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author of this book. The only exception is brief quotations to be used in book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing: Ashley Martin at Twin Tweaks Editing

  Proofreading: Judy Zweifel at Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover design: Kari March at Kari March Designs

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  Editing: Ashley Martin at Twin Tweaks Editing

  Proofreading: Judy Zweifel at Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover design: Kari March at Kari March Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Nat

  2. Nat

  3. Nat

  4. Nat

  5. Nat

  6. Alex

  7. Nat

  8. Nat

  9. Nat

  10. Nat

  11. Nat

  12. Nat

  13. Nat

  14. Nat

  15. Nat

  16. Nat

  17. Nat

  18. Alex

  19. Nat

  20. Nat

  21. Alex

  22. Alex

  23. Nat

  24. Nat

  25. Nat

  26. Nat

  27. Nat

  28. Alex

  29. Alex

  30. Alex

  31. Alex

  32. Nat

  33. Nat

  34. Nat

  Epilogue

  Other Books By Lynsey

  About Lynsey

  Acknowledgments

  To everyone who has experienced loss in some form.

  This book was written with the word ‘hope’ on a Post-it note beside my laptop. I hope I conveyed that through the words.

  Prologue

  I’d always found the melodic sound of a cello sad.

  Like the music of lost souls and wandering shadows trying to blend in with the night. Stories of loss, of longing, grief and depression colliding with the notes. I wondered if the music called to the mourners. The ones who could understand the same pain as the sounds of the bow slicing across the strings.

  Mourners like me.

  I watched him, fell into his beauty, strangely longed to run my fingers through the dark curls falling gently over his face. The bow pulled and pushed, dipped and glided. His long elegant fingers pressed against the strings, a deep line of concentration between his eyebrows as he echoed the piercing note.

  It was the note, the loud, shrill sound that represented a shriek, a cry, a wail, that made me question this handsome cellist’s story. Was the music he played – so stirring and passionate – the sound of his own loss being set free? Was it a channel providing him with an escape? An attempt to throw out his grief with each note? A deep, low vibration trying to bury his secrets until they didn’t hurt him anymore?

  I could feel every sorrowful thought playing through his fingers and I was fascinated.

  As I closed my eyes, I lost myself in his music. I was no longer sitting in my seat at London’s Barbican Centre, listening to the London Symphony Orchestra. I was back at the beginning of my grief journey, hearing my sister’s soft moans as she lay twisted in the wreckage of the car. Seeing my mum’s bloodied forehead and vacant expression. I remember trying to make sense of why I was sitting on the curb with a stranger’s jacket around my shoulders, barely a bruise on my body, staring at the new life that awaited me.

  A life without my mum and sister.

  My lifelines.

  My heart.

  How could so much change in just a few seconds? How could life be unrecognisable in mere minutes?

  I’d always wondered why I was the sole survivor of the car accident that took the lives of my mum and sister. During the first few days without them, I questioned what or who granted me the privilege of life but had decided that theirs was to be cut short. But I scoffed at that, never gave it a second thought after discovering the driver wasn’t disoriented or suffering a stroke at the wheel, the script I’d imagined in an attempt to make it more palatable. The driver was intoxicated, and we were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I heard the same words repeatedly from police officers, doctors, lawyers and friends. A scripted prose that was well-meaning but unhelpful. It made me want to scream out in anger. No one had decided their time was up. There was no looming life force or religious reasoning to help process that life-changing moment. The culprits of the crime were an empty bottle of vodka on the passenger seat, the man who chose to drink it and Mum’s split-second decision to swerve, sinking the car into a tree.

  I was sitting in the back, away from the full impact. An argument with my eight-year-old sister about who should sit up front and a game of rock paper scissors that I lost saved my life that night.

  Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if I should be thankful for that silly game or if being left behind was more traumatising than death. Death was hard for anyone to come to terms with, especially a sixteen-year-old facing life without two of the most important people in her life.

  So, dance became my outlet. Music held my hand through the pain.

  And that’s how I found myself aching to hear the handsome cellist’s sad melodies. Yearning to hear more of his grief bursting through the strings. His music made me question and feel in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to in years. It was a balm to my soul, soothing away all the hurt and the what-ifs. I hated the what-ifs, had been through them a million times, reasoned with myself that my mum and sister were killed because of a man so drunk he couldn’t remember his name, let alone how to safely drive a car.

  But if only I’d been sitting in the front.

  If only I’d picked stone instead of paper.

  1

  Nat

  I pushed my arms through the sleeves of the gown an assistant held out for me and sat down in the chair facing the mirror. The bright lights made me look tired. Probably because I was. But I ignored the dark circles and fought the yawns because I’d been looking forward to this moment for weeks.

  ‘Marc’s just finishing up with his client. He’ll be with you as soon as he can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, popping in my earbuds. She brought over a glass of water
and I lifted my thumb to her in thanks. I found the artist I was looking for in the music folders on my phone app. Alexander Blayren, the cello player I couldn’t shake from my thoughts. After the concert at the Barbican, I downloaded his music, pleased to find that he’d released albums under his own name, alongside appearing on recordings as part of the London Symphony Orchestra. I devoured them, listening to him as I navigated the tube, snatching moments with him between performances and as I grabbed essentials from the supermarket on the way home. I’d also danced to them, and I’d wondered…wondered about the man behind the music.

  ‘I’m ready for you,’ Marc said, tapping me on the shoulder to get my full attention. I pulled out my earbuds and took a long sigh. ‘You were lost for a moment. I hope you went somewhere nice.’

  ‘I’ve found an amazing cellist,’ I replied. ‘His early stuff is breathtaking, but his recent music is more…haunting.’

  ‘Sounds deep.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a story there,’ I replied.

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I smiled, lost in a daydream of cellos and the handsome man who commanded them so well.

  ‘The man or the music?’

  ‘Both.’

  I shook my hair out of the band that had been keeping my hair out of my eyes and pushed my fingers through the long brown waves. It felt long and heavy against my shoulders. Spring was in full force; London was experiencing an unusual heat wave for this time of year. The underground tube stations were packed and sweaty. A sticky sauna that nobody wanted to relax in. Lifting the wet strands off my neck, I smiled, took a deep breath and embraced the moment. Marc approached me cautiously, running his hand through his beard. He was the best hairdresser in the business. Was booked out for weeks. I’d followed him around salons across London for the last ten years. He knew me, and more importantly, he knew my hair. He always said it was a charming mix of thin but plenty of it. Wavier on one side and stubborn when trying to tame it to sit flat.

  He always managed to make it look good. The man was a hair magician. A hair charmer with flair.

  Marc was memorable not only for his haircuts, but also his appearance. He didn’t fit into the male hairdresser stereotype. He was all full-sleeve tattoos, bright and cartoony, mixed in with heavy metal T-shirts, kilts, a ZZ Top beard, and a man bun.

  But if I was going to trust anyone to transform my waist-length brown hair into a pixie cut, he was the man for the job.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He grimaced as he ran his hands through waves, splaying it out over my shoulders.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘Pass me a coffee. Strong.’ I arched an eyebrow dramatically and he almost collapsed.

  ‘Nat, you’re making me nervous. Once I’ve done this, I can’t stick it back on. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m kidding,’ I said, extending my arms. ‘Yes! I’m sure. New start. New outlook. New hair.’

  ‘We can work up to such a dramatic cut. Start with a choppy bob and take it shorter over say…ten years.’ He bit his lip and I shook my head at him through the mirror.

  ‘I don’t have ten years. I leave tomorrow,’ I replied, laughing. ‘I’ve made my decision. Pixie cut, please.’

  I handed him his scissors off the work station and tried to ignore the slight shake in his hands. Surely the shaking hands should belong to me?

  ‘I’m thinking Michelle Williams,’ he said as he started combing.

  ‘Queen of the pixie,’ I replied with an absolute nod.

  ‘She’s perfection, Nat.’

  ‘Could you give me her bone structure to match?’ He was about to make the first cut.

  ‘Jesus,’ he rushed out, standing back and panting. ‘I swear today will see me off. My heart is racing.’

  I laughed. ‘I trust you and I’m ready.’

  He stroked his beard again for good measure and stood forward, ready for battle.

  ‘You’re gorgeous, lady. Your cheekbones and cute button nose are perfect for this cut.’

  ‘Let’s get moving then…chicken.’ I flapped my arms for comedic effect.

  ‘I want a happy client at the end of this,’ he replied.

  ‘I’m happy.’

  He gathered my hair together in his hand, pulling it into a ponytail before he started to slice the scissors across the tight bunch of hair. I bit my lip as he ceremoniously held up the now detached ponytail, the rest falling back into place just under my chin. I almost popped my cheeks with the smile it created.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said as he patted my arm. ‘You’ve embraced this change, and your growth mindset is fucking stellar.’

  ‘Marc, I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been trying to break into the West End for over ten years. If it hasn’t happened this side of thirty, it ain’t ever gonna happen.’

  A woman with lilac hair came over with a small plastic bag. Marc dropped my ponytail into it. I’d told him over the phone when I made my appointment that I wanted to donate my hair to The Little Princess Trust, who would use it to make wigs for children who’ve lost their hair due to cancer treatment and other causes. She held up her thumb in respect, smiling as she took it away.

  ‘You’re amazing, Nat,’ Marc said, placing his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re a goddamned West End

  fairy.’

  ‘Tell the producers that,’ I laughed.

  ‘They wouldn’t know talent if it slapped them across the face.’

  ‘I’m a small fish in a big pond.’ I shrugged. ‘But, I’m done with crying. I’m done eating a pint of ice cream when I’m rejected from the lead role in Chicago.’ Man, I was desperate to razzle-dazzle them. ‘I need a new focus. This will be good for me.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he replied, ruffling the edges of my hair with his fingers.

  ‘Hey, you need to trim the pixie,’ I said, pointing to my head. ‘I’ll be back. I need the fix of bright lights and choreography, but as an audience member, not as a performer.’

  I’d left my childhood home a few months after the accident and a day after my seventeenth birthday. I couldn’t stand being in the same house I’d shared with my mum and sister. Daily reminders of their loss were lurking around every corner, printed on the walls through photographs, Bec’s first drawing from nursery, the one my mother framed, and magnetic letters on the fridge still spelling out the name of our dog, Rex.

  My grandmother moved in the same day we lost them. She gave up her home, placed the money from the sale of her house in my account and allowed me to move to London to follow my dream of making it big in the West End. The money paid for every course, every dance and singing lesson, and my accommodation fees. I owed her everything.

  Well-meaning friends told her that she was making the wrong decision, forcing me to grow up too soon after the trauma. To her, it made sense. She was a dancer in her bones. From an early age she’d taught me to feel music, transfer it to my limbs, feel it in my pulse. She ran a dance school in our village. I had danced in every class at On Pointe from the age of two. She was my idol and had lived my dream before teaching. She understood that dance had the ability to heal me. I could thrash out my emotions, make sense of the storm in my head and release it safely.

  ‘You really think the call of the West End won’t drive you mad once you’ve been back in the sleepy English countryside for a few…minutes?’ Marc asked, smiling.

  I thought about his question before I replied. Would I miss London? Would I miss the failed auditions and false smiles? Would I miss bowing to the audience from the ensemble cast, wishing I was standing up front with the bouquet of roses in my arms?

  ‘No,’ I replied honestly. ‘I’m looking forward to a new challenge.’

  My grandmother had told me she was planning on retiring and that if I wanted to take over On Pointe, it would be mine in a second. She knew asking me was like throwing a hand grenade and expecting me to catch it. The initial prospect of running a dance school was exciting and gave me a way out of the lifestyle
that wasn’t working for me. Something my grandmother was aware of and was caused pain by because she knew how miserable it made me.

  On the flip side, coming home meant facing the past I’d silently bundled away, wrapping it in tissue paper and storing it in a box. A past I tried to forget. It wasn’t failure or embarrassment of not making it to the big time that made me nervous about going home. It was reacquainting myself with the old ghosts that lived there that scared me the most.

  ‘Nat. I’ve been your hairdresser for years now. It’s no lie when people say we’re counsellors. We’ve talked about a lot of shit you’ve been through over the years.’

  I laughed at that.

  It had taken me years to establish that there were two types of people in the world. There were the ones who looked forward to a trip to the hairdresser and others who dreaded it because they were far too intimidated by the hipsters and high heels. I fell into the looking-forward category. I never found the hairdressers intimidating, particularly after finding Marc. I always loved being pampered and took it in my stride that most of the perfectly put-together staff likely woke up, shook out their hair and immediately looked fabulous. I needed help to achieve my level of shiny-haired beauty, which to previous hairdressers must have been pitiful or plain bad genetics. Once they’d maneuvered their face to look slightly less judgmental, I’d already slumped into a hair-washing coma and dribbled into my head massage.