But, no. Her clothes were still in the bedroom, her toiletries sitting in a neat row on the bathroom vanity.
So where the hell was she?
He went back to the lounge and found his phone. He’d switched it off earlier. Maybe she’d left a message? He powered it on and had his code half entered when he heard a noise at the door. A few seconds later it swung open and Helena walked in, carrying a bag and wearing a grey hooded jacket with damp patches on the shoulders.
He frowned, disguising his relief. ‘You’re wet,’ he said. Inanely. Because it was better than shouting, Where the hell have you been?
‘It’s just started raining again.’ She glanced at him, put down the bag and took off her jacket. Her face was flushed, her breathing a little uneven. ‘I only caught a few drops.’
‘Where have you been?’ He surprised himself with how reasonable he sounded. How not angry.
‘I went home.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’
‘On the tube. You know...that thing called public transport—for common folk who can’t afford limos.’ Her sarcasm lacked any genuine bite.
He put his phone down. ‘Why?’
‘I needed to get something.’
She knelt by the bag and lifted out a wooden box, roughly the size of a document-carrier. It looked handcrafted, its golden wood polished to a beautiful sheen, the lock and key and silver side-handles dainty and ornate. She placed it on the coffee table by the sofa and straightened, holding out her hand to him.
‘I named our little boy Lucas,’ she said, a smile trembling on her lips. ‘And he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.’
* * *
Helena watched Leo’s expression crumple in a way she’d never have imagined it could. He closed his eyes and turned away, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed.
‘No. I can’t.’
She walked over and touched his shoulder. ‘You can,’ she said, as firmly as she’d spoken those very same words to her mother. ‘Our son was real, Leo. He didn’t cry or open his eyes or take a breath, but he had ten fingers and ten toes and everything else a perfect baby should have.’ She squeezed his shoulder, felt a tremor run through the hard muscle under her hand. ‘Please,’ she said, willing him to look at her. Willing him to trust her. ‘Let me show you our little boy. I promise it will help.’
Endless seconds ticked by. Taut, silent seconds that stretched her nerves and amplified each painful beat of her heart. At the very moment her shoulders started to slump, weighted by defeat, he turned.
‘Si.’ He dragged a hand over his face. ‘Show me, then.’
Relief—and a glimmer of hope—trickled through Helena’s veins. She took his hand and led him to the sofa. He sat and she kicked off her shoes, knelt on the floor and opened the box. The first item made her heart give a painful squeeze.
Hands shaking, she passed it to him. ‘I knitted it myself.’
Leo’s big, masculine hands dwarfed the tiny purple beanie. He turned it over several times, his eyebrows inching up as he fingered the multi-coloured pompom. ‘It is very...bright.’
She waggled a pair of fire-engine-red booties. ‘I liked colour, remember? Pastels didn’t get a look-in, I’m afraid.’
His soft grunt might or might not have been approval. Sitting forward, he peered into the box. ‘Is this...?’ He lifted out a small white plaster mould. ‘Mio Dio.’ He ran his thumb over the tiny indentations created by his son’s hand. His voice deepened. Thickened. ‘So small...and perfect...’
‘There are moulds of his feet, too,’ she said, blinking away the sudden prickle of tears. ‘And a lock of hair. Some outfits.’ She delved into the box, removed more items, including an envelope. ‘And I... I have photos.’
Leo shifted suddenly, sinking to the floor beside her, so close his warm, muscled thigh pressed against hers. He reached for the miniature mould of Lucas’s foot, handling the tiny object with infinite care.
Helena watched, her throat growing hot, tigh
t. Perhaps this hadn’t been a crazy idea after all? If everything fell apart from here—if they fell apart—at least they would have shared this.
He put down the mould and turned his attention to the other items she’d laid out, taking his time to handle and examine each one in turn. When he eventually came to the photos he studied them for a long time in silence.
‘He looks like he’s sleeping,’ he said at last.