Page 48 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

47

LONDON, 1941

Trafalgar and I didn’t speak a word to each other during our bath, and then, when the water had turned lukewarm, we silently dried ourselves and made our way to the bed, where we lay, wrapped up in each other, until sleep finally found us. Or found me at least. I woke about an hour later to find him looking through the desk drawer.

‘What are you doing?’ I mumbled.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’ He came and sat on the edge of the bed beside me. ‘I was looking for a pen to write you a note.’

‘What kind of note?’ My brain felt sluggish with exhaustion.

‘To say goodbye. I didn’t want to wake you. You’d only just fallen asleep.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Just after seven. I’m so sorry. I need to get to work. I’ll be needed after last night…’

I nodded. ‘I understand, and I have to leave soon too. A driver is coming to take me to my plane at half past eight.’ I looked up at him, feeling suddenly hollow with loss. ‘So this is goodbye then?’ After what we’d been through together, the thought of parting so soon and having an ocean between us felt devastating.

‘That depends,’ he said, smiling down at me.

‘On what?’ I shifted into a seated position.

‘On whether you want to see me again.’

‘Of course I do!’ I blurted out.

‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘But how will we see each other? I’m about to go back to Portugal.’

‘I’ll work something out, don’t worry.’ He reached out and stroked my hair. ‘It’s so funny.’

‘What?’

‘I feel so close to you. Closer than…’

‘Closer than what?’ I sat up a bit more, keeping the sheet up to my chin, suddenly acutely aware that I was naked.

‘Than to any other woman I’ve had a relationship with,’ he muttered.

I couldn’t help wondering at the implication of his words. Did he now see us as being in a relationship? ‘Well, I suppose surviving the worst night of bombing in London together will do that,’ I said drily.

He shook his head. ‘It’s more than that. A lot more. It’s that word you taught me.’

‘ Bashert ?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at me as if he wanted to say something else, then sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘I have to go. I’m so sorry. But we will see each other again,’ he said firmly, and then he leaned in and kissed me. And, once again, I lost all sense of time, but this time for the very best of reasons.

It took me a moment to catch my breath after he’d left. The events of the night before and the suddenness of his leaving when I was still half asleep was a lot to process. With every second that ticked by, it felt more and more like a dream. But then I went through to the bathroom and I saw our damp towels draped over the side of the bath. It hadn’t been a dream. It had all been beautifully, painfully real.

I’d thought that my car to the airport might have been cancelled due to London being decimated the night before. But it turned out that Londoners were made of sterner stuff, and when my driver arrived to take me to the airport, the streets were bustling with people picking their way over the rubble on their way to work. Many of them looked grim-faced and pale, but they were still in their suits and getting on with their lives.

As we came to a halt at a traffic crossing, I saw a bookshop with half of its front blown off. A handwritten sign had been stuck outside saying ‘MORE OPEN THAN USUAL’ and people were inside browsing the shelves. It reminded me of my date with Trafalgar in the library and that wonderful moment of joy I’d experienced there. I might not have been able to freeze time, but I’d always have that memory to treasure forever.

I felt something inside of me spark back into life. If these people could pick themselves up and carry on after almost a year of relentless bombing, then I most certainly could and should after a couple of days. And besides, I had so much to look forward to. After the pain of losing Judith, I’d been gifted with another special soul in the form of Trafalgar. The heartfelt prayer I’d made on the bank of the Tagus prior to coming to London had miraculously been answered – and in the most magical of ways.

‘You seem different since London,’ Emilio said to me, a couple of days later over dinner in my hotel room.

I felt my cheeks grow warm. ‘Yes, well, I guess a brush with death would do that to a girl.’

He frowned. ‘You seem so happy though, and you haven’t been sarcastic to me once since you got back. It’s very out of character.’

I laughed. ‘I suppose it’s made me more compassionate for the less fortunate.’

‘Very funny.’

I studied his face. He looked different too, but not in a good way. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and his jaw was grey with stubble. ‘Talking about out of character, what’s with the unkempt look?’

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Oh – I, uh, haven’t been sleeping all that well. I have some personal issues going on back home in Chicago.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine. Nothing compared to what some people are going through.’ He took a sip of his whisky before continuing. ‘So, Alexandre is keen for us to start coming up with some new material. I assume you’ve been too busy dodging German bombs to have been thinking about songwriting.’

‘Actually, I found my trip to London really inspiring.’ I rooted around in my bag for my notebook. Inspiration had struck as soon as the plane for Lisbon had taken off and I’d spent most of the flight scribbling down ideas. ‘I have an idea for a song inspired by the spirit of the Londoners – something that captures their air of defiance.’ Of course, this idea had been inspired by one particular Londoner, yelling at the German planes on the banks of the Thames. ‘Something rousing that people could sing along to, to help inspire them to resist.’

‘That sounds awesome!’ Emilio exclaimed. ‘I’ve been tinkering around with a couple of upbeat melodies – perhaps we could see if your lyrics fit.’

‘Excellent!’ I grinned at him. ‘I love how you and I are always in synch. It’s the perfect partnership.’

He grinned back, and I suddenly remembered the awkward moment in the hotel when he’d almost kissed me. It felt like another lifetime ago.

‘The perfect creative partnership,’ I added.

‘Yes.’ He nodded, and I felt a moment of unspoken understanding pass between us. That he, too, knew that anything other than a creative partnership would have been a huge mistake.

‘And I have an idea,’ I continued, ‘for a love song.’

‘Oh!’ He looked surprised.

‘It’s a ballad about longing, in true fado tradition.’

‘Alexandre will be pleased. He was asking me if you had anything like that in the pipeline. He thinks it’s time for another “Jacaranda Seeds” . ’

‘Wonderful!’ I was barely able to hide my relief. The truth was, my new composition meant just as much to me as ‘Jacaranda Seeds’.

There was a beat of silence.

‘So, can I ask what, or who, inspired it?’ Emilio looked at me expectantly.

I hadn’t been planning on telling Emilio the backstory to the song, but I saw an opportunity to make it clear that I didn’t harbour any romantic feelings for him and get rid of any residual awkwardness between us for once and for all. ‘Someone I met in London.’

‘Oh.’ He looked surprised. ‘But you were only there for three days.’

‘They were a very intense three days.’ I grinned across the table at him. ‘Everything felt magnified because of the bombing.’ Of course, I knew it was way deeper than that.

‘I see. So who’s the lucky guy then?’

I started to regret telling him. I didn’t want what happened with Trafalgar to be picked over by someone else, I wanted to keep our precious time together hidden away, just like Judith’s pesky diamond, concealed in the wardrobe, for only me to see.

‘Oh, just a guy I met in the restaurant at the Savoy.’ I couldn’t help smiling at the memory of the twinkly-eyed Trafalgar peering over his menu at me.

‘Wow, you have got it bad.’

I stared at Emilio. He was smiling, but there was a slight edge to his voice that made me think he wasn’t just teasing.

‘Yes, well, I’ll probably never see him again, but hey, if we get a good song out of it…’ I quipped, trying to downplay it.

‘Absolutely.’ He nodded. ‘It’s all good material. OK, let’s hear what you’ve got.’

‘What do you want to start with?’

‘Let’s hear the ballad.’

I turned to the page in my notebook where I’d scribbled the first notes for what would become ‘Ocean Longing’. It’s so strange to think that I had no idea when I sat hunched over in that plane, daydreaming of Trafalgar and consumed with a bone-deep longing, that these scrawled words would go on to work their way inside the hearts and minds of millions of people all over the world – and continue to do so! Back then, I was just trying to express what I was feeling in its rawest, truest form. But maybe that is the secret to good art – it’s the rawness that resonates the most with people.

Feeling a little self-conscious, I started to sing, pretending I needed to look at my notes when, in truth, the lyrics had instantly committed themselves to my memory. I turned away slightly and closed my eyes and thought of how I’d felt that morning I’d said goodbye to Trafalgar, and my voice wavered slightly, but I got through it. When I reached the end, I took a moment before turning back to look at Emilio. His expression was unreadable, and instantly the doubts began flooding my mind. The song had been too personal; it had meant too much to me and clouded my judgement. It was soppy nonsense.

‘That was… that was…’ Now his voice was wavering.

I held my breath and waited for him to continue.

‘That was your next smash hit,’ he said quietly.

I was elated at his response, little realising that the song for which I am still so well known would come to haunt me like a curse.