LILY had been a Lily all her life. Petite, with a waist that could disappear into a teacup, bright hazel eyes that seemed perpetually surprised, and a laugh that could start a chorus of giggles, she never failed to catch the eye of men of any age. In England, theres a soft spot for diminutive ladies the little birdies you just want to scoop up, pamper and keep in the palm of your hand. As the saying goes, a tiny pony is always a foal.
Lily also had a knack for singing. Her voice was a warm mezzosoprano that seemed to fill any room she entered. By day she labored as a technician in a Birmingham chemical plant, but her true element was always the microphone. She joined every local choir, entered talent nights, and gradually inched onto modest stages at first timidly, then with increasing swagger. Her soul thirsted for art, and she fed it greedily.
She never rushed into marriage, and children? Not a whisper in her mind. Lily thought she was perfectly selfsufficient. A husband, a brood all that would gobble up the precious time she needed for song and a good cup of tea. She voiced these thoughts over lunch with her married friends, who nodded sympathetically while patting their swollen bellies and mumbling about the next maternity leave.
So Lily pledged herself to the craft of singing. Yet fate, as it loves to do, threw a curveball. At work she regularly delivered test reports to the head of her department, a man called Anthony Sinclair. The office door was guarded by a very protective secretary, Zoe Hart, who would snatch Lilys stack of papers the moment she stepped into the hallway and say in a tone that suggested Ive got this, love, you can go on your way.
Consequently Lily never actually met Anthony. One day Zoe fell ill, and Lily, seizing the opportunity, knocked politely on the door and peeked inside. At the far end of the polished desk sat Anthony himself.
Come in, love. What have you got? he asked.
Just the test reports, Lily stammered.
New here, arent you? he probed further.
Nope, five years on the line already, Lily replied, a little surprised at his curiosity.
Never noticed you, he said with a grin. They exchanged a few jokes, Lily laughed, and she slipped back to her bench.
From that day on Lily handed her reports straight to Anthonys desk, and Zoe, now recovered, would turn away dramatically, busily watering the office plants and pretending not to see Lilys stack of paperwork.
Lily was twentyseven at the time. A brief office romance blossomed brief because Anthony was a proper gentleman; he didnt want to be the gossip on the notice board. He promptly suggested they get married. Lily, ever the free spirit, turned him down. Why shackles when I can keep my freedom? she laughed. Most women in her situation would have sprinted after him, but Lily was content with a relationship that required no vows.
Anthony, bewildered by her refusal, took a step back, hoping shed reconsider. Meanwhile the rest of the office, ever the cheeky bunch, nudged her: A man like him is practically a catch! You should be saying I do before youre twentyeight! Eventually Lily gave in.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a lace dress and a veil that made her look like a porcelain doll, Lily resembled a delicate music box. Anthony beamed with pride. Lily, though, kept her emotions in check, preserving her energy for the stage rather than for marital drama.
Their honeymoon was sweet, but Lily soon packed her suitcase for a regional tour of community centres, holiday camps and local schools. Anthony, ever the supportive husband, gave her a very practical request:
Lily, could you please sort the dinner and iron my shirt?
Lily, with a roll of her eyes, snapreplied, Tom, Ive got a gig, not a kitchen! Anthony, with a grin, planted a quick kiss on her nose and shouted, Sorry, love, Im just being daft. Go on and sing!
He soon learned the art of microwavable meals, ironing, and making a decent sunnysideup. After all, his wife was an eccentric sort who preferred the limelight to the laundry basket.
Months passed, and Lily quit the plant to focus entirely on her vocal career. Anthony, used to the idea of a creative partner, settled into his role at the plant, occasionally nagging Zoe for a cuppa or a homemade scone. One afternoon Zoe, eager to impress, offered him a cherryfilled pastry.
Thanks, Zoe. I do love a good cherry bake, Anthony said, sighing, but my wifes singing keeps her busy, so Im on my own at home.
Zoe muttered to herself, She sings, I bake, and he roars like a wolf in the night. She continued to bring him soups in thermoses, pies, and the occasional jamfilled bun, gradually slipping into a quasimaternal role. Anthony appreciated her kindness, but his loyalty to Lily remained firm.
Fast forward four years of marriage, and Lily still insisted there would be no children. Then, a surprise: she suddenly started craving pickled cucumbers and tart apples, a classic stork is on the way signal in British folklore. Anthony was over the moon, already browsing the internet for the finest prams and cot sets.
Lily, however, was less enthusiastic and even consulted a doctor to avoid an unwanted pregnancy. The doctor, with a solemn look, said it was too late and encouraged her to welcome a healthy baby. Anthony remained blissfully unaware as Lily scoured shops for baby gear, all the while keeping the secret to herself.
When the news finally leaked, Zoe, who still harboured a soft spot for Anthony, sighed and submitted her resignation. Ive run out of cherries, she joked to the new secretary, a spry woman named Tilly, no more pies for you, love.
Tilly, a seasoned veteran of the plant, marched into Anthonys office and declared, Anthony, youve lost a good one! Zoe adored you like no other! Anthony brushed her off with a curt, Back to work, Tilly. No distractions.
Soon enough, Lily gave birth to a little girl. The midwife, eyes twinkling, asked, What shall we call her?
Nothing, Lily snapped. Anthony burst into the ward with a bouquet, but Lily, crying silently on the cot, barely acknowledged him. The other mothers in the ward whispered, Whats wrong? She looks like shes had a bad night. Lily, wiping her tears, declared, I dont want this child! The women exchanged shocked glances and started sharing their own domestic dramas, from secret lovers to missing husbands, each one louder than the last.
A nurse tried to hand Lily a bunch of roses from Anthony, but Lily let them sit untouched on the bedside table.
The following week Anthony was sent on a twoweek assignment at a new plant. He raced home, heart pounding, dreaming of his daughters face. When he arrived, though, he found only Lily, humming a tune and leafing through sheet music.
Lily, wheres our baby? he asked, bewildered.
Anthony, sit down. I she muttered, I signed the adoption papers away.
Signed away? Youve gone mad! Thats our child! he exclaimed, his voice cracking.
In a fit of fury he tore the music sheets to shreds, flung them at her and shouted, You idiot! Lily stared at him, terrified, as he gathered his belongings, slammed the door, and fled the house, wandering the streets of Manchester, shouting, Where has love gone? Help me! Passersby hurried past, glued to their phones.
A few nights later, after staying with a friend, Anthony returned to work and asked the new secretary for Zoes number, hoping to call her. We know what the business is, she replied dryly, handing him a slip of paper.
When Lily finally recovered from the shock, she decided to throw herself back into music. She took a holiday at a seaside resort where a concert was organised just for her. She performed, sang, and the audience roared with applause, showering her with flowers and calls for encores. The years rolled on, and Lily gradually shifted from performing to teaching. She never studied music formally, but her experience was more than enough to mentor young talent.
One afternoon a fellow teacher brought a girl she claimed was exceptionally gifted. Bring her in, Lily, she said.
Soon a boyish man named Anthony strode into the studio with two girls, ten and twelve years old. He pointed the younger one to a chair. Sit, Maddy, he said. The older one edged closer, and Lily recognised her her own former husband.
Good heavens, why do I keep bumping into former lovers? Anthony muttered, halfamused, halfirritated.
Calm down, Tom, Lily said, chuckling, lets hear her sing.
The younger girls voice was startlingly familiar bright, tiny, and full of mischief, just like Lilys own voice once was. After the audition Lily asked, Whats your name, love?
Thirteen, Im Kira, the girl replied proudly.
Brilliant! Tell your dad to join us, Lily called out.
Anthony entered, beaming. Tom, youve got a talented daughter. I can recommend a good tutor if you need one. By the way, are you married? Hows life?
Married, happily. My wife is Zoe, my former secretary. Weve got a daughter, Kira, and a shared little one, Molly, with Zoe. Anthony announced proudly.
What? My own child? Lily stared, stunned.
You only gave birth to her, Anthony said matteroffact, turning to leave.
Behind them a voice shouted, Girls, lets go meet Mum from work!
Lily sat down, her mind a whirlwind of disbelief. Thirteen years later she still wondered at that day when shed signed away a child who now called someone else Mum.
One evening, returning home, Lily was greeted by her beloved cat, Maestro, who trotted in, tail high, demanding a treat. She shooed him away with a sigh, Not now, love! The cat plonked himself by his food bowl, as if to say, I know youre sulking, but Im still hungry.
She thought, A cat cant talk, a husband cant love, and Im left with an empty flat and a chilly bed. Perhaps I chose the wrong notes for my life.
She replayed the entire melody of her existence, a bittersweet tune. Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a wellworn blanket, she recalled the old fable of the grasshopper who sang all summer and wondered whether shed spent too much time singing and not enough time listening.
