by Katy Colins
It was phenomenal. A huge mass of polished copper-coloured metal that was twisted into a sort of figure of eight.
‘Yeah, that’s actually a new piece in my collection. It’s a work in progress though; I’m missing something that I need in order to finish it.’ Daniel shrugged but I could see the pride in his eyes. ‘It’s a special piece. I don’t even know if I have a buyer lined up, I just woke up and had to get to work on it. Don’t worry, I promise I didn’t invite you in for the hard sell.’
‘It’s incredible…’ I breathed. ‘Perfect.’
He shook his head with a wry smile. ‘Have you ever heard of a Persian flaw?’
‘No?’
‘There’s this legend that Persian rug makers would intentionally add a flaw into their finished work, as they believe that perfection is only for God or Allah or some higher power, not humans. It would be arrogant for us mortals to even aspire to perfection.’
I tried to follow what he was saying but all I could think about was Abbie and how close to perfection her life seemed. Ever since her funeral, I’d felt haunted by her.
‘Those intricate and stunning carpets would never be perfect. They all had a flaw, probably only visible to the one who created it, but that’s also what makes them unique.’
‘So the key is to embrace the flaws?’
‘You’ve got it!’ He laughed lightly. ‘Sugar?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In your tea?’
‘Oh, no thanks, just milk.’
‘Soya milk OK? I’m on a bit of a health kick.’ He patted his flat stomach.
‘Oh, fine,’ I said absently, too engrossed in the incredible art around me.
‘Here. Take a seat if you like?’
He indicated two bucket chairs at the back of the studio. There was a coffee table between them, with a couple of his business cards on. He placed two steaming mugs down and settled down opposite me.
‘Can I please apologise for how I was at Abbie Anderson’s wake? I’d had too much to drink so was spouting rubbish. A default of mine to steer away from the reality of the situation, I guess. I don’t often drink so much.’
‘Oh, it’s fine.’ I wafted my hand. ‘So, how have you been since then? Crashed any more funerals?’
‘Ha, not quite. God, I really was going off on one then.’ He shook his head. ‘I realised that I never asked you what you did. Sorry, that was very rude of me.’
I paused. There was something about his down-to-earth nature that was really attractive. For some silly reason I didn’t want to go there with the truth just yet.
‘I’m a counsellor,’ I said. A half-truth, as technically I was the group facilitator for the Friday night group.
‘Very impressive.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not some sort of therapist that’s going to analyse me and my sausage roll eating habits, I hope?’
I laughed awkwardly. ‘No, don’t worry. So –’
‘Grace! There you are!’ Mum boomed as she swung open the door. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you! What are you doing in here – ooh.’
Daniel quickly got to his feet, sloshing coffee on the floor, a welcoming smile on his face.
‘Mum, meet Daniel. Daniel meet my mum, Tina.’
‘Oooh, hello, Daniel!’ Could she tell the air was thick with unspoken words, or was that just me? ‘Lovely to meet you!’
‘You too. Can I get you a drink? I’ve just made us one?’
‘No!’ I said. They both looked at me. ‘We need to be getting on, don’t we, Mum?’
I was not about to sit and drink tea with the two of them, whilst she threw me knowing looks. I could tell that she was already sizing him up for son-in-law potential.
‘Oh. I’m sure we can stay for one…’
‘Sorry, Daniel, we’d better be going.’
‘Sure, no problem, maybe I can catch up with you some other time, Grace?’
‘Yeah… great,’ I said, probably a little too brightly. ‘Mum, you ready?’
‘Hang on a second, love. I just want to have a look at some of these wonderful paintings. Grace, you could do with some colour like this in your flat. You clearly have an eye for talent, Daniel.’
She was making her way slowly around the room, stopping to admire each separate piece, telling him how she used to paint in her younger days – I willed her not to admit that she was once a nude model. Daniel had puffed his chest out with pride, and began telling her about the inspiration behind each one.
‘Do you mind if I nip to the toilet?’ I asked.
‘Course, it’s just through those doors.’
I hurried to the small cloakroom to try and catch my breath. I felt all hot and flustered. I ran cold water over my wrists to help cool me down, moving his jacket that was hanging on the back of the door to dry my hands on the towel beneath it.
‘All ready to go?’
Mum had her head thrust back, laughing at something he was saying. It was all a little too cosy for my liking. ‘Alright then. See you, Daniel!’
‘Thanks for popping by. See you soon, Grace.’
‘Well, he seemed lovely,’ Mum sang, waving over her shoulder as I steered her up the cobbled lane. ‘Very handsome. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Did you spot that, Grace?’
‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed…’
She let out a dramatic sigh. ‘That’s the problem with you, Grace. You’re too lost in your own head. I think he’s taken rather a shine to you. How do you know him? I never had you down as the type to hang around with artists?’
‘We met through work,’ I said, knowing that would shut her up.
Chapter 19
I’d stayed late, telling Frank I would lock up, just so I could take Abbie’s ashes without anyone seeing me. I felt awfully guilty at the concerned look Frank gave me as he left, telling me not to work so hard. If only he knew. I tried to brush off the deceit; I was doing this to check Callum was OK, that his hand was healing, that was all. I was not there to feed my curiosity at what else his wife could inspire in my own life – or so I tried to tell myself. There was something about Callum Anderson that singled him out from my other clients. I just didn’t know exactly what it was. I ignored just how risky and foolish taking the ashes to him actually was. They needed to remain in the safety of the locked storeroom, not be taken on day trips. But I forgot all about that within moments of arriving at Callum’s house.
A stack of junkmail, wedged in the letterbox at the end of the drive, was the first indication that things had gone downhill. The front garden had been completely neglected since I’d been there last. The previously pristine flower beds were now full of weeds and cigarette stubs; the lush green grass was scruffy and overgrown. Straining black bin bags bulged from a wheelie bin that must have not been left at the kerbside for weeks. Bird poo stains dribbled down the ground-floor windows. All of the curtains were drawn, but the empty wine and beer bottles in the recycling bin proved there was life behind the closed drapes.
I rang the doorbell, its cheery sound a contrast with the reason for my visit. I peered through the frosted glass in the front door, but couldn’t make out any movement from inside. My fingers hovered on the buzzer. How soon should I press again without appearing desperate? But maybe he hadn’t heard me. There was a car parked on the driveway, so I guessed he must be in. He’d probably forgotten I was coming over; he had had a lot to drink when we’d discussed it. I pressed the bell once more. I was sure I could feel someone’s eyes on me. Had the curtain in the upstairs room twitched slightly? If he was in, he clearly didn’t want to see me. I was just about to walk away when I heard footsteps heavy on the stairs. I suddenly felt nervous.
‘Oh, hi.’
He looked marginally better than he had on Friday. The creased T-shirt and jeans remained, but he had a little more colour in his cheeks. It was still a world away from the impeccable style I’d seen him wear in Abbie’s Facebook albums.
‘Hi, er, is this a good time?’
‘Yep. Fine.’
He flashed a small but welcoming smile. It was as if he’d forgotten why I was coming over, but then he appeared to suddenly twig. ‘Can I help you with that?’ He bent down to pick up the bag resting near my feet. The bandage I’d wrapped around his hand had gone.
He swallowed as he hoisted up the large bag and blinked rapidly.
‘Callum, are you OK?’ I asked gently.
‘It’s heavy. I mean, she’s heavy,’ he said, tripping on his words, his voice sounding strained.
‘Do you want me to come back another time?’
‘No, no. I’m fine! Come on in,’ he said quickly, looking for somewhere to put the bag. ‘I just didn’t expect it… I mean her, to be so heavy.’
‘Between six and eight pounds,’ I said, following him into the kitchen. ‘Like a newborn baby.’
‘Wow…’
‘That’s minus the weight of your soul. Apparently.’
He looked at me blankly.
‘What?’
Why had I just said that?
‘Twenty-one grams. The weight of a soul. Although, I’ve seen the people who waddle into Greggs on the high street – surely their souls would weigh a little more.’ I gave a tinkle of a laugh that echoed around the large kitchen, trying to lighten the horrible atmosphere.
The last time I had been there was for Abbie’s wake. Without the vast number of bodies, food and a party atmosphere, the enormous room just felt cold and stark. My heels crunched on crumbs scattered over the dark floor tiles. Sticky marks spread across the work surfaces. A stack of takeaway boxes, shoved by the kettle, were surrounded by a collection of empty beer bottle lids. The counters were marked with cup rings and spillages. The floor was slightly sticky underfoot. I felt myself stiffen at the sight of the place. I was itching to get a pair of marigolds on, grab a clean scourer, and blitz the bacteria that lurked on every surface.
‘Sorry? What?’ He frowned.
I could feel myself growing red.
‘There was this experiment in 1901, I think, where physicians weighed dying people before and after they died. They all lost weight – twenty-one grams, around the weight of a mouse – after they died, which led everyone to speculate that that was the weight of their souls leaving their bodies,’ I mumbled. ‘I think it’s since been disproven, but, well, mud sticks.’
He thought about this for a second. ‘I sold my soul to my best mate Rory when we were eleven.’
‘What for?’
‘A Super Soaker. Thought it was a good deal at the time.’ He shrugged, finally flashing a genuine smile at my shocked reaction.
‘You sold your soul for a water gun?’ He nodded. ‘So when does he get to take his prize?’
‘We didn’t get to the fine print, thankfully. I’m hoping he’s forgotten about it, to be honest.’
He gently placed the carrier bag on the dining table at the back of the room. I lingered by the door, pretending not to watch, a funny silence opening up around us.
‘Tea?’ he offered. ‘Unless you need to get on?’
‘No, I’m all yours! I mean…’ I blushed. ‘Yep, tea sounds great. Milk, no sugar, thanks… if you don’t mind?’
He shook his head. ‘Be my guest.’
Callum opened a few cupboards to find two mugs that he seemed to deem clean enough. He placed them on a menu for a pizza place and flicked the kettle on. My mind was racing with the stats on how damp and mould can affect your health, how you’re more likely to develop respiratory problems living in such squalor. I felt like my breath was getting tighter just thinking of the mould spores floating around us both. I tried to distract myself whilst he was searching in the fridge for some milk; I daren’t not look in there. Callum caught me staring at the large wedding photo still hanging over the dusty dining-room table.
‘Mel’s coming round to help make a start on Abbie’s things soon.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
He gave me a look.
‘Stupid question. Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’m dreading it, obviously. She’s hoping it might make things feel a bit more real…’ He trailed off. I could imagine it was easy for him to stay in denial, and tell himself that Abbie was working away, still. A way of the head protecting the heart, I guess. ‘Listen, I should apologise for when I was at yours. I can’t remember much of the night…’
‘It’s fine.’ He didn’t need to apologise for anything. There was a pause where he looked like he was about to say something.
‘Crap. I’m out of milk.’
‘Oh well. Don’t worry.’
‘I should be able to make something as fucking simple as a cup of tea,’ he muttered, his jaw clenched.
‘It’s fine, honestly.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Grace. It’s not fine.’
I nodded and bit my tongue. Clearly this was not just about running out of milk.
‘I’ll go and get some. The walk will do me good.’ He flashed a tight smile that didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I won’t be long.’
Before I had the chance to say anything he’d grabbed a jacket from the banister, shoved his feet into a pair of trainers and hurried out of the front door.
I was alone in this man’s house. In Abbie’s house. All the time I’d spent poring over her virtual life, and now I was alone in her private space. My eyes darted to the washing up and sticky surfaces. My head and heart were conflicted. I desperately wanted to give our mugs a good rinse and help him get on top of the mess, but I also had the opportunity to see what Abbie’s life was really like, behind the social media filters.
I went for option two.
Unsure of where this risk-taking confidence was coming from, I quickly padded up the stairs and opened the first doors off from the wide, muted grey landing. It felt like I was walking into a posh hotel as I stepped into the master bedroom. The walls were a soft, calming, almost-pinkish cream colour, the thick carpet a deep grey that swallowed your feet. There was a door open to an adjoining en suite. There wasn’t a bit of clutter, stray clothing or discarded rubbish to be seen. The white sheets of the king-sized bed were tightly made; it looked like it hadn’t been slept in. I frowned. Why would Callum go to such effort in making his bed, but not bother to wash himself or his dishes?
Two wide, white-lacquered cupboard doors stood to my right. I’d never been inside a walk-in wardrobe before and it didn’t disappoint. It felt like a luxurious boutique, rails and rails of neatly hanging dresses, jackets, suits and trousers lined the wall.
My fingers ran across the different fabrics hanging on padded hangars. A smell of clean cotton filled my nose. Cashmere jumpers in soft berry colours, camel-coloured coats and leather biker jackets. Lighter summer looks in linen and lace partitioned off by white shelves full of shoes, heels facing outwards in perfect symmetry. There must have been over fifty pairs in there and they all looked brand new. Not a scuff or mark in sight. I realised I’d been holding my breath and had forgotten to blink. Next to the two full-length mirrors was a dressing table. An assortment of expensive-looking spa salon products were lined up against the vanity mirror on the glossy white table.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there, gawping. Callum would surely be back any second. I turned to leave when a mirrored jewellery cabinet caught my eye, the soft light bouncing off the lid, pulling me over to it, teasing me to open it.
I gently lifted the lid and gasped. There must have been thousands of pounds worth of jewellery in there. Gemstones glinted from deep-set rings, diamond earrings winking up at me from a velvet plinth. I fidgeted with the handmade hippy bracelet my mum had got me for my birthday, the bright cotton strands looking cheap and childish next to the brushed metals that Abbie owned. My subconscious willed me to put something on, to feel the weight of one of the rings or bangles. I knew I’d never be able to afford anything like that in real life.
My fingers hovered over a stunning, gleaming, white gold and topaz ring. I picked it up, instantly feeling its weight on my palm. It was u
tterly breathtaking. Not a scratch or mark in sight, it looked brand new. I wondered what the story was, whether Callum had bought it for her? Maybe it was an anniversary gift or a generous birthday present. Maybe she’d treated herself? I was about to pick it up and slip it on when Callum’s concerned voice rang up the stairs.
‘Everything OK, Grace? Are you up there?’
What was I doing!? I tensed up. I hadn’t heard the front door go. How long had he been home for? I pulled myself together, ashamed at how easily and quickly I’d forgotten where I was, lost in the beauty spread before me like some dirty magpie. Imagine if the ring had got stuck! How would I ever explain that to Callum? I tucked the beautiful ring back where I’d found it. Tucked under a contraceptive pill packet, the days of the month marked out on one shiny side, spaces left where the packet had been puckered and the corresponding pill taken. I closed the lid of the jewellery box and quickly but softly jogged out of the wardrobe to hurry down the stairs.
‘You OK?’ he asked from the hallway as I descended, frowning.
‘I think I took a wrong turn!’ I blustered, my cheeks heating up. ‘I couldn’t find the loo…’
‘The downstairs bathroom is here.’
He opened a door at the base of the stairs, right next to where he was standing. I made a show of how foolish I’d been.
‘What! I thought that was a cupboard!’ I let out a how-silly-am-I sort of laugh.
He nodded but didn’t look convinced. Could he tell by the colour rushing to my face that I’d been snooping? ‘I got us some milk.’
‘Great, thanks!’ I shrilled, my heart racing and beads of sweat clinging to my underarms.
I padded ahead of him into the kitchen and told myself to take a few deep breaths as he poured boiling water into the mugs from a special fancy tap. I avoided eye contact with the bag containing his wife’s ashes. It was as if I could feel her judging me and my snooping ways.
‘Is soya milk OK? I stupidly picked it up out of habit. Abbie hasn’t drunk cow’s milk for the past two years, something to do with some report she’d watched about hormones messing with our insides. I like my coffee black so never bothered with the stuff.’