LOVE'S GHOST (a romance)

by Ellis, T. S.

  "Fay?"

  The voice was close.

  "Fay?"

  I had to look up. It was Carl. Reluctantly, I stopped.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "I…" I found myself pointing back towards the café, gesticulating in its direction over my shoulder, but no words came out to explain my pointing. Then I found my voice. "I can't do lunch today after all."

  "Oh, that's a shame. Why not? What's happened."

  I could have invented some excuse. But I was never very good at lying. So I told the truth. "My ex was at another table in the café."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. That must have been a shock."

  "Yes, it was." I was a little embarrassed that I'd told him. I expected the conversation to dry up. But Carl kept talking. His voice was soft.

  "Exes are a pain aren't they? There should be some device that makes them invisible once we're finished with them. There's a device for everything these days. It's surprising they haven't developed the invisible exes app."

  I couldn't help but smile. Through my distress, through my discomfort, and despite the fact that I was flushed, I smiled.

  "I met an ex once when I was out shopping,” he said. “She was with her new boyfriend and they were out trying on clothes. She'd just slipped into the dress and had walked out from the changing rooms to show her new man. Of course, they were still in the honeymoon period. So he was gushing over it. It didn't suit her. She had a habit of being attracted to clothes that didn't suit her. Anyway, she spotted me and there was an awkward exchange of greetings. Then she asked me what I thought of the dress. I said it looked amazing, that it was made for her. She was very pleased."

  He smiled at me conspiratorially.

  "If that dress is still in her wardrobe, I can guarantee that she never wears it."

  My body was a little perplexed. Ninety percent of it was still panicking. But ten percent felt a warm glow at being in the company of this charming man. But the panic was too strong for the glow.

  “Do you mind if we do this another time?” I asked. “I’m really sorry.”

  “No, not at all. I understand.

  “Thanks.”

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’m walking.”

  “Me too. Which way?”

  I pointed back along the river bank.

  “I’m going that way as well. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  I couldn’t really refuse. But I didn’t know what we would talk about. I was still flustered. I didn’t want to risk talking too much in case my voice came out croaky and I burst into tears. Crying is embarrassing, but crying in front of a man who was so poised would be unbearable.

  Carl seemed to sense this and didn’t push me to talk. We walked in silence for a few minutes. I caught him glancing at me occasionally, a mixture of concern and curiosity. What a strange thing to do, to walk with somebody you’ve just met and not talk. But I didn’t feel uncomfortable. In the end, I thought it only fair to glance back at him. We looked at each other at the same time, and there was a mutual smile. But my heavy heart wouldn’t let my lips stretch too far.

  We carried on walking, and carried on not speaking. He tricked me into another smile by glancing at me again, but this time making sure I saw him do it, making a game of it. This walk was turning into a dance, a crazy dance.

  After the second exchange of smiles, Carl did something curious. Our walk took us alongside a boat. I don’t know much about boats but it looked beautifully turned out. It was designed to impress, its gentle curves reminded me of one of the swans that was gliding by. Everything was polished and shiny. It should have been in a showroom, not on the water. It was the biggest boat I’d ever seen moored on this section of the river.

  Carl jumped on it.

  “What are you doing?” I cried out.

  “Spontaneously jumping on a boat.”

  I looked around, wondering if the owner was watching us. But then I realised, mainly because of his cheeky smile, that Carl was the owner. “It’s your boat, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Want to come onboard?”

  I hesitated. I was impressed that he had a boat. And that handsome face had been working its magic while we’d been walking. But my insides were all churned up. I hadn’t recovered from seeing Russell and probably wouldn’t for a few days. This was the worst time to have a date. The absolute worst time. But it could be argued that it was also the perfect time. I couldn’t have any expectations. There was no pressure. No, I didn’t buy that. It was very bad timing.

  “We’ll go up and down the river a couple of times and I’ll bring you back here whenever you want to come back.”

  “I hardly know you.”

  “It’s a risk,” he said, then winked at me. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I hardly knew the guy so I shouldn’t even think about boarding his boat. He could lock me in the galley down below, then sell me as a slave in some far off land. It was a fair reflection of my state of mind that, however superficially, that didn’t seem like a bad option. I closed my eyes for a moment. I thought about Russell turning up at the café. How dare he carry on with his life like that.

  “Are you praying?” Carl asked.

  "Kind of."

  My legs had turned to jelly. I knew I shouldn’t get on the boat. And not only because I didn’t know this man well enough. But, if I’m honest, I didn’t want to go home to my flat, either, to be left alone with my thoughts.

  When I opened my eyes and looked at Carl, I didn’t know what to make of him. When I’d seen him on the train, I’d been struck by the intense concentration with which he’d been reading his book. He was devilishly handsome, that was for sure. Did this intensity express itself in other ways?

  I didn’t know what to do. I lifted my foot and let it hover over the boat for a few seconds. Carl stretched out his hand. I wavered, but then I took it in mine.

  I stepped onto the boat.

  11. You're an artist?

  THERE WAS NO going back. I was on the boat.

  Carl untied the boat from its mooring, stood behind the wheel and started up the engine. Never having had great sea legs, I sat down on the bench that ran along the boat.

  We cruised along the river at a very sedate speed. I stopped gripping hold of the bench and relaxed.

  Again, Carl wasn’t speaking. And I wasn’t in the mood for the usual interrogation that is a first date. You know, the usual questions — What do you do? What do you like doing? What’s your favourite colour? Where in the world was your favourite holiday?

  He stood by the wheel looking very tall, concentrating on the water ahead. I don’t think the Thames can be hard to navigate at this end. It’s not wide and the waters aren’t exactly turbulent. They’re serene, even in winter. But he had that expression of intense concentration again, it was mesmerising. He caught me looking at him and smiled at me succinctly.

  I turned and looked at the water. The sunlight was creating little stars on the its surface. They glinted as the surface was disturbed by our wake.

  I wondered what kind of man didn’t feel the need to speak when he’d just met a woman? He must be very self-assured. Either that or he had nothing to say. Maybe he was just being considerate, not pushing me into conversation I didn’t want.

  Or perhaps it was reverse psychology. If that’s what it was, it was working. I had to break the silence.

  “Do you spend much time on the river?” I asked.

  “As much as I can. I find it calming.”

  “You need calming?”

  “Don’t we all need calming in this crazy modern world?”

  We passed a paddling of ducks. The one in front must have been the mother, as all the others were little ducklings.

  “You think the world’s crazy?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s completely, utterly mad. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And I like it that way. What was it Woody Allen said? Life is a joke without a p
unchline. I think he was on to something.”

  He pointed at a house by the river bank. “That’s my place,” he said. The house was huge. It reminded me of a large ski chalet but more modern than the traditional design. The windows were large but tinted. Whereas the houses around it were made mostly of brick, this one seemed to be made of timber, at least the outer wall was. There was a large lawn that ran from the river bank up to a patio. And there was a conservatory at the end of the house. It was made entirely of glass. There didn’t seem to be any struts to reinforce it. In a certain light it could appear to be a room with no boundaries at all. But again the windows were tinted.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Thank you. I designed and built it myself.”

  “All on your own?”

  “I designed it on my own, but I hired a few builders to help me. Or it would have taken years.”

  “But why did you build it yourself?” I asked. “I’m guessing you’re not short of money.”

  “It probably cost a lot more to build it myself, especially as I had to knock down the house that was already there.”

  I turned to look at the house again. “But why go to the trouble?”

  “Because I plan on being there for a long time, I wanted to feel connected to the house. And the tie is much stronger if your own blood and sweat are involved in building a place.”

  I couldn’t prevent myself from looking at his arms, imagining the muscles beneath his black shirt. His body was slim but his arms were well-developed. I could imagine him swinging a sledgehammer over his head and down onto an unsuspecting concrete pillar.

  “Was there much blood?” I asked with a hint of a smile.

  “Not so much blood, but plenty of bumps and bruises.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Now don’t ask me why I blurted that out. Yes, I was fascinated by the building, but this wasn’t some trip to Hampton Court Palace. This was the man’s home. And as much as I fancied him, I didn’t want to do this on our first date. Besides, it wasn’t a date. I was in no mood to be on a date. So this wasn’t one.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Another time, maybe.” It was a feeble attempt to backtrack.

  “We can hop off for a quick look around. I think I left it tidy.”

  I wanted to say no but somehow my mouth didn’t move. Maybe I was looking for revenge on Russell. Although I was also genuinely interested in the magnificent building.

  Carl swung the boat around and we motored towards his private jetty. The closer we got to the house, the more impressive it became. From a distance I hadn’t appreciated just how big the windows were. It looked as if the wall of each room was predominately tinted glass. But it wasn’t tinted enough to prevent me seeing inside from this distance. Carl obviously preferred the minimalist look. Vast rooms were occupied by very little furniture.

  Carl leapt onto the jetty and tied the boat to it. Then he held out his hand to help me disembark. He had large hands that were rough to the touch and strong.

  We walked up to the house. The spring sunlight was bouncing off the windows, shining in my eyes.

  When we reached the door, there was no lock to undo. Instead, there was a keypad. Carl tapped a number and held the door open for me.

  The door led into the kitchen. It was about the size of my entire flat. Chrome and granite prevailed throughout, but it wasn’t dark because of the huge window that let in a lot of light. There was an island in the middle of the room. Shiny pots and pans hung on the walls. My footsteps echoed on the hard floor.

  Carl walked through to the lounge. It was huge. But whoever had designed it, Carl of course, had an eye for breaking it up into intimate areas, so it didn’t overwhelm you with its size. Apart from the height of the gabled ceiling, which seemed as high as a cathedral’s.

  A couple of sofas and three chairs took up an area next to the window. In another corner there were a couple of bookshelves — that part of the room was like another room in itself, like a library. There was one thing missing.

  “Not a fan of televisions then?”

  “The entire wall of every room is a screen. But I don’t watch TV on it. Maybe I will show you sometime.”

  I studied the walls. There was a glossiness to them, like polished marble, but they didn’t look like TV screens.

  He gave me a guided tour of the place. A spiral staircase was situated in a corner of the lounge. It led up to a landing that overlooked the lounge and shared its oversized front window. Six doors led off the landing. Five were bedrooms and one was an office. They all followed his taste in minimalist furniture.

  The last room we arrived at was his bedroom. He stepped back to let me have a look inside. It was by far the largest of the rooms upstairs. There was nothing in it apart from a bed, which was positioned in the middle of the room.

  “Don’t you like furniture?” I asked.

  “I like to have as much furniture as I need.”

  “Where do you keep your clothes?”

  “The walls are deceptive. They have many secrets. And behind some of them are built-in wardrobes.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing sinister. But secrets, yes.”

  I walked up and touched one of the walls. They were glossy and marble-like, exactly like the ones downstairs, translucent but without giving up the secret of what was behind them.

  Touching them worried me, and Carl could see that I was nervous.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “They don’t bite.”

  There was an en-suite bathroom with a shower, bath, and a separate jacuzzi.

  That was enough poking around in his bedroom. To be honest, he didn’t try to make it a romantic or potentially erotic encounter. While I was taking in the bedroom, he stood outside in the hallway with the indifferent, and slightly bored, expression of somebody whose house is up for sale.

  Touching the walls spooked me. I stopped being curious and remembered that I was in a strange man’s bedroom.

  I walked out of the bedroom and he led me back down the spiral staircase. He showed me the rest of the rooms downstairs. There was a gym, which was immaculate. If sweat was dropped in here, and from his physique I had no doubt that it was, it was soon cleared up.

  Then there was the most curious room of all.

  “This is my flotation room.”

  I’d never seen a flotation room before. I'd seen flotation tanks. They were such ugly things, like over styled coffins. But this whole room was devoted to flotation. It was a simple room. There was what looked like a mini sunken swimming pool in the middle. Except you couldn’t swim in it because it was so shallow. The water would barely reach halfway up your shin. The floor was tiled, granite again the material of choice. The walls were made of the same glossy material as everywhere else in the house.

  “You lie in that shallow pool and you float?”

  “Yes. Just like being in the Dead Sea.”

  “What does it feel like?” I asked. I wasn’t fishing for an invitation; which was just as well, because none was forthcoming.

  “It’s like nothing you can imagine. It takes you out of yourself. Completely.”

  We walked around the rest of the house. It had a similar lack of furniture. But every space was carefully thought out. It was like an advertisement for Feng Shui, it was so perfectly ordered.

  We ended up back in the kitchen. It was strange being shown round somebody’s house, someone I’d only recently met. And someone so attractive. But he hadn’t put any pressure on me, made any advances. It helped me relax.

  We returned to the kitchen, where Carl offered me a glass of wine. I remained fascinated by the strong hands passing me the glass.

  “There’s one room you haven’t shown me,” I said.

  “Is there?” He folded his arms.

  “Yes. You walked straight past it. You showed me every other room in the house, even every bathroom. But that room… It’s the conservatory, is
n’t it.”

  “Not a conservatory, no,” he said.

  I waited for an explanation. But he didn’t provide one. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t pry. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s not like the other rooms. I thought if you saw it you wouldn’t think well of me.”

  Now I had to see it. “I’m sure it’s just as perfect as the rest of the house.”

  “It’s my studio,” he said. “It’s where I paint. It’s an ugly room.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  He shrugged. “Once upon a time that word meant something. Now everybody who posts a video on youtube calls himself an artist. But they don’t want to go through the pain of being an artist. They don’t want to consider the questions an artist has to consider. They don’t want to visit the darkest depths. They just want to be famous. Taking that into consideration, am I, therefore, an artist? Yes, I suppose so. But in the old-fashioned sense of the word.”

  He made his job sound like a punishment. I took another sip of the wine.

  “Why does it have to be painful being an artist?” I asked.

  “Anybody can paint pictures. Anybody can throw paint at a canvas. But it’s the process of communicating the depths of a soul to a viewer, that is the skill, or talent, or whatever you want to call it. But that talent, that gift, is not always there. You have to fish it out from the well. And the well is a very dark place. It’s not enough just to turn up. You can’t phone it in.”

  I hadn’t seen him this serious. He’d been nothing but charming so far. I think he must have had the same thought.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry to sound so intense. You must think I’m crazy.”

  “No. I just think you’re passionate about your work. That’s a good thing.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I suppose it’s a good thing. Though sometimes it’s hard to know when to turn off that passion.”

  I felt my face flush when I heard the word “passion”. I just hoped that I was wearing enough makeup to hide any visible signs.