The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  ‘Abi!’ Rohan shouted. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous! Come back here now!’

  I didn’t. And neither did he come after me.

  Forty-Five

  I stormed up to the attic, my feet thumping extra hard on every stair, anger still buzzing in my head. How dare he swan off to New York and then complain about how I live my life while he’s away? That was the thing about Rohan: yes, he was understanding, sensitive, in touch with his feminine side and all that stuff, but he was also arrogant, and that side of him was rigid. My husband – like his mother – was never wrong. Yes, it was Rohan’s way or no way and, as long as I wanted what he did, things were fine. But when my view differed from his, things became bumpy. I might have my issues with Grace, but how dare he criticize her?

  I thumped about in the bedroom, using my anger to tidy it. I picked up a dirty shirt, balled it up and flung it across the room with all my energy. It hit the wall with an unsatisfying flop.

  ‘How dare you? You’ve never even met her!’ I yelled.

  I picked up more clothes, scrunched them into balls and flung them after the shirt, then I picked up Rohan’s slipper and hurled it at the wall followed by the other one. ‘It’s all right for you, living in your fancy flat in New York but I’m not allowed to have a life of my own!’ I yelled. ‘You want me to put my life on hold because you’re not here? Well, fuck that!’

  There was a small knock at the door, then Rohan stuck his head around. ‘Have you seen Alfie, by the way? I can’t find him anywhere.’

  ‘Piss off!’ I yelled. His eyes widened but his head disappeared, and the door closed softly behind him. I continued venting my anger on the room until I was spent, then I threw myself down on the bed, hating myself because a thought had started to push its way into my head and I knew it was true: Grace wasn’t even here and she was getting between us. Here Rohan was, home from New York for three nights just to see me, and all we’d done was fight. We’d had a miserable date night, and we’d fought today. It was as if Grace had become a thing between us, solid and unyielding, a barrier that was preventing Rohan and I from enjoying our weekend together. I knew where this would lead: if I wasn’t careful, we would never be free of Grace. She was entwining herself into our lives like the roots of a tree that grow under, around and into the very foundation of the house, working their way inside via the pipes, blocking the water supply and cracking the walls.

  If things were to be okay with Rohan, I needed to be stronger with her. I needed to push her out of my head and focus on my husband and on our weekend together, before it was completely ruined.

  I slunk up to the attic and stared at my paintings lined up on the floor. They were shocking and horrific and incredible, all at the same time. I could feel in my heart that they were exceptional; that they would sell. Probably the whole set would go to one collector. Maybe there’d even be an auction. And, while I still had three or four more to do, I knew that if I didn’t want to risk losing another man I loved because of Grace, I needed to do something about her. Rohan, as usual, was right. Grace was walking all over me.

  Again.

  Why was I even defending her?

  I had to handle her better this time. I had to make sure that, when she went, she would never come back. If there was one thing I’d learned about my friendship with Grace, it was that it would never change. It was a rollercoaster ride: it went up, it went down, it went left and it went right, but it always ended up in the same place. The power was too skewed; the friendship poisonous. I’d reached out and given her a second chance and what was happening? The exact same as before.

  I opened my laptop and searched ‘how to deal with a toxic friendship’.

  Guard your boundaries. Realize it’s okay to go your separate ways. Don’t wait for an apology – ha! Let yourself move on. Plan an exit strategy.

  Good stuff, but how exactly? Sit down and talk to them, said one article. I pictured myself sitting with Grace having a civilized discussion over some nibbles about why I no longer wanted her in my life – and snorted out loud. Seriously? She was such a skilled manipulator; she would tie me in knots and throw my words back at me like a razor-sharp boomerang. I knew she would.

  Write an email. No. Slowly make yourself less and less available – aka ghost her. But she was living in my house… cut ties abruptly, once and for all, and be prepared for retaliation.

  Forty-Six

  I poked my head into the living room. Rohan was on the sofa, the remote in his hand as he flicked channels.

  ‘Do you fancy giving date night another try?’ I asked, giving him a smile.

  He looked back at me, assessing my mood, I suppose, then his face softened. ‘Come here,’ he said, patting the sofa next to me. He opened out his arm so I could snuggle up next to him, breathing in all the smells I associated with everything good about my husband: the scent of his deodorant, of his aftershave, his skin, our laundry detergent. The scent of home. I wasn’t going to let Grace take this away from me.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said to his armpit. ‘Again.’

  He let the silence stretch, long enough for me to feel a jolt of doubt – maybe he wouldn’t forgive me? – then he said, ‘It’s okay,’ and gave me a squeeze. ‘But I’m worried about you, Abs. When I said you’d lost weight I didn’t mean in a good way.’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ I said, stiffening. ‘You and your mum…’

  Rohan stroked my hand. ‘Don’t be defensive. I love you. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You look so hollow; so fragile.’ He paused. ‘What does Grace say? She’s a doctor, right?’

  I shrugged. ‘She hasn’t said anything.’

  ‘She must notice how thin you are.’

  ‘Not that she’s said. But,’ and I squeezed Rohan’s hand, ‘if you think I look thin, you know the answer to that: take me out and feed me.’

  ‘So… date night? Again?’ Rohan said with a small smile. ‘Really? I thought you hated it. I thought Grace said it was “middle-aged” and “parochial”? I thought she would “die laughing” if she knew we went on date nights? Hmm?’ He pressed his lips together trying not to laugh.

  ‘Yeah… but…’

  ‘How about we just “go out for dinner”?’ he said. ‘If you’re in the mood for it. Because if you’re not, we can get a takeaway and “Netflix ’n’ Chill”.’ He licked his lips lasciviously and it made me laugh.

  ‘Okay, dinner out it is,’ I said.

  We went to Ti Amo’s. Just down the High Street from Mr Ho’s, it was a good choice: it was where we’d eaten on the first night we’d moved into the house, when the dusty old living room was a sea of boxes and we couldn’t be bothered to find the plates. We’d walked up the road with our arms around each other that night, giddy with the excitement of finally owning our own home, and in such a nice area, too. We’d clasped hands across the table and fed each other morsels of aged Parmesan cheese and grissini while we’d waited in the flickering candlelight for the food to come. We’d licked our lips and gloated about our good fortune to have found the house on Albert Road. We reminisced as we walked there tonight.

  ‘I’m glad you remember that too,’ Rohan said. ‘Sometimes I wonder. I feel as if I’m the keeper of memories in this marriage, while you hurtle through life from day to day.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I paint! What’s that if not recording stuff on a canvas?’

  Rohan tutted. ‘That’s not what I meant. Look, I know people say to live in the present, but you – God – you never look back; you’re never interested in wallowing in memories with me or spending an evening going through photos.’

  ‘That’s because life’s for living!’ I said, and ran ahead of him to the door.

  Ti Amo’s was a bit of a cliché, with waiters dressed in Breton tops, red-checked tablecloths and candles that dripped wax down the sides of straw-clad Chianti bottles. The same skinny Polish waiter had worked there the entire time we’d known the place and, every time he repeated back our order, I had to stifle
a giggle because he always looked as if he was about to burst into song like the gondoliers we’d seen at The Venetian in Vegas. The food was good, though – authentic and generously portioned – and I liked that it wasn’t a chain. There were only about ten tables in the place so it was intimate, too. Romantic, for the High Street.

  We took our places by the window, which afforded a great view of the bus shelter, where groups of youths – age indeterminate – seemed to gather after dark to vape and kick about discarded burger boxes. I wondered what they made of us, sitting together with the candle between us; the silhouette of a couple out for a romantic meal – if they noticed us at all – then I shut that thought down before it looped back to Grace, and her scathing thoughts about date night.

  ‘By the way, Moira called while you were upstairs,’ Rohan said mildly. I forced my hand to carry on with what it was doing: dipping the breadstick in the balsamic vinegar and oil I’d poured, swirling it about and guiding it to my mouth.

  ‘Oh?’ I said.

  ‘She wanted to ask “how you were”.’ He said it in quote marks.

  ‘Okay…’ I held Rohan’s gaze.

  ‘Abi, is there something you want to tell me?’

  I closed my eyes while I tried to frame what I had to say. ‘Everything’s fine. I’m just taking a break from the hospice at the moment.’ Rohan waited for me to say more. ‘The painting was consuming me. I wasn’t as reliable as I needed to be. It’s an important job. I have responsibilities.’

  ‘Is that all it was?’ Rohan scratched his ear.

  ‘Yeah. Sometimes I probably looked a bit rough. If I’d pulled an all-nighter. Which I often did.’ I didn’t mention the times I’d woken up on the attic floor, having passed out through alcohol.

  ‘Presumably drinking?’ Rohan said.

  I moved my head this way and that. ‘A bit.’

  Rohan nodded slowly. ‘So everything’s fine? You’re just “on a break”? That’s all it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Moira’s a nurse. It’s her job to worry about people.’

  ‘But she doesn’t need to worry about you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And neither do I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said way too mildly. ‘If you say so.’

  Thankfully the waiter appeared then with our selection of small-plate starters balanced up his arms in a way that defied gravity. He indicated with a flick of his eyebrows and a grunt that we should make space on the table, then flung the dishes down with little care for presentation.

  ‘Anything else?’ He looked from me to Rohan and back – he’d made it clear a long time ago that he was not inclined to chat. I didn’t even know his name.

  ‘Just some hot sauce?’ Rohan said. ‘Tabasco if you have it. And crushed chillies?’

  The waiter was across the restaurant in two strides and back with both and then we were alone with our food. I helped myself to some olives and a few pieces of deep-fried mini ravioli with a dollop of its accompanying arrabiata sauce.

  Rohan broke the silence. ‘So does Grace have a boyfriend? A partner? Whatever you call it these days when it’s not a husband?’ he said, and my heart sank. Could we really not get away from her?

  I shook my head. ‘Not at the moment.’ I paused but he waited, as if he expected me to say more. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. ‘She was with someone when she went to Australia, but it didn’t work out.’ I had to stop myself and take a couple of breaths as my heart banged, too large, in my chest. ‘Now she’s focusing on settling herself here, and her work. No doubt she’ll find someone, though. She always does.’ I pinged my fork up and down with my finger, hoping Rohan hadn’t noticed how the words fell flat onto the table, like dead flies.

  Rohan chuckled. ‘And what have you told her about me?’ he sucked in his cheeks and struck a model pose. ‘That I’m clever, suave, handsome, sophisticated? That you’re lucky to have me?’

  I laughed. ‘All of that.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to be stronger with her, by the way. I’ve drawn up a housework rota.’

  ‘Okay…’ Rohan said carefully.

  ‘I admit, she can be a user. But I’m onto it, and I need her for now. I have a plan, and you have to trust me.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  We lapsed into silence as we ate. Rohan must still have been thinking about Grace, though, because after some time he looked at me with his head tilted sideways.

  ‘Do you remember in the summer when we were having dinner with Mum and Mili, and Mili asked if you had a muse?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ I said.

  ‘Can I ask you something? Is Grace your muse?’

  I sighed. ‘I guess.’

  Rohan nodded. ‘Okay. Interesting. So, it’s hashtag complicated?’

  I nodded. Rohan waited for me to elaborate but I didn’t even know where or how to start.

  ‘In what way would you say she’s your muse?’ he said finally.

  ‘I seem to do my best work when she’s around.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I played with the food on my plate, suddenly not hungry now Grace was back in my head. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I said. ‘It’s something to do with how she looks at me – I don’t mean “looks” at me – I mean, how she views me; what she expects of me, I suppose. It’s like she looks inside me and pulls out something from within, even when I don’t know it’s there myself.’

  ‘And I don’t do that?’

  ‘We’re not talking about you,’ I said. ‘You asked about Grace, so I’m telling you how it is with her.’ I pushed a piece of ravioli back and forth in the sauce. ‘It’s as if she makes me look inside myself. That’s where I go when I’m painting. And she’s done it for me since we were at university. I think one of the reasons I couldn’t paint anything the past few years was because she was away.’

  ‘So it’s down to Grace that you’ve managed to paint these portraits, is that what you’re saying?’ Rohan asked.

  ‘Yes. I think so. And I think they’re all right. They’re dark, though, a bit grim.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see them. And meet Grace. In fact, can you give me her number? Just in case I can’t ever get hold of you. It really worries me when you go AWOL.’

  My insides froze, but how could I explain?

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and I carried on eating, but Rohan got out his phone right there and then. ‘WhatsApp it to me,’ he said, so I sent him the number and watched as he saved it.

  ‘Well, despite everything, if she’s inspiring your painting, I suppose we’d better toast her,’ he said and raised his glass to clink against mine. ‘To Grace.’

  ‘To Grace,’ I echoed flatly, and the waiter came to clear the plates.

  Forty-Seven

  By the time we’d eaten, Rohan and I were back on familiar territory, the strains of the last two days lost in the warm buzz of a few drinks. Back home, Rohan let us into the house, then he slid his arms around me.

  ‘How about a kiss?’ he said, and so we did, tentatively at first, then in a way that made me think we’d soon be moving to the bedroom. But Rohan pulled away.

  ‘You know what I want, don’t you?’ Before I had a chance to reply, he carried on. ‘I want to see your paintings. Now. You did promise.’

  ‘Oh.’ Thrown, I smoothed down my top that had become rumpled in our embrace. ‘Yes. I guess.’

  I led the way up the stairs, suddenly nervous. I felt as if I were laying myself bare in front of Rohan in a way that was far more intimate than simply stripping off my clothes. I paused on the threshold of the attic before unlocking the door and pushing it open.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘Let me arrange them.’ I wanted him to see the first picture first, as a stand-alone, because this Grace was a happy image. Captured at around five years old, she was full of light and life and motion, her open-mouthed laugh infectious, her eyes bright and her brown hair flying in the wind. You could see she had no cares in the world
; it was a rendering of joyous energy, of possibility, the warm light of the sun full on her face, which she tilted upwards like a sunflower.

  I wanted Rohan to see this and to drink it in so he got maximum impact from the other portraits. It made me realize that, in terms of the exhibition, this first picture should be in some sort of ante-room or alcove before people saw the rest of the series. I pulled little Grace to the fore, and then tried to look at the other portraits with the eyes of a stranger; I tried to feel what Rohan’s first impression might be but I knew the soul of these pictures – I knew every layer of colour, every touch that brush and fingertip had made to the canvases, and it was difficult to get enough distance.

  ‘Cough, cough,’ said Rohan from outside the door. ‘Can I come in yet?’

  So I stepped back and threw a couple of old, paint-stained sheets over the other five.

  ‘Yes.’ My heart cantered against my ribs.

  Rohan went straight to the first canvas and his face lit up. ‘Oh my God, it’s amazing,’ he said. ‘I love how you’ve created this feeling just from the way you’ve used the light. Who is she?’ He paused then gave me a boyish smile. ‘Our daughter-to-be?’

  I lurched as if he’d hit me. ‘Oh God. No. No! You’ll see why in a minute. But no. She’s no one. Just a face. Right. Are you ready for the others?’

  Rohan nodded so I pulled back the sheet and watched as his mouth fell open and then his hand went to his mouth as he absorbed the pictures, moving slowly along the sequence as Grace aged, to the last one, number six.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He turned to me.

  ‘Do you like them?’ My voice was a whisper.

  ‘Fucking hell, Abs.’ He shivered. ‘Is this where you’ve been the last couple of months? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird? It’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell. Who are you?’