by Anna Kent
‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Rohan, but I could tell, even without seeing the clench of his jaw, that he was not convinced.
‘Look at it this way,’ Mili said. ‘It’ll all be over in two weeks.’
The thought was terrifying. She had no idea.
When I finally entered the kitchen, a few minutes after Mili had left, I found Rohan rummaging around for something to eat before he left for the airport. I’d taken a shower, done my hair and make-up, and put on a dress. Dutiful wife. If that’s what Rohan wanted, I could give it to him.
‘No. I’ll cook us some lunch,’ I said, batting him away. ‘Sit down. Relax.’
I pulled two salmon fillets out of the fridge. ‘Baked salmon with veg? And I think I have a Sancerre somewhere in here. Fancy a glass?’
I pretended not to notice that Rohan’s mouth fell open as I bustled about getting the glasses and opening the wine.
‘Sounds lovely,’ he said. ‘But salmon? Are you actually going to eat that? You hate fish.’
‘Yeah. Grace got me into it. She likes it and it’s much easier than cooking two different meals.’
‘Okay,’ Rohan said, nodding. I wondered if he, too, was remembering the way I used to say fish were prettier swimming in the sea than dead on a plate. I turned on the oven, took out a baking tray and placed the fish on it, spooning a little pesto onto the top of each fillet. Then I poured the Sancerre and chinked my glass against his.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
I popped the fish in the oven when it pinged, then rummaged in the fridge for the veg and started trimming it ready to cook. All the while, Rohan’s eyes followed me.
‘So – your pictures,’ he said. ‘I wonder what Grace will make of them.’ My heart thundered: had I somehow let on that they were of her? But no. ‘Does she know she’s your muse?’ he continued, and I managed a shrug that I hoped looked nonchalant. Rohan swilled the Sancerre around his glass.
‘It’s a shame you won’t see her today. She’ll be back later this evening,’ I said and I hoped I sounded sincere.
‘How long do you think she’ll stay with you? There was a message for her from the estate agent yesterday, by the way – Katie something? – she’s apparently got a place that she thinks is the perfect fit.’
‘Oh, okay. I’ll tell her to call.’
‘Great.’ Rohan paused, swilled his wine again. ‘Of course, she mightn’t be in a hurry to move out…’ There was an edge to his tone. I put down the knife and looked at him.
‘Can you please give it a rest?’
He rubbed his brow. ‘Just be careful, Abs, that’s all.’
‘Yep. Being careful.’
‘I’m just worried about you. You’re my wife.’ Rohan dropped his voice. ‘And one day you’ll be the mother of my children, too – I hope.’
He held the words out to me, a jeweller displaying diamonds on a velvet tray, and I forced a flicker of a smile. Then I turned to the oven and looked through the glass at the food. Rohan got up and slipped his arms around me.
‘If you’re happy with Grace here, then I’m happy,’ he said. ‘I’m glad she’s here for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
But what if I’m not?
Fifty
‘Hello! I’ve got news!’ Grace called as her bag thumped down in the hall. I slunk down the stairs, as if I hadn’t been watching from the attic window; as if I hadn’t been waiting for the sound of the taxi while I cut my wrist carefully, let the pressure out, and swirled the reds for the background of the painting – all the while thinking about how to broach the topic of Alfie. Should I just come straight out and ask her if she did it? And now something else, too: that familiar dread I used to feel when Grace came back to the flat in the old days, sliding through me like tentacles.
‘Me too!’ I said, stopping three stairs short of the bottom. Grace regarded me and widened her eyes. I was still in the dress I’d put on for Rohan, the fresh cut on my arm wrapped tight with bandage. She was a doctor. She wasn’t stupid. I slipped the arm behind my back.
‘Had a good time?’ I asked.
‘Yes! So much to tell you. How was your romantic weekend?’
‘Good, thanks. But I have some bad news.’
Grace stiffened. ‘What?’
‘It’s Alfie.’ I pressed my lips together. ‘My cat? I found him dead.’
Grace snorted a laugh, but recovered quickly. Her features rearranged into concern. ‘Oh, but that’s awful.’ She reached out a touched my arm. ‘You must be so sad.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘But on the bright side, at least I’ll be able to sleep now. Silver linings!’
She sashayed down the hall to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and took out the open Sancerre. There was just one glass left.
‘You don’t mind if I have it, do you?’ she asked, pouring it. ‘I’m parched and I really fancy a glass of something wicked after all that meditation.’ She took a sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. I watched so closely I could almost taste it myself. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘You really should do that retreat. It was amazing. I learned so much about why we should eat more raw food.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask what happened?’
‘What happened to who?’
‘To the cat.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘His throat was slit.’
Grace pulled a face. ‘Eek. Brutal. And who found him?’ She drew lines down the condensation on the side of her wine glass.
‘I did.’
Grace sighed. ‘Honestly. It must have been awful. I’m really sorry.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘So, anything else happen while I was finding my spiritual self?’ She gazed at me over the rim of the wine class and I held her gaze. Energy fizzed between us. She killed him. I knew it. And she knew that I knew. She also knew that I wouldn’t say anything. My hands gripped the edge of the counter.
‘Nothing major. I realized the house got into quite a state the past few weeks so I decided we should share the chores. I’ve drawn up a rota. It’s there.’ My voice sounded fake to me; the words that were spilling out of my mouth utterly meaningless when all I could think about was Grace’s non-verbal admission of guilt.
Grace picked up the piece of paper and examined it, then tossed it back down. ‘Bins? Loading the dishwasher? Seriously, Abs. We don’t need a rota. We’re both adults. We can see what needs doing.’
‘I know, but…’
‘What if I’m out and it’s my turn to do something? Will you wait for me to get back to run the dishwasher? Please! If you want me to help, you just have to say. I didn’t want to encroach on your territory. You were always so territorial. I was waiting for you to ask.’
I looked down at the table, scenes from our flatshare playing through my mind: me always cooking. Me always cleaning up. Was she lazy and entitled, or was I territorial? Which was it?
‘Don’t you want to hear my news?’ Grace’s eyes were bright, her energy like popping candy.
‘Sure.’
She took another sip of her wine and I thought about getting myself a glass from the wine box. I could actually do with another vodka but that was upstairs.
‘I got back early this morning,’ Grace said, ‘and I knew I wasn’t welcome here till later, so I decided to do some flat-hunting.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I nodded, ignoring the barb.
‘Expensive area, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It’s got good schools. That always drives up the price. And golf courses – two, actually. Plus, it’s rural, but still on the Tube.’
‘So I saw. It’s got it all, hasn’t it? Quite the perfect location.’ Grace’s tone was acidic. ‘You and your perfect husband certainly picked the perfect place. He must be doing very well to afford it. From what I saw, places like these don’t go for under a million. Some up to two.’
‘Oh, we didn’t pay that!’ I looked fondly around the kitchen. ‘This was a doer-upper! Needed a lot of love and attention. Trust m
e. That’s the only way we could afford it.’
Grace sucked her cheeks in. ‘So I hear.’ She paused and suddenly I knew what was coming. I swallowed.
‘The woman in the estate agent told me the story,’ Grace continued. ‘I had no idea. It’s so sad!’
‘I know. It is.’ I pushed the chair back and stood. ‘Right. I should get on.’
‘Where are you going?’ Grace said. ‘I’ve only just got back. Sit down. Have a drink with me.’
She jumped up and dispensed me a glass from the wine box. ‘Here. Cheers.’
I drank deeply. Half the glass in one go. After the Sancerre it tasted dreadful.
‘So, about that girl.’ Grace shivered. ‘I don’t know if I could have bought this place – knowing that.’ She paused. ‘She’s buried in the graveyard here. St Michael’s, is it? Behind the High Street?’
I nodded. ‘I believe so.’
‘Have you been?’ Grace asked. ‘To see it?’
‘What?’
‘The grave.’
‘No.’
Grace sighed. ‘Maybe we should go. I kind of feel like…’ She breathed in deeply and let it go slowly. ‘Those toys. They were probably hers, weren’t they? And the little clothes? It puts a whole new spin on it. The parents must have left in such a rush. They moved abroad, apparently. Couldn’t bear to live here anymore. Too many memories, I suppose. They probably forgot those boxes up in the attic. It’s not as if they would have needed them, really, is it?’ She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘Where I’m sleeping, it would have been her room, wouldn’t it? It’s odd to think of them being back in there.’
I turned away, my throat thick with sadness. Of course I’d known the story about the girl of the house. It was one of the reasons I hadn’t the heart to throw away her old furniture. She’d been killed in a tragic accident. I knew the story, but I chose not to focus on it. When I pictured the girl, I imagined her growing up here: happy and full of life and hope and plans. She’d been eighteen when she died; her whole life ahead of her.
I didn’t want to think about her parents’ grief; about the moment they found out she was dead. About the sobbing eulogies in the church from her friends and the sad procession through the churchyard to the grave. I didn’t want to think about them returning to this very house after burying their only child; fortifying themselves with sherry as they went through the motions of hospitality. I didn’t want to picture them sitting, locked numbly in their grief in this kitchen, untouched cups of tea on the table, listening to the depth of the silence marked only by the relentless tick of the grandfather clock I’d inherited. They’d tolerated it only for a few weeks before packing their bags and moving somewhere warm, as if a bit of sunshine could erase the hole she’d left in their lives. They’d never come back.
Rohan didn’t know the story. If he did, he’d never have agreed to buy the house.
‘It was all very sad,’ I said. ‘But you know. Life moves on.’ I glugged another mouthful of wine. ‘So. How was Kent?’
‘Ah, the old stomping ground.’ Grace nodded. ‘Yeah. Good. It got me reminiscing about the past,’ she said.
I focused on the ticking of the clock, but even that seemed to slow down. Tick… tick… tick. ‘You remember I was born down there?’ She paused, her head tilted as she smiled sideways at me. ‘You remember the picture we found? With us both in it? Groombridge, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. She’d told me about her idyllic summers in the country. Strawberry-picking, her mouth stained with the juices of stolen fruits. Flying her kite in the meadow. Running errands in the village. Horse-riding. Camps built in the woods. Bonfires. Wellies up to her knees and a fishing net to catch minnows in the stream. An idyllic childhood. My hand went to my neck.
‘I was always so happy there,’ she said, her voice like swathes of golden silk. ‘Golden summers they were. Maybe my memory’s just playing tricks, but I don’t remember a single bad thing. Granny used to get me to do the gardening.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Mum never knew, but she paid me to do the weeding and trim the edges of the lawn. I spent all of it on sweets in the village shop. Then there’d always be cake or afternoon tea…’ Another soft chuckle. ‘There was a bunch of kids I used to meet up with. We’d play hide-and-seek in the cornfields before they were harvested.’ Grace smiled to herself. ‘And, once the bales were in the fields, we’d climb up them and jump off. Mr Denby, the farmer, always positioned a few so they were like a climbing frame for us. Looking back, it was really kind of him, but at the time I just assumed that’s what hay bales were for. It’s such a beautiful part of the world. Fields for years.’ Grace came back to the present, her eyes refocusing.
‘Anyway, I was remembering all of that and I thought: this is nuts. Why am I working in London when I was so happy in Kent? Maybe I notice it more for having been in Australia, but London’s so choked. So dirty. Overcrowded. Crime-ridden. I don’t want to be a part of that. So I decided I’m going to look for a job either in Kent or on the south side of London, and move down there. The commuter lines are great. Even from as far as Ashford you can be in London in forty minutes. What do you think?’
My mouth was dry, my heart drumming. ‘Nice,’ I said, as levelly as I could. ‘Good idea.’ I stood up and inhaled deeply through my nose as I stood, using my hands to steady myself on the table.
‘Don’t go!’ Grace said, and was it me or was there an edge to her voice? ‘You’ve still got to tell me all about your weekend. Come on, sit down.’ She patted the table next to her. And what could I tell her? About the ruined date night; about the way she’d muscled in between Rohan and me, even when she wasn’t there? About the argument? Rohan’s doubts about her?
‘It was fine,’ I said.
She snorted. ‘Fine? Is that all? I’d have hoped you’d be swinging from the lampshades with me gone. I’d expect you to be pregnant with twins, at least.’ Her tone was dead.
I trilled a small laugh. ‘Right, if you don’t mind, I was just in the middle of something.’ I turned to go.
‘But you haven’t said anything about my plan? To move to Kent? What do you think?’
‘I think it’s a good idea.’
‘You’re not upset?’
‘Why would I be?’
‘Because it’s your neck of the woods. I don’t want you thinking I’m stamping on your turf. And I was hoping you’d come house-hunting with me one weekend. Both of us go down there, have a look around. Maybe stop in at the retreat I was at for a bit of R&R. Have you ever done yoga?’
My heart thumped in my throat; blood rushed in my ears. ‘I’m busy with my work,’ I said. ‘The exhibition’s less than a month away and I still have three pictures to do. And Rohan’ll be back permanently soon.’
‘He can come too. I’m sure he’d like to see Kent…’ She left the sentence hanging. No reply needed. A smile crept across her face as she nodded. ‘Just the two of us, then.’
The roaring in my ears was a tsunami. I ran to the door, scrambled to wrench it open, frantic to get away from her voice, which wrapped itself around me like coils of pond weed intent on dragging me down. Grace’s voice followed me, childlike, taunting, as I sank into the depths of the hall.
‘What’s wrong, Abs? Are you afraid of something?’
Upstairs, I slammed the attic door closed behind me and locked it from the inside. Then I cut my arm again, drawing the blade of my scalpel repeatedly across virgin flesh and leaking my blood into a jar before mixing it with the paint. I had to work quickly, before the blood coagulated, but it was a large area. It would take far more blood than I’d first thought.
Fifty-One
Grace was at work when Francesca came to view the paintings. Nearly two weeks had passed, and Grace had said nothing more about me going down to Kent and I’d focused only on completing the series. The seventh painting was finished, as was the eighth. Here, Grace was no more than a shadow, a smudge of a person, her features indistinct; just scattered eyelashes an
d the print of her lips; little more than a blur of pinks, lilacs and the greys of her fifty-something hair blended and imploding backwards through the canvas as if she were being sucked out of the universe by an unseen force.
The ninth showed only the edges of what could have been: the sense of a hole; the will-o’-the-wisp that might be a person in the blank canvas of the cosmos. Viewers, I knew, would stand in front of it, tilting their heads this way and that as they struggled to catch the gist of the colours that were maybe there, maybe not. It was an image that made my throat sore and my chest tight. It was an image of extinction.
And then there was picture ten. This was the one that had consumed me day and night for the past ten days. Drained by the way Grace’s canvas life had played out to her universal destruction, I’d rewound back to the moments after her birth, when she’d emerged from the womb, crinkled and pink; her eyes, on their first opening, dark pools that knew the truth of life itself; her forehead creased with questions to which we’d never know the answers; wisps of dark hair smeared damp on her scalp; her fingers long and crumpled, her cheeks ready to plump up with milk from her mother’s breast. I couldn’t look at it without weeping.
Francesca was due at ten. I buzzed about nervously, fiddling with the canvases, tweaking here and there until I could bear it no longer. Downstairs, I slid boxed Chardonnay into a tumbler, and drank deeply, not getting the bouquet; not caring that the liquid was warm.
‘What if she doesn’t like the paintings?’ I’d said on the phone Rohan the night before.
‘She likes them. She’s seen the photos,’ he’d said. ‘She just wants to look more closely. Get an idea of size and proportion. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
The doorbell rang bang on time.
‘Hi, Francesca,’ I greeted her. A tall and elegant woman, she looked as striking as ever in her signature black. Our house was a long way from her usual stomping ground of Chelsea. She’d never married nor had children herself: the gallery was her main love; the artists whose talents she nurtured, her children.