by Emma Rowley
So he got inside the house. I’d seen no photos of the interior from the time of the tragedy: the building would have been full of police and forensic scientists, cordoned off.
But the original article published online seemed to be down, so I checked his site: lurid orange text on a black background. “This project is an exploration of the boundaries in our society,” it began: nothing to do with teenage kicks, no sir. But there was nothing much besides some nighttime cityscapes taken from a roof he probably shouldn’t have been on. The last photos had been uploaded years ago.
So I clicked on an e-mail address at the bottom, Joey something 95. I told him I was a writer interested in the photos he took of Annersley House. Would he be willing to share them? I gave my number. The barer the details the better, I felt: stoke his curiosity.
To my surprise, he got back to me quickly, the beeping of my phone signaling a message. “Happy to chat.”
Then another: “Off the record.”
Then: “It’s Joe Crompton, the one with the photos, by the way.”
I sighed. But he was the nearest thing I had to a lead.
* * *
And arranging to meet was fairly straightforward, once I’d made contact to tell him I was in the area. He could grab a drink this evening, if I liked.
I hesitated, but Olivia had made no mention of dinner; I didn’t feel expected—or encouraged—to join her and Josh.
After a while, I went downstairs to the kitchen, where Annie was wiping down the surfaces.
“I thought I’d grab some food in the village.” She just nodded. “Could you let Olivia know? I won’t be back late.”
Even then, I had braced myself for him not to show. But here he is, fiddling with his phone, foam from his pint on his upper lip.
“So Joey—” I start.
“It’s Joe nowadays, if you don’t mind.”
“Joe. So, I was wondering if I could take a look at the photos?”
“Ah,” he says meaningfully, “the photos.” He stretches out his long legs. “What newspaper did you say you work for?”
“Actually I didn’t. I’m a writer: I’m working on a local project.”
“Oh.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Just as well . . . vultures.” He says it without rancour. “Anyway,” he adds, with a trace of pride, “none of them made it inside.”
“No, exactly. It must have been really tricky to get in.” I’m never ashamed to try flattery.
“Well . . . no one really cared by the time I took the photos,” he admits. “It must have been, what, twelve, thirteen years after the fire? Kids used to go in as a bit of a dare. I’d done it myself, the summer before. But we weren’t supposed to, it did have signs up, ‘danger. ’”
He stops talking as a teenage girl brings out the sandwich I’d ordered. I hear another car roar past. They go too fast through the village, because it’s the only way through to the highway.
“Anyway,” he continues after she’s gone, “I was just starting to get into photography, back then. I heard they were about to start the rebuild, so I thought, if not now . . . They had new scaffolding up, but no one was about. I went under some plastic sheeting.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “But why are you so interested?”
“Look,” I say, “I’d just like to find out a little more about the fire. For a project.”
“What kind of project?” he says, doubtfully.
I’m going to have to tell him. “Between you and me, I’m a ghostwriter—I’m working with Olivia Hayes, who lives there now, on a book about her work, her life, all that.”
He snorts. “Her work . . . you mean that Instagram stuff? I suppose a Vane was never going to end up stacking shelves, was she?”
I ignore his jibe. “That’s right. She’s a big influencer.” So he knows who she is.
And then I explain how I am here for the week, how I saw the marker for her father, asked her about what had happened with the fire—
“You’re in luck,” he says. “I worked it out.”
“You have?”
“Mm-hm.” He lowers his voice, despite there being no one around now. “All that money sloshing about, then his house burns down around his ears? That guy Vane had pissed the wrong someone off.”
“You think the fire was deliberate?”
“Oh yeah. City boy, got mixed up in something he shouldn’t, owed someone money. And maybe they just wanted to give him a scare—they thought he’d gone away, too. Only,” he adds, unnecessarily, “he hadn’t.”
“I see . . .” I am trying to imagine—who? money men? gangsters?—driving up here incognito to wreak havoc.
“These things do happen,” he says, a little huffily.
But perhaps my reaction works in my favor, stoking some need to impress me, as he is already getting a brown envelope out of his rucksack and tipping its contents onto the table between us: what must be a dozen big color printouts.
“Where did you . . .” I start, before they register.
Then I don’t say anything at all. They’re so much worse than I expected.
Chapter 14
At first I just see blackness: the soot. “There was a drought,” says Joey. “So it went up like a firework.”
The walls are streaked with red, too, the bare brick showing through what was once plastered. Here and there I see splashes of green—shoots of grass, tiny plants, curling over the debris covering the floor. Higher up, the dark ivy has grown through the windows and down the walls, like the house is sinking back into nature.
“I mean, I was years late,” he says. “There’d been the fire, then the water from the hoses. And they’d cleared anything valuable out. But there was some interesting stuff. Look, this was the kitchen—you can still see the labels on some tins on the shelves.”
I spread the pictures out across the slats of the table, trying to map the wreckage onto the house as I know it now.
Here is a cracked mantelpiece pulling away from the wall. Here the remains of the grand staircase, spiraling up to nowhere. And here an upturned—what?
“Isn’t that a bed?” I say.
“The upstairs had collapsed,” he says. “Everything ended up on the ground floor.”
“Oh.” Now I see: I am holding a photo he has taken to show the carcass of the house from a wider angle: the walls are still standing, but above them is sky. It looks like a giant’s dollhouse with the roof pulled off.
“I didn’t realize the damage was this bad,” I say. “They had to completely start again.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, seeming pleased at my reaction. “Did you know, the air at the top of the room can get hotter and hotter and then—bam!—everything on the ground just catches fire at once.” He laughs and shakes his head, animated. “I’d love to see that.”
I put down the photo I’m holding. “Would you?”
“Well,” he looks abashed. “I don’t mean . . .”
I flick through the rest of photos quickly, more businesslike now, at least on the surface. But what kind of person would trespass in a place like this?
Maybe he picks up on my changing mood.
“Some people think it’s morbid, but really it’s not,” he says, rubbing the side of his face with his sleeve. “You could say it’s a way of paying respect.”
“Really.”
“I mean, it’s not just that. I’ve always been interested in spaces where you’re not supposed to be—there are lots of people like me,” he adds, giving me a cautious look. “And I didn’t think anyone round here would care. I should have just put them on Reddit or somewhere, harder to find than my own website,” he says glumly.
“Oh? I couldn’t find them anywhere online.”
“Oh no,” he says knowingly. “I’d told the newspaper they had to embed them from my website. So when I took the photos down, they disappeared off their site, too.” He laughs, pleased with himself. “They’d paid me £150 for that privilege.”
“But why did you take them down? Di
d you think you’d get done for trespassing?”
He pulls a scornful face. “Trespassing? I’d got in more trouble than that before. Anyway, I was only fifteen, the police weren’t going to do anything.”
“What then?”
He hunches his shoulders. “Well . . .”
I wait.
“I hadn’t been living with my gran very long, by then. And she got upset when she heard about my photos.”
I stop myself from smiling. Nothing dramatic then.
“I thought it would be all right, if the paper only put them on the website.” He mutters: “She didn’t even have broadband then, but the way she went on, about how it wasn’t respectful to a fine local family. It did my head in.”
I take a bite of my sandwich, then push it away—my appetite has gone.
“Of course now she’s always online,” he continues, “she’s just got herself a new iPhone. An iPhone! I told her what I think about Apple—”
“Joey, sorry, Joe—one thing,” I interrupt. “How did your gran hear about the photos? If she didn’t have Internet then.”
He shrugs. “Everyone knows everyone round here.”
I think. It certainly doesn’t support his theory that the fire was not an accident. And I can see why his gran wouldn’t welcome him posting photos like these online for anyone to see. Despite time passing, they might still feel intrusive to a grieving family. Even so . . . I wonder who let her know about them in the first place.
“Would I be able to take these printouts?” I say.
He looks at me, frowning a little.
“I’m happy to pay.” I get out my wallet and count out five ten-pound notes. “That cover your costs for, say, printing? They’re just for my reference. And no need for everyone in the village to know I’m looking into it.”
“Uh. Yeah, sure,” he says, looking at the money. “But—”
“All right, make it sixty,” I say, adding another note. “Honestly, you’ve been so helpful.” I start gathering the photos up before he can reconsider. “Well, I mustn’t keep you.”
“But I thought . . .”
He looks a little wounded. I wonder briefly if I have misjudged him, if he is not just out for money or kicks, but is genuinely interested in what happened. Or perhaps just a bit lonely out here.
“Sorry,” I say, more gently. “But I really do have to go.”
Chapter 15
In the cold light of Tuesday morning, Joey’s theory seems still more unlikely. Gangsters. Dodgy money. A cover-up.
The house was silent when I got home the night before. It wasn’t that late, but I had a text on my phone before I drove back, with the code for the gate: Key for you under the doormat. Please don’t ring the bell, it will wake Bea. Olivia x.
Inside, I was careful not to tread too loudly. Back in my room, I slid the photos from Joey into the zip-up compartment in my suitcase. I didn’t want to leave them lying around. And yet I keep thinking of them anyway, unwelcome images in my mind.
I need to focus, as I get ready for my next session with Olivia. I want to ask her about her style, her taste—the Olivia look. It is what people love most about her.
More importantly, it will be an antidote to the intensity of our last encounter. I can’t have her shut down on me completely.
* * *
And I’m right; when I suggest what we could cover today, she relaxes visibly.
We are back in the living room off the kitchen. Josh has gone out; his car isn’t in the driveway. Annie has Bea in the garden; before, through the kitchen window, I saw a small figure heading down the lawn, little legs pelting along, as the housekeeper followed.
I am quietly braced for a mind-numbing morning, as Olivia starts to talk about every aspect of fashion and interiors that I can imagine. But her enthusiasm carries me along, as she shares all her tips and tricks. She has some clever ideas about how to develop your own personal style, though I doubt her fans want to do anything but replicate hers.
When she finally comes up for breath, I tell her we should cover what first established her as a tastemaker in this area: her own home.
“Where do you start with something on this scale?” I gesture around me.
“Well,” she begins. “In many ways a new home offers the chance for a fresh start. But this was a house with a lot of heritage. I had to respect its history.”
“And you were committed to coming back here,” I say a little nervously. “After . . .”
“There was no question,” she says briskly. “It always goes to the eldest. My father was an only child, then it was my responsibility.” She gives herself a little shake, as if to rouse herself. “We don’t need to go into that, do we? Perhaps we could take a break.”
“Well . . .” I am calculating how much time I am likely to get with her this week, but I am talked out myself. “How about you give me the tour, instead?”
“The tour?”
“Of the house. I know there are so many photos online, but it’s different seeing it in person—you can talk me through your design choices, for the book.”
“OK, that’s really quite a good idea. Let’s go.”
* * *
She seems cheered to be out of the hot seat, as she starts to lead me through her home.
“So the TV room and kitchen you’ve seen: it’s where we live really; now this was the original pantry”—immaculate, all the labels on the jars facing forward—“as this would have been the working end of the house. This door opens to the cellar”—down a flight of stairs I glimpse bikes hanging from a wall—“it’s just storage,” before I follow her quick steps along the corridor to the rest of the house. “The building itself is mostly Georgian, added to over the years . . .”
I get just fleeting impressions of rooms as she pulls opens doors to either side: a dining room with long shining table, tall windows opening onto the terrace; a study full of wood and leather; a stately “morning room,” all creams and pale stripes, with a vast gilt mirror. And here is the library, look at all those books—
“And this is our library,” she says pointedly, as she follows me in.
“Oh, sorry.” I turn away from the shelves, and let her lead the way out. “After you.” I forgot myself.
“Now, the conservatory was part of the later additions, Victorian we think . . .”
And we are off again, our footsteps sounding in between the rugs and runners. My head is spinning. The house is so beautiful, grander than it seems on her feed—maybe even a little oppressive, for just the three of them . . .
“I won’t show you the garage, that’s Cav’s domain, but it used to be the carriage house, interestingly enough.”
I tune in again. “Cav?”
“The gardener. Now upstairs—” Olivia has one foot on the staircase already.
“What about in there?”
We’ve missed a room off the main hall, just to the left as you enter the house.
“Oh yes.” She steps toward it and opens the door. “This would have been the drawing room originally.”
It is another formal room, darker, all rich velvets, tartan throws and a pale marble mantelpiece as its focus. The air feels stale.
“This is beautiful,” I say. “Do you use it much?” I don’t remember seeing it on her feed.
“Not really. There’s not as much light on this side.”
Too late, a phrase sounds out of memory, like a warning: the blaze broke out near or inside the sitting room, not far from where the body was found. No wonder she doesn’t use it.
And suddenly I feel pitched off balance, realizing I have let myself fall under the spell of this house, its beauty and patina, so I almost forgot what happened here . . .
She pulls the door shut again.
Chapter 16
Upstairs, I don’t get time to linger, either, as she opens one door after another into more stunning rooms: four-poster beds, silk eiderdowns, fresh flowers spilling out of tall vases. One is different: toys all over
the floor, a colorful jungle mural covering the walls.
“Wow.” I see a tiny painted tortoise peeping through green foliage. “This is not what I expected—”
I catch myself, as she looks at me sharply.
“I know it doesn’t really go with the rest of the house,” she says. “I don’t show it online. But it was fun to do. I got an art student in to help.”
Then she leads me to the bedroom next door, at the end of the house. “And this is ours,” she says. It is a little bigger than the rest, but just as immaculate.
After that we head back onto the main landing, where she pulls open another door, onto a flight of back stairs. “Mind your head,” she says, as she climbs the narrow stairway. “So, this floor would have been the servants’ quarters originally. I have my office here now. That’s Annie’s bedroom there, and I use this one as a dressing room.”
In contrast to the rest of the house, the low-ceilinged dressing room has an air of organized chaos, clothes spilling from huge bags on the floor, more jammed onto metal racks that have been dragged in front of the full-to-bursting wardrobes.
“Do you buy all this stuff?” I ask, amazed, and then regret it.
But she doesn’t take offense. “God no. Some is sent to me, some I request for shoots.”
“And do you take all your own photos?” Somehow I can’t imagine Josh clicking away patiently while she poses.
“A lot. These days I have photographers I use if I need to be in the shot. They’ll come up to get a batch done. And I’ve got interns, fashion students, who come every few weeks and help me with call-ins and returns.”
Again I am struck by how different the process is from the end result: that dreamy, effortless life captured in the photos.
“I have an idea,” she says, cocking her head at me.
“About what?” I am wary.
“How about we give you a new look?”
I look down at my worn jeans and sludge-colored sweater. “Fashion’s not really my thing.”
She raises her eyebrows invitingly. “Oh, let me.” She laughs. “It will be good for the book.” She knows I can’t argue with that.