He ignores Andy, begins to rummage through his desk, turning his drawers inside out. He can’t remember the name of the architect that Warren had been going on about, or the date the house was built. He could try Corinne, but he doubts she’ll remember – that was the week they’d had the awful phone call from the doctor about the last IVF. She hadn’t been herself.
Dominic sighs, cursing himself for being so careless. He will have to get in touch with Warren. He digs out the number, grits his teeth as he is placed immediately on hold.
‘Dom? Dom, my man, how are you?’ Warren’s voice booms down the phone and Dominic winces.
‘Hi, Warren, how are you? Sorry to call like this . . .’ Dominic hesitates, he doesn’t want to admit that he’s lost his notes, it makes him sound foolish and underprepared. He decides to get straight to it.
‘I was wondering if you could just remind me of a few details on the Carlington property? I missed a couple things the other day.’ He tries to sound cheery, flippant, no big deal.
Warren laughs. ‘You journos, what are you like! I said to my missus, I don’t think the hack that came to visit had even heard of Robert Parler, but his little lady had. How is the lovely Corinne? Pretty thing you’ve got there, Dom, bit quiet mind, ’cept for when she screams, of course.’ He chuckles. ‘Still, feel free to bring her along next time, you know what they say about the quiet ones!’ He guffaws to himself.
Dominic clenches his hand around the receiver. ‘If I could just check a few facts, please Warren?’
There is a woman’s voice in the background, and a scuffling sound.
‘Here’s a thought, Dom, why don’t you pop back over this afternoon? I’ve got the owner with me here today. Says she’d love to see your pics now the house is being sold. Something to hold on to, I guess.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Poor bird can’t afford to keep the place afloat. She’s getting on a bit too.’ He raises his voice to a normal level. ‘Then you can firm up your notes, can’t you. Sound good?’
Dominic hesitates. If he leaves now he can be there in half an hour and perhaps if he gets the owner involved it will get Alison off his back, which is always a bit of a bonus.
‘Great, sounds good,’ he says.
Dominic grabs his bag. On his way out, he hears the sound of laughter, the high tinkle of the work experience girl on the website team. Andy is leaning over her, grinning, and she is twirling a strand of her around her fingers. The bright blonde of it glows in the office lights.
*
The imposing white ruins of Carlington House stare down at him, the sun behind slanting through the clouds, giving the building an ethereal glow. It doesn’t look like much progress has been made, the windows are still black holes, the left side of the building is crumpled in on itself.
Warren sees him at once.
‘Ah, if it isn’t Dominic! Resident hack. Welcome back, welcome back. Just can’t get enough of the place, can you? Now, as promised, here’s the lady you need. Mind how you go with the old dear.’
Dominic groans inwardly at Warren’s exaggerated grin. He can imagine him as one of the kids who went to the private school near where he grew up, the ones he and his friends crossed the street to avoid. The man is as up himself as they were.
Warren waves at a figure standing over near the house. She is walking slowly towards them; as she comes closer, Dominic realises how elderly she is, she is older than he’d expected. There is a slight lean to her walk, her body slopes a little to one side. When she reaches them though her eyes are clear, bright specks in her face. Dominic smiles at her.
Warren steps forward. ‘Dom, this is Ms de Bonnier, current owner of Carlington, soon to be released! Pleasure to have you stop by, as always.’ As he says this, Warren catches Dominic’s eye, raises his eyebrows sarcastically as though the woman cannot even see him. Dominic feels a pang of sympathy for her but she is still smiling; if Warren has upset her she doesn’t show it.
‘Ms de Bonnier, Dom is the writer from London, from the Herald.’ Warren makes his voice even louder and Dominic cringes inwardly; the woman is elderly but she’s hardly senile. He doesn’t have to talk to her as though she is a child.
‘Dominic, hello.’ The woman smiles, extends a hand to Dominic. It is small and dry, her fingers thin. There is no wedding ring.
‘Good to meet you,’ Dominic says. ‘Amazing house. Readers are going to love it.’
‘I hope so.’ She looks up at the house. Her voice is soft, there is something sad in her eyes as her gaze flickers over the ruin. He sees her taking in the disrepair, the overgrown garden, the dust clouds that rise every time the builders make contact with the walls.
‘I’m sure Dom here would like to ask you a few questions, check a few facts, if that’s all right with you?’ Warren butts in.
Ms de Bonnier glances at him, then back at Dominic. ‘Are you here alone, Dominic?’
‘Yeah,’ Dominic says. ‘I just wanted to have a very quick chat,’ he adds. ‘I can’t stay long.’ He is keen to reassure her, dispel any fears she may have about the press. Over the years he has become accustomed to it; no matter how innocent the story the public seem to panic, as though their distrust in the press is inherent in them, something deep inside which cannot be disproven.
‘A quick chat is fine,’ she says, looking at her watch. Her wrists are thin, fragile looking. ‘I have to be somewhere soon but I can give you a bit of background. I appreciate you coming down.’ She looks at Warren. ‘The men know what they have to do.’
She turns away from Warren, begins to move slowly towards Dominic’s car. Dominic almost wants to take her arm like he used to with his grandmother, there is something about her that makes him want to help her, to reach out. But she reaches his car, leans against the bonnet, taking a deep breath and briefly closing her eyes before opening them again and turning to look at him. Her gaze is clear.
Dominic clears his throat. ‘So, Ms de Bonnier, sorry to stop by like this, I did come the other day and I think we’re going to get a nice feature out of this. Got some great photos.’ He smiles, trying to sound encouraging. ‘It must be wonderful, having somewhere like this to call home. You’ve owned Carlington for . . . how long?’ he asks.
She looks at him, opens her mouth briefly and closes it again, as though deciding what to say. For a moment she closes her eyes, tilts her head back. The lines in her neck are deep grooves in her flesh.
‘Too long, really. Years now.’
‘And I understand you’re selling up?’
She smiles at him, puts a hand to her throat and pulls her coat around her a little more tightly. ‘I can’t afford to keep it, I’m afraid. I’ve never been able to afford it. It has to sell.’
She shifts slightly on the bonnet and winces, quickly. Dominic wonders if she is in pain, and if so, how much. As if reading his thoughts, she reaches down into a small black handbag at her hip and extracts a packet of tablets, popping two of them into her hand and sliding the remainder back out of sight. Dominic catches a glimpse of pink, the hint of a prescription label. He wishes he had some water to offer her, pictures the white pills growing warmer and warmer in her hand.
‘It’s a stunning place,’ he says again, feeling awkward at her visible discomfort. ‘It must be hard to let it go.’
She looks up at the building, gives a deep sigh.
‘I used to think it would be. But I haven’t lived here for years, you couldn’t live in this place. It’s a ruin. When it fell into disrepair I couldn’t afford to pay, and now . . . I should have sold it years ago. I should never have been so weak.’
She breaks off. Dominic is horrified to see a shine to her eyes. Is she crying? He clears his throat, looks away to where the builders are scattered on the lawn. He thinks of Corinne, wonders what she is doing. She has always been good with elderly people; elderly people and children. She is one of the most caring people he has ever known.
‘This place has to go.’ Dominic looks back at Ms de Bonnier and her mouth h
as changed, it is set in a firm line, her lips pressed tightly together as though she is forcing herself to hold back emotion. ‘It has to go,’ she repeats. ‘Finally. There’s no reason to hold on to it any longer.’ She pauses, swallows and looks back at Dominic. ‘The de Bonnier family, don’t tell me Warren hasn’t told you, for I won’t believe it,’ she says, and laughs, a sad sort of laugh that sends a pang of sympathy to Dominic’s heart. ‘It’s his favourite namedrop,’ she continues. ‘Loves throwing it into conversation. My father was a very wealthy man. Still, at least he’s doing a good job on the house, although I can’t say much for his personal skills.’ She smiles at Dominic as though they are conspirators and he can’t help but grin back.
‘No, fair comment,’ he agrees. She shifts again, as though she cannot get comfortable, and reaches her left hand up to her mouth, quickly swallows the two pills that have been nestling awkwardly in her hand. Dominic wonders what they are for – whether it’s more than the usual gripes of old age.
‘Arthritis,’ she says, popping one into her mouth and grimacing. ‘Excuse me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dominic says awkwardly, but she lifts her shoulders.
‘Comes with my age, that’s all.’
There is a beat of silence between them. Dominic clears his throat and is just about to speak when the woman opens her mouth.
‘So he didn’t tell you?’ she says. She reaches up, touches her neck, feeling for something underneath her jacket. Dominic imagines a necklace, hidden beneath the layers. His own grandmother used to wear a silver cross, her fingers perpetually feeling for it like a touchstone.
‘This house nearly ruined me.’
For a moment Dominic thinks he has misheard. There is a pause. The house seems to grow larger, burn more brightly behind them, a white backdrop to their conversation.
‘You want a story? I put my heart and soul into doing this place up. I thought I was doing the right thing, that I’d do the de Bonnier family proud.’ Her voice has taken on a funny edge, the words coming out of her mouth as though she is dredging them up from inside her. Dominic notices that her slender frame is shaking slightly, small tremors that she makes no effort to stop.
Dominic frowns. He isn’t sure what to say, is taken aback by her sudden emotion. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow you – what . . .’
She is looking away from him. He waits. She adjusts her coat, tightening the black belt around her waist. Her shaking frame is horribly thin beneath the wool. Dominic wonders whether she ought to be here.
‘Ms de Bonnier . . .’ he starts, but she is placing her hands on either side of her, pushing herself upwards, her black boots hitting the gravel of the driveway.
‘What does it matter, anyway. I’m a silly woman, I’m sorry. Ignore me, Dominic. What’s done is done, isn’t it? I’ve got to get on, I’m afraid. I hope your piece turns out well.’ Her voice has become flat, the spark of emotion dying as quickly as it reared.
She is standing, now, staring at the house.
‘I’m sorry, Dominic,’ she says again, turning back to look at him. Her hair is blowing slightly in the wind, grey strands escaping into the white air. ‘I’m sorry for being like this, I can’t imagine it’s what you were expecting.’ She half laughs and Dominic feels another twist of sympathy. ‘I’m just disappointed, that’s all. This house could have been magnificent. Still, we don’t always get what we want, do we?’
Slowly, she turns away from him, winds her scarf more tightly around her neck, leaves him where he is and heads in the direction of the house. One hand goes to her hip, as though it is hurting her, and Dominic imagines her features twisting in pain, the joints inside protesting as she walks. He remains leaning on the bonnet of the car, stunned by her behaviour. What was that all about?
Out of the corner of his eye, Dominic sees Warren turn and start to walk towards him and he hurriedly hops back into the car, starts up the engine. The car coughs then roars into life. He isn’t in the mood to talk any more, is perplexed by the owner’s reaction, her sadness when she spoke about the house. He imagines having to give up the flat he and Corinne share and shudders – he would hate it. It is their home, the home they have built together. He peels out of the drive, fumbling for his mobile as he does so. The battery’s gone. Shit. A car screams past him and he slams on his brakes; he hasn’t been concentrating and has veered too far across the highway. Dominic shoves his phone back in his pocket and rubs at his face. He needs to get home in one piece.
15
London
Ashley
When they get back from Mathilde’s, Ashley sees there are dirty dishes left out and coats on the floor, which doesn’t help her bad mood. The car journey was spent in near silence, punctuated only by Lucy on her mobile phone, Holly’s minor tantrum and Benji’s endless chatter about rabbits.
‘The bunny was all yucky and red,’ he told Lucy. ‘All mangled up with one eye popping out, urgh.’ He had pulled his eyelid down, revealing the red rim of his eye. Ashley snapped at him.
‘Benji! That’s enough. You’ll hurt yourself. Stop it now, please.’
James goes straight to his office when they get back, leaves her in the house with it all to clear up, muttering something about finishing off a report due in Tuesday morning. Ashley bangs around the kitchen irritably, scraping congealed food into the bin, clearly the remnants of James’s dinner before he came to Mathilde’s. There is an abandoned glass with it too, she lifts it to her nose briefly and sniffs, the sharp scent of whiskey hitting her nostrils. Quickly she sinks both plate and glass into the hot water, submerges them in the bubbles, starts scrubbing fiercely.
As she scours, the telephone begins to ring. Ashley pauses, her hands covered by yellow Marigolds, the sink steadily filling with more water, multiplying the bubbles. Ring, ring. Clearly no one else is going to get it.
Her hand is slippery and wet on the white plastic. She has left the tap running.
‘Hello?’
Nothing. Then breathing, slow at first and then faster, and the sound of laughter – unmistakably a woman’s. Ashley feels her stomach go cold, as though her insides have turned to ice.
‘What do you want?’ she says, and her voice sounds ridiculous even to her own ears. ‘Who are you? Why do you keep calling?’
There is still the laughter, and the rushing sound of the kitchen tap. The water is rising in the sink. Ashley feels something inside her break and before she knows what she is doing she is shouting into the phone.
‘Do you want my husband? Is that it? Is that what you want?’
The plastic of the phone is threatening to splinter under her hand. The laughter continues, and suddenly Ashley is sobbing, tears are rolling down her cheeks, and her breath is coming hard and fast. In the back of her mind she knows she has to stop, she knows the children might hear, and just as she is thinking this the line goes dead. Ashley stands for a second more, stock-still with the receiver in her hand. Drips of water slide down her wrist and pool on the kitchen floor. Above her, she hears the sound of Holly beginning to cry.
Ashley puts the receiver back in its cradle, goes to the sink and turns off the tap with a shaking hand. Tears slide steadily down her cheeks. She removes her gloves, folds them neatly on the side, and goes to the foot of the stairs. Benji’s voice floats down to her, punctuated by the sound of his video game. She has given up trying to ban it, is too tired to resist.
‘Mummmm,’ he shouts. ‘Holly’s crying! Mummmm. Baby’s crying. Hellooooo?’
‘I’m coming,’ she says, but instead of replying to her son she whispers the words to herself, under her breath, trying to make herself go up the stairs. The wails continue. She listens for a few seconds, then puts her hand on the banister and starts to climb. Holly’s room is on the right. Ashley goes left, down the corridor, to the second set of stairs. As she climbs, the wails get softer.
James’s office is in the loft. When she gets there, the room is completely dark, sodden brown leaves cover the glass of the
skylight and the overhead bulb is off. She hardly ever comes up here, can’t remember where the switch is. Ashley puts her hands out in front of her, grabs the side of James’s desk and feels for the mouse of his computer. She wiggles it and the screen jumps to life; a green glow illuminates the room.
Slowly, she sits down on the swivel chair, puts her fingers on the keyboard. They rest on the letters. Ashley has the sensation that they are not part of her at all, as though she is removed from her body, watching herself from above. Holly’s cries come to her faintly. She should go to her. She has to go to her baby.
Her fingers begin to type words. Ashley. AshleyandJames. Benji. Lucy15. Holly01. Parkway. JamesThomas. London. Nothing works. Sweat dampens her shirt and she feels her upper lip moisten. She can see her own face reflected oddly in the computer screen, her hair standing strangely on end. The screen stares back at her, the cursor blinking. She feels as if it is mocking her. Frustrated, Ashley slams her elbows onto the desk, puts her head in her hands. Think. Think. The drawers. She slides her hands down, grips the handles of James’s desk drawers, slides them open. It is still dark in the room, she bends forwards, peers at the piles of paper inside. Bills. Receipts. She squints at them in the half-light, her eyes scanning over the numbers, feeling more and more cross with herself. Why hasn’t she kept a better eye on things? What kind of head-in-the-sand wife is she, blindly ignoring the bank account, trusting James with it all?
She keeps looking. More papers, the trailing cord of an iPad charger. What looks like one of Benji’s drawings, a picture of a house, wobbly lines connecting windows, doors, a chimney. It is surrounded by a green square of a garden complete with white-tailed rabbits, a yellow cat and an almost-circular football. The crayons are faded, as though the drawing is old.
‘Mum?’
Ashley’s body gives a huge jolt, as though she has been electrocuted. Heart thumping, she slams both drawers shut and spins on the chair, is met with Benji’s round little face. He looks upset, his lower lip is wobbling. She puts a hand to her chest, takes a slow, deep breath.
The Doll House Page 10