Adam Nevill - House of Small Shadows

Joan Baez on the stereo, a glass of chilled chardonnay on the dressing table. The pencil skirt and satin blouse from Karen Millen, new stockings with seams from Agent Provocateur that Mike had given her for her birthday, all made her feel a bit vintage. And she realized that through her outfit she might even be trying to catch a tendril of what had curled out of the Red House behind her.

The place wasn’t even remotely sexy, though it possessed mystery and elegance in abundance. But the professional opportunity the auction offered was sexy. Very sexy. If she could keep that at the forefront of her mind, she’d get through this job. And she gleefully imagined the outraged faces of her ex-colleagues, the bitches back at Handle With Care in Soho. If Edith hired her, the auction would make a few Sunday broadsheets, lifestyle magazines, and the national broadcast news channels. Handle With Care would crawl to her on their knees to produce a documentary about Mason’s treasures. Catherine Howard, the misfit the quick girls hounded out of her job, and the city, would smile at them from a wreath of glossy pages, and as a talking head from local television studios. Lost Treasures of M. H. Mason: War Hero, Taxidermist Extraordinaire, Puppeteer. Represented by Valuer and Auctioneer, Catherine Howard of Osbernes. The Red House. The Treasures of…

She’d have the rooms of the Red House lit properly for the catalogue. Best to capture them in that setting. Mike could do the photos. God knew he needed the work, as well as cheering up. She also had catalogue copy to consider; the press release was even more of a priority. She’d get up early on Saturday and make a start. No, she’d start on a draft of a contract first. If she could pull this off, there would be a new car in her future, and she could buy her own flat in the development for young professionals, overlooking the river, or maybe take a house in Hallow.

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

She checked her outfit in the full-length mirror at the end of her bed. She looked good. Was the beauty spot too much? Edith would be aghast at the sight of her scarlet Kiss me lipstick, and Maude would probably grimace at the intensity of the colour against the pale skin of her face. Jam tarts, that’s what girls were called who wore make-up at her secondary school in Worcester. At least the lipstick was red. She let her hair flop down and was reminded of a doll.

‘You wouldn’t believe it. If she’ll give us permission to photograph it, room by room, you could have an exhibition. It could be the book you’ve always wanted to do. And the kittens! Did I tell you about the kittens?’

Is he even listening?

Mike’s face was pale and he hadn’t made an effort with his hair, but she told herself she wouldn’t mention that. He didn’t like being criticized, even in good humour. Maybe he was thinking about what they’d lost. Maybe it was his turn to be sullen and withdrawn. Totally flat, so not a flicker of enthusiasm could be coaxed into life about anything. Now that she had come back to life, maybe it was his turn to retreat.

‘You OK, babe?’

His eyes found her, then flicked away, back to the surface of his pint which looked inelegant on the table opposite her outfit, which he’d noticed with a sudden intensity when she arrived. But he had withdrawn his attention just as quickly.

Mike had been waiting for her, uncharacteristically early and smelling of beer. Had started drinking without her. ‘Tired,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. He breathed out and his fingers writhed and knotted until he tucked them beneath the table. He’d been ‘tired’ for at least a month now.

She interrogated his face with her eyes. He wouldn’t look at her. Something was up. This was the first time she’d seen him in a week, too. He’d been ‘busy’, but with what? He didn’t work. She’d only noticed his expression now she’d finished her breathless monologue about the Red House, a narration only interrupted by her frantic mouthfuls of wine. She was getting giddy and needed to slow down.

His expression was also unfamiliar. Furtive. He kept biting at his bottom lip and it looked red. His eyelids seemed half closed as if to protect her from an unstable intensity behind them. A realization that she’d not seen Mike like this for a while gave her a little shock. He might have been smoking cannabis all day in his dismal room again, but hadn’t he promised her he’d stopped to make himself more fertile?

A waitress brought the main courses. Mike didn’t look at his. Catherine was ravenous, but held back. ‘What? What is it?’ She reached over the table to touch his hand that reappeared to hold his pint glass. He’d been fingering his mobile phone in his lap. He had been sending a text when she arrived, too. To who?

‘Not easy,’ he said, then swallowed.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Black pepper?’ the waitress asked, through an uncomfortable half-smile inspired by her suspicion of a lover’s tiff at the table she served.

But there was no trouble between her and Mike. They were stronger than ever, even after what happened last winter. And they had found each other again after seventeen years apart, as if their reunion had been destiny. They’d once been a couple of hesitant sixth formers who only managed to speak to each other three months before school ended, and who then loved each other with a consuming and volatile passion for the following two years as geographic undesirables at their respective universities. Until, way back then, he’d broken up with her and broken her. But they had been reunited through Facebook two summers back, because a connection like theirs not even time could dim.

I often think about you. He’d left her a message after finding her, after he came looking for her. They’d exchanged fifty-three messages during that first evening of reconnecting. She’d fallen in love with him all over again after reading the first message. It was the often that did it. Mike had quickly become another reason to leave London, the clincher.

Catherine shook her head at the offer of the pepper grinder. The smile on her face was tight enough to ache. The waitress withdrew silently on black ballet pumps.

‘There’s something wrong. Is it…?’

He looked at her. Shook his head. ‘No. Not that. Not everything is about that.’ Then Mike looked about himself as if he saw the pub’s restaurant for the first time and was puzzled as to how he had come to be sitting inside it.

She smarted at his defensive response. They’d both been upset about the miscarriage, though she suspected he’d never been able to articulate his own disappointment so as not to hurt her feelings. But it had to come out eventually, because things like that just do. She was thirty-eight and he wanted to be a dad. Her irritation must have shown on her face.

‘Sorry. That was unkind.’ His tone didn’t convince her the apology was genuine. ‘Look, this is not a good idea. Let’s take off.’

‘But—’

‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t eat this now. No appetite.’

She wondered whether she would be able to eat ever again, once he’s said what he has to, and banished the thought as soon as it flared red inside her head. Once you refuse to deal with an enquiry, it becomes a habit. It’s easy really.

‘Then…’ But she couldn’t say any more, her throat had constricted. She suddenly felt sick.

‘I haven’t slept all night.’ He smiled without any warmth. ‘I’ve even been bloody crying. I didn’t want…’

‘Mmm?

‘Look, can we go? To my place so we can be alone.’