Chapter Nine
Now
I strode up the stairs clutching my camera. I could hear the low timbre of Ethan’s voice, laughter echoing up the double-height foyer as I stepped into the first room I came to on the right of the landing. I let out a long, slow breath as I took it all in. This, surely, was the master bedroom.
I had no teenage blueprint to lay this over because, when we’d trespassed, we weren’t sure if the stairs were safe, and none of us had been brave enough to try them.
So this was completely new to me. It was a huge room, decorated in soft tones of off-white and dove grey, with touches of the blues and greens that I’d seen in the rest of the house.
The king-sized bed stood against the far wall, and the window that looked out over the sea was framed by a luxurious window seat in a rich blue fabric, a bank of green and white scatter cushions adding to its plushness.
There were no blinds, and I assumed the glass here could be tinted, or blacked out completely at night, like Ethan had mentioned in his speech.
Cushions on the bed matched the ones on the window seat, sitting proudly on a silver bedspread that looked like glistening water.
There was a chaise longue at the foot of the bed in emerald green velvet, and I felt a pang, because everything about this house was opulent, but having a seat at the end of the bed – having a bedroom big enough to fit one – had always seemed like the height of luxury to me: so simple but desirable, to be able to sit there and put on your socks.
Here, there was so much floor space between the bed and the wardrobe that I was almost tempted to perform an entire dance routine on the plush grey carpet, though I would have to find one on TikTok first.
Anglepoise lamps were built into the walls on either side of the bed, above floating bedside tables, and there was an oil landscape of a windswept coastline above the headboard, the reds and earthy greens of fields running down to the sea, the layers of bold texture a rugged contrast to the room’s soft hues and clean lines.
It would be a local artist, I thought, and made a note in my notebook to ask Ethan – or Sarah – so I could mention it in my article.
At this moment, neither of those prospects was appealing.
I walked into the bathroom and found a clawfoot tub under the window, the view of the grassy, wildflower-strewn clifftop stretching away from Alperwick, towards the next bay along.
There was a separate shower, with spotlights recessed in the pearly tiles.
I touched the panel next to the door and a rainbow of lights illuminated the floor, cycling from pink to blue, green to yellow, like a steam room in a spa hotel.
I pressed the button again and again, watching the lights change from pulsing to a slow fade, to static colours and then off.
Who needed disco lights in their shower? Suddenly, it was all I wanted.
I returned to the bedroom, and touched the rose petals in yet another elaborate bouquet.
I had a sudden idea that it was fake, and they were pumping the scent through the discreet Sparks vents, but there was nothing plastic about it.
Ethan wasn’t – or at least hadn’t been – a dishonest person, unless the lies were to protect someone he loved.
I moved some of the cushions aside and sat on the window seat, trying not to think about the choice he’d made all those years ago, and how I’d reacted.
I could hear the murmur of people below, soft voices and the tread of footsteps in the corridor outside.
I smiled as a couple paused in the bedroom doorway, eyes wide as they took in the opulence, then I turned away from them, towards the window, and heard them move on.
The sun was hovering above the mirrored horizon, but a bank of thick cloud was gathering to the north, obliterating the blue sky.
In here, the air was cool, but I could almost feel the heavy humidity outside, and I wondered if the weather would break tonight.
I pressed the panel next to the window and watched the glass go from clear to frosted.
I pressed it again and it went dark, the room plunged into a thick gloom.
Soft lighting immediately took its place, running along the skirting board and from hidden spotlights I hadn’t noticed in the ceiling.
I pressed it again and the view reappeared, the lights winking out.
‘It’s Smart glass.’
I jumped, then turned to see Ethan standing in the doorway. He’d discarded his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The glass he held only had a dribble of champagne left in the bottom.
‘Have you let go now that you’ve given your speech?’ I gestured towards him, and he looked down, as if he hadn’t realized he’d started to unravel.
He took a step into the room.
I picked up my rucksack and my camera. ‘It was a great speech.’
‘I said what I had to.’
He was resolute, as if I’d imagined the moment of shame when he’d written me out of Sterenlenn’s origin story. ‘And I have all I need, too.’ I tried to slide my Nikon into my bag but it got stuck, the wrist loop catching on the broken zip. ‘I can go now.’
The carpet was thick and I didn’t hear him crossing the room, but then he was crouched in front of me, trying to untangle the camera from the zip. I pulled my hand away.
‘I meant what I said outside, about it being good to see you.’
My stomach swooped. ‘You too,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it.
‘You’ve really got everything you need?’
‘This isn’t a long-form piece for the New York Times , Ethan.’ I yanked the bag back, and the zipper flew off and pinged against the wall.
He huffed out a frustrated, ‘Fine.’
‘Great.’ I jammed the camera into my bag, no longer caring if it broke in the process.
‘You seem irritated,’ he said, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
‘I’m not, I’m just on a schedule.’ Sweat prickled down my spine despite the air conditioning, and I felt as if all the composure I’d carefully gathered during the day was deserting me, with his face so close and the sound of his breaths punctuating the spaces between our words.
‘You didn’t have to come today.’
‘I really wish I hadn’t.’ I stood up and so did he. He was between me and the door. ‘I wish I hadn’t bothered but Spence—’
‘Spencer?’ His brows knitted together. ‘Who’s Spencer?’
I felt a thud of satisfaction. He might have been keeping tabs on me, but he wouldn’t have found evidence of a boyfriend, because I didn’t have one – not since I broke up with Rick – and S.
E. Artemis had been out of the limelight for thirty years.
So let him think Spence was Spencer. Considering all the beautiful women he paraded on Instagram, it seemed only fair.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
‘Everyone will be gone soon.’
‘Great. Then you can dance around in your perfect house and roll about on the huge bed.’ I tried to move past him, and he put his hand on my arm.
‘Don’t you want to at least have a conversation?’
I turned my head. He was so close, bent slightly so he was on my level, his brown eyes – which seemed to change shade depending on whether he was happy or upset or annoyed – fixed on me.
‘There’s nothing to say,’ I whispered. ‘I need to go.’
‘I want you to stay.’
‘Tough.’ I leaned in a millimetre, and my hip brushed his thigh.
‘I don’t want to be here any more.’ My gaze drifted to the hollow at his throat.
He’d opened a couple of shirt buttons, and the knot of his tie was tight, as if he’d yanked it.
I looked up, and our eyes met. I wondered if he was holding his breath too.
I parted my lips, awareness tingling through me, making me lightheaded.
‘Wait for me,’ he said firmly, breaking the spell, then he was striding out of the room and down the stairs, and as I tried to regain my composure I heard a cacophony of cheery, champagne-oiled goodbyes.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ and ‘Perfect house, darling,’ and ‘I want to know when it’s on the market.
’ I wondered which voice belonged to the brunette, which one of those people were actually considering buying it.
It was a prime, luxury property, it would go for several million at least, and then it wouldn’t be Ethan’s any more, and it wouldn’t be Spence’s, and it certainly wouldn’t be mine … though it had never been mine.
I turned in a circle, trying to memorize everything. I had photographs, and I would probably be able to close my eyes and picture these rooms for years to come: I could be convincing about it for Spence’s new book. I zipped up my rucksack and strode to the doorway.
‘I’m taking Cassie back to the station, Ethan.’ Sarah’s voice echoed, as if she was standing at the bottom of the staircase, the double-height foyer projecting her voice upwards. ‘I can come back and get you afterwards, so you have a little longer here.’
‘I can’t leave yet anyway,’ he said, and I peeked round the doorway and saw the top of his head. He was halfway up the stairs. ‘We need to clear up the kitchen, all the glasses and crockery.’
Sarah laughed. ‘The catering company is in charge of all that. We should gather up any full bottles, because we’ve paid for them, but leave the rest. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, give you some alone time with the house.’
‘You don’t need to do that. I’ll get a taxi to the station.’
‘Are you still heading back to Bristol tonight? We should follow up with everyone in the morning, remind them that this place won’t be available for long.’
‘Great.’ Ethan’s voice was flat, and I leaned my forehead against the wall.
This was the first day he’d been able to show Sterenlenn off, and it could belong to someone else in hours.
That must always have been the endgame, but I knew he would hate letting it go.
And it felt like I was losing it, too: like I’d been given a chance to have more time here, and I’d squandered it by being angry and unfocused.
‘OK then,’ Sarah called. ‘See you later, big bro. You did great, by the way.’
‘It was only a speech.’
‘And you nailed it. Don’t forget, this is the start of all the good things. Now, make sure you take some time.’ Her tone softened. ‘I know how much this place means to you.’
There were some muffled thumps, then footsteps and the sound of keys jingling, and I heard the quiet, expensive clunk of the front door sliding home. I knew I was imagining it, but the house seemed to let out a breath.
‘Georgie?’ Ethan called up the stairs. ‘We’re alone.’
‘Right.’ My voice was raspy. ‘I’m still leaving.’
‘Of course.’ I heard his slow, measured footsteps as he climbed the stairs again. ‘I wouldn’t keep you here against your will.’
‘Shame,’ I whispered, even though I was still – mostly – intent on leaving. I needed to loosen the tension coiling inside me, and realized that, like Sarah had done for him, Ethan was giving me a little more time in the house before it was gone for good.
When he appeared on the landing, looking knackered and deliciously dishevelled, a small smile was lighting his eyes, and it felt like, for the first time that day, he had let his mask slip – just a bit. I couldn’t help but smile back.
Dear Connor,
Things are not great in the house right now, and as much as I’m trying not to resent being here, sometimes I think I might bubble over with frustration.
How have I let it come to this? We all make decisions, and – even if it seemed like I had no choice – I am responsible for everything I’ve done, every place I’ve ended up, how much I’ve let other people sway me.
I know you understand, because the few times we fought, that was what it was about. How much of what you’re doing is your decision? How often do you invite other people to dictate what you do with your life?
Yesterday, I saw a woman who lives on the other side of the village, who gave up the job she loved to look after her husband when he got cancer.
She’d worked hard as a librarian, spent years dedicated to spreading the joy of books, and had eventually got her dream job managing a little independent bookshop in Porthleven, right by the harbour.
Then, when her husband got ill, she gave it up to look after him.
His treatment was brutal, and she supported him through all of it, and thankfully he recovered.
But what did he do after that? He told her he was in love with someone else, and he left her.
It’s a shocking story, which is the only reason I got to hear about it, but it makes you think, doesn’t it? You have to look after yourself as much as you look after others; hold onto what’s important to you too, because otherwise you’ll lose everything that matters.
This story, at least, has a perfect ending.
The woman sold the house she’d shared with her husband, went back and bought the independent bookshop and the flat above it.
She owned and ran the shop, and six months later she fell in love with a customer – they bonded over their passion for Thomas Hardy novels.
While I was there she showed me an anthology of short stories written by local authors, and honestly, the whole thing felt like a lesson: one of those events that doesn’t seem real because it’s basically someone holding up a huge, allegorical mirror and exposing all your tender bits.
What matters to you, now? Are your plans the same as they were when we were together, or have your priorities changed now you’re older?
I would give anything to go for a coffee with you, to find out how you are.
Sometimes, when I’m lying awake at night, I imagine you’re next to me.
I imagine your hands tracing pathways on my skin, and I close my eyes tight, but I can never fully lose myself to it.
I have never been as completely myself as I was with you, and I’m scared I won’t find that again.
If you got this letter, and you were replying to me, what stories would you tell me?
I love you and I miss you
Yours always, Amelie xx