Chapter Sixteen #2
‘And you could be accusing me to take suspicion off yourself, as well as being an extreme pedant! You’re the one who’s supposed to know the system back to front, but suddenly it’s outwitted you? Something about this is a little off, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it’s off! We’re trapped inside!
You really think I planned this? That I wanted us to be stuck here together, with all that’s happened between us?
’ He turned away from me, pushing the massage table up against the wall and pressing buttons so that the mechanism took hold and it slid back into its slot.
I couldn’t see his expression, and that only increased my suspicion.
‘Maybe this was your way of getting to talk to me,’ I hypothesized.
He tapped the wall with the side of his fist. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘You could just be saying that,’ I echoed.
‘You have a stronger motive than me – getting to be the star reporter for the North Cornwall Star . A boost for your career. Unless you had another reason for coming today? Maybe you wanted to be trapped in here with me.’
‘I didn’t know anything about your precious Sparks system before I got here, and I’m not much better off now, especially as you seem to have lost control of it, too.’
Ethan’s chest was rising and falling, anger still flushing his cheeks when he turned around, but he was a lot quieter when he said, ‘You know, I am actually wondering if your article is the real reason you came here tonight. It would be a great cover for something else.’
It was my turn to look away. I wished there was a view I could pretend to gaze at instead of the blackout window. ‘There’s no other reason.’
‘Really?’ he asked lightly. ‘And did you declare your personal interest in this story to your editor, or does she think you have no skin in the game?’
‘We’re ancient history, Ethan.’ I could sense him walking towards me, stalking me slowly.
‘Is that what we are?’ His words shivered over my neck, and I had to swallow a gasp. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Which bit?’
‘Any of it. But I haven’t decided if you’re somehow responsible for the house shutting down, or if you were never here to write about it in the first place. Why are you here, Georgie? What is it you’re really—?’
‘Can you stop breathing on my neck?’ I hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but it was so distracting, and his low, whispered words were doing funny things to me, resurrecting feelings that I’d been working so hard to supress.
‘You could move,’ he said, but he sounded reluctant. He put his hands on my shoulders, brushed them down my arms, his touch as light as a feather, over the sleeves of my dress and onto bare skin. ‘What are you really looking for?’
Those five words sent panic shooting through me and I spun around, dislodging his hands, staring up at him.
I don’t know who moved first – if I stretched up, or he leaned down – but suddenly my lips were pressed firmly against his, and the sensation was so overwhelming, familiar and new all at once, that my thoughts disintegrated.
Ethan cupped the back of my head without a second’s hesitation, as if he’d been desperate for us to touch this way all along.
I pressed myself against him, thin dress against thin shirt, hot skin beneath.
I threaded my fingers together behind his neck, clung onto him as his mouth opened and my tongue slid inside at the invitation.
It had been so long since I’d felt like this, and I was shocked by how swiftly it had happened, how wild and unhinged I had become, how much I wanted him when, moments before, we’d been accusing each other of sabotage.
‘George,’ he whispered against my mouth, and I said his name back between kisses.
He slid his hand over my waist, down to the back of my thigh, and brought my leg up so it was anchored to his hip. I was already melting, and this only made it worse.
‘I didn’t mean to—’ he started.
‘It’s OK,’ I soothed, bringing his lips back to mine, not ready for it to end.
He tightened his grip on my leg. I had the wall hard against my back, and him – strong and warm and urgent – pressed against my front.
I thought if I was just a little bit higher, or him lower, or maybe we could go back to the bed, where …
I froze. The master bedroom where the nightlights would ping on, and we’d tell the house that we needed the Sex Setting, thank you very much, with rose petals falling from the ceiling and a bucket of champagne sliding up from a secret panel in the floor.
‘George?’ Ethan leaned back so he could look down at me.
He slid his thumb over my flushed cheek, and I had to turn my head away, because there was something in his expression that made me want to devour him on the spot, and stroke his hair, and run a hundred miles in the opposite direction all at once.
‘Fuck.’ I slid my leg down to the floor. What were we doing? This whole scenario was beyond ridiculous.
Ethan took a step back, the fire in his eyes blinking out. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said roughly. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Somewhere along the way I’d un-popped a couple of his buttons, and his hair had turned into a sexy disaster.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘It’s mine. I should never … I’m sorry, Ethan.’
I couldn’t run a hundred miles in any direction, but I could get myself to the other side of this huge house, give myself a few minutes to try and work out why I had thought that was a good idea, and what on earth we were supposed to do now.
‘Sorry,’ I said again, then I left Ethan behind with the Jacuzzi bath and the disco shower, and ran down the stairs.
As I did, from outside, even though the view was still hidden and we were in our dim, locked box of a house, I heard the first rumble of what sounded like a very enthusiastic summer storm.
Dear Connor,
We don’t talk about the house enough – or I don’t, anyway. It has always been such a big part of my life, always been right there, but without anyone to talk to about it, it’s losing its significance.
I know it’s pointless, but I can’t stop wondering what would have happened if things hadn’t worked out the way they did, and we’d turned our pie-in-the-sky dreams into reality.
The two of us living there together. Can you imagine?
It was always impossible – even back then – but that didn’t stop us making up scenarios as if it was within our reach.
Sometimes I walk through the rooms and remember us being there together – those few snatched times when it was possible – and I imagine that the house is ours, and we can do what we want with it.
And so, to amuse myself, I’ve been inventing my perfect room.
I’ve picked one on the first floor, at the back of the house, so it looks directly over the cliffs and the churning Atlantic.
The window would be bigger, so light could pour in all the time: sun, moon and starlight.
I’ve always thought that the windows are too small: what’s the point of it being right there, if you only get a peek at the magnificent view?
In my imagined room there’s a desk that runs all the way along the window, so I can smooth my hands over the wood when I’m thinking.
I’d keep the surface mostly clear, so I was surrounded by space and the Cornish coastline.
I’d have an art deco lamp with a shade of pink and green glass, and bookshelves against the walls, and there’s this wallpaper I’ve seen – it’s mad but so beautiful.
It’s a mermaid print, and she looks just how I’ve imagined the Alperwick Mermaid for all these years.
Her tail is made up of mauve scales, and her hair is flowing gold, and there are starfish and minnows picked out in silver against a blue and green background.
It’s ridiculously expensive because of the foil, and I’d only want one wall – a feature wall.
That’s what it’s called isn’t it? You would know.
I’d have a thick rug in the same blues and greens as the wallpaper, but furry like the coat of a daft, long-haired sheep, and one of those elegant armchairs where I could curl up and read.
What do you think? If I told you all of this face to face, you’d laugh, but then you’d see that, actually, it’s perfect.
For the house and the space it takes up, on the edge of the sea as if it could fall in at any moment.
I’ve been building this in my head for a while now, new details coming to me at random moments.
I write it all down and a picture emerges. Is that how it happens for you, too?
I wonder what you’re doing now, what amazing thing you’re creating. I wish I could be as focused as you always were, and put my heart into something besides these letters. But my heart is stuck with you, and I can’t imagine it looking for a new home anytime soon.
I love you and I miss you.
Yours always, Amelie xx