Chapter 38
As the gates to The Manor open, I take the longest breath, my grip of the steering wheel tightening of its own volition. I can’t put my finger on why. Because I know Sarah is here? Because Steve is on his way? Or simply... it’s The Manor.
I drive slowly through the line of trees, counting them as I go. Fifty. Twenty-five on each side, all evenly spaced. All hundreds of years old.
Rounding the fountain, I pull into my usual spot and turn off the engine, leaning forward in my seat and removing my shades, looking up the front of the grand, majestic mansion. It’s like I’m seeing it more clearly each day. Feeling like I need to take the time to absorb it and appreciate it. Or... what? Make the most of it while I have it?
I get out of the Aston and take the steps, slipping my keys into my pocket as I push my way in. I hear crockery clanging from the kitchens, activity of staff from the bar—all noises that are usually drowned out by the sounds of member’s chatter and laughs. The flowers on the circular table catch my eye. They’re callas. Seven, tall, elegant, white calla lilies. I trace my finger down the side of the vase, frowning. Then I pull out six of the stems and lay them on the table, leaving only one.
“Mr. Ward,” Pete says, passing with a tray of silver salt and pepper pots. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Pete.” I check the time and dial John as I wander through the summer room, stopping at the French doors and looking across the grounds to the tennis courts.
“Just dropped her off at the office,” he says in answer.
“Steve Cook is on his way.”
“He’s found something?”
“I assume so,” I say, weaving my way through the couches. “How quick can you be here?”
“On my way.”
I push into my office and come to a jarring stop when I find someone behind my desk. She looks up, smiles, and stands, revealing her body in all of its leather-clad glory. Except this outfit has long sleeves. I don’t mention it’s a bit early for the dominatrix. Or the fact that she probably shouldn’t be thrashing a whip after what she’s done to herself. I’m still stuck on the smile on her face. Have I ever seen a genuine smile on Sarah before? I don’t think so. Weird. So weird. “Morning,” I say, averting my eyes, taking in my office. Tidy. No paperwork piled high anywhere. She’s been busy.
“Morning.” Sarah comes out from behind my desk, letting me take my chair. I pull my jacket tails out and lower, scanning the surface. A pot of pens. A box of Kleenex. My laptop. “This is the contract for the new security system,” she says, slipping a document in front of me. “Your tax liabilities for the last financial year, along with various tax forms that need signing.” Another sheet. “This is the company incorporation renewal, and here’s your bank details should you ever need to log in yourself and send any payments.” A Post-it is placed on top of the papers. “I recommend storing it somewhere protected in your phone.” A few rustles. “An updated list of members whose health assessments are overdue, a list of members who have given their months’ notice, and the building inspector needs to come check the extension before signing off.” More papers are placed down. “These are the registration documents for your wife’s new car, her Mini has been released from the police investigation—let me know if I can give them the nod to scrap it—your bike has been delivered and put in the garage, and your driver’s license is about to expire, so you’ll need to renew it. You can do that online. I’ll send you the link. And lastly, the estimate to repair the damage on your Ducati.”
I blink up at her as she tilts her head, her face straight. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She motions to the papers. “I’ve tabbed where I need your signature.” Then she pivots and leaves.
Like nothing has happened. She was all business but with... a smile on her face. No scowls or derision in her expression. Does she really like organizing me and The Manor that much?
My attention falls back to the mass of paperwork before me, and I grimace, pulling it closer. It’s something to do while I wait for John and Cook. And at least I know what I’m doing. Thanks to Sarah. So I get to work, signing where indicated, filtering through all of the papers, before stacking them to the side for her. Easy as that. I pick up and scan the spreadsheets. Sam and Drew are both still on the overdue medical list. “Fucking pains,” I mutter, texting them both to remind them.
And then... I’m redundant. I rest back in my chair, pouting, looking around my office. This is what I wanted. No work stress. Time. Great, except my wife still has a boss and a job. I get up and go for a stroll, opening and closing doors, taking in every room, before heading upstairs and doing the same, visiting the extension last. Our suite. But I don’t take in the interior. I go to the window and take in the view, resting my shoulder on the frame and counting the trees again, only reaching thirty before I can’t see any farther. John’s Range Rover emerges on the horizon, rolling slowly down the driveway. Can he even comprehend not driving through those gates ever again? It’s been his life for longer than mine, and yet he’s never succumbed to the lure of the rooms. He’s never had a relationship either. His life’s work has been as a solid friend, first to Carmichael, then to me. He needs freedom as much as I do.
I back away from the window and leave, pausing at the stained-glass window at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up to the communal room. And suddenly, I’m climbing the stairs, my heart, weirdly, beating that little bit faster. I push through the doors and slip my hands in my pockets, glancing around. How many mornings did the cleaners find me on one of the beds, naked? How many women have I fucked in here? In my own suite? It seems like madness now, that I would even entertain such hedonism. Husband and Daddy.
I slowly wander around, spotting pieces of the new furniture amid the originals. All things I would have tried. Not now.
A noise behind me pulls my body around. John cocks his head, and I smile mildly. “I feel a bit detached,” I admit. “Like I’m looking at a past life.” I run my fingers lightly over the top of a highly polished cabinet that’s stuffed full of toys. “Like the heartbeat is dulling.” I look at John, and he nods in understanding. The communal room. The heartbeat of The Manor.
I laugh to myself, the sound low and nervous. John’s silence isn’t helping.
“You saw Beatrice,” he says, out of the blue, removing his glasses.
“Ava told you.” How much has she told him? Out of pure habit and nothing more, I pull at my collar. I don’t feel stifled. I don’t feel hot. My heart is beating a little faster, I guess. “Can you believe of all the restaurants I could’ve chosen, I chose the one they were in.” You couldn’t fucking write it. “Ava noticed someone staring at us. It was... tense.”
“Hmmm,” he hums, and I frown.
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, you hummed.”
“A man can’t hum? Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’ve not spoken to you.”
“You spoke to me on the phone this morning.”
“I had other things on my mind this morning.” Speaking of which, where the hell is Cook? I scowl down at my watch.
“So how did it go? With your mum, I mean.”
I glance at John. “As you would expect.”
“You’ve been drunk for the best part of sixteen years, motherfucker. If you ever saw your parents during that time, you were already drunk. You acted out. Then made a grab for more vodka. So that’s what I would expect. Except, that didn’t happen this time. So, again, how did it go?”
I pout like a scorned, challenged child. It was unbearable. Seeing how old Mum looked. Learning Dad was unwell.Hearing her pleas and not being able to block them out with alcohol. “It hurt,” I admit, looking away.
“But you didn’t drink.”
“No, I didn’t drink,” I say, heading out of the communal room, suddenly feeling stifled.
“That’s good.” John follows me, falling into line beside me as we take the stairs.
“Yes, that’s good. When did you become a therapist?”
“So, what now?” he asks, ignoring my sarcasm.
We round the landing and descend the staircase to the entrance hall. “What do you mean, what now?”
“Is there a chance?”
My eyes fall to my feet, watching my steps. Amalie asked the exact same question.
Is there?
“John, I don’t really have the headspace right now to answer these questions,” I say.
He nods, accepting, and diverts toward the bar. “I understand.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day, so I’m getting caffeine.”
No headspace? Then why can’t I get Mum’s sadness out of my fucking mind? I come to a stop by the round table. The lilies have been put back in the vase. I sigh, plucking them back out and laying them on the table, leaving that one single calla on display.
Understated elegance.
Where it all began.
I reach into my inside pocket and pull out the image of the babies.
Twins.
It’s another chance.
And again, I wonder who Mum was talking about.
Them? Or just me?